a personal record-第8节

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not　a　few　whose　very　names　I　have　forgotten。　　Over　all　this　hung



the　oppressive　shadow　of　the　great　Russian　empirethe　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。











II







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　agewas　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　villagepart　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　fieldsnot　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　beenI　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　girlsI　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　every



body。　　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



motherof　far　greater　beauty；　exceptionally　distinguished　in



person；　manner；　and　intellecthad　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　motheryour　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　at



tending　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