some reminiscences-第24章

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the　common　property　of　the　winds：　　it；　as　it　were；　floated　naked



over　the　waters　about　the　Equator。　　I　wrapped　round　its



unhonoured　form　the　royal　mantle　of　the　tropics　and　have　essayed



to　put　into　the　hollow　sound　the　very　anguish　of　paternityfeats



which　you　did　not　demand　from　mebut　remember　that　all　the　toil



and　all　the　pain　were　mine。　　In　your　earthly　life　you　haunted　me；



Almayer。　　Consider　that　this　was　taking　a　great　liberty。　　Since



you　were　always　complaining　of　being　lost　to　the　world；　you



should　remember　that　if　I　had　not　believed　enough　in　your



existence　to　let　you　haunt　my　rooms　in　Bessborough　Gardens；　you



would　have　been　much　more　lost。　　You　affirm　that　had　I　been



capable　of　looking　at　you　with　a　more　perfect　detachment　and　a



greater　simplicity；　I　might　have　perceived　better　the　inward



marvellousness　which；　you　insist；　attended　your　career　upon　that



tiny　pin…point　of　light；　hardly　visible　far；　far　below　us；　where



both　our　graves　lie。　　No　doubt！　　But　reflect；　O　complaining



Shade！　that　this　was　not　so　much　my　fault　as　your　crowning



misfortune。　　I　believed　in　you　in　the　only　way　it　was　possible



for　me　to　believe。　　It　was　not　worthy　of　your　merits？　　So　be　it。



But　you　were　always　an　unlucky　man；　Almayer。　　Nothing　was　ever



quite　worthy　of　you。　　What　made　you　so　real　to　me　was　that　you



held　this　lofty　theory　with　some　force　of　conviction　and　with　an



admirable　consistency。〃







It　is　with　some　such　words　translated　into　the　proper　shadowy



expressions　that　I　am　prepared　to　placate　Almayer　in　the　Elysian



Abode　of　Shades；　since　it　has　come　to　pass　that　having　parted



many　years　ago；　we　are　never　to　meet　again　in　this　world。















Chapter　V。







In　the　career　of　the　most　unliterary　of　writers；　in　the　sense



that　literary　ambition　had　never　entered　the　world　of　his



imagination；　the　coming　into　existence　of　the　first　book　is　quite



an　inexplicable　event。　　In　my　own　case　I　cannot　trace　it　back　to



any　mental　or　psychological　cause　which　one　could　point　out　and



hold　to。　　The　greatest　of　my　gifts　being　a　consummate　capacity



for　doing　nothing；　I　cannot　even　point　to　boredom　as　a　rational



stimulus　for　taking　up　a　pen。　　The　pen　at　any　rate　was　there；　and



there　is　nothing　wonderful　in　that。　　Everybody　keeps　a　pen　（the



cold　steel　of　our　days）　in　his　rooms　in　this　enlightened　age　of



penny　stamps　and　halfpenny　postcards。　　In　fact；　this　was　the



epoch　when　by　means　of　postcard　and　pen　Mr。　Gladstone　had　made



the　reputation　of　a　novel　or　two。　　And　I　too　had　a　pen　rolling



about　somewherethe　seldom…used；　the　reluctantly…taken…up　pen　of



a　sailor　ashore；　the　pen　rugged　with　the　dried　ink　of　abandoned



attempts；　of　answers　delayed　longer　than　decency　permitted；　of



letters　begun　with　infinite　reluctance　and　put　off　suddenly　till



next　daytell　next　week　as　likely　as　not！　　The　neglected；



uncared…for　pen；　flung　away　at　the　slightest　provocation；　and



under　the　stress　of　dire　necessity　hunted　for　without　enthusiasm；



in　a　perfunctory；　grumpy　worry；　in　the　〃Where　the　devil　is　the



beastly　thing　gone　to？〃　ungracious　spirit。　　Where　indeed！　　It



might　have　been　reposing　behind　the　sofa　for　a　day　or　so。　　My



landlady's　anaemic　daughter　（as　Ollendorff　would　have　expressed



it）；　though　commendably　neat；　had　a　lordly；　careless　manner　of



approaching　her　domestic　duties。　　Or　it　might　even　be　resting



delicately　poised　on　its　point　by　the　side　of　the　table…leg；　and



when　picked　up　show　a　gaping；　inefficient　beak　which　would　have



discouraged　any　man　of　literary　instincts。　　But　not　me！　　〃Never



mind。　　This　will　do。〃







O　days　without　guile！　　If　anybody　had　told　me　then　that　a　devoted



household；　having　a　generally　exaggerated　idea　of　my　talents　and



