As a general rule we do
not want much encouragement to talk about ourselves; yet this little book is
the result of a friendly suggestion, and even of a little friendly pressure. I
defended myself with some spirit; but, with characteristic tenacity, the
friendly voice insisted, "You know, you really must."
It was not an argument,
but I submitted at once. If one must! . . .
You perceive the force
of a word. He who wants to persuade should put his trust not in the right
argument, but in the right word. The power of sound has always been greater than
the power of sense. I don't say this by way of disparagement. It is better for
mankind to be impressionable than reflective. Nothing humanely great--great, I
mean, as affecting a whole mass of lives-- has come from reflection. On the
other hand, you cannot fail to see the power of mere words; such words as
Glory, for instance, or Pity. I won't mention any more. They are not far to
seek. Shouted with perseverance, with ardour, with conviction, these two by
their sound alone have set whole nations in motion and upheaved the dry, hard
ground on which rests our whole social fabric. There's "virtue" for
you if you like! . . . Of course the accent must be attended to. The right
accent. That's very important. The capacious lung, the thundering or the tender
vocal chords. Don't talk to me of your Archimedes' lever. He was an
absent-minded person with a mathematical imagination. Mathematics commands all
my respect, but I have no use for engines. Give me the right word and the right
accent and I will move the world.
What a dream for a
writer! Because written words have their accent, too. Yes! Let me only find the
right word! Surely it must be lying somewhere among the wreckage of all the
plaints and all the exultations poured out aloud since the first day when hope,
the undying, came down on earth. It may be there, close by, disregarded,
invisible, quite at hand. But it's no good. I believe there are men who can lay
hold of a needle in a pottle of hay at the first try. For myself, I have never
had such luck.
And then there is that
accent. Another difficulty. For who is going to tell whether the accent is
right or wrong till the word is shouted, and fails to be heard, perhaps, and
goes down-wind, leaving the world unmoved? Once upon a time there lived an
emperor who was a sage and something of a literary man. He jotted down on ivory
tablets thoughts, maxims, reflections which chance has preserved for the
edification of posterity. Among other sayings--I am quoting from memory--I
remember this solemn admonition: "Let all thy words have the accent of
heroic truth." The accent of heroic truth! This is very fine, but I am
thinking that it is an easy matter for an austere emperor to jot down grandiose
advice. Most of the working truths on this earth are humble, not heroic; and
there have been times in the history of mankind when the accents of heroic
truth have moved it to nothing but derision.
Nobody will expect to
find between the covers of this little book words of extraordinary potency or
accents of irresistible heroism. However humiliating for my self- esteem, I
must confess that the counsels of Marcus Aurelius are not for me. They are more
fit for a moralist than for an artist. Truth of a modest sort I can promise
you, and also sincerity. That complete, praiseworthy sincerity which, while it
delivers one into the hands of one's enemies, is as likely as not to embroil
one with one's friends.
"Embroil" is
perhaps too strong an expression. I can't imagine among either my enemies or my
friends a being so hard up for something to do as to quarrel with me. "To
disappoint one's friends" would be nearer the mark. Most, almost all,
friendships of the writing period of my life have come to me through my books;
and I know that a novelist lives in his work. He stands there, the only reality
in an invented world, among imaginary things, happenings, and people. Writing
about them, he is only writing about himself. But the disclosure is not
complete. He remains, to a certain extent, a figure behind the veil; a
suspected rather than a seen presence--a movement and a voice behind the
draperies of fiction. In these personal notes there is no such veil. And I
cannot help thinking of a passage in the "Imitation of Christ" where
the ascetic author, who knew life so profoundly, says that "there are
persons esteemed on their reputation who by showing themselves destroy the
opinion one had of them." This is the danger incurred by an author of
fiction who sets out to talk about himself without disguise.
While these reminiscent
pages were appearing serially I was remonstrated with for bad economy; as if
such writing were a form of self-indulgence wasting the substance of future
volumes. It seems that I am not sufficiently literary. Indeed, a man who never
wrote a line for print till he was thirty- six cannot bring himself to look
upon his existence and his experience, upon the sum of his thoughts,
sensations, and emotions, upon his memories and his regrets, and the whole
possession of his past, as only so much material for his hands. Once before,
some three years ago, when I published "The Mirror of the Sea," a
volume of impressions and memories, the same remarks were made to me. Practical
remarks. But, truth to say, I have never understood the kind of thrift they
recommend. I wanted to pay my tribute to the sea, its ships and its men, to
whom I remain indebted for so much which has gone to make me what I am. That
seemed to me the only shape in which I could offer it to their shades. There
could not be a question in my mind of anything else. It is quite possible that
I am a bad economist; but it is certain that I am incorrigible.
Having matured in the
surroundings and under the special conditions of sea life, I have a special
piety toward that form of my past; for its impressions were vivid, its appeal
direct, its demands such as could be responded to with the natural elation of
youth and strength equal to the call. There was nothing in them to perplex a
young conscience. Having broken away from my origins under a storm of blame
from every quarter which had the merest shadow of right to voice an opinion,
removed by great distances from such natural affections as were still left to
me, and even estranged, in a measure, from them by the totally unintelligible
character of the life which had seduced me so mysteriously from my allegiance,
I may safely say that through the blind force of circumstances the sea was to
be all my world and the merchant service my only home for a long succession of
years. No wonder, then, that in my two exclusively sea books--"The Nigger
of the Narcissus," and "The Mirror of the Sea" (and in the few
short sea stories like "Youth" and "Typhoon" --I have tried
with an almost filial regard to render the vibration of life in the great world
of waters, in the hearts of the simple men who have for ages traversed its
solitudes, and also that something sentient which seems to dwell in ships--the
creatures of their hands and the objects of their care.
One's literary life
must turn frequently for sustenance to memories and seek discourse with the
shades, unless one has made up one's mind to write only in order to reprove
mankind for what it is, or praise it for what it is not, or--generally--to
teach it how to behave. Being neither quarrelsome, nor a flatterer, nor a sage,
I have done none of these things, and I am prepared to put up serenely with the
insignificance which attaches to persons who are not meddlesome in some way or
other. But resignation is not indifference. I would not like to be left
standing as a mere spectator on the bank of the great stream carrying onward so
many lives. I would fain claim for myself the faculty of so much insight as can
be expressed in a voice of sympathy and compassion.
It seems to me that in
one, at least, authoritative quarter of criticism I am suspected of a certain
unemotional, grim acceptance of facts--of what the French would call sécheresse
du cœur. Fifteen years of unbroken silence before praise or blame testify
sufficiently to my respect for criticism, that fine flower of personal
expression in the garden of letters. But this is more of a personal matter,
reaching the man behind the work, and therefore it may be alluded to in a
volume which is a personal note in the margin of the public page. Not that I
feel hurt in the least. The charge --if it amounted to a charge at all--was
made in the most considerate terms; in a tone of regret.
My answer is that if it
be true that every novel contains an element of autobiography --and this can
hardly be denied, since the creator can only express himself in his creation
--then there are some of us to whom an open display of sentiment is repugnant.
I would not unduly praise the virtue of restraint. It is often merely
temperamental. But it is not always a sign of coldness. It may be pride. There
can be nothing more humiliating than to see the shaft of one's emotion miss the
mark of either laughter or tears. Nothing more humiliating! And this for the
reason that should the mark be missed, should the open display of emotion fail
to move, then it must perish unavoidably in disgust or contempt. No artist can
be reproached for shrinking from a risk which only fools run to meet and only
genius dare confront with impunity. In a task which mainly consists in laying
one's soul more or less bare to the world, a regard for decency, even at the
cost of success, is but the regard for one's own dignity which is inseparably
united with the dignity of one's work.
And then--it is very
difficult to be wholly joyous or wholly sad on this earth. The comic, when it
is human, soon takes upon itself a face of pain; and some of our griefs (some
only, not all, for it is the capacity for suffering which makes man August in
the eyes of men) have their source in weaknesses which must be recognized with
smiling compassion as the common inheritance of us all. Joy and sorrow in this
world pass into each other, mingling their forms and their murmurs in the
twilight of life as mysterious as an overshadowed ocean, while the dazzling
brightness of supreme hopes lies far off, fascinating and still, on the distant
edge of the horizon.
Yes! I, too, would like
to hold the magic wand giving that command over laughter and tears which is
declared to be the highest achievement of imaginative literature. Only, to be a
great magician one must surrender oneself to occult and irresponsible powers,
either outside or within one's breast. We have all heard of simple men selling
their souls for love or power to some grotesque devil. The most ordinary
intelligence can perceive without much reflection that anything of the sort is
bound to be a fool's bargain. I don't lay claim to particular wisdom because of
my dislike and distrust of such transactions. It may be my sea training acting
upon a natural disposition to keep good hold on the one thing really mine, but
the fact is that I have a positive horror of losing even for one moving moment
that full possession of myself which is the first condition of good service.
And I have carried my notion of good service from my earlier into my later
existence. I, who have never sought in the written word anything else but a
form of the Beautiful-- I have carried over that article of creed from the
decks of ships to the more circumscribed space of my desk, and by that act, I
suppose, I have become permanently imperfect in the eyes of the ineffable
company of pure esthetes.
As in political so in
literary action a man wins friends for himself mostly by the passion of his
prejudices and by the consistent narrowness of his outlook. But I have never
been able to love what was not lovable or hate what was not hateful out of
deference for some general principle. Whether there be any courage in making
this admission I know not. After the middle turn of life's way we consider
dangers and joys with a tranquil mind. So I proceed in peace to declare that I
have always suspected in the effort to bring into play the extremities of
emotions the debasing touch of insincerity. In order to move others deeply we
must deliberately allow ourselves to be carried away beyond the bounds of our
normal sensibility--innocently enough, perhaps, and of necessity, like an actor
who raises his voice on the stage above the pitch of natural conversation--but
still we have to do that. And surely this is no great sin. But the danger lies
in the writer becoming the victim of his own exaggeration, losing the exact
notion of sincerity, and in the end coming to despise truth itself as something
too cold, too blunt for his purpose--as, in fact, not good enough for his
insistent emotion. From laughter and tears the descent is easy to snivelling
and giggles.
These may seem selfish
considerations; but you can't, in sound morals, condemn a man for taking care
of his own integrity. It is his clear duty. And least of all can you condemn an
artist pursuing, however humbly and imperfectly, a creative aim. In that
interior world where his thought and his emotions go seeking for the experience
of imagined adventures, there are no policemen, no law, no pressure of
circumstance or dread of opinion to keep him within bounds. Who then is going
to say Nay to his temptations if not his conscience?
And besides--this,
remember, is the place and the moment of perfectly open talk--I think that all
ambitions are lawful except those which climb upward on the miseries or
credulities of mankind. All intellectual and artistic ambitions are
permissible, up to and even beyond the limit of prudent sanity. They can hurt
no one. If they are mad, then so much the worse for the artist. Indeed, as
virtue is said to be, such ambitions are their own reward. Is it such a very
mad presumption to believe in the sovereign power of one's art, to try for
other means, for other ways of affirming this belief in the deeper appeal of
one's work? To try to go deeper is not to be insensible. A historian of hearts
is not a historian of emotions, yet he penetrates further, restrained as he may
be, since his aim is to reach the very fount of laughter and tears. The sight
of human affairs deserves admiration and pity. They are worthy of respect, too.
And he is not insensible who pays them the undemonstrative tribute of a sigh
which is not a sob, and of a smile which is not a grin. Resignation, not
mystic, not detached, but resignation open-eyed, conscious, and informed by
love, is the only one of our feelings for which it is impossible to become a
sham.
Not that I think
resignation the last word of wisdom. I am too much the creature of my time for
that. But I think that the proper wisdom is to will what the gods will without,
perhaps, being certain what their will is--or even if they have a will of their
own. And in this matter of life and art it is not the Why that matters so much
to our happiness as the How. As the Frenchman said, "Il y a toujours la
manière." Very true. Yes. There is the manner. The manner in laughter, in
tears, in irony, in indignations and enthusiasms, in judgments--and even in
love. The manner in which, as in the features and character of a human face,
the inner truth is foreshadowed for those who know how to look at their kind.
Those who read me know
my conviction that the world, the temporal world, rests on a few very simple
ideas; so simple that they must be as old as the hills. It rests notably, among
others, on the idea of Fidelity. At a time when nothing which is not
revolutionary in some way or other can expect to attract much attention I have
not been revolutionary in my writings. The revolutionary spirit is mighty
convenient in this, that it frees one from all scruples as regards ideas. Its
hard, absolute optimism is repulsive to my mind by the menace of fanaticism and
intolerance it contains. No doubt one should smile at these things; but,
imperfect Esthete, I am no better Philosopher. All claim to special
righteousness awakens in me that scorn and danger from which a philosophical
mind should be free. . . .
I fear that trying to
be conversational I have only managed to be unduly discursive. I have never
been very well acquainted with the art of conversation--that art which, I
understand, is supposed to be lost now. My young days, the days when one's
habits and character are formed, have been rather familiar with long silences.
Such voices as broke into them were anything but conversational. No. I haven't
got the habit. Yet this discursiveness is not so irrelevant to the handful of
pages which follow. They, too, have been charged with discursiveness, with
disregard of chronological order (which is in itself a crime), with
unconventionality of form (which is an impropriety). I was told severely that
the public would view with displeasure the informal character of my recollections.
"Alas!" I protested, mildly. "Could I begin with the sacramental
words, 'I was born on such a date in such a place'? The remoteness of the
locality would have robbed the statement of all interest. I haven't lived
through wonderful adventures to be related seriatim. I haven't known
distinguished men on whom I could pass fatuous remarks. I haven't been mixed up
with great or scandalous affairs. This is but a bit of psychological document,
and even so, I haven't written it with a view to put forward any conclusion of
my own."
But my objector was not
placated. These were good reasons for not writing at all-- not a defense of
what stood written already, he said.
I admit that almost
anything, anything in the world, would serve as a good reason for not writing
at all. But since I have written them, all I want to say in their defense is
that these memories put down without any regard for established conventions
have not been thrown off without system and purpose. They have their hope and
their aim. The hope that from the reading of these pages there may emerge at
last the vision of a personality; the man behind the books so fundamentally
dissimilar as, for instance, "Almayer's Folly" and "The Secret
Agent," and yet a coherent, justifiable personality both in its origin and
in its action. This is the hope. The immediate aim, closely associated with the
hope, is to give the record of personal memories by presenting faithfully the
feelings and sensations connected with the writing of my first book and with my
first contact with the sea.
In the purposely
mingled resonance of this double strain a friend here and there will perhaps
detect a subtle accord.
BOOKS may be written in
all sorts of places. Verbal inspiration may enter the berth of a mariner on
board a ship frozen fast in a river in the middle of a town; and since saints
are supposed to look benignantly on humble believers, I indulge in the pleasant
fancy that the shade of old Flaubert --who imagined himself to be (among other
things) a descendant of Vikings--might have hovered with amused interest over
the docks of a 2,000-ton steamer called the Adowa, on board of which, gripped
by the inclement winter alongside a quay in Rouen, the tenth chapter of
"Almayer's Folly" was begun. With interest, I say, for was not the
kind Norman giant with enormous mustaches and a thundering voice the last of
the Romantics? Was he not, in his unworldly, almost ascetic, devotion to his
art, a sort of literary, saint-like hermit?
'It has set at last,'
said Nina to her mother, pointing to the hills behind which the sun had
sunk." . . . These words of Almayer's romantic daughter I remember tracing
on the gray paper of a pad which rested on the blanket of my bed-place. They
referred to a sunset in Malayan Isles and shaped themselves in my mind, in a
hallucinated vision of forests and rivers and seas, far removed from a
commercial and yet romantic town of the northern hemisphere. But at that moment
the mood of visions and words was cut short by the third officer, a cheerful
and casual youth, coming in with a bang of the door and the exclamation:
"You've made it jolly warm in here."
It was warm. I had
turned on the steam- heater after placing a tin under the leaky water-cock--for
perhaps you do not know that water will leak where steam will not. I am not
aware of what my young friend had been doing on deck all that morning, but the
hands he rubbed together vigorously were very red and imparted to me a chilly
feeling by their mere aspect. He has remained the only banjoist of my
acquaintance, and being also a younger son of a retired colonel, the poem of
Mr. Kipling, by a strange aberration of associated ideas, always seems to me to
have been written with an exclusive view to his person. When he did not play
the banjo he loved to sit and look at it. He proceeded to this sentimental
inspection, and after meditating a while over the strings under my silent
scrutiny inquired, airily:
"What are you
always scribbling there, if it's fair to ask?"
It was a fair enough
question, but I did not answer him, and simply turned the pad over with a
movement of instinctive secrecy: I could not have told him he had put to flight
the psychology of Nina Almayer, her opening speech of the tenth chapter, and
the words of Mrs. Almayer's wisdom which were to follow in the ominous oncoming
of a tropical night. I could not have told him that Nina had said, "It has
set at last." He would have been extremely surprised and perhaps have
dropped his precious banjo. Neither could I have told him that the sun of my
sea-going was setting, too, even as I wrote the words expressing the impatience
of passionate youth bent on its desire. I did not know this myself, and it is
safe to say he would not have cared, though he was an excellent young fellow
and treated me with more deference than, in our relative positions, I was
strictly entitled to.
He lowered a tender
gaze on his banjo, and I went on looking through the port-hole. The round
opening framed in its brass rim a fragment of the quays, with a row of casks
ranged on the frozen ground and the tail- end of a great cart. A red-nosed
carter in a blouse and a woollen night-cap leaned against the wheel. An idle,
strolling custom- house guard, belted over his blue capote, had the air of
being depressed by exposure to the weather and the monotony of official
existence. The background of grimy houses found a place in the picture framed
by my porthole, across a wide stretch of paved quay brown with frozen mud. The
colouring was sombre, and the most conspicuous feature was a little café with
curtained windows and a shabby front of white woodwork, corresponding with the
squalor of these poorer quarters bordering the river. We had been shifted down
there from another berth in the neighbourhood of the Opera House, where that
same port-hole gave me a view of quite another soft of café--the best in the
town, I believe, and the very one where the worthy Bovary and his wife, the
romantic daughter of old Père Renault, had some refreshment after the memorable
performance of an opera which was the tragic story of Lucia di Lammermoor in a
setting of light music.
I could recall no more
the hallucination of the Eastern Archipelago which I certainly hoped to see
again. The story of "Almayer's Folly" got put away under the pillow for
that day. I do not know that I had any occupation to keep me away from it; the
truth of the matter is that on board that ship we were leading just then a
contemplative life. I will not say anything of my privileged position. I was
there "just to oblige," as an actor of standing may take a small part
in the benefit performance of a friend.
As far as my feelings
were concerned I did not wish to be in that steamer at that time and in those
circumstances. And perhaps I was not even wanted there in the usual sense in
which a ship "wants" an officer. It was the first and last instance
in my sea life when I served ship-owners who have remained completely shadowy
to my apprehension. I do not mean this for the well-known firm of London
ship-brokers which had chartered the ship to the, I will not say short-lived,
but ephemeral Franco-Canadian Transport Company. A death leaves something
behind, but there was never anything tangible left from the F. C. T. C. It
flourished no longer than roses live, and unlike the roses it blossomed in the
dead of winter, emitted a sort of faint perfume of adventure, and died before
spring set in. But indubitably it was a company, it had even a house-flag, all
white with the letters F. C. T. C. artfully tangled up in a complicated monogram.
We flew it at our mainmast head, and now I have come to the conclusion that it
was the only flag of its kind in existence. All the same we on board, for many
days, had the impression of being a unit of a large fleet with fortnightly
departures for Montreal and Quebec as advertised in pamphlets and prospectuses
which came aboard in a large package in Victoria Dock, London, just before we
started for Rouen, France. And in the shadowy life of the F. C. T. C. lies the
secret of that, my last employment in my calling, which in a remote sense
interrupted the rhythmical development of Nina Almayer's story.
The then secretary of
the London Ship- masters' Society, with its modest rooms in Fenchurch Street,
was a man of indefatigable activity and the greatest devotion to his task. He
is responsible for what was my last association with a ship. I call it that
because it can hardly be called a sea-going experience. Dear Captain Froud--it
is impossible not to pay him the tribute of affectionate familiarity at this
distance of years-- had very sound views as to the advancement of knowledge and
status for the whole body of the officers of the mercantile marine. He
organized for us courses of professional lectures, St. John ambulance classes,
corresponded industriously with public bodies and members of Parliament on
subjects touching the interests of the service; and as to the oncoming of some
inquiry or commission relating to matters of the sea and to the work of seamen,
it was a perfect godsend to his need of exerting himself on our corporate
behalf. Together with this high sense of his official duties he had in him a
vein of personal kindness, a strong disposition to do what good he could to the
individual members of that craft of which in his time he had been a very
excellent master. And what greater kindness can one do to a seaman than to put
him in the way of employment? Captain Froud did not see why the Shipmasters'
Society, besides its general guardianship of our interests, should not be
unofficially an employment agency of the very highest class.
"I am trying to
persuade all our great ship-owning firms to come to us for their men. There is
nothing of a trade-union spirit about our society, and I really don't see why
they should not," he said once to me. "I am always telling the
captains, too, that, all things being equal, they ought to give preference to
the members of the society. In my position I can generally find for them what
they want among our members or our associate members."
In my wanderings about
London from west to east and back again (I was very idle then) the two little
rooms in Fenchurch Street were a sort of resting-place where my spirit,
hankering after the sea, could feel itself nearer to the ships, the men, and
the life of its choice-- nearer there than on any other spot of the solid
earth. This resting-place used to be, at about five o'clock in the afternoon,
full of men and tobacco smoke, but Captain Froud had the smaller room to
himself and there he granted private interviews, whose principal motive was to
render service. Thus, one murky November afternoon he beckoned me in with a
crooked finger and that peculiar glance above his spectacles which is perhaps
my strongest physical recollection of the man.
"I have had in
here a shipmaster, this morning," he said, getting back to his desk and
motioning me to a chair, "who is in want of an officer. It's for a
steamship. You know, nothing pleases me more than to be asked, but,
unfortunately, I do not quite see my way . . ."
As the outer room was
full of men I cast a wondering glance at the closed door; but he shook his
head.
"Oh, yes, I should
be only too glad to get that berth for one of them. But the fact of the matter
is, the captain of that ship wants an officer who can speak French fluently,
and that's not so easy to find. I do not know anybody myself but you. It's a
second officer's berth and, of course, you would not care . . . would you now?
I know that it isn't what you are looking for."
It was not. I had given
myself up to the idleness of a haunted man who looks for nothing but words
wherein to capture his visions. But I admit that outwardly I resembled
sufficiently a man who could make a second officer for a steamer chartered by a
French company. I showed no sign of being haunted by the fate of Nina and by
the murmurs of tropical forests; and even my intimate intercourse with Almayer
(a person of weak character) had not put a visible mark upon my features. For
many years he and the world of his story had been the companions of my imagination
without, I hope, impairing my ability to deal with the realities of sea life. I
had had the man and his surroundings with me ever since my return from the
eastern waters--some four years before the day of which I speak.
It was in the front
sitting-room of furnished apartments in a Pimlico square that they first began
to live again with a vividness and poignancy quite foreign to our former real
intercourse. I had been treating myself to a long stay on shore, and in the
necessity of occupying my mornings Almayer (that old acquaintance) came nobly
to the rescue. Before long, as was only proper, his wife and daughter joined
him round my table, and then the rest of that Pantai band came full of words
and gestures. Unknown to my respectable landlady, it was my practice directly
after my breakfast to hold animated receptions of Malays, Arabs, and
half-castes. They did not clamour aloud for my attention. They came with a
silent and irresistible appeal--and the appeal, I affirm here, was not to my
self-love or my vanity. It seems now to have had a moral character, for why
should the memory of these beings, seen in their obscure, sun-bathed existence,
demand to express itself in the shape of a novel, except on the ground of that
mysterious fellowship which unites in a community of hopes and fears all the
dwellers on this earth?
I did not receive my
visitors with boisterous rapture as the bearers of any gifts of profit or fame.
There was no vision of a printed book before me as I sat writing at that table,
situated in a decayed part of Belgravia. After all these years, each leaving
its evidence of slowly blackened pages, I can honestly say that it is a
sentiment akin to pity which prompted me to render in words assembled with
conscientious care the memory of things far distant and of men who had lived.
But, coming back to
Captain Froud and his fixed idea of never disappointing ship- owners or
ship-captains, it was not likely that I should fail him in his ambition--to
satisfy at a few hours' notice the unusual demand for a French-speaking
officer. He explained to me that the ship was chartered by a French company
intending to establish a regular monthly line of sailings from Rouen, for the
transport of French emigrants to Canada. But, frankly, this sort of thing did
not interest me very much. I said gravely that if it were really a matter of
keeping up the reputation of the Shipmasters' Society I would consider it. But
the consideration was just for form's sake. The next day I interviewed the
captain, and I believe we were impressed favourably with each other. He
explained that his chief mate was an excellent man in every respect and that he
could not think of dismissing him so as to give me the higher position; but
that if I consented to come as second officer I would be given certain special
advantages--and so on.
