a personal record-第3节

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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　conversationthat　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　allnot　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。







J。　C。　K。



















A　PERSONAL　RECORD







I







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　Flaubertwho　imagined　himself　to　be



（among　other　things）　a　descendant　of　Vikingsmight　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…cockfor　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　port…hole；　across　a



wide　stretch　of　paved　quay　brown　with　frozen　mud。　　The　colouring



was　sombre；　and　the　most　conspicuous　feature　was　a　little　cafe



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　cafethe　best　in　the



town；　I　believe；　and　the　very　one　where　the　worthy　Bovary　and　his



wife；　the　romantic　daughter　of　old　Pere　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　rose