'Allas!' quod she, 'that ever this sholde happe! For wende I never,by possibilitee, That swich a monstre or merveille mighte be!'--THEFRANKELEYN'S TALE
TO FREDERIC COURTLAND PENFIELD LAST AMBASSADOR OF THE UNITED STATES OFAMERICA TO THE LATE AUSTRIAN EMPIRE, THIS OLD TIME TALE IS GRATEFULLYINSCRIBED IN MEMORY OF THE RESCUE OF CERTAIN DISTRESSED TRAVELLERSEFFECTED BY HIM IN THE WORLD'S GREAT STORM OF THE YEAR 1914
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Of the three long novels of mine which suffered an interruption, "TheRescue" was the one that had to wait the longest for the good pleasureof the Fates. I am betraying no secret when I state here that it hadto wait precisely for twenty years. I laid it aside at the end of thesummer of 1898 and it was about the end of the summer of 1918 that Itook it up again with the firm determination to see the end of it andhelped by the sudden feeling that I might be equal to the task.
This does not mean that I turned to it with elation. I was well awareand perhaps even too much aware of the dangers of such an adventure.The amazingly sympathetic kindness which men of various temperaments,diverse views and different literary tastes have been for yearsdisplaying towards my work has done much for me, has done all--exceptgiving me that over-weening self-confidence which may assist anadventurer sometimes but in the long run ends by leading him to thegallows.
As the characteristic I want most to impress upon these short Author'sNotes prepared for my first Collected Edition is that of absolutefrankness, I hasten to declare that I founded my hopes not on mysupposed merits but on the continued goodwill of my readers. I may sayat once that my hopes have been justified out of all proportion to mydeserts. I met with the most considerate, most delicately expressedcriticism free from all antagonism and in its conclusions showingan insight which in itself could not fail to move me deeply, but wasassociated also with enough commendation to make me feel rich beyond thedreams of avarice--I mean an artist's avarice which seeks its treasurein the hearts of men and women.
No! Whatever the preliminary anxieties might have been this adventurewas not to end in sorrow. Once more Fortune favoured audacity; and yetI have never forgotten the jocular translation of _Audaces fortuna juvat_offered to me by my tutor when I was a small boy: "The Audacious getbitten." However he took care to mention that there were various kindsof audacity. Oh, there are, there are! . . . There is, for instance, thekind of audacity almost indistinguishable from impudence. . . . Imust believe that in this case I have not been impudent for I am notconscious of having been bitten.
The truth is that when "The Rescue" was laid aside it was not laid asidein despair. Several reasons contributed to this abandonment and, nodoubt, the first of them was the growing sense of general difficulty inthe handling of the subject. The contents and the course of the story Ihad clearly in my mind. But as to the way of presenting the facts, andperhaps in a certain measure as to the nature of the facts themselves,I had many doubts. I mean the telling, representative facts, helpfulto carry on the idea, and, at the same time, of such a nature as not todemand an elaborate creation of the atmosphere to the detriment ofthe action. I did not see how I could avoid becoming wearisome in thepresentation of detail and in the pursuit of clearness. I saw the actionplainly enough. What I had lost for the moment was the sense of theproper formula of expression, the only formula that would suit. This,of course, weakened my confidence in the intrinsic worth and in thepossible interest of the story--that is in my invention. But I suspectthat all the trouble was, in reality, the doubt of my prose, the doubtof its adequacy, of its power to master both the colours and the shades.
It is difficult to describe, exactly as I remember it, the complex stateof my feelings; but those of my readers who take an interest in artisticperplexities will understand me best when I point out that I dropped"The Rescue" not to give myself up to idleness, regrets, or dreaming,but to begin "The Nigger of the 'Narcissus'" and to go on with itwithout hesitation and without a pause. A comparison of any page of"The Rescue" with any page of "The Nigger" will furnish an oculardemonstration of the nature and the inward meaning of this first crisisof my writing life. For it was a crisis undoubtedly. The laying aside ofa work so far advanced was a very awful decision to take. It waswrung from me by a sudden conviction that _there_ only was the road ofsalvation, the clear way out for an uneasy conscience. The finishingof "The Nigger" brought to my troubled mind the comforting sense ofan accomplished task, and the first consciousness of a certain sortof mastery which could accomplish something with the aid of propitiousstars. Why I did not return to "The Rescue" at once then, was not forthe reason that I had grown afraid of it. Being able now to assume afirm attitude I said to myself deliberately: "That thing can wait." Atthe same time I was just as certain in my mind that "Youth," a storywhich I had then, so to speak, on the tip of my pen, could _not_ wait.Neither could "Heart of Darkness" be put off; for the practical reasonthat Mr. Wm. Blackwood having requested me to write something for theNo. M of his magazine I had to stir up at once the subject of that talewhich had been long lying quiescent in my mind, because, obviously, thevenerable Maga at her patriarchal age of 1000 numbers could not be keptwaiting. Then "Lord Jim," with about seventeen pages already written atodd times, put in his claim which was irresistible. Thus every strokeof the pen was taking me further away from the abandoned "Rescue," notwithout some compunction on my part but with a gradually diminishingresistance; till at last I let myself go as if recognising a superiorinfluence against which it was useless to contend.
The years passed and the pages grew in number, and the long reveries ofwhich they were the outcome stretched wide between me and the deserted"Rescue" like the smooth hazy spaces of a dreamy sea. Yet I neveractually lost sight of that dark speck in the misty distance. Ithad grown very small but it asserted itself with the appeal of oldassociations. It seemed to me that it would be a base thing for me toslip out of the world leaving it out there all alone, waiting for itsfate--that would never come?
Sentiment, pure sentiment as you see, prompted me in the last instanceto face the pains and hazards of that return. As I moved slowly towardsthe abandoned body of the tale it loomed up big amongst the glitteringshallows of the coast, lonely but not forbidding. There was nothingabout it of a grim derelict. It had an air of expectant life. One afteranother I made out the familiar faces watching my approach with faintsmiles of amused recognition. They had known well enough that I wasbound to come back to them. But their eyes met mine seriously as wasonly to be expected since I, myself, felt very serious as I stoodamongst them again after years of absence. At once, without wastingwords, we went to work together on our renewed life; and every momentI felt more strongly that They Who had Waited bore no grudge to the manwho however widely he may have wandered at times had played truant onlyonce in his life.
1920. J. C.
CONTENTS
PART I. THE MAN AND THE BRIG
PART II. THE SHORE OF REFUGE
PART III. THE CAPTURE
PART IV. THE GIFT OF THE SHALLOWS
PART V. THE POINT OF HONOUR AND THE POINT OF PASSION