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A Personal Record-Part12_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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with fiery points and flashes of red sunlight on the roofs and

windows opposite, while the trees of the square, with all their



leaves gone, were like the tracings of India ink on a sheet of

tissue-paper. It was one of those London days that have the charm



of mysterious amenity, of fascinatingsoftness. The effect of

opaline mist was often repeated at Bessborough Gardens on account



of the nearness to the river.

There is no reason why I should remember that effect more on that



day than on any other day, except that I stood for a long time

looking out of the window after the landlady's daughter was gone



with her spoil of cups and saucers. I heard her put the tray

down in the passage and finally shut the door; and still I



remained smoking, with my back to the room. It is very clear

that I was in no haste to take the plunge into my writing life,



if as plunge this first attempt may be described. My whole being

was steeped deep in the indolence of a sailor away from the sea,



the scene of never-ending labour and of unceasing duty. For

utter surrender to in indolence you cannot beat a sailor ashore



when that mood is on him--the mood of absolute irresponsibility

tasted to the full. It seems to me that I thought of nothing



whatever, but this is an impression which is hardly to be

believed at this distance of years. What I am certain of is that



I was very far from thinking of writing a story, though it is

possible and even likely that I was thinking of the man Almayer.



I had seen him for the first time, some four years before, from

the bridge of a steamer moored to a rickety little wharf forty



miles up, more or less, a Bornean river. It was very early

morning, and a slight mist--an opaline mist as in Bessborough



Gardens, only without the fiery flicks on roof and chimney-pot

from the rays of the red London sun--promised to turn presently



into a woolly fog. Barring a small dug-out canoe on the river

there was nothing moving within sight. I had just come up



yawning from my cabin. The serang and the Malay crew were

overhauling the cargo chains and trying the winches; their voices



sounded subdued on the deck below, and their movements were

languid. That tropicaldaybreak was chilly. The Malay



quartermaster, coming up to get something from the lockers on the

bridge, shivered visibly. The forests above and below and on the



opposite bank looked black and dank; wet dripped from the rigging

upon the tightly stretched deck awnings, and it was in the middle



of a shuddering yawn that I caught sight of Almayer. He was

moving across a patch of burned grass, a blurred, shadowy shape



with the blurred bulk of a house behind him, a low house of mats,

bamboos, and palm leaves, with a high-pitched roof of grass.



He stepped upon the jetty. He was clad simply in flapping

pajamas of cretonne pattern (enormous flowers with yellow petals



on a disagreeable blue ground) and a thin cotton singlet with

short sleeves. His arms, bare to the elbow, were crossed on his



chest. His black hair looked as if it had not been cut for a

very long time, and a curly wisp of it strayed across his



forehead. I had heard of him at Singapore; I had heard of him on

board; I had heard of him early in the morning and late at night;



I had heard of him at tiffin and at dinner; I had heard of him in

a place called Pulo Laut from a half-caste gentleman there, who



described himself as the manager of a coal-mine; which sounded

civilized and progressive till you heard that the mine could not



be worked at present because it was haunted by some particularly

atrocious ghosts. I had heard of him in a place called Dongola,



in the Island of Celebes, when the Rajah of that little-known

seaport (you can get no anchorage there in less than fifteen



fathom, which is extremely inconvenient) came on board in a

friendly way, with only two attendants, and drank bottle after



bottle of soda-water on the after-sky light with my good friend

and commander, Captain C----. At least I heard his name



distinctly pronounced several times in a lot of talk in Malay

language. Oh, yes, I heard it quite distinctly--Almayer,



Almayer--and saw Captain C---- smile, while the fat, dingy Rajah

laughed audibly. To hear a Malay Rajah laugh outright is a rare



experience, I can as sure you. And I overheard more of Almayer's

name among our deck passengers (mostly wandering traders of good



repute) as they sat all over the ship--each man fenced round with




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