I told him that if I
came at all the rank really did not matter.
"I am sure,"
he insisted, "you will get on first rate with Mr. Paramor."
I promised faithfully
to stay for two trips at least, and it was in those circumstances that what was
to be my last connection with a ship began. And after all there was not even
one single trip. It may be that it was simply the fulfilment of a fate, of that
written word on my forehead which apparently forbade me, through all my sea
wanderings, ever to achieve the crossing of the Western Ocean --using the words
in that special sense in which sailors speak of Western Ocean trade, of Western
Ocean packets, of Western Ocean hard cases. The new life attended closely upon
the old, and the nine chapters of "Almayer's Folly" went with me to
the Victoria Dock, whence in a few days we started for Rouen. I won't go so far
as saying that the engaging of a man fated never to cross the Western Ocean was
the absolute cause of the Franco-Canadian Transport Company's failure to
achieve even a single passage. It might have been that of course; but the
obvious, gross obstacle was clearly the want of money. Four hundred and sixty
bunks for emigrants were put together in the 'tween decks by industrious
carpenters while we lay in the Victoria Dock, but never an emigrant turned up
in Rouen--of which, being a humane person, I confess I was glad. Some gentlemen
from Paris--I think there were three of them, and one was said to be the
chairman--turned up, indeed, and went from end to end of the ship, knocking
their silk hats cruelly against the deck beams. I attended them personally, and
I can vouch for it that the interest they took in things was intelligent
enough, though, obviously, they had never seen anything of the sort before.
Their faces as they went ashore wore a cheerfully inconclusive expression.
Notwithstanding that this inspecting ceremony was supposed to be a preliminary
to immediate sailing, it was then, as they filed down our gangway, that I
received the inward monition that no sailing within the meaning of our charter
party would ever take place.
It must be said that in
less than three weeks a move took place. When we first arrived we had been
taken up with much ceremony well toward the centre of the town, and, all the
street corners being placarded with the tricolor posters announcing the birth
of our company, the petit bourgeois with his wife and family made a Sunday
holiday from the inspection of the ship. I was always in evidence in my best
uniform to give information as though I had been a Cook's tourists'
interpreter, while our quartermasters reaped a harvest of small change from
personally conducted parties. But when the move was made--that move which
carried us some mile and a half down the stream to be tied up to an altogether
muddier and shabbier quay--then indeed the desolation of solitude became our
lot. It was a complete and soundless stagnation; for as we had the ship ready
for sea to the smallest detail, as the frost was hard and the days short, we
were absolutely idle--idle to the point of blushing with shame when the thought
struck us that all the time our salaries went on. Young Cole was aggrieved
because, as he said, we could not enjoy any sort of fun in the evening after
loafing like this all day; even the banjo lost its charm since there was
nothing to prevent his strumming on it all the time between the meals. The good
Paramor--he was really a most excellent fellow--became unhappy as far as was
possible to his cheery nature, till one dreary day I suggested, out of sheer
mischief, that he should employ the dormant energies of the crew in hauling
both cables up on deck and turning them end for end.
For a moment Mr.
Paramor was radiant. "Excellent idea!" but directly his face fell.
"Why . . . Yes! But we can't make that job last more than three
days," he muttered, discontentedly. I don't know how long he expected us
to be stuck on the riverside outskirts of Rouen, but I know that the cables got
hauled up and turned end for end according to my satanic suggestion, put down
again, and their very existence utterly forgotten, I believe, before a French
river pilot came on board to take our ship down, empty as she came, into the
Havre roads. You may think that this state of forced idleness favoured some
advance in the fortunes of Almayer and his daughter. Yet it was not so. As if
it were some sort of evil spell, my banjoist cabin- mate's interruption, as
related above, had arrested them short at the point of that fateful sunset for
many weeks together. It was always thus with this book, begun in '89 and
finished in '94--with that shortest of all the novels which it was to be my lot
to write. Between its opening exclamation calling Almayer to his dinner in his
wife's voice and Abdullah's (his enemy) mental reference to the God of
Islam--"The Merciful, the Compassionate"--which closes the book,
there were to come several long sea passages, a visit (to use the elevated
phraseology suitable to the occasion) to the scenes (some of them) of my
childhood and the realization of childhood's vain words, expressing a
light-hearted and romantic whim.
It was in 1868, when
nine years old or thereabouts, that while looking at a map of Africa of the
time and putting my finger on the blank space then representing the unsolved
mystery of that continent, I said to myself, with absolute assurance and an
amazing audacity which are no longer in my character now:
"When I grow up I
shall go there."
And of course I thought
no more about it till after a quarter of a century or so an opportunity offered
to go there--as if the sin of childish audacity were to be visited on my mature
head. Yes. I did go there: there being the region of Stanley Falls, which in
'68 was the blankest of blank spaces on the earth's figured surface. And the
MS. of "Almayer's Folly," carried about me as if it were a talisman
or a treasure, went there, too. That it ever came out of there seems a special
dispensation of Providence, because a good many of my other properties,
infinitely more valuable and useful to me, remained behind through unfortunate
accidents of transportation. I call to mind, for instance, a specially awkward
turn of the Congo between Kinchassa and Leopoldsville--more particularly when
one had to take it at night in a big canoe with only half the proper number of
paddlers. I failed in being the second white man on record drowned at that
interesting spot through the upsetting of a canoe. The first was a young
Belgian officer, but the accident happened some months before my time, and he,
too, I believe, was going home; not perhaps quite so ill as myself--but still
he was going home. I got round the turn more or less alive, though I was too
sick to care whether I did or not, and, always with "Almayer's Folly"
among my diminishing baggage, I arrived at that delectable capital, Boma,
where, before the departure of the steamer which was to take me home, I had the
time to wish myself dead over and over again with perfect sincerity. At that
date there were in existence only seven chapters of "Almayer's
Folly," but the chapter in my history which followed was that of a long,
long illness and very dismal convalescence. Geneva, or more precisely the
hydropathic establishment of Champel, is rendered forever famous by the
termination of the eighth chapter in the history of Almayer's decline and fall.
The events of the ninth are inextricably mixed up with the details of the
proper management of a waterside warehouse owned by a certain city firm whose name
does not matter. But that work, undertaken to accustom myself again to the
activities of a healthy existence, soon came to an end. The earth had nothing
to hold me with for very long. And then that memorable story, like a cask of
choice Madeira, got carried for three years to and fro upon the sea. Whether
this treatment improved its flavour or not, of course I would not like to say.
As far as appearance is concerned it certainly did nothing of the kind. The
whole MS. acquired a faded look and an ancient, yellowish complexion. It became
at last unreasonable to suppose that anything in the world would ever happen to
Almayer and Nina. And yet something most unlikely to happen on the high seas
was to wake them up from their state of suspended animation.
What is it that Novalis
says: "It is certain my conviction gains infinitely the moment another
soul will believe in it." And what is a novel if not a conviction of our
fellow-men's existence strong enough to take upon itself a form of imagined life
clearer than reality and whose accumulated verisimilitude of selected episodes
puts to shame the pride of documentary history. Providence which saved my MS.
from the Congo rapids brought it to the knowledge of a helpful soul far out on
the open sea. It would be on my part the greatest ingratitude ever to forget
the sallow, sunken face and the deep-set, dark eyes of the young Cambridge man
(he was a "passenger for his health" on board the good ship Torrens
outward bound to Australia) who was the first reader of "Almayer's
Folly"--the very first reader I ever had. "Would it bore you very
much in reading a MS. in a handwriting like mine?" I asked him one
evening, on a sudden impulse at the end of a longish conversation whose subject
was Gibbon's History. Jacques (that was his name) was sitting in my cabin one
stormy dog-watch below, after bring me a book to read from his own travelling
store.
"Not at all,"
he answered, with his courteous intonation and a faint smile. As I pulled a
drawer open his suddenly aroused curiosity gave him a watchful expression. I
wonder what he expected to see. A poem, maybe. All that's beyond guessing now.
He was not a cold, but a calm man, still more subdued by disease--a man of few
words and of an unassuming modesty in general intercourse, but with something
uncommon in the whole of his person which set him apart from the
undistinguished lot of our sixty passengers. His eyes had a thoughtful,
introspective look. In his attractive reserved manner and in a veiled
sympathetic voice he asked:
"What is
this?" "It is a sort of tale," I answered, with an effort.
"It is not even finished yet. Nevertheless, I would like to know what you
think of it." He put the MS. in the breast-pocket of his jacket; I
remember perfectly his thin, brown fingers folding it lengthwise. "I will
read it tomorrow," he remarked, seizing the door- handle; and then
watching the roll of the ship for a propitious moment, he opened the door and
was gone. In the moment of his exit I heard the sustained booming of the wind,
the swish of the water on the decks of the Torrens, and the subdued, as if
distant, roar of the rising sea. I noted the growing disquiet in the great
restlessness of the ocean, and responded professionally to it with the thought
that at eight o'clock, in another half- hour or so at the farthest, the
topgallant- sails would have to come off the ship.
Next day, but this time
in the first dog- watch, Jacques entered my cabin. He had a thick woollen
muffler round his throat, and the MS. was in his hand. He tendered it to me
with a steady look, but without a word. I took it in silence. He sat down on
the couch and still said nothing. I opened and shut a drawer under my desk, on
which a filled-up log-slate lay wide open in its wooden frame waiting to be
copied neatly into the sort of book I was accustomed to write with care, the
ship's log-book. I turned my back squarely on the desk. And even then Jacques
never offered a word. "Well, what do you say?" I asked at last.
"Is it worth finishing?" This question expressed exactly the whole of
my thoughts.
"Distinctly,"
he answered, in his sedate, veiled voice, and then coughed a little.
"Were you
interested?" I inquired further, almost in a whisper.
"Very much!"
In a pause I went on
meeting instinctively the heavy rolling of the ship, and Jacques put his feet
upon the couch. The curtain of my bed-place swung to and fro as if it were a
punkah, the bulkhead lamp circled in its gimbals, and now and then the cabin
door rattled slightly in the gusts of wind. It was in latitude 40 south, and
nearly in the longitude of Greenwich, as far as I can remember, that these
quiet rites of Almayer's and Nina's resurrection were taking place. In the
prolonged silence it occurred to me that there was a good deal of retrospective
writing in the story as far as it went. Was it intelligible in its action, I
asked myself, as if already the story-teller were being born into the body of a
seaman. But I heard on deck the whistle of the officer of the watch and
remained on the alert to catch the order that was to follow this call to
attention. It reached me as a faint, fierce shout to "Square the
yards." "Aha!" I thought to myself, "a westerly blow coming
on." Then I turned to my very first reader, who, alas! was not to live
long enough to know the end of the tale.
"Now let me ask
you one more thing: is the story quite clear to you as it stands?"
He raised his dark,
gentle eyes to my face and seemed surprised.
"Yes!
Perfectly."
This was all I was to
hear from his lips concerning the merits of "Almayer's Folly." We
never spoke together of the book again. A long period of bad weather set in and
I had no thoughts left but for my duties, while poor Jacques caught a fatal
cold and had to keep close in his cabin. When we arrived in Adelaide the first
reader of my prose went at once up-country, and died rather suddenly in the
end, either in Australia or it may be on the passage while going home through
the Suez Canal. I am not sure which it was now, and I do not think I ever heard
precisely; though I made inquiries about him from some of our return passengers
who, wandering about to "see the country" during the ship's stay in
port, had come upon him here and there. At last we sailed, homeward bound, and
still not one line was added to the careless scrawl of the many pages which
poor Jacques had had the patience to read with the very shadows of Eternity
gathering already in the hollows of his kind, steadfast eyes.
The purpose instilled
into me by his simple and final "Distinctly" remained dormant, yet
alive to await its opportunity. I dare say I am compelled--unconsciously
compelled--now to write volume after volume, as in past years I was compelled
to go to sea voyage after voyage. Leaves must follow upon one another as
leagues used to follow in the days gone by, on and on to the appointed end,
which, being Truth itself, is One--one for all men and for all occupations.
I do not know which of
the two impulses has appeared more mysterious and more wonderful to me. Still,
in writing, as in going to sea, I had to wait my opportunity. Let me confess
here that I was never one of those wonderful fellows that would go afloat in a
wash-tub for the sake of the fun, and if I may pride myself upon my
consistency, it was ever just the same with my writing. Some men, I have heard,
write in railway carriages, and could do it, perhaps, sitting crossed-legged on
a clothes-line; but I must confess that my sybaritic disposition will not
consent to write without something at least resembling a chair. Line by line,
rather than page by page, was the growth of "Almayer's Folly."
And so it happened that
I very nearly lost the MS., advanced now to the first words of the ninth
chapter, in the Friedrichstrasse railway station (that's in Berlin, you know),
on my way to Poland, or more precisely to Ukraine. On an early, sleepy morning
changing trains in a hurry I left my Gladstone bag in a refreshment-room. A
worthy and intelligent Kofferträger rescued it. Yet in my anxiety I was not
thinking of the MS., but of all the other things that were packed in the bag.
In Warsaw, where I
spent two days, those wandering pages were never exposed to the light, except
once to candle-light, while the bag lay open on the chair. I was dressing
hurriedly to dine at a sporting club. A friend of my childhood (he had been in
the Diplomatic Service, but had turned to growing wheat on paternal acres, and
we had not seen each other for over twenty years) was sitting on the hotel sofa
waiting to carry me off there.
"You might tell me
something of your life while you are dressing," he suggested, kindly.
I do not think I told
him much of my life- story either then or later. The talk of the select little
party with which he made me dine was extremely animated and embraced most
subjects under heaven, from big-game shooting in Africa to the last poem
published in a very modernist review, edited by the very young and patronized
by the highest society. But it never touched upon "Almayer's Folly,"
and next morning, in uninterrupted obscurity, this inseparable companion went
on rolling with me in the southeast direction toward the government of Kiev.
At that time there was
an eight hours' drive, if not more, from the railway station to the
country-house which was my destination.
"Dear boy"
(these words were always written in English), so ran the last letter from that
house received in London--"Get yourself driven to the only inn in the
place, dine as well as you can, and some time in the evening my own
confidential servant, factotum and majordomo, a Mr. V. S. (I warn you he is of
noble extraction), will present himself before you, reporting the arrival of
the small sledge which will take you here on the next day. I send with him my
heaviest fur, which I suppose with such overcoats as you may have with you will
keep you from freezing on the road."
Sure enough, as I was
dining, served by a Hebrew waiter, in an enormous barn-like bedroom with a
freshly painted floor, the door opened and, in a travelling costume of long
boots, big sheepskin cap, and a short coat girt with a leather belt, the Mr. V.
S. (of noble extraction), a man of about thirty- five, appeared with an air of
perplexity on his open and mustached countenance. I got up from the table and
greeted him in Polish, with, I hope, the right shade of consideration demanded
by his noble blood and his confidential position. His face cleared up in a
wonderful way. It appeared that, notwithstanding my uncle's earnest assurances,
the good fellow had remained in doubt of our understanding each other. He
imagined I would talk to him in some foreign language. I was told that his last
words on getting into the sledge to come to meet me shaped an anxious
exclamation:
"Well! Well! Here
I am going, but God only knows how I am to make myself understood to our
master's nephew."
We understood each
other very well from the first. He took charge of me as if I were not quite of
age. I had a delightful boyish feeling of coming home from school when he
muffled me up next morning in an enormous bearskin travelling-coat and took his
seat protectively by my side. The sledge was a very small one, and it looked
utterly insignificant, almost like a toy behind the four big bays harnessed two
and two. We three, counting the coachman, filled it completely. He was a young
fellow with clear blue eyes; the high collar of his livery fur coat framed his
cheery countenance and stood all round level with the top of his head.
"Now,
Joseph," my companion addressed him, "do you think we shall manage to
get home before six?" His answer was that we would surely, with God's
help, and providing there were no heavy drifts in the long stretch between
certain villages whose names came with an extremely familiar sound to my ears.
He turned out an excellent coachman, with an instinct for keeping the road
among the snow-covered fields and a natural gift of getting the best out of his
horses.
"He is the son of
that Joseph that I suppose the Captain remembers. He who used to drive the
Captain's late grandmother of holy memory," remarked V. S., busy tucking
fur rugs about my feet.
I remembered perfectly
the trusty Joseph who used to drive my grandmother. Why! he it was who let me
hold the reins for the first time in my life and allowed me to play with the
great four-in-hand whip outside the doors of the coach-house.
"What became of
him?" I asked. "He is no longer serving, I suppose."
"He served our
master," was the reply. "But he died of cholera ten years ago now--
that great epidemic that we had. And his wife died at the same time--the whole
houseful of them, and this is the only boy that was left."
The MS. of
"Almayer's Folly" was reposing in the bag under our feet.
I saw again the sun
setting on the plains as I saw it in the travels of my childhood. It set, clear
and red, dipping into the snow in full view as if it were setting on the sea.
It was twenty-three years since I had seen the sun set over that land; and we
drove on in the darkness which fell swiftly upon the livid expanse of snows
till, out of the waste of a white earth joining a bestarred sky, surged up
black shapes, the clumps of trees about a village of the Ukrainian plain. A
cottage or two glided by, a low interminable wall, and then, glimmering and
winking through a screen of fir-trees, the lights of the master's house.
That very evening the
wandering MS. of "Almayer's Folly" was unpacked and unostentatiously
laid on the writing-table in my room, the guest-room which had been, I was
informed in an affectionately careless tone, awaiting me for some fifteen years
or so. It attracted no attention from the affectionate presence hovering round
the son of the favourite sister.
"You won't have
many hours to yourself while you are staying with me, brother," he
said--this form of address borrowed from the speech of our peasants being the
usual expression of the highest good humour in a moment of affectionate
elation. "I shall be always coming in for a chat."
As a matter of fact, we
had the whole house to chat in, and were everlastingly intruding upon each
other. I invaded the retirement of his study where the principal feature was a
colossal silver inkstand presented to him on his fiftieth year by a
subscription of all his wards then living. He had been guardian of many orphans
of land-owning families from the three southern provinces--ever since the year
1860. Some of them had been my school- fellows and playmates, but not one of
them, girls or boys, that I know of has ever written a novel. One or two were
older than myself --considerably older, too. One of them, a visitor I remember
in my early years, was the man who first put me on horseback, and his
four-horse bachelor turnout, his perfect horsemanship and general skill in manly
exercises, was one of my earliest admirations. I seem to remember my mother
looking on from a colonnade in front of the dining-room windows as I was lifted
upon the pony, held, for all I know, by the very Joseph-- the groom attached
specially to my grandmother's service--who died of cholera. It was certainly a
young man in a dark-blue, tailless coat and huge Cossack trousers, that being
the livery of the men about the stables. It must have been in 1864, but
reckoning by another mode of calculating time, it was certainly in the year in
which my mother obtained permission to travel south and visit her family, from
the exile into which she had followed my father. For that, too, she had had to
ask permission, and I know that one of the conditions of that favour was that
she should be treated exactly as a condemned exile herself. Yet a couple of
years later, in memory of her eldest brother, who had served in the Guards and
dying early left hosts of friends and a loved memory in the great world of St.
Petersburg, some influential personages procured for her this permission--it
was officially called the "Highest Grace"-- of a four months' leave
from exile.
This is also the year
in which I first begin to remember my mother with more distinctness than a mere
loving, wide-browed, silent, protecting presence, whose eyes had a sort of
commanding sweetness; and I also remember the great gathering of all the
relations from near and far, and the gray heads of the family friends paying
her the homage of respect and love in the house of her favourite brother, who,
a few years later, was to take the place for me of both my parents.
I did not understand
the tragic significance of it all at the time, though, indeed, I remember that
doctors also came. There were no signs of invalidism about her--but I think
that already they had pronounced her doom unless perhaps the change to a
southern climate could re-establish her declining strength. For me it seems the
very happiest period of my existence. There was my cousin, a delightful,
quick-tempered little girl, some months younger than myself, whose life,
lovingly watched over as if she were a royal princess, came to an end with her
fifteenth year. There were other children, too, many of whom are dead now, and
not a few whose very names I have forgotten. Over all this hung the oppressive
shadow of the great Russian empire--the shadow lowering with the darkness of a
new-born national hatred fostered by the Moscow school of journalists against
the Poles after the ill-omened rising of 1863.
This is a far cry back
from the MS. of "Almayer's Folly," but the public record of these
formative impressions is not the whim of an uneasy egotism. These, too, are
things human, already distant in their appeal. It is meet that something more should
be left for the novelist's children than the colours and figures of his own
hard-won creation. That which in their grown-up years may appear to the world
about them as the most enigmatic side of their natures and perhaps must remain
forever obscure even to themselves, will be their unconscious response to the
still voice of that inexorable past from which his work of fiction and their
personalities are remotely derived.
Only in men's
imagination does every truth find an effective and undeniable existence.
Imagination, not invention, is the supreme master of art as of life. An
imaginative and exact rendering of authentic memories may serve worthily that
spirit of piety toward all things human which sanctions the conceptions of a
writer of tales, and the emotions of the man reviewing his own experience.
AS I have said, I was
unpacking my luggage after a journey from London into Ukraine. The MS. of
"Almayer's Folly"--my companion already for some three years or more,
and then in the ninth chapter of its age--was deposited unostentatiously on the
writing-table placed between two windows. It didn't occur to me to put it away
in the drawer the table was fitted with, but my eye was attracted by the good
form of the same drawer's brass handles. Two candelabra, with four candles
each, lighted up festally the room which had waited so many years for the
wandering nephew. The blinds were down.
Within five hundred
yards of the chair on which I sat stood the first peasant hut of the
village--part of my maternal grandfather's estate, the only part remaining in
the possession of a member of the family; and beyond the village in the
limitless blackness of a winter's night there lay the great unfenced fields--
not a flat and severe plain, but a kindly bread- giving land of low rounded
ridges, all white now, with the black patches of timber nestling in the
hollows. The road by which I had come ran through the village with a turn just
outside the gates closing the short drive. Somebody was abroad on the deep
snow- track; a quick tinkle of bells stole gradually into the stillness of the
room like a tuneful whisper.
My unpacking had been
watched over by the servant who had come to help me, and, for the most part,
had been standing attentive but unnecessary at the door of the room. I did not
want him in the least, but I did not like to tell him to go away. He was a
young fellow, certainly more than ten years younger than myself; I had not
been--I won't say in that place, but within sixty miles of it, ever since the
year '67; yet his guileless physiognomy of the open peasant type seemed
strangely familiar. It was quite possible that he might have been a descendant,
a son, or even a grandson, of the servants whose friendly faces had been
familiar to me in my early childhood. As a matter of fact he had no such claim
on my consideration. He was the product of some village near by and was there
on his promotion, having learned the service in one or two houses as pantry-
boy. I know this because I asked the worthy V---- next day. I might well have
spared the question. I discovered before long that all the faces about the
house and all the faces in the village: the grave faces with long mustaches of
the heads of families, the downy faces of the young men, the faces of the
little fair-haired children, the handsome, tanned, wide-browed faces of the
mothers seen at the doors of the huts, were as familiar to me as though I had
known them all from childhood and my childhood were a matter of the day before
yesterday.
The tinkle of the traveller's
bells, after growing louder, had faded away quickly, and the tumult of barking
dogs in the village had calmed down at last. My uncle, lounging in the corner
of a small couch, smoked his long Turkish chibouk in silence.
"This is an
extremely nice writing-table you have got for my room," I remarked.
