some reminiscences-第17节

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〃Yesindeedand　what　difference　would　it　maketravel　to　Kiev



or　back　to　her　husband。　　For　she　would　have　to　godeath　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　rights　of　conquest；　as　a　reprehensibly　sensitive　guardian　of



Imperial　greatness。　　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。















Chapter　IV。







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　idlenessa



holiday　taskI　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　needthe　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　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　amongst　these　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　solemn　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　matchbox　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



matchbox　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　ashbin



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　anaemic。







〃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　mantelpiece　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　afterwards　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　overbl