importance；　would　be　put　into　a　state　of　tremor　and　flurry　by　the



fuss　I　would　make　because　of　a　suspicion　that　somebody　had



touched　my　sacrosanct　pen　of　authorship；　I　would　have　never



deigned　as　much　as　the　contemptuous　smile　of　unbelief。　　There　are



imaginings　too　unlikely　for　any　kind　of　notice；　too　wild　for



indulgence　itself；　too　absurd　for　a　smile。　　Perhaps；　had　that



seer　of　the　future　been　a　friend；　I　should　have　been　secretly



saddened。　　〃Alas！〃　I　would　have　thought；　looking　at　him　with　an



unmoved　face；　〃the　poor　fellow　is　going　mad。〃







I　would　have　been；　without　doubt；　saddened；　for　in　this　world



where　the　journalists　read　the　signs　of　the　sky；　and　the　wind　of



heaven　itself；　blowing　where　it　listeth；　does　so　under　the



prophetical　management　of　the　Meteorological　Office；　but　where



the　secret　of　human　hearts　cannot　be　captured　either　by　prying　or



praying；　it　was　infinitely　more　likely　that　the　sanest　of　my



friends　should　nurse　the　germ　of　incipient　madness　than　that　I



should　turn　into　a　writer　of　tales。







To　survey　with　wonder　the　changes　of　one's　own　self　is　a



fascinating　pursuit　for　idle　hours。　　The　field　is　so　wide；　the



surprises　so　varied；　the　subject　so　full　of　unprofitable　but



curious　hints　as　to　the　work　of　unseen　forces；　that　one　does　not



weary　easily　of　it。　　I　am　not　speaking　here　of　megalomaniacs　who



rest　uneasy　under　the　crown　of　their　unbounded　conceitwho



really　never　rest　in　this　world；　and　when　out　of　it　go　on



fretting　and　fuming　on　the　straitened　circumstances　of　their　last



habitation；　where　all　men　must　lie　in　obscure　equality。　　Neither



am　I　thinking　of　those　ambitious　minds　who；　always　looking



forward　to　some　aim　of　aggrandisement；　can　spare　no　time　for　a



detached；　impersonal　glance　upon　themselves。







And　that's　a　pity。　　They　are　unlucky。　　These　two　kinds；　together



with　the　much　larger　band　of　the　totally　unimaginative；　of　those



unfortunate　beings　in　whose　empty　and　unseeing　gaze　（as　a　great



French　writer　has　put　it）　〃the　whole　universe　vanishes　into　blank



nothingness；〃　miss；　perhaps；　the　true　task　of　us　men　whose　day　is



short　on　this　earth；　the　abode　of　conflicting　opinions。　　The



ethical　view　of　the　universe　involves　us　at　last　in　so　many　cruel



and　absurd　contradictions；　where　the　last　vestiges　of　faith；



hope；　charity；　and　even　of　reason　itself；　seem　ready　to　perish；



that　I　have　come　to　suspect　that　the　aim　of　creation　cannot　be



ethical　at　all。　　I　would　fondly　believe　that　its　object　is　purely



spectacular：　　a　spectacle　for　awe；　love；　adoration；　or　hate；　if



you　like；　but　in　this　viewand　in　this　view　alonenever　for



despair！　　Those　visions；　delicious　or　poignant；　are　a　moral　end



in　themselves。　　The　rest　is　our　affairthe　laughter；　the　tears；



the　tenderness；　the　indignation；　the　high　tranquillity　of　a



steeled　heart；　the　detached　curiosity　of　a　subtle　mindthat's



our　affair！　　And　the　unwearied　self…forgetful　attention　to　every



phase　of　the　living　universe　reflected　in　our　consciousness　may



be　our　appointed　task　on　this　earth。　　A　task　in　which　fate　has



perhaps　engaged　nothing　of　us　except　our　conscience；　gifted　with



a　voice　in　order　to　bear　true　testimony　to　the　visible　wonder；



the　haunting　terror；　the　infinite　passion　and　the　illimitable



serenity；　to　the　supreme　law　and　the　abiding　mystery　of　the



sublime　spectacle。







Chi　lo　sa？　　It　may　be　true。　　In　this　view　there　is　room　for　every



religion　except　for　the　inverted　creed　of　impiety；　the　mask　and



cloak　of　arid　despair；　for　every　joy　and　every　sorrow；　for　every



fair　dream；　for　every　charitable　hope。　　The　great　aim　is　to



remain　true　to　the　emotions　called　out　of　the　deep　encircled　by



the　firmament　of　stars；　whose　infinite　numbers　and　awful



distances　may　move　us　to　laughter　or　tears　（was　it　the　Walrus