"It is really your
property," he said, keeping his eyes on me, with an interested and wistful
expression, as he had done ever since I had entered the house. "Forty
years ago your mother used to write at this very table. In our house in Oratow,
it stood in the little sitting-room which, by a tacit arrangement, was given up
to the girls--I mean to your mother and her sister who died so young. It was a
present to them jointly from your uncle Nicholas B. when your mother was
seventeen and your aunt two years younger. She was a very dear, delightful
girl, that aunt of yours, of whom I suppose you know nothing more than the
name. She did not shine so much by personal beauty and a cultivated mind in
which your mother was far superior. It was her good sense, the admirable
sweetness of her nature, her exceptional facility and ease in daily relations,
that endeared her to everybody. Her death was a terrible grief and a serious
moral loss for us all. Had she lived she would have brought the greatest
blessings to the house it would have been her lot to enter, as wife, mother,
and mistress of a household. She would have created round herself an atmosphere
of peace and content which only those who can love unselfishly are able to
evoke. Your mother--of far greater beauty, exceptionally distinguished in
person, manner, and intellect--had a less easy disposition. Being more
brilliantly gifted, she also expected more from life. At that trying time
especially, we were greatly concerned about her state. Suffering in her health
from the shock of her father's death (she was alone in the house with him when
he died suddenly), she was torn by the inward struggle between her love for the
man whom she was to marry in the end and her knowledge of her dead father's
declared objection to that match. Unable to bring herself to disregard that
cherished memory and that judgment she had always respected and trusted, and,
on the other hand, feeling the impossibility to resist a sentiment so deep and
so true, she could not have been expected to preserve her mental and moral
balance. At war with herself, she could not give to others that feeling of
peace which was not her own. It was only later, when united at last with the
man of her choice, that she developed those uncommon gifts of mind and heart
which compelled the respect and admiration even of our foes. Meeting with calm
fortitude the cruel trials of a life reflecting all the national and social
misfortunes of the community, she realized the highest conceptions of duty as a
wife, a mother, and a patriot, sharing the exile of her husband and
representing nobly the ideal of Polish womanhood. Our uncle Nicholas was not a
man very accessible to feelings of affection. Apart from his worship for
Napoleon the Great, he loved really, I believe, only three people in the world:
his mother--your great-grandmother, whom you have seen but cannot possibly
remember; his brother, our father, in whose house he lived for so many years;
and of all of us, his nephews and nieces grown up around him, your mother
alone. The modest, lovable qualities of the youngest sister he did not seem
able to see. It was I who felt most profoundly this unexpected stroke of death
falling upon the family less than a year after I had become its head. It was
terribly unexpected. Driving home one wintry afternoon to keep me company in
our empty house, where I had to remain permanently administering the estate and
attending to the complicated affairs--(the girls took it in turn week and week
about)-- driving, as I said, from the house of the Countess Tekla Potocka,
where our invalid mother was staying then to be near a doctor, they lost the
road and got stuck in a snow- drift. She was alone with the coachman and old
Valery, the personal servant of our late father. Impatient of delay while they
were trying to dig themselves out, she jumped out of the sledge and went to
look for the road herself. All this happened in '51, not ten miles from the
house in which we are sitting now. The road was soon found, but snow had begun
to fall thickly again, and they were four more hours getting home. Both the men
took off their sheepskin- lined greatcoats and used all their own rugs to wrap
her up against the cold, notwithstanding her protests, positive orders, and
even struggles, as Valery afterward related to me. 'How could I,' he
remonstrated with her, 'go to meet the blessed soul of my late master if I let
any harm come to you while there's a spark of life left in my body?' When they
reached home at last the poor old man was stiff and speechless from exposure,
and the coachman was in not much better plight, though he had the strength to
drive round to the stables himself. To my reproaches for venturing out at all
in such weather, she answered, characteristically, that she could not bear the
thought of abandoning me to my cheerless solitude. It is incomprehensible how
it was that she was allowed to start. I suppose it had to be! She made light of
the cough which came on next day, but shortly afterward inflammation of the
lungs set in, and in three weeks she was no more! She was the first to be taken
away of the young generation under my care. Behold the vanity of all hopes and
fears! I was the most frail at birth of all the children. For years I remained
so delicate that my parents had but little hope of bringing me up; and yet I
have survived five brothers and two sisters, and many of my contemporaries; I
have outlived my wife and daughter, too--and from all those who have had some
knowledge at least of these old times you alone are left. It has been my lot to
lay in an early grave many honest hearts, many brilliant promises, many hopes
full of life."
He got up briskly,
sighed, and left me saying, "We will dine in half an hour." Without
moving, I listened to his quick steps resounding on the waxed floor of the next
room, traversing the anteroom lined with bookshelves, where he paused to put
his chibouk in the pipe-stand before passing into the drawing-room (these were
all en suite), where he became inaudible on the thick carpet. But I heard the
door of his study-bedroom close. He was then sixty- two years old and had been
for a quarter of a century the wisest, the firmest, the most indulgent of
guardians, extending over me a paternal care and affection, a moral support
which I seemed to feel always near me in the most distant parts of the earth.
As to Mr. Nicholas B.,
sub-lieutenant of 1808, lieutenant of 1813 in the French army, and for a short
time Officier d'Ordonnance of Marshal Marmont; afterward captain in the 2d
Regiment of Mounted Rifles in the Polish army--such as it existed up to 1830 in
the reduced kingdom established by the Congress of Vienna--I must say that from
all that more distant past, known to me traditionally and a little de visu, and
called out by the words of the man just gone away, he remains the most
incomplete figure. It is obvious that I must have seen him in '64, for it is
certain that he would not have missed the opportunity of seeing my mother for
what he must have known would be the last time. From my early boyhood to this
day, if I try to call up his image, a sort of mist rises before my eyes, mist
in which I perceive vaguely only a neatly brushed head of white hair (which is
exceptional in the case of the B. family, where it is the rule for men to go
bald in a becoming manner before thirty) and a thin, curved, dignified nose, a
feature in strict accordance with the physical tradition of the B. family. But
it is not by these fragmentary remains of perishable mortality that he lives in
my memory. I knew, at a very early age, that my granduncle Nicholas B. was a
Knight of the Legion of Honour and that he had also the Polish Cross for valour
Virtuti Militari. The knowledge of these glorious facts inspired in me an
admiring veneration; yet it is not that sentiment, strong as it was, which
resumes for me the force and the significance of his personality. It is over-
borne by another and complex impression of awe, compassion, and horror. Mr.
Nicholas B. remains for me the unfortunate and miserable (but heroic) being who
once upon a time had eaten a dog.
It is a good forty
years since I heard the tale, and the effect has not worn off yet. I believe
this is the very first, say, realistic, story I heard in my life; but all the
same I don't know why I should have been so frightfully impressed. Of course I
know what our village dogs look like--but still. . . . No! At this very day,
recalling the horror and compassion of my childhood, I ask myself whether I am
right in disclosing to a cold and fastidious world that awful episode in the
family history. I ask myself --is it right?--especially as the B. family had
always been honourably known in a wide country-side for the delicacy of their
tastes in the matter of eating and drinking. But upon the whole, and
considering that this gastronomical degradation overtaking a gallant young
officer lies really at the door of the Great Napoleon, I think that to cover it
up by silence would be an exaggeration of literary restraint. Let the truth
stand here. The responsibility rests with the Man of St. Helena in view of his
deplorable levity in the conduct of the Russian campaign. It was during the
memorable retreat from Moscow that Mr. Nicholas B., in company of two brother
officers--as to whose morality and natural refinement I know nothing-- bagged a
dog on the outskirts of a village and subsequently devoured him. As far as I
can remember the weapon used was a cavalry sabre, and the issue of the sporting
episode was rather more of a matter of life and death than if it had been an
encounter with a tiger. A picket of Cossacks was sleeping in that village lost
in the depths of the great Lithuanian forest. The three sportsmen had observed
them from a hiding-place making themselves very much at home among the huts
just before the early winter darkness set in at four o'clock. They had observed
them with disgust and, perhaps, with despair. Late in the night the rash
counsels of hunger overcame the dictates of prudence. Crawling through the snow
they crept up to the fence of dry branches which generally encloses a village
in that part of Lithuania. What they expected to get and in what manner, and
whether this expectation was worth the risk, goodness only knows. However,
these Cossack parties, in most cases wandering without an officer, were known
to guard themselves badly and often not at all. In addition, the village lying
at a great distance from the line of French retreat, they could not suspect the
presence of stragglers from the Grand Army. The three officers had strayed away
in a blizzard from the main column and had been lost for days in the woods,
which explains sufficiently the terrible straits to which they were reduced.
Their plan was to try and attract the attention of the peasants in that one of
the huts which was nearest to the enclosure; but as they were preparing to
venture into the very jaws of the lion, so to speak, a dog (it is mighty
strange that there was but one), a creature quite as formidable under the
circumstances as a lion, began to bark on the other side of the fence. . . .
At this stage of the
narrative, which I heard many times (by request) from the lips of Captain
Nicholas B.'s sister-in-law, my grandmother, I used to tremble with excitement.
The dog barked. And if
he had done no more than bark, three officers of the Great Napoleon's army
would have perished honourably on the points of Cossacks' lances, or perchance
escaping the chase would have died decently of starvation. But before they had
time to think of running away that fatal and revolting dog, being carried away
by the excess of the zeal, dashed out through a gap in the fence. He dashed out
and died. His head, I understand, was severed at one blow from his body. I
understand also that later on, within the gloomy solitudes of the snow-laden
woods, when, in a sheltering hollow, a fire had been lit by the party, the
condition of the quarry was discovered to be distinctly unsatisfactory. It was
not thin --on the contrary, it seemed unhealthily obese; its skin showed bare
patches of an unpleasant character. However, they had not killed that dog for
the sake of the pelt. He was large. . . . He was eaten. . . . The rest is
silence. . . .
A silence in which a
small boy shudders and says firmly:
"I could not have
eaten that dog."
And his grandmother
remarks with a smile:
"Perhaps you don't
know what it is to be hungry."
I have learned
something of it since. Not that I have been reduced to eat dog. I have fed on
the emblematical animal, which, in the language of the volatile Gauls, is
called la vache enragée; I have lived on ancient salt junk, I know the taste of
shark, of trepang, of snake, of nondescript dishes containing things without a
name--but of the Lithuanian village dog--never! I wish it to be distinctly
understood that it is not I, but my granduncle Nicholas, of the Polish landed
gentry, Chevalier de la Légion d'Honneur, etc., who in his young days, had
eaten the Lithuanian dog.
I wish he had not. The
childish horror of the deed clings absurdly to the grizzled man. I am perfectly
helpless against it. Still, if he really had to, let us charitably remember
that he had eaten him on active service, while bearing up bravely against the
greatest military disaster of modern history, and, in a manner, for the sake of
his country. He had eaten him to appease his hunger, no doubt, but also for the
sake of an unappeasable and patriotic desire, in the glow of a great faith that
lives still, and in the pursuit of a great illusion kindled like a false beacon
by a great man to lead astray the effort of a brave nation.
Pro patria!
Looked at in that
light, it appears a sweet and decorous meal.
And looked at in the
same light, my own diet of la vache enragée appears a fatuous and extravagant
form of self-indulgence; for why should I, the son of a land which such men as
these have turned up with their plowshares and bedewed with their blood,
undertake the pursuit of fantastic meals of salt junk and hardtack upon the
wide seas? On the kindest view it seems an unanswerable question. Alas! I have
the conviction that there are men of unstained rectitude who are ready to
murmur scornfully the word desertion. Thus the taste of innocent adventure may
be made bitter to the palate. The part of the inexplicable should be allowed
for in appraising the conduct of men in a world where no explanation is final.
No charge of faithlessness ought to be lightly uttered. The appearances of this
perishable life are deceptive, like everything that falls under the judgment of
our imperfect senses. The inner voice may remain true enough in its secret
counsel. The fidelity to a special tradition may last through the events of an
unrelated existence, following faithfully, too, the traced way of an
inexplicable impulse.
It would take too long
to explain the intimate alliance of contradictions in human nature which makes
love itself wear at times the desperate shape of betrayal. And perhaps there is
no possible explanation. Indulgence--as somebody said--is the most intelligent
of all the virtues. I venture to think that it is one of the least common, if
not the most uncommon of all. I would not imply by this that men are
foolish--or even most men. Far from it. The barber and the priest, backed by
the whole opinion of the village, condemned justly the conduct of the ingenious
hidalgo, who, sallying forth from his native place, broke the head of the
muleteer, put to death a flock of inoffensive sheep, and went through very
doleful experiences in a certain stable. God forbid that an unworthy churl
should escape merited censure by hanging on to the stirrup-leather of the
sublime caballero. His was a very noble, a very unselfish fantasy, fit for
nothing except to raise the envy of baser mortals. But there is more than one
aspect to the charm of that exalted and dangerous figure. He, too, had his
frailties. After reading so many romances he desired naïvely to escape with his
very body from the intolerable reality of things. He wished to meet, eye to
eye, the valorous giant Brandabarbaran, Lord of Arabia, whose armour is made of
the skin of a dragon, and whose shield, strapped to his arm, is the gate of a
fortified city. Oh, amiable and natural weakness! Oh, blessed simplicity of a
gentle heart without guile! Who would not succumb to such a consoling
temptation? Nevertheless, it was a form of self-indulgence, and the ingenious
hidalgo of La Mancha was not a good citizen. The priest and the barber were not
unreasonable in their strictures. Without going so far as the old King
Louis-Philippe, who used to say in his exile, "The people are never in
fault"--one may admit that there must be some righteousness in the assent
of a whole village. Mad! Mad! He who kept in pious meditation the ritual
vigil-of-arms by the well of an inn and knelt reverently to be knighted at
daybreak by the fat, sly rogue of a landlord has come very near perfection. He
rides forth, his head encircled by a halo--the patron saint of all lives
spoiled or saved by the irresistible grace of imagination. But he was not a
good citizen.
Perhaps that and
nothing else was meant by the well-remembered exclamation of my tutor.
It was in the jolly
year 1873, the very last year in which I have had a jolly holiday. There have
been idle years afterward, jolly enough in a way and not altogether without
their lesson, but this year of which I speak was the year of my last school-boy
holiday. There are other reasons why I should remember that year, but they are
too long to state formally in this place. Moreover, they have nothing to do
with that holiday. What has to do with the holiday is that before the day on
which the remark was made we had seen Vienna, the Upper Danube, Munich, the
Falls of the Rhine, the Lake of Constance, --in fact, it was a memorable
holiday of travel. Of late we had been tramping slowly up the Valley of the
Reuss. It was a delightful time. It was much more like a stroll than a tramp.
Landing from a Lake of Lucerne steamer in Flüelen, we found ourselves at the
end of the second day, with the dusk overtaking our leisurely footsteps, a
little way beyond Hospenthal. This is not the day on which the remark was made:
in the shadows of the deep valley and with the habitations of men left some way
behind, our thoughts ran not upon the ethics of conduct, but upon the simpler
human problem of shelter and food. There did not seem anything of the kind in
sight, and we were thinking of turning back when suddenly, at a bend of the
road, we came upon a building, ghostly in the twilight.
At that time the work
on the St. Gothard Tunnel was going on, and that magnificent enterprise of
burrowing was directly responsible for the unexpected building, standing all
alone upon the very roots of the mountains. It was long, though not big at all;
it was low; it was built of boards, without ornamentation, in barrack-hut
style, with the white window-frames quite flush with the yellow face of its
plain front. And yet it was a hotel; it had even a name, which I have
forgotten. But there was no gold- laced doorkeeper at its humble door. A plain
but vigorous servant-girl answered our inquiries, then a man and woman who
owned the place appeared. It was clear that no travellers were expected, or
perhaps even desired, in this strange hostelry, which in its severe style
resembled the house which surmounts the unseaworthy-looking hulls of the toy
Noah's Arks, the universal possession of European childhood. However, its roof
was not hinged and it was not full to the brim of slab-sided and painted
animals of wood. Even the live tourist animal was nowhere in evidence. We had
something to eat in a long, narrow room at one end of a long, narrow table,
which, to my tired perception and to my sleepy eyes, seemed as if it would tilt
up like a see- saw plank, since there was no one at the other end to balance it
against our two dusty and travel-stained figures. Then we hastened up- stairs
to bed in a room smelling of pine planks, and I was fast asleep before my head
touched the pillow.
In the morning my tutor
(he was a student of the Cracow University) woke me up early, and as we were
dressing remarked: "There seems to be a lot of people staying in this
hotel. I have heard a noise of talking up till eleven o'clock." This
statement surprised me; I had heard no noise whatever, having slept like a top.
We went down-stairs
into the long and narrow dining-room with its long and narrow table. There were
two rows of plates on it. At one of the many curtained windows stood a tall,
bony man with a bald head set off by a bunch of black hair above each ear, and
with a long, black beard. He glanced up from the paper he was reading and
seemed genuinely astonished at our intrusion. By and by more men came in. Not
one of them looked like a tourist. Not a single woman appeared. These men
seemed to know each other with some intimacy, but I cannot say they were a very
talkative lot. The bald- headed man sat down gravely at the head of the table.
It all had the air of a family party. By and by, from one of the vigorous
servant-girls in national costume, we discovered that the place was really a
boarding- house for some English engineers engaged at the works of the St.
Gothard Tunnel; and I could listen my fill to the sounds of the English
language, as far as it is used at a breakfast-table by men who do not believe
in wasting many words on the mere amenities of life.
This was my first
contact with British mankind apart from the tourist kind seen in the hotels of
Zurich and Lucerne--the kind which has no real existence in a workaday world. I
know now that the bald-headed man spoke with a strong Scotch accent. I have met
many of his kind ashore and afloat. The second engineer of the steamer Mavis,
for instance, ought to have been his twin brother. I cannot help thinking that
he really was, though for some reason of his own he assured me that he never
had a twin brother. Anyway, the deliberate, bald-headed Scot with the
coal-black beard appeared to my boyish eyes a very romantic and mysterious
person.
We slipped out
unnoticed. Our mapped- out route led over the Furca Pass toward the Rhône
Glacier, with the further intention of following down the trend of the Häsli
Valley. The sun was already declining when we found ourselves on the top of the
pass, and the remark alluded to was presently uttered.
We sat down by the side
of the road to continue the argument begun half a mile or so before. I am
certain it was an argument, because I remember perfectly how my tutor argued
and how without the power of reply I listened, with my eyes fixed obstinately
on the ground. A stir on the road made me look up--and then I saw my
unforgettable Englishman. There are acquaintances of later years, familiars,
shipmates, whom I remember less clearly. He marched rapidly toward the east
(attended by a hang-dog Swiss guide), with the mien of an ardent and fearless
traveller. He was clad in a knicker- bocker suit, but as at the same time he
wore short socks under his laced boots, for reasons which, whether hygienic or
conscientious, were surely imaginative, his calves, exposed to the public gaze
and to the tonic air of high altitudes, dazzled the beholder by the splendour
of their marble-like condition and their rich tone of young ivory. He was the
leader of a small caravan. The light of a headlong, exalted satisfaction with
the world of men and the scenery of mountains illumined his clean-cut, very red
face, his short, silver-white whiskers, his innocently eager and triumphant
eyes. In passing he cast a glance of kindly curiosity and a friendly gleam of
big, sound, shiny teeth toward the man and the boy sitting like dusty tramps by
the roadside, with a modest knapsack lying at their feet. His white calves
twinkled sturdily, the uncouth Swiss guide with a surly mouth stalked like an
unwilling bear at his elbow; a small train of three mules followed in single
file the lead of this inspiring enthusiast. Two ladies rode past, one behind
the other, but from the way they sat I saw only their calm, uniform backs, and
the long ends of blue veils hanging behind far down over their identical
hat-brims. His two daughters, surely. An industrious luggage-mule, with unstarched
ears and guarded by a slouching, sallow driver, brought up the rear. My tutor,
after pausing for a look and a faint smile, resumed his earnest argument.
I tell you it was a
memorable year! One does not meet such an Englishman twice in a lifetime. Was
he in the mystic ordering of common events the ambassador of my future, sent
out to turn the scale at a critical moment on the top of an Alpine pass, with
the peaks of the Bernese Oberland for mute and solemn witnesses? His glance,
his smile, the unextinguishable and comic ardour of his striving-forward
appearance, helped me to pull myself together. It must be stated that on that
day and in the exhilarating atmosphere of that elevated spot I had been feeling
utterly crushed. It was the year in which I had first spoken aloud of my desire
to go to sea. At first like those sounds that, ranging outside the scale to
which men's ears are attuned, remain inaudible to our sense of hearing, this
declaration passed unperceived. It was as if it had not been. Later on, by
trying various tones, I managed to arouse here and there a surprised momentary
attention--the "What was that funny noise?"-- sort of inquiry. Later
on it was: "Did you hear what that boy said? What an extraordinary
outbreak!" Presently a wave of scandalized astonishment (it could not have
been greater if I had announced the intention of entering a Carthusian
monastery) ebbing out of the educational and academical town of Cracow spread
itself over several provinces. It spread itself shallow but far-reaching. It
stirred up a mass of remonstrance, indignation, pitying wonder, bitter irony,
and downright chaff. I could hardly breathe under its weight, and certainly had
no words for an answer. People wondered what Mr. T. B. would do now with his
worrying nephew and, I dare say, hoped kindly that he would make short work of
my nonsense.
What he did was to come
down all the way from Ukraine to have it out with me and to judge by himself,
unprejudiced, impartial, and just, taking his stand on the ground of wisdom and
affection. As far as is possible for a boy whose power of expression is still
unformed I opened the secret of my thoughts to him, and he in return allowed me
a glimpse into his mind and heart; the first glimpse of an inexhaustible and
noble treasure of clear thought and warm feeling, which through life was to be
mine to draw upon with a never-deceived love and confidence. Practically, after
several exhaustive conversations, he concluded that he would not have me later
on reproach him for having spoiled my life by an unconditional opposition. But
I must take time for serious reflection. And I must think not only of myself
but of others; weigh the claims of affection and conscience against my own
sincerity of purpose. "Think well what it all means in the larger
issues--my boy," he exhorted me, finally, with special friendliness.
"And meantime try
to get the best place you can at the yearly examinations."
The scholastic year
came to an end. I took a fairly good place at the exams, which for me (for
certain reasons) happened to be a more difficult task than for other boys. In
that respect I could enter with a good conscience upon that holiday which was
like a long visit pour prendre congé of the main- land of old Europe I was to
see so little of for the next four-and-twenty years. Such, however, was not the
avowed purpose of that tour. It was rather, I suspect, planned in order to
distract and occupy my thoughts in other directions. Nothing had been said for
months of my going to sea. But my attachment to my young tutor and his
influence over me were so well known that he must have received a confidential
mission to talk me out of my romantic folly. It was an excellently appropriate
arrangement, as neither he nor I had ever had a single glimpse of the sea in
our lives. That was to come by and by for both of us in Venice, from the outer
shore of Lido. Meantime he had taken his mission to heart so well that I began
to feel crushed before we reached Zurich. He argued in railway trains, in lake
steamboats, he had argued away for me the obligatory sunrise on the Righi, by
Jove! Of his devotion to his unworthy pupil there can be no doubt. He had
proved it already by two years of unremitting and arduous care. I could not
hate him. But he had been crushing me slowly, and when he started to argue on
the top of the Furca Pass he was perhaps nearer a success than either he or I
imagined. I listened to him in despairing silence, feeling that ghostly,
unrealized, and desired sea of my dreams escape from the unnerved grip of my
will.
The enthusiastic old
Englishman had passed --and the argument went on. What reward could I expect
from such a life at the end of my years, either in ambition, honour, or
conscience? An unanswerable question. But I felt no longer crushed. Then our
eyes met and a genuine emotion was visible in his as well as in mine. The end
came all at once. He picked up the knapsack suddenly and got onto his feet.
"You are an
incorrigible, hopeless Don Quixote. That's what you are."
I was surprised. I was
only fifteen and did not know what he meant exactly. But I felt vaguely
flattered at the name of the immortal knight turning up in connection with my
own folly, as some people would call it to my face. Alas! I don't think there
was anything to be proud of. Mine was not the stuff of protectors of forlorn
damsels, the redressers of this world's wrong are made of; and my tutor was the
man to know that best. Therein, in his indignation, he was superior to the
barber and the priest when he flung at me an honoured name like a reproach.
I walked behind him for
full five minutes; then without looking back he stopped. The shadows of distant
peaks were lengthening over the Furca Pass. When I came up to him he turned to
me and in full view of the Finster- Aarhorn, with his band of giant brothers
rearing their monstrous heads against a brilliant sky, put his hand on my
shoulder affectionately.
"Well! That's
enough. We will have no more of it."
And indeed there was no
more question of my mysterious vocation between us. There was to be no more
question of it at all, nowhere or with any one. We began the descent of the
Furca Pass conversing merrily. Eleven years later, month for month, I stood on
Tower Hill on the steps of the St. Katherine's Dockhouse, a master in the
British Merchant Service. But the man who put his hand on my shoulder at the
top of the Furca Pass was no longer living.
That very year of our
travels he took his degree of the Philosophical Faculty--and only then his true
vocation declared itself. Obedient to the call, he entered at once upon the
four-year course of the Medical Schools. A day came when, on the deck of a ship
moored in Calcutta, I opened a letter telling me of the end of an enviable
existence. He had made for himself a practice in some obscure little town of
Austrian Galicia. And the letter went on to tell me how all the bereaved poor
of the district, Christians and Jews alike, had mobbed the good doctor's coffin
with sobs and lamentations at the very gate of the cemetery.
How short his years and
how clear his vision! What greater reward in ambition, honour, and conscience
could he have hoped to win for himself when, on the top of the Furca Pass, he
bade me look well to the end of my opening life?
THE devouring in a
dismal forest of a luckless Lithuanian dog by my grand- uncle Nicholas B. in
company of two other military and famished scarecrows, symbolized, to my
childish imagination, the whole horror of the retreat from Moscow, and the
immorality of a conqueror's ambition. An extreme distaste for that
objectionable episode has tinged the views I hold as to the character and
achievements of Napoleon the Great. I need not say that these are unfavourable.
