Produced by Judy Boss and David Widger
TALES OF UNREST
By Joseph Conrad
"Be it thy course to being giddy minds With foreign quarrels."--SHAKESPEARE
TO ADOLF P. KRIEGER FOR THE SAKE OF OLD DAYS
CONTENTS
KARAIN: A MEMORY
THE IDIOTS
AN OUTPOST OF PROGRESS
THE RETURN
THE LAGOON
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Of the five stories in this volume, "The Lagoon," the last in order,is the earliest in date. It is the first short story I ever wrote andmarks, in a manner of speaking, the end of my first phase, the Malayanphase with its special subject and its verbal suggestions. Conceived inthe same mood which produced "Almayer's Folly" and "An Outcast of theIslands," it is told in the same breath (with what was left of it, thatis, after the end of "An Outcast"), seen with the same vision, renderedin the same method--if such a thing as method did exist then in myconscious relation to this new adventure of writing for print. Idoubt it very much. One does one's work first and theorises about itafterwards. It is a very amusing and egotistical occupation of nouse whatever to any one and just as likely as not to lead to falseconclusions.
Anybody can see that between the last paragraph of "An Outcast" andthe first of "The Lagoon" there has been no change of pen, figurativelyspeaking. It happened also to be literally true. It was the same pen: acommon steel pen. Having been charged with a certain lack of emotionalfaculty I am glad to be able to say that on one occasion at least I didgive way to a sentimental impulse. I thought the pen had been a good penand that it had done enough for me, and so, with the idea of keeping itfor a sort of memento on which I could look later with tender eyes, Iput it into my waistcoat pocket. Afterwards it used to turn up in allsorts of places--at the bottom of small drawers, among my studs incardboard boxes--till at last it found permanent rest in a large woodenbowl containing some loose keys, bits of sealing wax, bits of string,small broken chains, a few buttons, and similar minute wreckage thatwashes out of a man's life into such receptacles. I would catch sight ofit from time to time with a distinct feeling of satisfaction till, oneday, I perceived with horror that there were two old pens in there. Howthe other pen found its way into the bowl instead of the fireplace orwastepaper basket I can't imagine, but there the two were, lying side byside, both encrusted with ink and completely undistinguishable from eachother. It was very distressing, but being determined not to share mysentiment between two pens or run the risk of sentimentalising overa mere stranger, I threw them both out of the window into a flowerbed--which strikes me now as a poetical grave for the remnants of one'spast.
But the tale remained. It was first fixed in print in the "CornhillMagazine", being my first appearance in a serial of any kind; and I havelived long enough to see it guyed most agreeably by Mr. Max Beerbohmin a volume of parodies entitled "A Christmas Garland," where I foundmyself in very good company. I was immensely gratified. I began tobelieve in my public existence. I have much to thank "The Lagoon" for.
My next effort in short-story writing was a departure--I mean adeparture from the Malay Archipelago. Without premeditation, withoutsorrow, without rejoicing, and almost without noticing it, I steppedinto the very different atmosphere of "An Outpost of Progress." Ifound there a different moral attitude. I seemed able to capture newreactions, new suggestions, and even new rhythms for my paragraphs. Fora moment I fancied myself a new man--a most exciting illusion. It clungto me for some time, monstrous, half conviction and half hope as to itsbody, with an iridescent tail of dreams and with a changeable head likea plastic mask. It was only later that I perceived that in common withthe rest of men nothing could deliver me from my fatal consistency. Wecannot escape from ourselves.
"An Outpost of Progress" is the lightest part of the loot I carriedoff from Central Africa, the main portion being of course "The Heart ofDarkness." Other men have found a lot of quite different things thereand I have the comfortable conviction that what I took would not havebeen of much use to anybody else. And it must be said that it was buta very small amount of plunder. All of it could go into one's breastpocket when folded neatly. As for the story itself it is true enough inits essentials. The sustained invention of a really telling lie demandsa talent which I do not possess.
"The Idiots" is such an obviously derivative piece of work that it isimpossible for me to say anything about it here. The suggestion of itwas not mental but visual: the actual idiots. It was after an intervalof long groping amongst vague impulses and hesitations which ended inthe production of "The Nigger" that I turned to my third short story inthe order of time, the first in this volume: "Karain: A Memory."
Reading it after many years "Karain" produced on me the effect ofsomething seen through a pair of glasses from a rather advantageousposition. In that story I had not gone back to the Archipelago, I hadonly turned for another look at it. I admit that I was absorbed by thedistant view, so absorbed that I didn't notice then that the motif ofthe story is almost identical with the motif of "The Lagoon." However,the idea at the back is very different; but the story is mainly madememorable to me by the fact that it was my first contribution to"Blackwood's Magazine" and that it led to my personal acquaintance withMr. William Blackwood whose guarded appreciation I felt neverthelessto be genuine, and prized accordingly. "Karain" was begun on a suddenimpulse only three days after I wrote the last line of "The Nigger," andthe recollection of its difficulties is mixed up with the worries ofthe unfinished "Return," the last pages of which I took up again at thetime; the only instance in my life when I made an attempt to write withboth hands at once as it were.
Indeed my innermost feeling, now, is that "The Return" is a left-handedproduction. Looking through that story lately I had the materialimpression of sitting under a large and expensive umbrella in the louddrumming of a heavy rain-shower. It was very distracting. In the generaluproar one could hear every individual drop strike on the stout anddistended silk. Mentally, the reading rendered me dumb for the remainderof the day, not exactly with astonishment but with a sort of dismalwonder. I don't want to talk disrespectfully of any pages of mine.Psychologically there were no doubt good reasons for my attempt; and itwas worth while, if only to see of what excesses I was capable in thatsort of virtuosity. In this connection I should like to confess mysurprise on finding that notwithstanding all its apparatus ofanalysis the story consists for the most part of physical impressions;impressions of sound and sight, railway station, streets, a trottinghorse, reflections in mirrors and so on, rendered as if for theirown sake and combined with a sublimated description of a desirablemiddle-class town-residence which somehow manages to produce a sinistereffect. For the rest any kind word about "The Return" (and there havebeen such words said at different times) awakens in me the liveliestgratitude, for I know how much the writing of that fantasy has cost mein sheer toil, in temper, and in disillusion.
J. C.
TALES OF UNREST
Tales of Unrest Page 1