It was morally reprehensible for that great captain to induce a simple-minded
Polish gentleman to eat dog by raising in his breast a false hope of national
independence. It has been the fate of that credulous nation to starve for
upward of a hundred years on a diet of false hopes and--well-- dog. It is, when
one thinks of it, a singularly poisonous regimen. Some pride in the national
constitution which has survived a long course of such dishes is really
excusable. But enough of generalizing. Returning to particulars, Mr. Nicholas
B. confided to his sister-in-law (my grandmother) in his misanthropically
laconic manner that this supper in the woods had been nearly "the death of
him." This is not surprising. What surprises me is that the story was ever
heard of; for granduncle Nicholas differed in this from the generality of
military men of Napoleon's time (and perhaps of all time) that he did not like
to talk of his campaigns, which began at Friedland and ended somewhere in the
neighbourhood of Bar-le-Duc. His admiration of the great Emperor was unreserved
in everything but expression. Like the religion of earnest men, it was too
profound a sentiment to be displayed before a world of little faith. Apart from
that he seemed as completely devoid of military anecdotes as though he had
hardly ever seen a soldier in his life. Proud of his decorations earned before
he was twenty-five, he refused to wear the ribbons at the buttonhole in the
manner practised to this day in Europe and even was unwilling to display the
insignia on festive occasions, as though he wished to conceal them in the fear
of appearing boastful. "It is enough that I have them," he used to
mutter. In the course of thirty years they were seen on his breast only
twice--at an auspicious marriage in the family and at the funeral of an old friend.
That the wedding which was thus honoured was not the wedding of my mother I
learned only late in life, too late to bear a grudge against Mr. Nicholas B.,
who made amends at my birth by a long letter of congratulation containing the
following prophecy: "He will see better times." Even in his
embittered heart there lived a hope. But he was not a true prophet.
He was a man of strange
contradictions. Living for many years in his brother's house, the home of many
children, a house full of life, of animation, noisy with a constant coming and
going of many guests, he kept his habits of solitude and silence. Considered as
obstinately secretive in all his purposes, he was in reality the victim of a
most painful irresolution in all matters of civil life. Under his taciturn,
phlegmatic behaviour was hidden a faculty of short-lived passionate anger. I
suspect he had no talent for narrative; but it seemed to afford him sombre
satisfaction to declare that he was the last man to ride over the bridge of the
river Elster after the battle of Leipsic. Lest some construction favourable to
his valour should be put on the fact he condescended to explain how it came to
pass. It seems that shortly after the retreat began he was sent back to the
town where some divisions of the French army (and among them the Polish corps
of Prince Joseph Poniatowski), jammed hope- lessly in the streets, were being
simply exterminated by the troops of the Allied Powers. When asked what it was
like in there, Mr. Nicholas B. muttered only the word "Shambles."
Having delivered his message to the Prince he hastened away at once to render
an account of his mission to the superior who had sent him. By that time the
advance of the enemy had enveloped the town, and he was shot at from houses and
chased all the way to the river-bank by a disorderly mob of Austrian Dragoons
and Prussian Hussars. The bridge had been mined early in the morning, and his
opinion was that the sight of the horsemen converging from many sides in the
pursuit of his person alarmed the officer in command of the sappers and caused
the premature firing of the charges. He had not gone more than two hundred
yards on the other side when he heard the sound of the fatal explosions. Mr.
Nicholas B. concluded his bald narrative with the word "Imbecile,"
uttered with the utmost deliberation. It testified to his indignation at the
loss of so many thousands of lives. But his phlegmatic physiognomy lighted up
when he spoke of his only wound, with something resembling satisfaction. You
will see that there was some reason for it when you learn that he was wounded
in the heel. "Like his Majesty the Emperor Napoleon himself," he
reminded his hearers, with assumed indifference. There can be no doubt that the
indifference was assumed, if one thinks what a very distinguished sort of wound
it was. In all the history of warfare there are, I believe, only three warriors
publicly known to have been wounded in the heel--Achilles and Napoleon
--demigods indeed--to whom the familial piety of an unworthy descendant adds the
name of the simple mortal, Nicholas B.
The Hundred Days found
Mr. Nicholas B. staying with a distant relative of ours, owner of a small
estate in Galicia. How he got there across the breadth of an armed Europe, and
after what adventures, I am afraid will never be known now. All his papers were
destroyed shortly before his death; but if there was among them, as he
affirmed, a concise record of his life, then I am pretty sure it did not take
up more than a half- sheet of foolscap or so. This relative of ours happened to
be an Austrian officer who had left the service after the battle of Austerlitz.
Unlike Mr. Nicholas B., who concealed his decorations, he liked to display his
honourable discharge in which he was mentioned as unschreckbar (fearless)
before the enemy. No conjunction could seem more unpromising, yet it stands in
the family tradition that these two got on very well together in their rural
solitude.
When asked whether he
had not been sorely tempted during the Hundred Days to make his way again to
France and join the service of his beloved Emperor, Mr. Nicholas B. used to
mutter: "No money. No horse. Too far to walk."
The fall of Napoleon
and the ruin of national hopes affected adversely the character of Mr. Nicholas
B. He shrank from returning to his province. But for that there was also
another reason. Mr. Nicholas B. and his brother--my maternal grand- father--had
lost their father early, while they were quite children. Their mother, young
still and left very well off, married again a man of great charm and of an
amiable disposition, but without a penny. He turned out an affectionate and
careful stepfather; it was unfortunate, though, that while directing the boys'
education and forming their character by wise counsel, he did his best to get hold
of the fortune by buying and selling land in his own name and investing capital
in such a manner as to cover up the traces of the real ownership. It seems that
such practices can be successful if one is charming enough to dazzle one's own
wife permanently, and brave enough to defy the vain terrors of public opinion.
The critical time came when the elder of the boys on attaining his majority, in
the year 1811, asked for the accounts and some part at least of the inheritance
to begin life upon. It was then that the step- father declared with calm
finality that there were no accounts to render and no property to inherit. The
whole fortune was his very own. He was very good-natured about the young man's
misapprehension of the true state of affairs, but, of course, felt obliged to
maintain his position firmly. Old friends came and went busily, voluntary
mediators appeared travelling on most horrible roads from the most distant
corners of the three provinces; and the Marshal of the Nobility (ex-officio
guardian of all well-born orphans) called a meeting of landowners to
"ascertain in a friendly way how the misunderstanding between X and his
stepsons had arisen and devise proper measures to remove the same." A
deputation to that effect visited X, who treated them to excellent wines, but
absolutely refused his ear to their remonstrances. As to the proposals for
arbitration he simply laughed at them; yet the whole province must have been
aware that fourteen years before, when he married the widow, all his visible fortune
consisted (apart from his social qualities) in a smart four-horse turnout with
two servants, with whom he went about visiting from house to house; and as to
any funds he might have possessed at that time their existence could only be
inferred from the fact that he was very punctual in settling his modest losses
at cards. But by the magic power of stubborn and constant assertion, there were
found presently, here and there, people who mumbled that surely "there
must be something in it." However, on his next name-day (which he used to
celebrate by a great three days' shooting party), of all the invited crowd only
two guests turned up, distant neighbours of no importance; one notoriously a
fool, and the other a very pious and honest person, but such a passionate lover
of the gun that on his own confession he could not have refused an invitation
to a shooting party from the devil himself. X met this manifestation of public
opinion with the serenity of an unstained conscience. He refused to be crushed.
Yet he must have been a man of deep feeling, because, when his wife took openly
the part of her children, he lost his beautiful tranquillity, proclaimed
himself heartbroken, and drove her out of the house, neglecting in his grief to
give her enough time to pack her trunks.
This was the beginning
of a lawsuit, an abominable marvel of chicane, which by the use of every legal
subterfuge was made to last for many years. It was also the occasion for a
display of much kindness and sympathy. All the neighbouring houses flew open
for the reception of the homeless. Neither legal aid nor material assistance in
the prosecution of the suit was ever wanting. X, on his side, went about
shedding tears publicly over his stepchildren's ingratitude and his wife's
blind infatuation; but as at the same time he displayed great cleverness in the
art of concealing material documents (he was even suspected of having burned a
lot of historically interesting family papers) this scandalous litigation had
to be ended by a compromise lest worse should befall. It was settled finally by
a surrender, out of the disputed estate, in full satisfaction of all claims, of
two villages with the names of which I do not intend to trouble my readers.
After this lame and impotent conclusion neither the wife nor the stepsons had
anything to say to the man who had presented the world with such a successful
example of self-help based on character, determination, and industry; and my
great-grandmother, her health completely broken down, died a couple of years later
in Carlsbad. Legally secured by a decree in the possession of his plunder, X
regained his wonted serenity, and went on living in the neighbourhood in a
comfortable style and in apparent peace of mind. His big shoots were fairly
well attended again. He was never tired of assuring people that he bore no
grudge for what was past; he protested loudly of his constant affection for his
wife and stepchildren. It was true, he said, that they had tried to strip him
as naked as a Turkish saint in the decline of his days; and because he had
defended himself from spoliation, as anybody else in his place would have done,
they had abandoned him now to the horrors of a solitary old age. Nevertheless,
his love for them survived these cruel blows. And there might have been some
truth in his protestations. Very soon he began to make overtures of friendship
to his eldest stepson, my maternal grandfather; and when these were
peremptorily rejected he went on renewing them again and again with
characteristic obstinacy. For years he persisted in his efforts at
reconciliation, promising my grandfather to execute a will in his favour if he
only would be friends again to the extent of calling now and then (it was
fairly close neighbourhood for these parts, forty miles or so), or even of
putting in an appearance for the great shoot on the name-day. My grandfather
was an ardent lover of every sport. His temperament was as free from hardness
and animosity as can be imagined. Pupil of the liberal-minded Benedictines who
directed the only public school of some standing then in the south, he had also
read deeply the authors of the eighteenth century. In him Christian charity was
joined to a philosophical indulgence for the failings of human nature. But the
memory of those miserably anxious early years, his young man's years robbed of
all generous illusions by the cynicism of the sordid lawsuit, stood in the way
of forgiveness. He never succumbed to the fascination of the great shoot; and
X, his heart set to the last on reconciliation, with the draft of the will
ready for signature kept by his bedside, died intestate. The fortune thus
acquired and augmented by a wise and careful management passed to some distant
relatives whom he had never seen and who even did not bear his name.
Meantime the blessing
of general peace descended upon Europe. Mr. Nicholas B., bidding good-bye to
his hospitable relative, the "fearless" Austrian officer, departed
from Galicia, and without going near his native place, where the odious lawsuit
was still going on, proceeded straight to Warsaw and entered the army of the
newly constituted Polish kingdom under the sceptre of Alexander I, Autocrat of
all the Russias.
This kingdom, created
by the Vienna Congress as an acknowledgment to a nation of its former independent
existence, included only the central provinces of the old Polish patrimony. A
brother of the Emperor, the Grand Duke Constantine (Pavlovitch), its Viceroy
and Commander-in-Chief, married morganatically to a Polish lady to whom he was
fiercely attached, extended this affection to what he called "My
Poles" in a capricious and savage manner. Sallow in complexion, with a
Tartar physiognomy and fierce little eyes, he walked with his fists clenched,
his body bent forward, darting suspicious glances from under an enormous cocked
hat. His intelligence was limited, and his sanity itself was doubtful. The
hereditary taint expressed itself, in his case, not by mystic leanings as in
his two brothers, Alexander and Nicholas (in their various ways, for one was
mystically liberal and the other mystically autocratic), but by the fury of an
uncontrollable temper which generally broke out in disgusting abuse on the
paradeground. He was a passionate militarist and an amazing drill-master. He
treated his Polish army as a spoiled child treats a favourite toy, except that
he did not take it to bed with him at night. It was not small enough for that.
But he played with it all day and every day, delighting in the variety of
pretty uniforms and in the fun of incessant drilling. This childish passion,
not for war, but for mere militarism, achieved a desirable result. The Polish
army, in its equipment, in its armament, and in its battle-field efficiency, as
then understood, became, by the end of the year 1830, a first-rate tactical instrument.
Polish peasantry (not serfs) served in the ranks by enlistment, and the
officers belonged mainly to the smaller nobility. Mr. Nicholas B., with his
Napoleonic record, had no difficulty in obtaining a lieutenancy, but the
promotion in the Polish army was slow, because, being a separate organization,
it took no part in the wars of the Russian Empire against either Persia or
Turkey. Its first campaign, against Russia itself, was to be its last. In 1831,
on the outbreak of the Revolution, Mr. Nicholas B. was the senior captain of
his regiment. Some time before he had been made head of the remount
establishment quartered outside the kingdom in our southern provinces, whence
almost all the horses for the Polish cavalry were drawn. For the first time since
he went away from home at the age of eighteen to begin his military life by the
battle of Friedland, Mr. Nicholas B. breathed the air of the
"Border," his native air. Unkind fate was lying in wait for him among
the scenes of his youth. At the first news of the rising in Warsaw all the
remount establishment, officers, "vets.," and the very troopers, were
put promptly under arrest and hurried off in a body beyond the Dnieper to the
nearest town in Russia proper. From there they were dispersed to the distant
parts of the empire. On this occasion poor Mr. Nicholas B. penetrated into
Russia much farther than he ever did in the times of Napoleonic invasion, if
much less willingly. Astrakan was his destination. He remained there three
years, allowed to live at large in the town, but having to report himself every
day at noon to the military commandant, who used to detain him frequently for a
pipe and a chat. It is difficult to form a just idea of what a chat with Mr.
Nicholas B. could have been like. There must have been much compressed rage
under his taciturnity, for the commandant communicated to him the news from the
theatre of war, and this news was such as it could be--that is, very bad for
the Poles. Mr. Nicholas B. received these communications with outward phlegm,
but the Russian showed a warm sympathy for his prisoner. "As a soldier
myself I understand your feelings. You, of course, would like to be in the
thick of it. By heavens! I am fond of you. If it were not for the terms of the
military oath I would let you go on my own responsibility. What difference
could it make to us, one more or less of you?"
At other times he
wondered with simplicity.
"Tell me, Nicholas
Stepanovitch" (my great-grandfather's name was Stephen, and the commandant
used the Russian form of polite address)--"tell me why is it that you
Poles are always looking for trouble? What else could you expect from running
up against Russia?"
He was capable, too, of
philosophical reflections.
"Look at your
Napoleon now. A great man. There is no denying it that he was a great man as
long as he was content to thrash those Germans and Austrians and all those
nations. But no! He must go to Russia looking for trouble, and what's the
consequence? Such as you see me; I have rattled this sabre of mine on the
pavements of Paris."
After his return to
Poland Mr. Nicholas B. described him as a "worthy man but stupid,"
whenever he could be induced to speak of the conditions of his exile. Declining
the option offered him to enter the Russian army, he was retired with only half
the pension of his rank. His nephew (my uncle and guardian) told me that the
first lasting impression on his memory as a child of four was the glad
excitement reigning in his parents' house on the day when Mr. Nicholas B.
arrived home from his detention in Russia.
Every generation has
its memories. The first memories of Mr. Nicholas B. might have been shaped by
the events of the last partition of Poland, and he lived long enough to suffer
from the last armed rising in 1863, an event which affected the future of all
my generation and has coloured my earliest impressions. His brother, in whose
house he had sheltered for some seventeen years his misanthropical timidity
before the commonest problems of life, having died in the early fifties, Mr.
Nicholas B. had to screw his courage up to the sticking-point and come to some
decision as to the future. After a long and agonizing hesitation he was
persuaded at last to become the tenant of some fifteen hundred acres out of the
estate of a friend in the neighbourhood. The terms of the lease were very
advantageous, but the retired situation of the village and a plain, comfortable
house in good repair were, I fancy, the greatest inducements. He lived there
quietly for about ten years, seeing very few people and taking no part in the
public life of the province, such as it could be under an arbitrary
bureaucratic tyranny. His character and his patriotism were above suspicion;
but the organizers of the rising in their frequent journeys up and down the
province scrupulously avoided coming near his house. It was generally felt that
the repose of the old man's last years ought not to be disturbed. Even such
intimates as my paternal grandfather, comrade-in-arms during Napoleon's Moscow
campaign, and later on a fellow officer in the Polish army, refrained from
visiting his crony as the date of the outbreak approached. My paternal
grandfather's two sons and his only daughter were all deeply involved in the
revolutionary work; he himself was of that type of Polish squire whose only
ideal of patriotic action was to "get into the saddle and drive them
out." But even he agreed that "dear Nicholas must not be
worried." All this considerate caution on the part of friends, both
conspirators and others, did not prevent Mr. Nicholas B. being made to feel the
misfortunes of that ill-omened year.
Less than forty-eight
hours after the beginning of the rebellion in that part of the country, a
squadron of scouting Cossacks passed through the village and invaded the homestead.
Most of them remained, formed between the house and the stables, while several,
dismounting, ransacked the various outbuildings. The officer in command,
accompanied by two men, walked up to the front door. All the blinds on that
side were down. The officer told the servant who received him that he wanted to
see his master. He was answered that the master was away from home, which was
perfectly true.
I follow here the tale
as told afterward by the servant to my granduncle's friends and relatives, and
as I have heard it repeated.
On receiving this
answer the Cossack officer, who had been standing in the porch, stepped into
the house.
"Where is the
master gone, then?"
"Our master went
to J----" (the government town some fifty miles off) "the day before
yesterday."
"There are only
two horses in the stables. Where are the others?"
"Our master always
travels with his own horses" (meaning: not by post). "He will be away
a week or more. He was pleased to mention to me that he had to attend to some business
in the Civil Court."
While the servant was
speaking the officer looked about the hall. There was a door facing him, a door
to the right, and a door to the left. The officer chose to enter the room on
the left, and ordered the blinds to be pulled up. It was Mr. Nicholas B.'s
study, with a couple of tall bookcases, some pictures on the walls, and so on.
Besides the big centre-table, with books and papers, there was a quite small
writing-table, with several drawers, standing between the door and the window
in a good light; and at this table my granduncle usually sat either to read or
write.
On pulling up the blind
the servant was startled by the discovery that the whole male population of the
village was massed in front, trampling down the flower-beds. There were also a
few women among them. He was glad to observe the village priest (of the
Orthodox Church) coming up the drive. The good man in his haste had tucked up
his cassock as high as the top of his boots.
The officer had been
looking at the backs of the books in the bookcases. Then he perched himself on
the edge of the centre- table and remarked easily:
"Your master did
not take you to town with him, then?"
"I am the head
servant, and he leaves me in charge of the house. It's a strong, young chap
that travels with our master. If--God forbid--there was some accident on the
road, he would be of much more use than I."
Glancing through the
window, he saw the priest arguing vehemently in the thick of the crowd, which
seemed subdued by his interference. Three or four men, however, were talking
with the Cossacks at the door.
"And you don't
think your master has gone to join the rebels maybe--eh?" asked the
officer.
"Our master would
be too old for that, surely. He's well over seventy, and he's getting feeble,
too. It's some years now since he's been on horseback, and he can't walk much,
either, now."
The officer sat there
swinging his leg, very quiet and indifferent. By that time the peasants who had
been talking with the Cossack troopers at the door had been permitted to get
into the hall. One or two more left the crowd and followed them in. They were
seven in all, and among them the blacksmith, an ex-soldier. The servant
appealed deferentially to the officer.
"Won't your honour
be pleased to tell the people to go back to their homes? What do they want to
push themselves into the house like this for? It's not proper for them to
behave like this while our master's away and I am responsible for everything
here."
The officer only
laughed a little, and after a while inquired:
"Have you any arms
in the house?"
"Yes. We have.
Some old things."
"Bring them all
here, onto this table."
The servant made
another attempt to obtain protection.
"Won't your honour
tell these chaps. . . ?"
But the officer looked
at him in silence, in such a way that he gave it up at once and hurried off to
call the pantry-boy to help him collect the arms. Meantime, the officer walked
slowly through all the rooms in the house, examining them attentively but
touching nothing. The peasants in the hall fell back and took off their caps
when he passed through. He said nothing whatever to them. When he came back to
the study all the arms to be found in the house were lying on the table. There
was a pair of big, flint-lock holster pistols from Napoleonic times, two
cavalry swords, one of the French, the other of the Polish army pattern, with a
fowling-piece or two.
The officer, opening
the window, flung out pistols, swords, and guns, one after another, and his
troopers ran to pick them up. The peasants in the hall, encouraged by his
manner, had stolen after him into the study. He gave not the slightest sign of
being conscious of their existence, and, his business being apparently
concluded, strode out of the house without a word. Directly he left, the
peasants in the study put on their caps and began to smile at each other.
The Cossacks rode away,
passing through the yards of the home farm straight into the fields. The
priest, still arguing with the peasants, moved gradually down the drive and his
earnest eloquence was drawing the silent mob after him, away from the house.
This justice must be rendered to the parish priests of the Greek Church that,
strangers to the country as they were (being all drawn from the interior of
Russia), the majority of them used such influence as they had over their flocks
in the cause of peace and humanity. True to the spirit of their calling, they
tried to soothe the passions of the excited peasantry, and opposed rapine and
violence, whenever they could, with all their might. And this conduct they
pursued against the express wishes of the authorities. Later on some of them
were made to suffer for this disobedience by being removed abruptly to the far
north or sent away to Siberian parishes.
The servant was anxious
to get rid of the few peasants who had got into the house. What sort of conduct
was that, he asked them, toward a man who was only a tenant, had been
invariably good and considerate to the villagers for years, and only the other
day had agreed to give up two meadows for the use of the village herd? He
reminded them, too, of Mr. Nicholas B.'s devotion to the sick in time of
cholera. Every word of this was true, and so far effective that the fellows
began to scratch their heads and look irresolute. The speaker then pointed at
the window, exclaiming: "Look! there's all your crowd going away quietly,
and you silly chaps had better go after them and pray God to forgive you your
evil thoughts."
This appeal was an
unlucky inspiration. In crowding clumsily to the window to see whether he was
speaking the truth, the fellows overturned the little writing-table. As it fell
over a chink of loose coin was heard. "There's money in that thing,"
cried the blacksmith. In a moment the top of the delicate piece of furniture
was smashed and there lay exposed in a drawer eighty half- imperials. Gold coin
was a rare sight in Russia even at that time; it put the peasants beside
themselves. "There must be more of that in the house, and we shall have
it," yelled the ex-soldier blacksmith. "This is war-time." The
others were already shouting out of the window, urging the crowd to come back
and help. The priest, abandoned suddenly at the gate, flung his arms up and
hurried away so as not to see what was going to happen.
In their search for
money that bucolic mob smashed everything in the house, ripping with knives,
splitting with hatchets, so that, as the servant said, there were no two pieces
of wood holding together left in the whole house. They broke some very fine
mirrors, all the windows, and every piece of glass and china. They threw the
books and papers out on the lawn and set fire to the heap for the mere fun of
the thing, apparently. Absolutely the only one solitary thing which they left
whole was a small ivory crucifix, which remained hanging on the wall in the
wrecked bedroom above a wild heap of rags, broken mahogany, and splintered
boards which had been Mr. Nicholas B.'s bedstead. Detecting the servant in the
act of stealing away with a japanned tin box, they tore it from him, and
because he resisted they threw him out of the dining-room window. The house was
on one floor, but raised well above the ground, and the fall was so serious
that the man remained lying stunned till the cook and a stable-boy ventured
forth at dusk from their hiding-places and picked him up. But by that time the
mob had departed, carrying off the tin box, which they supposed to be full of
paper money. Some distance from the house, in the middle of a field, they broke
it open. They found inside documents engrossed on parchment and the two crosses
of the Legion of Honour and For Valour. At the sight of these objects, which,
the blacksmith explained, were marks of honour given only by the Tsar, they
became extremely frightened at what they had done. They threw the whole lot
away into a ditch and dispersed hastily.
On learning of this
particular loss Mr. Nicholas B. broke down completely. The mere sacking of his
house did not seem to affect him much. While he was still in bed from the
shock, the two crosses were found and returned to him. It helped somewhat his
slow convalescence, but the tin box and the parchments, though searched for in
all the ditches around, never turned up again. He could not get over the loss
of his Legion of Honour Patent, whose preamble, setting forth his services, he
knew by heart to the very letter, and after this blow volunteered sometimes to
recite, tears standing in his eyes the while. Its terms haunted him apparently
during the last two years of his life to such an extent that he used to repeat
them to himself. This is confirmed by the remark made more than once by his old
servant to the more intimate friends. "What makes my heart heavy is to
hear our master in his room at night walking up and down and praying aloud in
the French language."
It must have been
somewhat over a year afterward that I saw Mr. Nicholas B.--or, more correctly,
that he saw me--for the last time. It was, as I have already said, at the time
when my mother had a three months' leave from exile, which she was spending in
the house of her brother, and friends and relations were coming from far and
near to do her honour. It is inconceivable that Mr. Nicholas B. should not have
been of the number. The little child a few months old he had taken up in his
arms on the day of his home-coming, after years of war and exile, was
confessing her faith in national salvation by suffering exile in her turn. I do
not know whether he was present on the very day of our departure. I have
already admitted that for me he is more especially the man who in his youth had
eaten roast dog in the depths of a gloomy forest of snow- loaded pines. My
memory cannot place him in any remembered scene. A hooked nose, some sleek
white hair, an unrelated evanescent impression of a meagre, slight, rigid
figure militarily buttoned up to the throat, is all that now exists on earth of
Mr. Nicholas B.; only this vague shadow pursued by the memory of his
grandnephew, the last surviving human being, I suppose, of all those he had
seen in the course of his taciturn life.
But I remember well the
day of our departure back to exile. The elongated, bizarre, shabby
travelling-carriage with four post-horses, standing before the long front of
the house with its eight columns, four on each side of the broad flight of
stairs. On the steps, groups of servants, a few relations, one or two friends
from the nearest neighbourhood, a perfect silence; on all the faces an air of
sober concentration; my grandmother, all in black, gazing stoically; my uncle
giving his arm to my mother down to the carriage in which I had been placed
already; at the top of the flight my little cousin in a short skirt of a tartan
pattern with a deal of red in it, and like a small princess attended by the
women of her own household; the head gouvernante, our dear, corpulent Francesca
(who had been for thirty years in the service of the B. family), the former
nurse, now outdoor attendant, a handsome peasant face wearing a compassionate
expression, and the good, ugly Mlle. Durand, the governess, with her black
eyebrows meeting over a short, thick nose, and a complexion like pale-brown
paper. Of all the eyes turned toward the carriage, her good-natured eyes only
were dropping tears, and it was her sobbing voice alone that broke the silence
with an appeal to me: "N'oublie pas ton français, mon chéri." In
three months, simply by playing with us, she had taught me not only to speak
French, but to read it as well. She was indeed an excellent playmate. In the
distance, half-way down to the great gates, a light, open trap, harnessed with
three horses in Russian fashion, stood drawn up on one side, with the police
captain of the district sitting in it, the vizor of his flat cap with a red
band pulled down over his eyes.
It seems strange that
he should have been there to watch our going so carefully. Without wishing to
treat with levity the just timidites of Imperialists all the world over, I may
allow myself the reflection that a woman, practically condemned by the doctors,
and a small boy not quite six years old, could not be regarded as seriously
dangerous, even for the largest of conceivable empires saddled with the most
sacred of responsibilities. And this good man I believe did not think so,
either.
I learned afterward why
he was present on that day. I don't remember any outward signs; but it seems
that, about a month before, my mother became so unwell that there was a doubt
whether she could be made fit to travel in the time. In this uncertainty the
Governor-General in Kiev was petitioned to grant her a fortnight's extension of
stay in her brother's house. No answer whatever was returned to this prayer,
but one day at dusk the police captain of the district drove up to the house
and told my uncle's valet, who ran out to meet him, that he wanted to speak
with the master in private, at once. Very much impressed (he thought it was
going to be an arrest), the servant, "more dead than alive with
fright," as he related afterward, smuggled him through the big
drawing-room, which was dark (that room was not lighted every evening), on
tiptoe, so as not to attract the attention of the ladies in the house, and led
him by way of the orangery to my uncle's private apartments.
The policeman, without
any preliminaries, thrust a paper into my uncle's hands.
"There. Pray read
this. I have no business to show this paper to you. It is wrong of me. But I
can't either eat or sleep with such a job hanging over me."
That police captain, a
native of Great Russia, had been for many years serving in the district.
My uncle unfolded and
read the document. It was a service order issued from the Governor-General's
secretariat, dealing with the matter of the petition and directing the police
captain to disregard all remonstrances and explanations in regard to that
illness either from medical men or others, "and if she has not left her
brother's house"--it went on to say--"on the morning of the day
specified on her permit, you are to despatch her at once under escort,
direct" (underlined) "to the prison-hospital in Kiev, where she will
be treated as her case demands."
"For God's sake,
Mr. B., see that your sister goes away punctually on that day. Don't give me
this work to do with a woman --and with one of your family, too. I simply
cannot bear to think of it."
He was absolutely
wringing his hands. My uncle looked at him in silence.
"Thank you for
this warning. I assure you that even if she were dying she would be carried out
to the carriage."
"Yes--indeed--and
what difference would it make--travel to Kiev or back to her husband? For she
would have to go--death or no death. And mind, Mr. B., I will be here on the
day, not that I doubt your promise, but because I must. I have got to. Duty.
All the same my trade is not fit for a dog since some of you Poles will persist
in rebelling, and all of you have got to suffer for it."
This is the reason why
he was there in an open three-horse trap pulled up between the house and the
great gates. I regret not being able to give up his name to the scorn of all
believers in the right of conquest, as a reprehensibly sensitive guardian of
Imperial great- ness. On the other hand, I am in a position to state the name
of the Governor-General who signed the order with the marginal note "to be
carried out to the letter" in his own handwriting. The gentleman's name
was Bezak. A high dignitary, an energetic official, the idol for a time of the
Russian patriotic press.
Each generation has its
memories.
IT MUST not be supposed
that, in setting forth the memories of this half-hour between the moment my
uncle left my room till we met again at dinner, I am losing sight of
"Almayer's Folly." Having confessed that my first novel was begun in
idleness-- a holiday task--I think I have also given the impression that it was
a much-delayed book. It was never dismissed from my mind, even when the hope of
ever finishing it was very faint. Many things came in its way: daily duties,
new impressions, old memories. It was not the outcome of a need--the famous
need of self-expression which artists find in their search for motives. The
necessity which impelled me was a hidden, obscure necessity, a completely
masked and unaccountable phenomenon. Or perhaps some idle and frivolous magician
(there must be magicians in London) had cast a spell over me through his
parlour window as I explored the maze of streets east and west in solitary
leisurely walks without chart and compass. Till I began to write that novel I
had written nothing but letters, and not very many of these. I never made a
note of a fact, of an impression, or of an anecdote in my life. The conception
of a planned book was entirely outside my mental range when I sat down to
write; the ambition of being an author had never turned up among those gracious
imaginary existences one creates fondly for oneself at times in the stillness
and immobility of a day-dream: yet it stands clear as the sun at noonday that
from the moment I had done blackening over the first manuscript page of "Almayer's
Folly" (it contained about two hundred words and this proportion of words
to a page has remained with me through the fifteen years of my writing life),
from the moment I had, in the simplicity of my heart and the amazing ignorance
of my mind, written that page the die was cast. Never had Rubicon been more
blindly forded without invocation to the gods, without fear of men.
That morning I got up
from my breakfast, pushing the chair back, and rang the bell violently, or
perhaps I should say resolutely, or perhaps I should say eagerly--I do not
know. But manifestly it must have been a special ring of the bell, a common
sound made impressive, like the ringing of a bell for the raising of the
curtain upon a new scene. It was an unusual thing for me to do. Generally, I
dawdled over my breakfast and I seldom took the trouble to ring the bell for
the table to be cleared away; but on that morning, for some reason hidden in
the general mysteriousness of the event, I did not dawdle. And yet I was not in
a hurry. I pulled the cord casually, and while the faint tinkling somewhere
down in the basement went on, I charged my pipe in the usual way and I looked
for the match-box with glances distraught indeed, but exhibiting, I am ready to
swear, no signs of a fine frenzy. I was composed enough to perceive after some
considerable time the match-box lying there on the mantelpiece right under my
nose. And all this was beautifully and safely usual. Before I had thrown down
the match my landlady's daughter appeared with her calm, pale face and an
inquisitive look, in the doorway. Of late it was the landlady's daughter who
answered my bell. I mention this little fact with pride, because it proves that
during the thirty or forty days of my tenancy I had produced a favourable impression.
For a fortnight past I had been spared the unattractive sight of the domestic
slave. The girls in that Bessborough Gardens house were often changed, but
whether short or long, fair or dark, they were always untidy and particularly
bedraggled, as if in a sordid version of the fairy tale the ash-bin cat had
been changed into a maid. I was infinitely sensible of the privilege of being
waited on by my landlady's daughter. She was neat if anemic.
"Will you please
clear away all this at once?" I addressed her in convulsive accents, being
at the same time engaged in getting my pipe to draw. This, I admit, was an
unusual request. Generally, on getting up from breakfast I would sit down in
the window with a book and let them clear the table when they liked; but if you
think that on that morning I was in the least impatient, you are mistaken. I
remember that I was perfectly calm. As a matter of fact I was not at all
certain that I wanted to write, or that I meant to write, or that I had
anything to write about. No, I was not impatient. I lounged between the mantel-
piece and the window, not even consciously waiting for the table to be cleared.
It was ten to one that before my landlady's daughter was done I would pick up a
book and sit down with it all the morning in a spirit of enjoyable indolence. I
affirm it with assurance, and I don't even know now what were the books then
lying about the room. Whatever they were, they were not the works of great
masters, where the secret of clear thought and exact expression can be found.
Since the age of five I have been a great reader, as is not perhaps wonderful
in a child who was never aware of learning to read. At ten years of age I had
read much of Victor Hugo and other romantics. I had read in Polish and in French,
history, voyages, novels; I knew "Gil Blas" and "Don
Quixote" in abridged editions; I had read in early boyhood Polish poets
and some French poets, but I cannot say what I read on the evening before I
began to write myself. I believe it was a novel, and it is quite possible that
it was one of Anthony Trollope's novels. It is very likely. My acquaintance
with him was then very recent. He is one of the English novelists whose works I
read for the first time in English. With men of European reputation, with Dickens
and Walter Scott and Thackeray, it was otherwise. My first introduction to
English imaginative literature was "Nicholas Nickleby." It is
extraordinary how well Mrs. Nickleby could chatter disconnectedly in Polish and
the sinister Ralph rage in that language. As to the Crummles family and the
family of the learned Squeers it seemed as natural to them as their native
speech. It was, I have no doubt, an excellent translation. This must have been
in the year '70. But I really believe that I am wrong. That book was not my
first introduction to English literature. My first acquaintance was (or were)
the "Two Gentlemen of Verona," and that in the very MS. of my
father's translation. It was during our exile in Russia, and it must have been
less than a year after my mother's death, because I remember myself in the
black blouse with a white border of my heavy mourning. We were living together,
quite alone, in a small house on the outskirts of the town of T----. That
afternoon, instead of going out to play in the large yard which we shared with
our landlord, I had lingered in the room in which my father generally wrote.
What emboldened me to clamber into his chair I am sure I don't know, but a
couple of hours afterward he discovered me kneeling in it with my elbows on the
table and my head held in both hands over the MS. of loose pages. I was greatly
confused, expecting to get into trouble. He stood in the doorway looking at me
with some surprise, but the only thing he said after a moment of silence was:
"Read the page
aloud."
Luckily the page lying
before me was not overblotted with erasures and corrections, and my father's
handwriting was otherwise extremely legible. When I got to the end he nodded,
and I flew out-of-doors, thinking myself lucky to have escaped reproof for that
piece of impulsive audacity. I have tried to discover since the reason for this
mildness, and I imagine that all unknown to myself I had earned, in my father's
mind, the right to some latitude in my relations with his writing-table. It was
only a month before--or perhaps it was only a week before --that I had read to
him aloud from beginning to end, and to his perfect satisfaction, as he lay on
his bed, not being very well at the time, the proofs of his translation of
Victor Hugo's "Toilers of the Sea." Such was my title to
consideration, I believe, and also my first introduction to the sea in
literature. If I do not remember where, how, and when I learned to read, I am
not likely to forget the process of being trained in the art of reading aloud.
My poor father, an admirable reader himself, was the most exacting of masters.
I reflect proudly that I must have read that page of "Two Gentlemen of
Verona" tolerably well at the age of eight. The next time I met them was
in a 5s. one-volume edition of the dramatic works of William Shakespeare, read
in Falmouth, at odd moments of the day, to the noisy accompaniment of calkers'
mallets driving oakum into the deck-seams of a ship in dry-dock. We had run in,
in a sinking condition and with the crew refusing duty after a month of weary
battling with the gales of the North Atlantic. Books are an integral part of
one's life, and my Shakespearian associations are with that first year of our
bereavement, the last I spent with my father in exile (he sent me away to
Poland to my mother's brother directly he could brace himself up for the
separation), and with the year of hard gales, the year in which I came nearest
to death at sea, first by water and then by fire.
Those things I
remember, but what I was reading the day before my writing life began I have
forgotten. I have only a vague notion that it might have been one of Trollope's
political novels. And I remember, too, the character of the day. It was an
autumn day with an opaline atmosphere, a veiled, semiopaque, lustrous day, with
fiery points and flashes of red sunlight on the roofs and windows opposite,
while the trees of the square, with all their leaves gone, were like the
tracings of India ink on a sheet of tissue-paper. It was one of those London days
that have the charm of mysterious amenity, of fascinating softness. The effect
of opaline mist was often repeated at Bessborough Gardens on account of the
nearness to the river.
There is no reason why
I should remember that effect more on that day than on any other day, except
that I stood for a long time looking out of the window after the land- lady's
daughter was gone with her spoil of cups and saucers. I heard her put the tray
down in the passage and finally shut the door; and still I remained smoking,
with my back to the room. It is very clear that I was in no haste to take the
plunge into my writing life, if as plunge this first attempt may be described.
My whole being was steeped deep in the indolence of a sailor away from the sea,
the scene of never-ending labour and of unceasing duty. For utter surrender to
indolence you cannot beat a sailor ashore when that mood is on him--the mood of
absolute irresponsibility tasted to the full. It seems to me that I thought of
nothing whatever, but this is an impression which is hardly to be believed at
this distance of years. What I am certain of is that I was very far from
thinking of writing a story, though it is possible and even likely that I was
thinking of the man Almayer.
I had seen him for the
first time, some four years before, from the bridge of a steamer moored to a
rickety little wharf forty miles up, more or less, a Bornean river. It was very
early morning, and a slight mist--an opaline mist as in Bessborough Gardens,
only without the fiery flicks on roof and chimney-pot from the rays of the red
London sun--promised to turn presently into a woolly fog. Barring a small
dug-out canoe on the river there was nothing moving within sight. I had just
come up yawning from my cabin. The serang and the Malay crew were overhauling
the cargo chains and trying the winches; their voices sounded subdued on the
deck below, and their movements were languid. That tropical daybreak was
chilly. The Malay quartermaster, coming up to get something from the lockers on
the bridge, shivered visibly. The forests above and below and on the opposite
bank looked black and dank; wet dripped from the rigging upon the tightly
stretched deck awnings, and it was in the middle of a shuddering yawn that I
caught sight of Almayer. He was moving across a patch of burned grass, a
blurred, shadowy shape with the blurred bulk of a house behind him, a low house
of mats, bamboos, and palmleaves, with a high-pitched roof of grass.
He stepped upon the
jetty. He was clad simply in flapping pajamas of cretonne pattern (enormous
flowers with yellow petals on a disagreeable blue ground) and a thin cotton
singlet with short sleeves. His arms, bare to the elbow, were crossed on his
chest. His black hair looked as if it had not been cut for a very long time,
and a curly wisp of it strayed across his forehead. I had heard of him at
Singapore; I had heard of him on board; I had heard of him early in the morning
and late at night; I had heard of him at tiffin and at dinner; I had heard of
him in a place called Pulo Laut from a half-caste gentleman there, who
described himself as the manager of a coal-mine; which sounded civilized and
progressive till you heard that the mine could not be worked at present because
it was haunted by some particularly atrocious ghosts. I had heard of him in a
place called Dongola, in the Island of Celebes, when the Rajah of that
little-known seaport (you can get no anchorage there in less than fifteen
fathom, which is extremely inconvenient) came on board in a friendly way, with
only two attendants, and drank bottle after bottle of soda-water on the
after-skylight with my good friend and commander, Captain C----. At least I
heard his name distinctly pronounced several times in a lot of talk in Malay
language. Oh, yes, I heard it quite distinctly--Almayer, Almayer--and saw
Captain C---- smile, while the fat, dingy Rajah laughed audibly. To hear a
Malay Rajah laugh outright is a rare experience, I can assure you. And I
overheard more of Almayer's name among our deck passengers (mostly wandering
traders of good repute) as they sat all over the ship--each man fenced round
with bundles and boxes--on mats, on pillows, on quilts, on billets of wood,
conversing of Island affairs. Upon my word, I heard the mutter of Almayer's
name faintly at midnight, while making my way aft from the bridge to look at
the patent taffrail-log tinkling its quarter- miles in the great silence of the
sea. I don't mean to say that our passengers dreamed aloud of Almayer, but it
is indubitable that two of them at least, who could not sleep, apparently, and
were trying to charm away the trouble of insomnia by a little whispered talk at
that ghostly hour, were referring in some way or other to Almayer. It was
really impossible on board that ship to get away definitely from Almayer; and a
very small pony tied up forward and whisking its tail inside the galley, to the
great embarrassment of our Chinaman cook, was destined for Almayer. What he
wanted with a pony goodness only knows, since I am perfectly certain he could
not ride it; but here you have the man, ambitious, aiming at the grandiose,
importing a pony, whereas in the whole settlement at which he used to shake
daily his impotent fist there was only one path that was practicable for a
pony: a quarter of a mile at most, hedged in by hundreds of square leagues of
virgin forest. But who knows? The importation of that Bali pony might have been
part of some deep scheme, of some diplomatic plan, of some hopeful intrigue.
With Almayer one could never tell. He governed his conduct by considerations
removed from the obvious, by incredible assumptions, which rendered his logic
impenetrable to any reasonable person. I learned all this later. That morning,
seeing the figure in pajamas moving in the mist, I said to myself, "That's
the man."
He came quite close to
the ship's side and raised a harassed countenance, round and flat, with that
curl of black hair over the forehead and a heavy, pained glance.
"Good
morning."
"Good
morning."
He looked hard at me: I
was a new face, having just replaced the chief mate he was accustomed to see;
and I think that this novelty inspired him, as things generally did, with
deep-seated mistrust.
"Didn't expect you
till this evening," he remarked, suspiciously.
I didn't know why he should
have been aggrieved, but he seemed to be. I took pains to explain to him that,
having picked up the beacon at the mouth of the river just before dark and the
tide serving, Captain C---- was enabled to cross the bar and there was nothing
to prevent him going up the river at night.
"Captain C----
knows this river like his own pocket," I concluded, discursively, trying
to get on terms.
"Better,"
said Almayer.
Leaning over the rail
of the bridge, I looked at Almayer, who looked down at the wharf in aggrieved
thought. He shuffled his feet a little; he wore straw slippers with thick
soles. The morning fog had thickened considerably. Everything round us
dripped--the derricks, the rails, every single rope in the ship--as if a fit of
crying had come upon the universe.
Almayer again raised
his head and, in the accents of a man accustomed to the buffets of evil
fortune, asked, hardly audibly:
"I suppose you
haven't got such a thing as a pony on board?"
I told him, almost in a
whisper, for he attuned my communications to his minor key, that we had such a
thing as a pony, and I hinted, as gently as I could, that he was confoundedly
in the way, too. I was very anxious to have him landed before I began to handle
the cargo. Almayer remained looking up at me for a long while, with incredulous
and melancholy eyes, as though it were not a safe thing to believe in my
statement. This pathetic mistrust in the favourable issue of any sort of affair
touched me deeply, and I added:
"He doesn't seem a
bit the worse for the passage. He's a nice pony, too."
Almayer was not to be
cheered up; for all answer he cleared his throat and looked down again at his
feet. I tried to close with him on another tack.
"By Jove!" I
said. "Aren't you afraid of catching pneumonia or bronchitis or something,
walking about in a singlet in such a wet fog?"
He was not to be
propitiated by a show of interest in his health. His answer was a sinister
"No fear," as much as to say that even that way of escape from
inclement fortune was closed to him.
"I just came down
. . ." he mumbled after a while.
"Well, then, now
you're here I will land that pony for you at once, and you can lead him home. I
really don't want him on deck. He's in the way."
Almayer seemed
doubtful. I insisted:
"Why, I will just
swing him out and land him on the wharf right in front of you. I'd much rather
do it before the hatches are off. The little devil may jump down the hold or do
some other deadly thing."
"There's a
halter?" postulated Almayer.
"Yes, of course
there's a halter." And without waiting any more I leaned over the bridge
rail.
"Serang, land Tuan
Almayer's pony."
The cook hastened to
shut the door of the galley, and a moment later a great scuffle began on deck.
The pony kicked with extreme energy, the kalashes skipped out of the way, the
serang issued many orders in a cracked voice. Suddenly the pony leaped upon the
fore-hatch. His little hoofs thundered tremendously; he plunged and reared. He
had tossed his mane and his forelock into a state of amazing wildness, he
dilated his nostrils, bits of foam flecked his broad little chest, his eyes
blazed. He was something under eleven hands; he was fierce, terrible, angry,
warlike; he said ha! ha! distinctly; he raged and thumped--and sixteen
able-bodied kalashes stood round him like disconcerted nurses round a spoiled
and passionate child. He whisked his tail incessantly; he arched his pretty
neck; he was perfectly delightful; he was charmingly naughty. There was not an
atom of vice in that performance; no savage baring of teeth and laying back of
ears. On the contrary, he pricked them forward in a comically aggressive
manner. He was totally unmoral and lovable; I would have liked to give him bread,
sugar, carrots. But life is a stern thing and the sense of duty the only safe
guide. So I steeled my heart, and from my elevated position on the bridge I
ordered the men to fling themselves upon him in a body.
The elderly serang,
emitting a strange, inarticulate cry, gave the example. He was an excellent
petty officer--very competent, indeed, and a moderate opium-smoker. The rest of
them in one great rush smothered that pony. They hung on to his ears, to his
mane, to his tail; they lay in piles across his back, seventeen in all. The
carpenter, seizing the hook of the cargo-chain, flung himself on the top of
them. A very satisfactory petty officer, too, but he stuttered. Have you ever
heard a light-yellow, lean, sad, earnest Chinaman stutter in Pidgin-English?
It's very weird, indeed. He made the eighteenth. I could not see the pony at
all; but from the swaying and heaving of that heap of men I knew that there was
something alive inside.
From the wharf Almayer
hailed, in quavering tones:
"Oh, I say!"
Where he stood he could
not see what was going on on deck, unless, perhaps, the tops of the men's
heads; he could only hear the scuffle, the mighty thuds, as if the ship were
being knocked to pieces. I looked over: "What is it?"
"Don't let them
break his legs," he entreated me, plaintively.
"Oh, nonsense!
He's all right now. He can't move."
By that time the
cargo-chain had been hooked to the broad canvas belt round the pony's body; the
kalashes sprang off simultaneously in all directions, rolling over each other;
and the worthy serang, making a dash behind the winch, turned the steam on.
"Steady!" I
yelled, in great apprehension of seeing the animal snatched up to the very head
of the derrick.
On the wharf Almayer
shuffled his straw slippers uneasily. The rattle of the winch stopped, and in a
tense, impressive silence that pony began to swing across the deck.
How limp he was!
Directly he felt himself in the air he relaxed every muscle in a most wonderful
manner. His four hoofs knocked together in a bunch, his head hung down, and his
tail remained pendent in a nerveless and absolute immobility. He reminded me
vividly of the pathetic little sheep which hangs on the collar of the Order of
the Golden Fleece. I had no idea that anything in the shape of a horse could be
so limp as that, either living or dead. His wild mane hung down lumpily, a mere
mass of inanimate horsehair; his aggressive ears had collapsed, but as he went
swaying slowly across the front of the bridge I noticed an astute gleam in his
dreamy, half- closed eye. A trustworthy quartermaster, his glance anxious and
his mouth on the broad grin, was easing over the derrick watchfully. I
superintended, greatly interested.
"So! That will
do."
The derrick-head
stopped. The kalashes lined the rail. The rope of the halter hung perpendicular
and motionless like a bell-pull in front of Almayer. Everything was very still.
I suggested amicably that he should catch hold of the rope and mind what he was
about. He extended a provokingly casual and superior hand.
"Look out, then!
Lower away!"
Almayer gathered in the
rope intelligently enough, but when the pony's hoofs touched the wharf he gave
way all at once to a most foolish optimism. Without pausing, without thinking,
almost without looking, he disengaged the hook suddenly from the sling, and the
cargo-chain, after hitting the pony's quarters, swung back against the ship's
side with a noisy, rattling slap. I suppose I must have blinked. I know I
missed something, because the next thing I saw was Almayer lying flat on his
back on the jetty. He was alone.
Astonishment deprived
me of speech long enough to give Almayer time to pick himself up in a leisurely
and painful manner. The kalashes lining the rail all had their mouths open. The
mist flew in the light breeze, and it had come over quite thick enough to hide
the shore completely.
"How on earth did
you manage to let him get away?" I asked, scandalized.
Almayer looked into the
smarting palm of his right hand, but did not answer my inquiry.
"Where do you
think he will get to?" I cried. "Are there any fences anywhere in
this fog? Can he bolt into the forest? What's to be done now?"
Almayer shrugged his
shoulders.
"Some of my men
are sure to be about. They will get hold of him sooner or later."
"Sooner or later!
That's all very fine, but what about my canvas sling?--he's carried it off. I
want it now, at once, to land two Celebes cows."
Since Dongola we had on
board a pair of the pretty little island cattle in addition to the pony. Tied
up on the other side of the fore-deck they had been whisking their tails into
the other door of the galley. These cows were not for Almayer, however; they
were invoiced to Abdullah bin Selim, his enemy. Almayer's disregard of my
requirements was complete.
"If I were you I
would try to find out where he's gone," I insisted. "Hadn't you
better call your men together or something? He will throw himself down and cut
his knees. He may even break a leg, you know."
But Almayer, plunged in
abstracted thought, did not seem to want that pony any more. Amazed at this
sudden indifference, I turned all hands out on shore to hunt for him on my own
account, or, at any rate, to hunt for the canvas sling which he had round his
body. The whole crew of the steamer, with the exception of firemen and
engineers, rushed up the jetty, past the thoughtful Almayer, and vanished from
my sight. The white fog swallowed them up; and again there was a deep silence
that seemed to extend for miles up and down the stream. Still taciturn, Almayer
started to climb on board, and I went down from the bridge to meet him on the
after-deck.
"Would you mind
telling the captain that I want to see him very particularly?" he asked
me, in a low tone, letting his eyes stray all over the place.
"Very well. I will
go and see."
With the door of his
cabin wide open, Captain C----, just back from the bath-room, big and
broad-chested, was brushing his thick, damp, iron-gray hair with two large
brushes.
"Mr. Almayer told
me he wanted to see you very particularly, sir."
Saying these words, I
smiled. I don't know why I smiled, except that it seemed absolutely impossible
to mention Almayer's name without a smile of a sort. It had not to be
necessarily a mirthful smile. Turning his head toward me, Captain C---- smiled,
too, rather joylessly.
"The pony got away
from him--eh?"
"Yes, sir. He
did."
"Where is
he?"
"Goodness only
knows."
"No. I mean
Almayer. Let him come along."
The captain's stateroom
opening straight on deck under the bridge, I had only to beckon from the
doorway to Almayer, who had remained aft, with downcast eyes, on the very spot
where I had left him. He strolled up moodily, shook hands, and at once asked
permission to shut the cabin door.
"I have a pretty
story to tell you," were the last words I heard. The bitterness of tone
was remarkable.
I went away from the
door, of course. For the moment I had no crew on board; only the Chinaman
carpenter, with a canvas bag hung round his neck and a hammer in his hand,
roamed about the empty decks, knocking out the wedges of the hatches and
dropping them into the bag conscientiously. Having nothing to do I joined our
two engineers at the door of the engine-room. It was near breakfast-time.
"He's turned up
early, hasn't he?" commented the second engineer, and smiled
indifferently. He was an abstemious man, with a good digestion and a placid,
reasonable view of life even when hungry.
"Yes," I
said. "Shut up with the old man. Some very particular business."
"He will spin him
a damned endless yarn," observed the chief engineer.
He smiled rather
sourly. He was dyspeptic, and suffered from gnawing hunger in the morning. The
second smiled broadly, a smile that made two vertical folds on his shaven
cheeks. And I smiled, too, but I was not exactly amused. In that man, whose
name apparently could not be uttered anywhere in the Malay Archipelago without
a smile, there was nothing amusing whatever. That morning he breakfasted with
us silently, looking mostly into his cup. I informed him that my men came upon
his pony capering in the fog on the very brink of the eight-foot-deep well in
which he kept his store of guttah. The cover was off, with no one near by, and
the whole of my crew just missed going heels over head into that beastly hole.
Jurumudi Itam, our best quartermaster, deft at fine needlework, he who mended
the ship's flags and sewed buttons on our coats, was disabled by a kick on the
shoulder.
Both remorse and
gratitude seemed foreign to Almayer's character. He mumbled:
"Do you mean that
pirate fellow?"
"What pirate
fellow? The man has been in the ship eleven years," I said, indignantly.
"It's his
looks," Almayer muttered, for all apology.
The sun had eaten up
the fog. From where we sat under the after-awning we could see in the distance
the pony tied up, in front of Almayer's house, to a post of the veranda. We
were silent for a long time. All at once Almayer, alluding evidently to the
subject of his conversation in the captain's cabin, exclaimed anxiously across
the table:
"I really don't
know what I can do now!"
Captain C---- only
raised his eyebrows at him, and got up from his chair. We dispersed to our
duties, but Almayer, half dressed as he was in his cretonne pajamas and the
thin cotton singlet, remained on board, lingering near the gangway, as though
he could not make up his mind whether to go home or stay with us for good. Our
Chinamen boys gave him side glances as they went to and fro; and Ah Sing, our
chief steward, the handsomest and most sympathetic of Chinamen, catching my
eye, nodded knowingly at his burly back. In the course of the morning I
approached him for a moment.
"Well, Mr.
Almayer," I addressed him, easily, "you haven't started on your
letters yet."
We had brought him his
mail, and he had held the bundle in his hand ever since we got up from
breakfast. He glanced at it when I spoke, and for a moment it looked as if he
were on the point of opening his fingers and letting the whole lot fall
overboard. I believe he was tempted to do so. I shall never forget that man
afraid of his letters.
"Have you been
long out from Europe?" he asked me.
"Not very. Not
quite eight months," I told him. "I left a ship in Samarang with a
hurt back, and have been in the hospital in Singapore some weeks."
He sighed.
"Trade is very bad
here."
"Indeed!"
"Hopeless! . . .
See these geese?"
With the hand holding
the letters he pointed out to me what resembled a patch of snow creeping and
swaying across the distant part of his compound. It disappeared behind some
bushes.
"The only geese on
the East Coast," Almayer informed me, in a perfunctory mutter without a
spark of faith, hope, or pride. Thereupon, with the same absence of any sort of
sustaining spirit, he declared his intention to select a fat bird and send him
on board for us not later than next day.
I had heard of these
largesses before. He conferred a goose as if it were a sort of court decoration
given only to the tried friends of the house. I had expected more pomp in the
ceremony. The gift had surely its special quality, multiple and rare. From the
only flock on the East Coast! He did not make half enough of it. That man did
not understand his opportunities. However, I thanked him at some length.
"You see," he
interrupted, abruptly, in a very peculiar tone, "the worst of this country
is that one is not able to realize . . . it's impossible to realize. . .
." His voice sank into a languid mutter. "And when one has very large
interests . . . very important interests . . ." he finished, faintly . . .
"up the river."
We looked at each
other. He astonished me by giving a start and making a very queer grimace.
"Well, I must be
off," he burst out, hurriedly. "So long!"
At the moment of
stepping over the gang- way he checked himself, though, to give me a mumbled
invitation to dine at his house that evening with my captain, an invitation
which I accepted. I don't think it could have been possible for me to refuse.
I like the worthy folk
who will talk to you of the exercise of free-will, "at any rate for
practical purposes." Free, is it? For practical purposes! Bosh! How could
I have refused to dine with that man? I did not refuse, simply because I could
not refuse. Curiosity, a healthy desire for a change of cooking, common
civility, the talk and the smiles of the previous twenty days, every condition
of my existence at that moment and place made irresistibly for acceptance; and,
crowning all that, there was the ignorance--the ignorance, I say--the fatal
want of foreknowledge to counterbalance these imperative conditions of the
problem. A refusal would have appeared perverse and insane. Nobody, unless a
surly lunatic, would have refused. But if I had not got to know Almayer pretty
well it is almost certain there would never have been a line of mine in print.
I accepted then--and I
am paying yet the price of my sanity. The possessor of the only flock of geese
on the East Coast is responsible for the existence of some fourteen volumes, so
far. The number of geese he had called into being under adverse climatic
conditions was considerably more than fourteen. The tale of volumes will never
overtake the counting of heads, I am safe to say; but my ambitions point not
exactly that way, and whatever the pangs the toil of writing has cost me I have
always thought kindly of Almayer.
I wonder, had he known
anything of it, what his attitude would have been? This is something not to be
discovered in this world. But if we ever meet in the Elysian Fields--where I
cannot depict him to myself otherwise than attended in the distance by his
flock of geese (birds sacred to Jupiter)-- and he addresses me in the stillness
of that passionless region, neither light nor darkness, neither sound nor
silence, and heaving endlessly with billowy mists from the impalpable
multitudes of the swarming dead, I think I know what answer to make.
I would say, after
listening courteously to the unvibrating tone of his measured remonstrances,
which should not disturb, of course, the solemn eternity of stillness in the
least-- I would say something like this:
"It is true,
Almayer, that in the world below I have converted your name to my own uses. But
that is a very small larceny. What's in a name, O Shade? If so much of your old
mortal weakness clings to you yet as to make you feel aggrieved (it was the
note of your earthly voice, Almayer), then, I entreat you, seek speech without
delay with our sublime fellow-Shade--with him who, in his transient existence
as a poet, commented upon the smell of the rose. He will comfort you. You came
to me stripped of all prestige by men's queer smiles and the disrespectful
chatter of every vagrant trader in the Islands. Your name was 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 paternity--feats
which you did not demand from me--but 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.
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 post-cards. 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 somewhere--the 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 day --till next week,
as like 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 anemic 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 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 conceit--who 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
aggrandizement, 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 view--and
in this view alone--never for despair! Those visions, delicious or poignant,
are a moral end in themselves. The rest is our affair--the laughter, the tears,
the tenderness, the indignation, the high tranquillity of a steeled heart, the
detached curiosity of a subtle mind --that'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 sà? 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 or the Carpenter, in the poem, who "wept to see
such quantities of sand"?), or, again, to a properly steeled heart, may
matter nothing at all.
The casual quotation,
which had suggested itself out of a poem full of merit, leads me to remark that
in the conception of a purely spectacular universe, where inspiration of every
sort has a rational existence, the artist of every kind finds a natural place;
and among them the poet as the seer par excellence. Even the writer of prose,
who in his less noble and more toilsome task should be a man with the steeled
heart, is worthy of a place, providing he looks on with undimmed eyes and keeps
laughter out of his voice, let who will laugh or cry. Yes! Even he, the prose
artist of fiction, which after all is but truth often dragged out of a well and
clothed in the painted robe of imagined phrases--even he has his place among
kings, demagogues, priests, charlatans, dukes, giraffes, cabinet ministers,
Fabians, bricklayers, apostles, ants, scientists, Kafirs, soldiers, sailors,
elephants, lawyers, dandies, microbes, and constellations of a universe whose amazing
spectacle is a moral end in itself.
Here I perceive
(without speaking offense) the reader assuming a subtle expression, as if the
cat were out of the bag. I take the novelist's freedom to observe the reader's
mind formulating the exclamation: "That's it! The fellow talks pro
domo."
Indeed it was not the
intention! When I shouldered the bag I was not aware of the cat inside. But,
after all, why not? The fair courtyards of the House of Art are thronged by
many humble retainers. And there is no retainer so devoted as he who is allowed
to sit on the doorstep. The fellows who have got inside are apt to think too
much of themselves. This last remark, I beg to state, is not malicious within
the definition of the law of libel. It's fair comment on a matter of public
interest. But never mind. Pro domo. So be it. For his house tant que vous
voudrez. And yet in truth I was by no means anxious to justify my existence.
The attempt would have been not only needless and absurd, but almost
inconceivable, in a purely spectacular universe, where no such disagreeable
necessity can possibly arise. It is sufficient for me to say (and I am saying
it at some length in these pages): J'ai vécu. I have existed, obscure among the
wonders and terrors of my time, as the Abbé Sieyès, the original utterer of the
quoted words, had managed to exist through the violences, the crimes, and the
enthusiasms of the French Revolution. J'ai vécu, as I apprehend most of us
manage to exist, missing all along the varied forms of destruction by a
hair's-breadth, saving my body, that's clear, and perhaps my soul also, but not
without some damage here and there to the fine edge of my conscience, that
heirloom of the ages, of the race, of the group, of the family, colourable and
plastic, fashioned by the words, the looks, the acts, and even by the silences
and abstentions surrounding one's childhood; tinged in a complete scheme of
delicate shades and crude colours by the inherited traditions, beliefs, or
prejudices--unaccountable, despotic, persuasive, and often, in its texture,
romantic.
And often romantic! . .
. The matter in hand, however, is to keep these reminiscences from turning into
confessions, a form of literary activity discredited by Jean Jacques Rousseau
on account of the extreme thoroughness he brought to the work of justifying his
own existence; for that such was his purpose is palpably, even grossly, visible
to an unprejudiced eye. But then, you see, the man was not a writer of fiction.
He was an artless moralist, as is clearly demonstrated by his anniversaries
being celebrated with marked emphasis by the heirs of the French Revolution,
which was not a political movement at all, but a great outburst of morality. He
had no imagination, as the most casual perusal of "Émile" will prove.
He was no novelist, whose first virtue is the exact understanding of the limits
traced by the reality of his time to the play of his invention. Inspiration
comes from the earth, which has a past, a history, a future, not from the cold
and immutable heaven. A writer of imaginative prose (even more than any other
sort of artist) stands confessed in his works. His conscience, his deeper sense
of things, lawful and unlawful, gives him his attitude before the world.
Indeed, every one who puts pen to paper for the reading of strangers (unless a
moralist, who, generally speaking, has no conscience except the one he is at
pains to produce for the use of others) can speak of nothing else. It is M.
Anatole France, the most eloquent and just of French prose-writers, who says
that we must recognize at last that, "failing the resolution to hold our
peace, we can only talk of ourselves."
This remark, if I
remember rightly, was made in the course of a sparring match with the late
Ferdinand Brunetière over the principles and rules of literary criticism. As
was fitting for a man to whom we owe the memorable saying, "The good
critic is he who relates the adventures of his soul among masterpieces,"
M. Anatole France maintained that there were no rules and no principles. And
that may be very true. Rules, principles, and standards die and vanish every
day. Perhaps they are all dead and vanished by this time. These, if ever, are
the brave, free days of destroyed landmarks, while the ingenious minds are busy
inventing the forms of the new beacons which, it is consoling to think, will be
set up presently in the old places. But what is interesting to a writer is the
possession of an inward certitude that literary criticism will never die, for
man (so variously defined) is, before everything else, a critical animal. And
as long as distinguished minds are ready to treat it in the spirit of high
adventure literary criticism shall appeal to us with all the charm and wisdom
of a well-told tale of personal experience.
For Englishmen especially,
of all the races of the earth, a task, any task, undertaken in an adventurous
spirit acquires the merit of romance. But the critics as a rule exhibit but
little of an adventurous spirit. They take risks, of course--one can hardly
live without that. The daily bread is served out to us (however sparingly) with
a pinch of salt. Otherwise one would get sick of the diet one prays for, and
that would be not only improper, but impious. From impiety of that or any other
kind--save us! An ideal of reserved manner, adhered to from a sense of
proprieties, from shyness, perhaps, or caution, or simply from weariness,
induces, I suspect, some writers of criticism to conceal the adventurous side
of their calling, and then the criticism becomes a mere "notice," as
it were, the relation of a journey where nothing but the distances and the
geology of a new country should be set down; the glimpses of strange beasts,
the dangers of flood and field, the hairbreadth escapes, and the sufferings
(oh, the sufferings, too! I have no doubt of the sufferings) of the traveller
being carefully kept out; no shady spot, no fruitful plant being ever mentioned
either; so that the whole performance looks like a mere feat of agility on the
part of a trained pen running in a desert. A cruel spectacle--a most deplorable
adventure! "Life," in the words of an immortal thinker of, I should
say, bucolic origin, but whose perishable name is lost to the worship of
posterity--"life is not all beer and skittles." Neither is the writing
of novels. It isn't, really. Je vous donne ma parole d'honneur that
it--is--not. Not all. I am thus emphatic because some years ago, I remember,
the daughter of a general. . . .
Sudden revelations of
the profane world must have come now and then to hermits in their cells, to the
cloistered monks of middle ages, to lonely sages, men of science, reformers;
the revelations of the world's superficial judgment, shocking to the souls
concentrated upon their own bitter labour in the cause of sanctity, or of
knowledge, or of temperance, let us say, or of art, if only the art of cracking
jokes or playing the flute. And thus this general's daughter came to me --or I
should say one of the general's daughters did. There were three of these
bachelor ladies, of nicely graduated ages, who held a neighbouring farm-house
in a united and more or less military occupation. The eldest warred against the
decay of manners in the village children, and executed frontal attacks upon the
village mothers for the conquest of courtesies. It sounds futile, but it was
really a war for an idea. The second skirmished and scouted all over the
country; and it was that one who pushed a reconnaissance right to my very
table--I mean the one who wore stand- up collars. She was really calling upon
my wife in the soft spirit of afternoon friendliness, but with her usual
martial determination. She marched into my room swinging her stick . . . but
no--I mustn't exaggerate. It is not my specialty. I am not a humoristic writer.
In all soberness, then, all I am certain of is that she had a stick to swing.
No ditch or wall
encompassed my abode. The window was open; the door, too, stood open to that
best friend of my work, the warm, still sunshine of the wide fields. They lay
around me infinitely helpful, but, truth to say, I had not known for weeks
whether the sun shone upon the earth and whether the stars above still moved on
their appointed courses. I was just then giving up some days of my allotted
span to the last chapters of the novel "Nostromo," a tale of an
imaginary (but true) seaboard, which is still mentioned now and again, and
indeed kindly, sometimes in connection with the word "failure" and
sometimes in conjunction with the word "astonishing." I have no
opinion on this discrepancy. It's the sort of difference that can never be
settled. All I know is that, for twenty months, neglecting the common joys of
life that fall to the lot of the humblest on this earth, I had, like the
prophet of old, "wrestled with the Lord" for my creation, for the
headlands of the coast, for the darkness of the Placid Gulf, the light on the
snows, the clouds in the sky, and for the breath of life that had to be blown
into the shapes of men and women, of Latin and Saxon, of Jew and Gentile. These
are, perhaps, strong words, but it is difficult to characterize otherwise the
intimacy and the strain of a creative effort in which mind and will and
conscience are engaged to the full, hour after hour, day after day, away from
the world, and to the exclusion of all that makes life really lovable and
gentle--something for which a material parallel can only be found in the
everlasting sombre stress of the westward winter passage round Cape Horn. For
that, too, is the wrestling of men with the might of their Creator, in a great
isolation from the world, without the amenities and consolations of life, a
lonely struggle under a sense of overmatched littleness, for no reward that
could be adequate, but for the mere winning of a longitude. Yet a certain
longitude, once won, cannot be disputed. The sun and the stars and the shape of
your earth are the witnesses of your gain; whereas a handful of pages, no
matter how much you have made them your own, are at best but an obscure and
questionable spoil. Here they are. "Failure"--"Astonishing":
take your choice; or perhaps both, or neither--a mere rustle and flutter of
pieces of paper settling down in the night, and undistinguishable, like the
snowflakes of a great drift destined to melt away in sunshine.
"How do you
do?"
It was the greeting of
the general's daughter I had heard nothing--no rustle, no footsteps. I had felt
only a moment before a sort of premonition of evil; I had the sense of an
inauspicious presence--just that much warning and no more; and then came the
sound of the voice and the jar as of a terrible fall from a great height--a
fall, let us say, from the highest of the clouds floating in gentle procession
over the fields in the faint westerly air of that July afternoon. I picked
myself up quickly, of course; in other words, I jumped up from my chair stunned
and dazed, every nerve quivering with the pain of being uprooted out of one
world and flung down into another--perfectly civil.
"Oh! How do you
do? Won't you sit down?"
That's what I said.
This horrible but, I assure you, perfectly true reminiscence tells you more
than a whole volume of confessions à la Jean Jacques Rosseau would do. Observe!
I didn't howl at her, or start upsetting furniture, or throw myself on the
floor and kick, or allow myself to hint in any other way at the appalling
magnitude of the disaster. The whole world of Costaguana (the country, you may
remember, of my seaboard tale), men, women, headlands, houses, mountains, town,
campo (there was not a single brick, stone, or grain of sand of its soil I had
not placed in position with my own hands); all the history, geography,
politics, finance; the wealth of Charles Gould's silver-mine, and the splendour
of the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, whose name, cried out in the night
(Dr. Monygham heard it pass over his head--in Linda Viola's voice), dominated
even after death the dark gulf containing his conquests of treasure and
love--all that had come down crashing about my ears. I felt I could never pick
up the pieces--and in that very moment I was saying, "Won't you sit down?"
The sea is strong
medicine. Behold what the quarter-deck training even in a merchant ship will
do! This episode should give you a new view of the English and Scots seamen (a
much-caricatured folk) who had the last say in the formation of my character.
One is nothing if not modest, but in this disaster I think I have done some
honour to their simple teaching. "Won't you sit down?" Very fair;
very fair, indeed. She sat down. Her amused glance strayed all over the room.
There were pages of MS. on the table and under the table, a batch of typed copy
on a chair, single leaves had fluttered away into distant corners; there were
there living pages, pages scored and wounded, dead pages that would be burned
at the end of the day--the litter of a cruel battle-field, of a long, long, and
desperate fray. Long! I suppose I went to bed sometimes, and got up the same
number of times. Yes, I suppose I slept, and ate the food put before me, and
talked connectedly to my household on suitable occasions. But I had never been
aware of the even flow of daily life, made easy and noiseless for me by a
silent, watchful, tireless affection. Indeed, it seemed to me that I had been
sitting at that table surrounded by the litter of a desperate fray for days and
nights on end. It seemed so, because of the intense weariness of which that
interruption had made me aware--the awful disenchantment of a mind realizing
suddenly the futility of an enormous task, joined to a bodily fatigue such as
no ordinary amount of fairly heavy physical labour could ever account for. I
have carried bags of wheat on my back, bent almost double under a ship's
deck-beams, from six in the morning till six in the evening (with an hour and a
half off for meals), so I ought to know.
And I love letters. I
am jealous of their honour and concerned for the dignity and comeliness of
their service. I was, most likely, the only writer that neat lady had ever
caught in the exercise of his craft, and it distressed me not to be able to
remember when it was that I dressed myself last, and how. No doubt that would
be all right in essentials. The fortune of the house included a pair of
gray-blue watchful eyes that would see to that. But I felt, somehow, as grimy
as a Costaguana lepero after a day's fighting in the streets, rumpled all over
and dishevelled down to my very heels. And I am afraid I blinked stupidly. All
this was bad for the honour of letters and the dignity of their service. Seen
indistinctly through the dust of my collapsed universe, the good lady glanced
about the room with a slightly amused serenity. And she was smiling. What on
earth was she smiling at? She remarked casually:
"I am afraid I
interrupted you."
"Not at all."
She accepted the denial
in perfect good faith. And it was strictly true. Interrupted --indeed! She had
robbed me of at least twenty lives, each infinitely more poignant and real than
her own, because informed with passion, possessed of convictions, involved in
great affairs created out of my own substance for an anxiously meditated end.
She remained silent for
a while, then said, with a last glance all round at the litter of the fray:
"And you sit like
this here writing your --your . . ."
"I--what? Oh, yes!
I sit here all day."
"It must be
perfectly delightful."
I suppose that, being
no longer very young, I might have been on the verge of having a stroke; but
she had left her dog in the porch, and my boy's dog, patrolling the field in
front, had espied him from afar. He came on straight and swift like a
cannon-ball, and the noise of the fight, which burst suddenly upon our ears,
was more than enough to scare away a fit of apoplexy. We went out hastily and
separated the gallant animals. Afterward I told the lady where she would find
my wife--just round the corner, under the trees. She nodded and went off with
her dog, leaving me appalled before the death and devastation she had lightly
made--and with the awfully instructive sound of the word "delightful"
lingering in my ears.
Nevertheless, later on,
I duly escorted her to the field gate. I wanted to be civil, of course (what
are twenty lives in a mere novel that one should be rude to a lady on their
account?), but mainly, to adopt the good, sound Ollendorffian style, because I
did not want the dog of the general's daughter to fight again (encore) with the
faithful dog of my infant son (mon petit garçon).--Was I afraid that the dog of
the general's daughter would be able to overcome (vaincre) the dog of my
child?--No, I was not afraid. . . . But away with the Ollendorff method. However
appropriate and seemingly unavoidable when I touch upon anything appertaining
to the lady, it is most unsuitable to the origin, character, and history of the
dog; for the dog was the gift to the child from a man for whom words had
anything but an Ollendorffian value, a man almost childlike in the impulsive
movements of his untutored genius, the most single-minded of verbal
impressionists, using his great gifts of straight feeling and right expression
with a fine sincerity and a strong if, perhaps, not fully conscious conviction.
His art did not obtain, I fear, all the credit its unsophisticated inspiration
deserved. I am alluding to the late Stephen Crane, the author of "The Red
Badge of Courage," a work of imagination which found its short moment of
celebrity in the last decade of the departed century. Other books followed. Not
many. He had not the time. It was an individual and complete talent which
obtained but a grudging, somewhat supercilious recognition from the world at
large. For himself one hesitates to regret his early death. Like one of the men
in his "Open Boat," one felt that he was of those whom fate seldom
allows to make a safe landing after much toil and bitterness at the oar. I
confess to an abiding affection for that energetic, slight, fragile, intensely
living and transient figure. He liked me, even before we met, on the strength
of a page or two of my writing, and after we had met I am glad to think he
liked me still. He used to point out to me with great earnestness, and even
with some severity, that "a boy ought to have a dog." I suspect that
he was shocked at my neglect of parental duties. Ultimately it was he who
provided the dog. Shortly afterward, one day, after playing with the child on
the rug for an hour or so with the most intense absorption, he raised his head
and declared firmly, "I shall teach your boy to ride." That was not
to be. He was not given the time.
But here is the dog--an
old dog now. Broad and low on his bandy paws, with a black head on a white body
and a ridiculous black spot at the other end of him, he provokes, when he walks
abroad, smiles not altogether unkind. Grotesque and engaging in the whole of
his appearance, his usual attitudes are meek, but his temperament discloses
itself unexpectedly pugnacious in the presence of his kind. As he lies in the
firelight, his head well up, and a fixed, faraway gaze directed at the shadows
of the room, he achieves a striking nobility of pose in the calm consciousness
of an unstained life. He has brought up one baby, and now, after seeing his
first charge off to school, he is bringing up another with the same
conscientious devotion, but with a more deliberate gravity of manner, the sign
of greater wisdom and riper experience, but also of rheumatism, I fear. From
the morning bath to the evening ceremonies of the cot, you attend the little
two-legged creature of your adoption, being yourself treated in the exercise of
your duties with every possible regard, with infinite consideration, by every
person in the house--even as I myself am treated; only you deserve it more. The
general's daughter would tell you that it must be "perfectly
delightful."
Aha! old dog. She never
heard you yelp with acute pain (it's that poor left ear) the while, with
incredible self-command, you preserve a rigid immobility for fear of
overturning the little two-legged creature. She has never seen your resigned
smile when the little two-legged creature, interrogated, sternly, "What
are you doing to the good dog?" answers, with a wide, innocent stare:
"Nothing. Only loving him, mamma dear!"
The general's daughter
does not know the secret terms of self-imposed tasks, good dog, the pain that
may lurk in the very rewards of rigid self-command. But we have lived together
many years. We have grown older, too; and though our work is not quite done yet
we may indulge now and then in a little introspection before the fire--meditate
on the art of bringing up babies and on the perfect delight of writing tales
where so many lives come and go at the cost of one which slips imperceptibly
away.
IN THE retrospect of a
life which had, besides its preliminary stage of childhood and early youth, two
distinct developments, and even two distinct elements, such as earth and water,
for its successive scenes, a certain amount of naïveness is unavoidable. I am
conscious of it in these pages. This remark is put forward in no apologetic
spirit. As years go by and the number of pages grows steadily, the feeling
grows upon one, too, that one can write only for friends. Then why should one
put them to the necessity of protesting (as a friend would do) that no apology
is necessary, or put, perchance, into their heads the doubt of one's
discretion? So much as to the care due to those friends whom a word here, a
line there, a fortunate page of just feeling in the right place, some happy
simplicity, or even some lucky subtlety, has drawn from the great multitude of
fellow beings even as a fish is drawn from the depths of the sea. Fishing is
notoriously (I am talking now of the deep sea) a matter of luck. As to one's enemies,
they will take care of themselves.
There is a gentleman,
for instance, who, metaphorically speaking, jumps upon me with both feet. This
image has no grace, but it is exceedingly apt to the occasion--to the several
occasions. I don't know precisely how long he has been indulging in that
intermittent exercise, whose seasons are ruled by the custom of the publishing
trade. Somebody pointed him out (in printed shape, of course) to my attention
some time ago, and straightway I experienced a sort of reluctant affection for
that robust man. He leaves not a shred of my substance untrodden: for the
writer's substance is his writing; the rest of him is but a vain shadow,
cherished or hated on uncritical grounds. Not a shred! Yet the sentiment owned
to is not a freak of affectation or perversity. It has a deeper, and, I venture
to think, a more estimable origin than the caprice of emotional lawlessness. It
is, indeed, lawful, in so much that it is given (reluctantly) for a
consideration, for several considerations. There is that robustness, for
instance, so often the sign of good moral balance. That's a consideration. It
is not, indeed, pleasant to be stamped upon, but the very thoroughness of the
operation, implying not only a careful reading, but some real insight into work
whose qualities and defects, whatever they may be, are not so much on the
surface, is something to be thankful for in view of the fact that it may happen
to one's work to be condemned without being read at all. This is the most
fatuous adventure that can well happen to a writer venturing his soul among
criticisms. It can do one no harm, of course, but it is disagreeable. It is
disagreeable in the same way as discovering a three-card-trick man among a
decent lot of folk in a third-class compartment. The open impudence of the
whole transaction, appealing insidiously to the folly and credulity of mankind,
the brazen, shameless patter, proclaiming the fraud openly while insisting on
the fairness of the game, give one a feeling of sickening disgust. The honest
violence of a plain man playing a fair game fairly--even if he means to knock
you over--may appear shocking, but it remains within the pale of decency.
Damaging as it may be, it is in no sense offensive. One may well feel some
regard for honesty, even if practised upon one's own vile body. But it is very
obvious that an enemy of that sort will not be stayed by explanations or
placated by apologies. Were I to advance the plea of youth in excuse of the naïveness
to be found in these pages, he would be likely to say "Bosh!" in a
column and a half of fierce print. Yet a writer is no older than his first
published book, and, notwithstanding the vain appearances of decay which attend
us in this transitory life, I stand here with the wreath of only fifteen short
summers on my brow.
With the remark, then,
that at such tender age some naïveness of feeling and expression is excusable,
I proceed to admit that, upon the whole, my previous state of existence was not
a good equipment for a literary life. Perhaps I should not have used the word
literary. That word presupposes an intimacy of acquaintance with letters, a
turn of mind, and a manner of feeling to which I dare lay no claim. I only love
letters; but the love of letters does not make a literary man, any more than
the love of the sea makes a seaman. And it is very possible, too, that I love
the letters in the same way a literary man may love the sea he looks at from
the shore--a scene of great endeavour and of great achievements changing the
face of the world, the great open way to all sorts of undiscovered countries.
No, perhaps I had better say that the life at sea--and I don't mean a mere
taste of it, but a good broad span of years, something that really counts as
real service--is not, upon the whole, a good equipment for a writing life. God
forbid, though, that I should be thought of as denying my masters of the
quarter-deck. I am not capable of that sort of apostasy. I have confessed my
attitude of piety toward their shades in three or four tales, and if any man on
earth more than another needs to be true to himself as he hopes to be saved, it
is certainly the writer of fiction.
What I meant to say,
simply, is that the quarter-deck training does not prepare one sufficiently for
the reception of literary criticism. Only that, and no more. But this defect is
not without gravity. If it be permissible to twist, invert, adapt (and spoil)
Mr. Anatole France's definition of a good critic, then let us say that the good
author is he who contemplates without marked joy or excessive sorrow the
adventures of his soul among criticisms. Far be from me the intention to
mislead an attentive public into the belief that there is no criticism at sea.
That would be dishonest, and even impolite. Everything can be found at sea,
according to the spirit of your quest--strife, peace, romance, naturalism of
the most pronounced kind, ideals, boredom, disgust, inspiration--and every
conceivable opportunity, including the opportunity to make a fool of yourself,
exactly as in the pursuit of literature. But the quarter-deck criticism is
somewhat different from literary criticism. This much they have in common, that
before the one and the other the answering back, as a general rule, does not
pay.
Yes, you find criticism
at sea, and even appreciation--I tell you everything is to be found on salt
water--criticism generally impromptu, and always viva voce, which is the
outward, obvious difference from the literary operation of that kind, with
consequent freshness and vigour which may be lacking in the printed word. With
appreciation, which comes at the end, when the critic and the criticised are
about to part, it is otherwise. The sea appreciation of one's humble talents
has the permanency of the written word, seldom the charm of variety, is formal
in its phrasing. There the literary master has the superiority, though he, too,
can in effect but say--and often says it in the very phrase-- "I can
highly recommend." Only usually he uses the word "We," there
being some occult virtue in the first person plural which makes it specially
fit for critical and royal declarations. I have a small handful of these sea
appreciations, signed by various masters, yellowing slowly in my
writing-table's left- hand drawer, rustling under my reverent touch, like a
handful of dry leaves plucked for a tender memento from the tree of knowledge.
Strange! It seems that it is for these few bits of paper, headed by the names
of a few Scots and English shipmasters, that I have faced the astonished
indignations, the mockeries, and the reproaches of a sort hard to bear for a
boy of fifteen; that I have been charged with the want of patriotism, the want
of sense, and the want of heart, too; that I went through agonies of
self-conflict and shed secret tears not a few, and had the beauties of the
Furca Pass spoiled for me, and have been called an "incorrigible Don
Quixote," in allusion to the book-born madness of the knight. For that
spoil! They rustle, those bits of paper--some dozen of them in all. In that faint,
ghostly sound there live the memories of twenty years, the voices of rough men
now no more, the strong voice of the everlasting winds, and the whisper of a
mysterious spell, the murmur of the great sea, which must have somehow reached
my inland cradle and entered my unconscious ear, like that formula of
Mohammedan faith the Mussulman father whispers into the ear of his new-born
infant, making him one of the faithful almost with his first breath. I do not
know whether I have been a good seaman, but I know I have been a very faithful
one. And, after all, there is that handful of "characters" from
various ships to prove that all these years have not been altogether a dream.
There they are, brief, and monotonous in tone, but as suggestive bits of
writing to me as any inspired page to be found in literature. But then, you
see, I have been called romantic. Well, that can't be helped. But stay. I seem
to remember that I have been called a realist, also. And as that charge, too,
can be made out, let us try to live up to it, at whatever cost, for a change.
With this end in view, I will confide to you coyly, and only because there is
no one about to see my blushes by the light of the midnight lamp, that these
suggestive bits of quarter-deck appreciation, one and all, contain the words
"strictly sober."
Did I overhear a civil
murmur, "That's very gratifying, to be sure?" Well, yes, it is
gratifying--thank you. It is at least as gratifying to be certified sober as to
be certified romantic, though such certificates would not qualify one for the
secretaryship of a temperance association or for the post of official
troubadour to some lordly democratic institution such as the London County
Council, for instance. The above prosaic reflection is put down here only in
order to prove the general sobriety of my judgment in mundane affairs. I make a
point of it because a couple of years ago, a certain short story of mine being
published in a French translation, a Parisian critic --I am almost certain it
was M. Gustave Kahn in the Gil-Blas--giving me a short notice, summed up his
rapid impression of the writer's quality in the words un puissant réveur. So be
it! Who could cavil at the words of a friendly reader? Yet perhaps not such an
unconditional dreamer as all that. I will make bold to say that neither at sea
nor ashore have I ever lost the sense of responsibility. There is more than one
sort of intoxication. Even before the most seductive reveries I have remained
mindful of that sobriety of interior life, that asceticism of sentiment, in which
alone the naked form of truth, such as one conceives it, such as one feels it,
can be rendered without shame. It is but a maudlin and indecent verity that
comes out through the strength of wine. I have tried to be a sober worker all
my life-- all my two lives. I did so from taste, no doubt, having an
instinctive horror of losing my sense of full self-possession, but also from
artistic conviction. Yet there are so many pitfalls on each side of the true
path that, having gone some way, and feeling a little battered and weary, as a
middle-aged traveller will from the mere daily difficulties of the march, I ask
myself whether I have kept always, always faithful to that sobriety wherein
there is power and truth and peace.
As to my sea sobriety,
that is quite properly certified under the sign-manual of several trustworthy
shipmasters of some standing in their time. I seem to hear your polite murmur
that "Surely this might have been taken for granted." Well, no. It
might not have been. That August academical body, the Marine Department of the
Board of Trade, takes nothing for granted in the granting of its learned
degrees. By its regulations issued under the first Merchant Shipping Act, the
very word SOBER must be written, or a whole sackful, a ton, a mountain of the
most enthusiastic appreciation will avail you nothing. The door of the
examination- rooms shall remain closed to your tears and entreaties. The most
fanatical advocate of temperance could not be more pitilessly fierce in his
rectitude than the Marine Department of the Board of Trade. As I have been face
to face at various times with all the examiners of the Port of London in my
generation, there can be no doubt as to the force and the continuity of my
abstemiousness. Three of them were examiners in sea- manship, and it was my
fate to be delivered into the hands of each of them at proper intervals of sea
service. The first of all, tall, spare, with a perfectly white head and
mustache, a quiet, kindly manner, and an air of benign intelligence, must, I am
forced to conclude, have been unfavourably impressed by something in my
appearance. His old, thin hands loosely clasped resting on his crossed legs, he
began by an elementary question, in a mild voice, and went on, went on. . . .
It lasted for hours, for hours. Had I been a strange microbe with
potentialities of deadly mischief to the Merchant Service I could not have been
submitted to a more microscopic examination. Greatly reassured by his apparent
benevolence, I had been at first very alert in my answers. But at length the
feeling of my brain getting addled crept upon me. And still the passionless
process went on, with a sense of untold ages having been spent already on mere
preliminaries. Then I got frightened. I was not frightened of being plucked; that
even- tuality did not even present itself to my mind. It was something much
more serious and weird. "This ancient person," I said to myself,
terrified, "is so near his grave that he must have lost all notion of
time. He is considering this examination in terms of eternity. It is all very
well for him. His race is run. But I may find myself coming out of this room
into the world of men a stranger, friendless, forgotten by my very landlady,
even were I able after this endless experience to remember the way to my hired
home." This statement is not so much of a verbal exaggeration as may be
supposed. Some very queer thoughts passed through my head while I was
considering my answers; thoughts which had nothing to do with seamanship, nor
yet with anything reasonable known to this earth. I verily believe that at
times I was light-headed in a sort of languid way. At last there fell a
silence, and that, too, seemed to last for ages, while, bending over his desk,
the examiner wrote out my pass-slip slowly with a noiseless pen. He extended
the scrap of paper to me without a word, inclined his white head gravely to my
parting bow. . . .
When I got out of the
room I felt limply flat, like a squeezed lemon, and the doorkeeper in his glass
cage, where I stopped to get my hat and tip him a shilling, said:
"Well! I thought
you were never coming out."
"How long have I
been in there?" I asked, faintly.
He pulled out his
watch.
"He kept you, sir,
just under three hours. I don't think this ever happened with any of the
gentlemen before."
It was only when I got
out of the building that I began to walk on air. And the human animal being
averse from change and timid before the unknown, I said to myself that I really
would not mind being examined by the same man on a future occasion. But when
the time of ordeal came round again the doorkeeper let me into another room,
with the now familiar paraphernalia of models of ships and tackle, a board for
signals on the wall, a big, long table covered with official forms and having
an unrigged mast fixed to the edge. The solitary tenant was unknown to me by
sight, though not by reputation, which was simply execrable. Short and sturdy,
as far as I could judge, clad in an old brown morning-suit, he sat leaning on
his elbow, his hand shading his eyes, and half averted from the chair I was to
occupy on the other side of the table. He was motionless, mysterious, remote,
enigmatical, with something mournful, too, in the pose, like that statue of
Giugliano (I think) de Medici shading his face on the tomb by Michael Angelo,
though, of course, he was far, far from being beautiful. He began by trying to
make me talk nonsense. But I had been warned of that fiendish trait, and
contradicted him with great assurance. After a while he left off. So far good.
But his immobility, the thick elbow on the table, the abrupt, unhappy voice,
the shaded and averted face grew more and more impressive. He kept inscrutably
silent for a moment, and then, placing me in a ship of a certain size, at sea,
under conditions of weather, season, locality, etc.--all very clear and
precise-- ordered me to execute a certain manœuvre. Before I was half through
with it he did some material damage to the ship. Directly I had grappled with
the difficulty he caused another to present itself, and when that, too, was met
he stuck another ship before me, creating a very dangerous situation. I felt
slightly outraged by this ingenuity in piling trouble upon a man.
"I wouldn't have
got into that mess," I suggested, mildly. "I could have seen that
ship before."
He never stirred the
least bit.
"No, you couldn't.
The weather's thick."
"Oh! I didn't
know," I apologized blankly.
I suppose that after
all I managed to stave off the smash with sufficient approach to
verisimilitude, and the ghastly business went on. You must understand that the
scheme of the test he was applying to me was, I gathered, a homeward
passage--the sort of passage I would not wish to my bitterest enemy. That
imaginary ship seemed to labour under a most comprehensive curse. It's no use
enlarging on these never-ending misfortunes; suffice it to say that long before
the end I would have welcomed with gratitude an opportunity to exchange into
the Flying Dutchman. Finally he shoved me into the North Sea (I suppose) and
provided me with a lee shore with outlying sand-banks--the Dutch coast,
presumably. Distance, eight miles. The evidence of such implacable animosity
deprived me of speech for quite half a minute.
"Well," he
said--for our pace had been very smart, indeed, till then.
"I will have to
think a little, sir."
"Doesn't look as
if there were much time to think," he muttered, sardonically, from under
his hand.
"No, sir," I
said, with some warmth. "Not on board a ship, I could see. But so many
accidents have happened that I really can't remember what there's left for me
to work with."
Still half averted, and
with his eyes concealed, he made unexpectedly a grunting remark.
"You've done very
well."
"Have I the two
anchors at the bow, sir?" I asked.
"Yes."
I prepared myself then,
as a last hope for the ship, to let them both go in the most effectual manner,
when his infernal system of testing resourcefulness came into play again.
"But there's only
one cable. You've lost the other."
It was exasperating.
"Then I would back
them, if I could, and tail the heaviest hawser on board on the end of the chain
before letting go, and if she parted from that, which is quite likely, I would
just do nothing. She would have to go."
"Nothing more to
do, eh?"
"No, sir. I could
do no more."
He gave a bitter
half-laugh.
"You could always
say your prayers."
He got up, stretched
himself, and yawned slightly. It was a sallow, strong, unamiable face. He put
me, in a surly, bored fashion, through the usual questions as to lights and
signals, and I escaped from the room thankfully--passed! Forty minutes! And
again I walked on air along Tower Hill, where so many good men had lost their
heads because, I suppose, they were not resourceful enough to save them. And in
my heart of hearts I had no objection to meeting that examiner once more when
the third and last ordeal became due in another year or so. I even hoped I
should. I knew the worst of him now, and forty minutes is not an unreasonable
time. Yes, I distinctly hoped. . . .
But not a bit of it.
When I presented myself to be examined for master the examiner who received me
was short, plump, with a round, soft face in gray, fluffy whiskers, and fresh,
loquacious lips.
He commenced operations
with an easy- going "Let's see. H'm. Suppose you tell me all you know of
charter-parties." He kept it up in that style all through, wandering off
in the shape of comment into bits out of his own life, then pulling himself up
short and returning to the business in hand. It was very interesting.
"What's your idea of a jury-rudder now?" he queried, suddenly, at the
end of an instructive anecdote bearing upon a point of stowage.
I warned him that I had
no experience of a lost rudder at sea, and gave him two classical examples of
makeshifts out of a text-book. In exchange he described to me a jury-rudder he
had invented himself years before, when in command of a three-thousand-ton
steamer. It was, I declare, the cleverest contrivance imaginable. "May be
of use to you some day," he concluded. "You will go into steam
presently. Everybody goes into steam."
There he was wrong. I
never went into steam--not really. If I only live long enough I shall become a
bizarre relic of a dead barbarism, a sort of monstrous antiquity, the only
seaman of the dark ages who had never gone into steam--not really.
Before the examination
was over he imparted to me a few interesting details of the transport service
in the time of the Crimean War.
"The use of wire
rigging became general about that time, too," he observed. "I was a
very young master then. That was before you were born."
"Yes, sir. I am of
the year of 1857."
"The Mutiny
year," he commented, as if to himself, adding in a louder tone that his
ship happened then to be in the Gulf of Bengal, employed under a government
charter.
Clearly the transport
service had been the making of this examiner, who so unexpectedly had given me
an insight into his existence, awakening in me the sense of the continuity of
that sea life into which I had stepped from outside; giving a touch of human
intimacy to the machinery of official relations. I felt adopted. His experience
was for me, too, as though he had been an ancestor.
Writing my long name
(it has twelve letters) with laborious care on the slip of blue paper, he
remarked:
"You are of Polish
extraction."
"Born there,
sir."
He laid down the pen
and leaned back to look at me as it were for the first time.
"Not many of your
nationality in our service, I should think. I never remember meeting one either
before or after I left the sea. Don't remember ever hearing of one. An inland
people, aren't you?"
I said yes--very much
so. We were remote from the sea not only by situation, but also from a complete
absence of indirect association, not being a commercial nation at all, but
purely agricultural. He made then the quaint reflection that it was "a
long way for me to come out to begin a sea life"; as if sea life were not
precisely a life in which one goes a long way from home.
I told him, smiling,
that no doubt I could have found a ship much nearer my native place, but I had
thought to myself that if I was to be a seaman, then I would be a British
seaman and no other. It was a matter of deliberate choice.
He nodded slightly at
that; and, as he kept on looking at me interrogatively, I enlarged a little,
confessing that I had spent a little time on the way in the Mediterranean and
in the West Indies. I did not want to present myself to the British Merchant
Service in an altogether green state. It was no use telling him that my
mysterious vocation was so strong that my very wild oats had to be sown at sea.
It was the exact truth, but he would not have understood the somewhat
exceptional psychology of my sea-going, I fear.
"I suppose you've
never come across one of your countrymen at sea. Have you, now?"
I admitted I never had.
The examiner had given himself up to the spirit of gossiping idleness. For
myself, I was in no haste to leave that room. Not in the least. The era of
examinations was over. I would never again see that friendly man who was a
professional ancestor, a sort of grandfather in the craft. Moreover, I had to
wait till he dismissed me, and of that there was no sign. As he remained
silent, looking at me, I added:
"But I have heard
of one, some years ago. He seems to have been a boy serving his time on board a
Liverpool ship, if I am not mistaken."
"What was his
name?"
I told him.
"How did you say
that?" he asked, puckering up his eyes at the uncouth sound.
I repeated the name
very distinctly.
"How do you spell
it?"
I told him. He moved
his head at the impracticable nature of that name, and observed:
"It's quite as
long as your own--isn't it?"
There was no hurry. I
had passed for master, and I had all the rest of my life before me to make the
best of it. That seemed a long time. I went leisurely through a small mental
calculation, and said:
"Not quite.
Shorter by two letters, sir."
"Is it?" The
examiner pushed the signed blue slip across the table to me, and rose from his
chair. Somehow this seemed a very abrupt ending of our relations, and I felt
almost sorry to part from that excellent man, who was master of a ship before
the whisper of the sea had reached my cradle. He offered me his hand and wished
me well. He even made a few steps toward the door with me, and ended with
good-natured advice.
"I don't know what
may be your plans, but you ought to go into steam. When a man has got his
master's certificate it's the proper time. If I were you I would go into
steam."
I thanked him, and shut
the door behind me definitely on the era of examinations. But that time I did
not walk on air, as on the first two occasions. I walked across the hill of
many beheadings with measured steps. It was a fact, I said to myself, that I
was now a British master mariner beyond a doubt. It was not that I had an
exaggerated sense of that very modest achievement, with which, however, luck,
opportunity, or any extraneous influence could have had nothing to do. That
fact, satisfactory and obscure in itself, had for me a certain ideal
significance. It was an answer to certain outspoken scepticism and even to some
not very kind aspersions. I had vindicated myself from what had been cried upon
as a stupid obstinacy or a fantastic caprice. I don't mean to say that a whole
country had been convulsed by my desire to go to sea. But for a boy between
fifteen and sixteen, sensitive enough, in all conscience, the commotion of his
little world had seemed a very considerable thing indeed. So considerable that,
absurdly enough, the echoes of it linger to this day. I catch myself in hours
of solitude and retrospect meeting arguments and charges made thirty-five years
ago by voices now forever still; finding things to say that an assailed boy
could not have found, simply because of the mysteriousness of his impulses to
himself. I understood no more than the people who called upon me to explain
myself. There was no precedent. I verily believe mine was the only case of a
boy of my nationality and antecedents taking a, so to speak, standing jump out
of his racial surroundings and associations. For you must understand that there
was no idea of any sort of "career" in my call. Of Russia or Germany
there could be no question. The nationality, the antecedents, made it
impossible. The feeling against the Austrian service was not so strong, and I
dare say there would have been no difficulty in finding my way into the Naval
School at Pola. It would have meant six months' extra grinding at German,
perhaps; but I was not past the age of admission, and in other respects I was
well qualified. This expedient to palliate my folly was thought of--but not by
me. I must admit that in that respect my negative was accepted at once. That
order of feeling was comprehensible enough to the most inimical of my critics.
I was not called upon to offer explanations; but the truth is that what I had
in view was not a naval career, but the sea. There seemed no way open to it but
through France. I had the language, at any rate, and of all the countries in
Europe it is with France that Poland has most connection. There were some
facilities for having me a little looked after, at first. Letters were being
written, answers were being received, arrangements were being made for my departure
for Marseilles, where an excellent fellow called Solary, got at in a round-
about fashion through various French channels, had promised good-naturedly to
put le jeune homme in the way of getting a decent ship for his first start if
he really wanted a taste of ce métier de chien.
I watched all these
preparations gratefully, and kept my own counsel. But what I told the last of
my examiners was perfectly true. Already the determined resolve that "if a
seaman, then an English seaman" was formulated in my head, though, of
course, in the Polish language. I did not know six words of English, and I was
astute enough to understand that it was much better to say nothing of my
purpose. As it was I was already looked upon as partly insane, at least by the
more distant acquaintances. The principal thing was to get away. I put my trust
in the good-natured Solary's very civil letter to my uncle, though I was
shocked a little by the phrase about the métier de chien.
This Solary
(Baptistin), when I beheld him in the flesh, turned out a quite young man, very
good-looking, with a fine black, short beard, a fresh complexion, and soft,
merry black eyes. He was as jovial and good- natured as any boy could desire. I
was still asleep in my room in a modest hotel near the quays of the old port,
after the fatigues of the journey via Vienna, Zurich, Lyons, when he burst in,
flinging the shutters open to the sun of Provençe and chiding me boisterously
for lying abed. How pleasantly he startled me by his noisy objurgations to be
up and off instantly for a "three years' campaign in the South Seas!"
O magic words! "Une campagne de trois ans dans les mers du sud"--that
is the French for a three years' deep-water voyage.
He gave me a delightful
waking, and his friendliness was unwearied; but I fear he did not enter upon
the quest for a ship for me in a very solemn spirit. He had been at sea
himself, but had left off at the age of twentyfive, finding he could earn his
living on shore in a much more agreeable manner. He was related to an
incredible number of Marseilles well-to-do families of a certain class. One of
his uncles was a ship-broker of good standing, with a large connection among
English ships; other relatives of his dealt in ships' stores, owned sail-lofts,
sold chains and anchors, were master-stevedores, calkers, shipwrights. His
grandfather (I think) was a dignitary of a kind, the Syndic of the Pilots. I
made acquaintances among these people, but mainly among the pilots. The very
first whole day I ever spent on salt water was by invitation, in a big
half-decked pilot-boat, cruising under close reefs on the lookout, in misty,
blowing weather, for the sails of ships and the smoke of steamers rising out
there, beyond the slim and tall Planier lighthouse cutting the line of the
wind-swept horizon with a white perpendicular stroke. They were hospitable
souls, these sturdy Provençal seamen. Under the general designation of le petit
ami de Baptistin I was made the guest of the corporation of pilots, and had the
freedom of their boats night or day. And many a day and a night, too, did I
spend cruising with these rough, kindly men, under whose auspices my intimacy
with the sea began. Many a time "the little friend of Baptistin" had
the hooded cloak of the Mediterranean sailor thrown over him by their honest
hands while dodging at night under the lee of Château d'If on the watch for the
lights of ships. Their seatanned faces, whiskered or shaved, lean or full, with
the intent, wrinkled sea eyes of the pilot breed, and here and there a thin
gold hoop at the lobe of a hairy ear, bent over my sea infancy. The first
operation of seamanship I had an opportunity of observing was the boarding of
ships at sea, at all times, in all states of the weather. They gave it to me to
the full. And I have been invited to sit in more than one tall, dark house of
the old town at their hospitable board, had the bouillabaisse ladled out into a
thick plate by their high-voiced, broad-browed wives, talked to their
daughters--thick-set girls, with pure profiles, glorious masses of black hair
arranged with complicated art, dark eyes, and dazzlingly white teeth.
I had also other
acquaintances of quite a different sort. One of them, Madame Delestang, an
imperious, handsome lady in a statuesque style, would carry me off now and then
on the front seat of her carriage to the Prado, at the hour of fashionable
airing. She belonged to one of the old aristocratic families in the south. In
her haughty weariness she used to make me think of Lady Dedlock in Dickens's
"Bleak House," a work of the master for which I have such an
admiration, or rather such an intense and unreasoning affection, dating from
the days of my childhood, that its very weaknesses are more precious to me than
the strength of other men's work. I have read it innumerable times, both in
Polish and in English; I have read it only the other day, and, by a not very
surprising inversion, the Lady Dedlock of the book reminded me strongly of the
"belle Madame Delestang."
Her husband (as I sat
facing them both), with his thin, bony nose and a perfectly bloodless, narrow
physiognomy clamped together, as it were, by short, formal side whiskers, had
nothing of Sir Leicester Dedlock's "grand air" and courtly solemnity.
He belonged to the haute bourgeoisie only, and was a banker, with whom a modest
credit had been opened for my needs. He was such an ardent--no, such a
frozen-up, mummified Royalist that he used in current conversation turns of
speech contemporary, I should say, with the good Henri Quatre; and when talking
of money matters, reckoned not in francs, like the common, godless herd of
post-Revolutionary Frenchmen, but in obsolete and forgotten écus--écus of all
money units in the world!--as though Louis Quatorze were still promenading in
royal splendour the gardens of Versailles, and Monsieur de Colbert busy with
the direction of maritime affairs. You must admit that in a banker of the
nineteenth century it was a quaint idiosyncrasy. Luckily, in the counting-house
(it occupied part of the ground floor of the Delestang town residence, in a
silent, shady street) the accounts were kept in modern money, so that I never
had any difficulty in making my wants known to the grave, low-voiced, decorous,
Legitimist (I suppose) clerks, sitting in the perpetual gloom of heavily barred
windows behind the sombre, ancient counters, beneath lofty ceilings with
heavily molded cornices. I always felt, on going out, as though I had been in
the temple of some very dignified but completely temporal religion. And it was
generally on these occasions that under the great carriage gateway Lady Ded--I
mean Madame Delestang-- catching sight of my raised hat, would beckon me with
an amiable imperiousness to the side of the carriage, and suggest with an air
of amused nonchalance, "Venez donc faire un tour avec nous," to which
the husband would add an encouraging "C'est ça. Allons, montez, jeune
homme." He questioned me sometimes, significantly but with perfect tact
and delicacy, as to the way I employed my time, and never failed to express the
hope that I wrote regularly to my "honoured uncle." I made no secret
of the way I employed my time, and I rather fancy that my artless tales of the
pilots and so on entertained Madame Delestang so far as that ineffable woman
could be entertained by the prattle of a youngster very full of his new
experience among strange men and strange sensations. She expressed no opinions,
and talked to me very little; yet her portrait hangs in the gallery of my
intimate memories, fixed there by a short and fleeting episode. One day, after
putting me down at the corner of a street, she offered me her hand, and
detained me, by a slight pressure, for a moment. While the husband sat
motionless and looking straight before him, she leaned forward in the carriage
to say, with just a shade of warning in her leisurely tone: "Il faut,
cependant, faire attention à ne pas gâter sa vie." I had never seen her
face so close to mine before. She made my heart beat and caused me to remain
thoughtful for a whole evening. Certainly one must, after all, take care not to
spoil one's life. But she did not know-- nobody could know--how impossible that
danger seemed to me.
CAN the transports of
first love be calmed, checked, turned to a cold suspicion of the future by a
grave quotation from a work on political economy? I ask --is it conceivable? Is
it possible? Would it be right? With my feet on the very shores of the sea and
about to embrace my blue-eyed dream, what could a good-natured warning as to
spoiling one's life mean to my youthful passion? It was the most unexpected and
the last, too, of the many warnings I had received. It sounded to me very
bizarre--and, uttered as it was in the very presence of my enchantress, like
the voice of folly, the voice of ignorance. But I was not so callous or so
stupid as not to recognize there also the voice of kindness. And then the
vagueness of the warning--because what can be the meaning of the phrase: to
spoil one's life?--arrested one's attention by its air of wise profundity. At
any rate, as I have said before, the words of la belle Madame Delestang made me
thoughtful for a whole evening. I tried to understand and tried in vain, not
having any notion of life as an enterprise that could be mismanaged. But I left
off being thoughtful shortly before midnight, at which hour, haunted by no
ghosts of the past and by no visions of the future, I walked down the quay of
the Vieux Port to join the pilot-boat of my friends. I knew where she would be
waiting for her crew, in the little bit of a canal behind the fort at the
entrance of the harbour. The deserted quays looked very white and dry in the
moonlight, and as if frost bound in the sharp air of that December night. A
prowler or two slunk by noiselessly; a custom-house guard, soldier-like, a
sword by his side, paced close under the bowsprits of the long row of ships
moored bows on opposite the long, slightly curved, continuous flat wall of the
tall houses that seemed to be one immense abandoned building with innumerable
windows shuttered closely. Only here and there a small, dingy café for sailors
cast a yellow gleam on the bluish sheen of the flagstones. Passing by, one
heard a deep murmur of voices inside--nothing more. How quiet everything was at
the end of the quays on the last night on which I went out for a service cruise
as a guest of the Marseilles pilots! Not a footstep, except my own, not a sigh,
not a whispering echo of the usual revelry going on in the narrow, unspeakable
lanes of the Old Town reached my ear--and suddenly, with a terrific jingling
rattle of iron and glass, the omnibus of the Jolliette on its last journey
swung around the corner of the dead wall which faces across the paved road the
characteristic angular mass of the Fort St. Jean. Three horses trotted abreast,
with the clatter of hoofs on the granite setts, and the yellow, uproarious
machine jolted violently behind them, fantastic, lighted up, perfectly empty,
and with the driver apparently asleep on his swaying perch above that amazing
racket. I flattened myself against the wall and gasped. It was a stunning
experience. Then after staggering on a few paces in the shadow of the fort,
casting a darkness more intense than that of a clouded night upon the canal, I
saw the tiny light of a lantern standing on the quay, and became aware of muffled
figures making toward it from various directions. Pilots of the Third Company
hastening to embark. Too sleepy to be talkative, they step on board in silence.
But a few low grunts and an enormous yawn are heard. Somebody even ejaculates:
"Ah! Coquin de sort!" and sighs wearily at his hard fate.
The patron of the Third
Company (there were five companies of pilots at that time, I believe) is the
brother-in-law of my friend Solary (Baptistin), a broad-shouldered, deep-
chested man of forty, with a keen, frank glance which always seeks your eyes.
He greets me by a low, hearty "Hé, l'ami. Comment va?" With his
clipped mustache and massive open face, energetic and at the same time placid
in expression, he is a fine specimen of the southerner of the calm type. For
there is such a type in which the volatile southern passion is transmuted into
solid force. He is fair, but no one could mistake him for a man of the north
even by the dim gleam of the lantern standing on the quay. He is worth a dozen
of your ordinary Normans or Bretons, but then, in the whole immense sweep of
the Mediterranean shores, you could not find half a dozen men of his stamp.
Standing by the tiller,
he pulls out his watch from under a thick jacket and bends his head over it in
the light cast into the boat. Time's up. His pleasant voice commands, in a
quiet undertone, "Larguez." A suddenly projected arm snatches the
lantern off the quay--and, warped along by a line at first, then with the
regular tug of four heavy sweeps in the bow, the big half-decked boat full of
men glides out of the black, breathless shadow of the fort. The open water of
the avant-port glitters under the moon as if sown over with millions of
sequins, and the long white break- water shines like a thick bar of solid
silver. With a quick rattle of blocks and one single silky swish, the sail is
filled by a little breeze keen enough to have come straight down from the
frozen moon, and the boat, after the clatter of the hauled-in sweeps, seems to
stand at rest, surrounded by a mysterious whispering so faint and unearthly
that it may be the rustling of the brilliant, overpowering moon- rays breaking
like a rain-shower upon the hard, smooth, shadowless sea.
I may well remember
that last night spent with the pilots of the Third Company. I have known the
spell of moonlight since, on various seas and coasts--coasts of forests, of
rocks, of sand dunes--but no magic so perfect in its revelation of unsuspected
character, as though one were allowed to look upon the mystic nature of material
things. For hours I suppose no word was spoken in that boat. The pilots, seated
in two rows facing each other, dozed, with their arms folded and their chins
resting upon their breasts. They displayed a great variety of caps: cloth,
wool, leather, peaks, ear-flaps, tassels, with a picturesque round béret or two
pulled down over the brows; and one grandfather, with a shaved, bony face and a
great beak of a nose, had a cloak with a hood which made him look in our midst
like a cowled monk being carried off goodness knows where by that silent
company of seamen-- quiet enough to be dead.
My fingers itched for
the tiller, and in due course my friend, the patron, surrendered it to me in
the same spirit in which the family coachman lets a boy hold the reins on an easy
bit of road. There was a great solitude around us; the islets ahead, Monte
Cristo and the Château d'If in full light, seemed to float toward us--so
steady, so imperceptible was the progress of our boat. "Keep her in the
furrow of the moon," the patron directed me, in a quiet murmur, sitting
down ponderously in the stern-sheets and reaching for his pipe.
The pilot station in
weather like this was only a mile or two to the westward of the islets; and
presently, as we approached the spot, the boat we were going to relieve swam
into our view suddenly, on her way home, cutting black and sinister into the
wake of the moon under a sable wing, while to them our sail must have been a
vision of white and dazzling radiance. Without altering the course a hair's breadth
we slipped by each other within an oar's length. A drawling, sardonic hail came
out of her. Instantly, as if by magic, our dozing pilots got on their feet in a
body. An incredible babel of bantering shouts burst out, a jocular, passionate,
voluble chatter, which lasted till the boats were stern to stern, theirs all
bright now, and, with a shining sail to our eyes, we turned all black to their
vision, and drew away from them under a sable wing. That extraordinary uproar
died away almost as suddenly as it had begun; first one had enough of it and
sat down, then another, then three or four together; and when all had left off
with mutters and growling half-laughs the sound of hearty chuckling became
audible, persistent, unnoticed. The cowled grandfather was very much
entertained somewhere within his hood.
He had not joined in
the shouting of jokes, neither had he moved the least bit. He had remained
quietly in his place against the foot of the mast. I had been given to
understand long before that he had the rating of a second-class able seaman
(matelot léger) in the fleet which sailed from Toulon for the conquest of
Algeria in the year of grace 1830. And, indeed, I had seen and examined one of
the buttons of his old brown, patched coat, the only brass button of the
miscellaneous lot, flat and thin, with the words Equipages de ligne engraved on
it. That sort of button, I believe, went out with the last of the French
Bourbons. "I preserved it from the time of my navy service," he
explained, nodding rapidly his frail, vulture-like head. It was not very likely
that he had picked up that relic in the street. He looked certainly old enough
to have fought at Trafalgar--or, at any rate, to have played his little part
there as a powder- monkey. Shortly after we had been introduced he had informed
me in a Franco- Provençal jargon, mumbling tremulously with his toothless jaws,
that when he was a "shaver no higher than that" he had seen the
Emperor Napoleon returning from Elba. It was at night, he narrated vaguely,
without animation, at a spot between Fréjus and Antibes, in the open country. A
big fire had been lit at the side of the cross-roads. The population from
several villages had collected there, old and young--down to the very children
in arms, because the women had refused to stay at home. Tall soldiers wearing
high, hairy caps stood in a circle, facing the people silently, and their stern
eyes and big mustaches were enough to make everybody keep at a distance. He,
"being an impudent little shaver," wriggled out of the crowd,
creeping on his hands and knees as near as he dared to the grenadiers' legs,
and peeping through discovered, standing perfectly still in the light of the
fire, "a little fat fellow in a three- cornered hat, buttoned up in a long
straight coat, with a big, pale face inclined on one shoulder, looking
something like a priest. His hands were clasped behind his back. . . . It
appears that this was the Emperor," the ancient commented, with a faint
sigh. He was staring from the ground with all his might, when "my poor
father," who had been searching for his boy frantically everywhere,
pounced upon him and hauled him away by the ear.
The tale seems an
authentic recollection. He related it to me many times, using the very same
words. The grandfather honoured me by a special and somewhat embarrassing
predilection. Extremes touch. He was the oldest member by a long way in that
company, and I was, if I may say so, its temporarily adopted baby. He had been
a pilot longer than any man in the boat could remember; thirty--forty years. He
did not seem certain himself, but it could be found out, he suggested, in the
archives of the Pilot-office. He had been pensioned off years before, but he
went out from force of habit; and, as my friend the patron of the company once
confided to me in a whisper, "the old chap did no harm. He was not in the
way." They treated him with rough deference. One and another would address
some insignificant remark to him now and again, but nobody really took any
notice of what he had to say. He had survived his strength, his usefulness, his
very wisdom. He wore long, green, worsted stockings pulled up above the knee
over his trousers, a sort of woollen nightcap on his hairless cranium, and
wooden clogs on his feet. Without his hooded cloak he looked like a peasant.
Half a dozen hands would be extended to help him on board, but afterward he was
left pretty much to his own thoughts. Of course he never did any work, except,
perhaps, to cast off some rope when hailed, "Hé, l'Ancien! let go the
halyards there, at your hand" --or some such request of an easy kind.
No one took notice in
any way of the chuckling within the shadow of the hood. He kept it up for a
long time with intense enjoyment. Obviously he had preserved intact the
innocence of mind which is easily amused. But when his hilarity had exhausted
itself, he made a professional remark in a self-assertive but quavering voice:
"Can't expect much
work on a night like this."
No one took it up. It
was a mere truism. Nothing under canvas could be expected to make a port on
such an idle night of dreamy splendour and spiritual stillness. We would have
to glide idly to and fro, keeping our station within the appointed bearings, and,
unless a fresh breeze sprang up with the dawn, we would land before sunrise on
a small islet that, within two miles of us, shone like a lump of frozen
moonlight, to "break a crust and take a pull at the wine bottle." I
was familiar with the procedure. The stout boat emptied of her crowd would
nestle her buoyant, capable side against the very rock --such is the perfectly
smooth amenity of the classic sea when in a gentle mood. The crust broken and
the mouthful of wine swallowed--it was literally no more than that with this
abstemious race--the pilots would pass the time stamping their feet on the
slabs of sea-salted stone and blowing into their nipped fingers. One or two
misanthropists would sit apart, perched on boulders like manlike sea-fowl of
solitary habits; the sociably disposed would gossip scandalously in little
gesticulating knots; and there would be perpetually one or another of my hosts
taking aim at the empty horizon with the long, brass tube of the telescope, a
heavy, murderous-looking piece of collective property, everlastingly changing
hands with brandishing levelling movements. Then about noon (it was a short
turn of duty--the long turn lasted twenty-four hours) another boatful of pilots
would relieve us--and we should steer for the old Phoenician port, dominated,
watched over from the ridge of a dust-gray, arid hill by the red-and-white
striped pile of the Notre Dame de la Garde.
All this came to pass
as I had foreseen in the fullness of my very recent experience. But also
something not foreseen by me did happen, something which causes me to remember
my last outing with the pilots. It was on this occasion that my hand touched,
for the first time, the side of an English ship.
No fresh breeze had
come with the dawn, only the steady little draught got a more keen edge on it
as the eastern sky became bright and glassy with a clean, colourless light. It
was while we were all ashore on the islet that a steamer was picked up by the
telescope, a black speck like an insect posed on the hard edge of the offing.
She emerged rapidly to her water-line and came on steadily, a slim hull with a
long streak of smoke slanting away from the rising sun. We embarked in a hurry,
and headed the boat out for our prey, but we hardly moved three miles an hour.
She was a big,
high-class cargo-steamer of a type that is to be met on the sea no more-- black
hull, with low, white superstructures, powerfully rigged with three masts and a
lot of yards on the fore; two hands at her enormous wheel--steam steering-gear
was not a matter of course in these days--and with them on the bridge three
others, bulky in thick blue jackets, ruddy-faced, muffled up, with peak caps--I
suppose all her officers. There are ships I have met more than once and known
well by sight whose names I have forgotten; but the name of that ship seen once
so many years ago in the clear flush of a cold, pale sunrise I have not
forgotten. How could I--the first English ship on whose side I ever laid my
hand! The name--I read it letter by letter on the bow-- was James Westoll. Not
very romantic, you will say. The name of a very considerable, well-known, and
universally respected North- country ship-owner, I believe. James Westoll! What
better name could an honourable hard-working ship have? To me the very grouping
of the letters is alive with the romantic feeling of her reality as I saw her
floating motionless and borrowing an ideal grace from the austere purity of the
light.
We were then very near
her and, on a sudden impulse, I volunteered to pull bow in the dinghy which
shoved off at once to put the pilot on board while our boat, fanned by the
faint air which had attended us all through the night, went on gliding gently
past the black, glistening length of the ship. A few strokes brought us
alongside, and it was then that, for the very first time in my life, I heard
myself addressed in English--the speech of my secret choice, of my future, of
long friendships, of the deepest affections, of hours of toil and hours of
ease, and of solitary hours, too, of books read, of thoughts pursued, of
remembered emotions--of my very dreams! And if (after being thus fashioned by
it in that part of me which cannot decay) I dare not claim it aloud as my own,
then, at any rate, the speech of my children. Thus small events grow memorable
by the passage of time. As to the quality of the address itself I cannot say it
was very striking. Too short for eloquence and devoid of all charm of tone, it
consisted precisely of the three words "Look out there!" growled out
huskily above my head.
It proceeded from a big
fat fellow (he had an obtrusive, hairy double chin) in a blue woollen shirt and
roomy breeches pulled up very high, even to the level of his breastbone, by a
pair of braces quite exposed to public view. As where he stood there was no
bulwark, but only a rail and stanchions, I was able to take in at a glance the
whole of his voluminous person from his feet to the high crown of his soft
black hat, which sat like an absurd flanged cone on his big head. The grotesque
and massive aspect of that deck- hand (I suppose he was that--very likely the
lamp-trimmer) surprised me very much. My course of reading, of dreaming, and
longing for the sea had not prepared me for a sea brother of that sort. I never
met again a figure in the least like his except in the illustrations to Mr. W.
W. Jacobs's most entertaining tales of barges and coasters; but the inspired
talent of Mr. Jacobs for poking endless fun at poor, innocent sailors in a
prose which, however extravagant in its felicitous invention, is always
artistically adjusted to observed truth, was not yet. Perhaps Mr. Jacobs
himself was not yet. I fancy that, at most, if he had made his nurse laugh it
was about all he had achieved at that early date.
Therefore, I repeat,
other disabilities apart, I could not have been prepared for the sight of that
husky old porpoise. The object of his concise address was to call my attention
to a rope which he incontinently flung down for me to catch. I caught it,
though it was not really necessary, the ship having no way on her by that time.
Then everything went on very swiftly. The dinghy came with a slight bump
against the steamer's side; the pilot, grabbing for the rope ladder, had
scrambled half-way up before I knew that our task of boarding was done; the
harsh, muffled clanging of the engine-room telegraph struck my ear through the
iron plate; my companion in the dinghy was urging me to "shove off--push
hard"; and when I bore against the smooth flank of the first English ship
I ever touched in my life, I felt it already throbbing under my open palm.
Her head swung a little
to the west, pointing toward the miniature lighthouse of the Jolliette
breakwater, far away there, hardly distinguishable against the land. The dinghy
danced a squashy, splashy jig in the wash of the wake; and, turning in my seat,
I followed the James Westoll with my eyes. Before she had gone in a quarter of
a mile she hoisted her flag, as the harbour regulations prescribe for arriving
and departing ships. I saw it suddenly flicker and stream out on the flag-
staff. The Red Ensign! In the pellucid, colourless atmosphere bathing the drab
and gray masses of that southern land, the livid islets, the sea of pale,
glassy blue under the pale, glassy sky of that cold sunrise, it was, as far as
the eye could reach, the only spot of ardent colour--flame-like, intense, and
presently as minute as the tiny red spark the concentrated reflection of a
great fire kindles in the clear heart of a globe of crystal. The Red
Ensign--the symbolic, protecting, warm bit of bunting flung wide upon the seas,
and destined for so many years to be the only roof over my head.
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. Y.