with that man? I did not refuse, simply because I could not
refuse. Curiosity, a
healthy desire for a change of cooking,
common
civility, the talk and the smiles of the
previous twenty
days, every condition of my
existence at that moment and place
made irresistibly for
acceptance; and, crowning all that, there
was the
ignorance--the
ignorance, I say--the fatal want of fore
knowledge to counterbalance these
imperative conditions of the
problem. A
refusal would have appeared perverse and insane.
Nobody, unless a surly
lunatic, would have refused. But if I had
not got to know Almayer pretty well it is almost certain there
would never have been a line of mine in print.
I accepted then--and I am paying yet the price of my sanity. The
possessor of the only flock of geese on the East Coast is
responsible for the
existence of some fourteen volumes, so far.
The number of geese he had called into being under adverse
climatic conditions was
considerably more than fourteen. The
tale of volumes will never
overtake the counting of heads, I am
safe to say; but my ambitions point not exactly that way, and
whatever the pangs the toil of
writing has cost me I have always
thought kindly of Almayer.
I wonder, had he known anything of it, what his attitude would
have been? This is something not to be discovered in this world.
But if we ever meet in the Elysian Fields--where I cannot depict
him to myself
otherwise than attended in the distance by his
flock of geese (birds
sacred to Jupiter)--and he addresses me in
the
stillness of that passionless region, neither light nor
darkness, neither sound nor silence, and heaving endlessly with
billowy mists from the impalpable multitudes of the swarming
dead, I think I know what answer to make.
I would say, after listening
courteously to the unvibrating tone
of his measured remonstrances, which should not
disturb, of
course, the
solemneternity of
stillness in the least--I would
say something like this:
"It is true, Almayer, that in the world below I have converted
your name to my own uses. But that is a very small larceny.
What's in a name, O Shade? If so much of your old mortal
weakness clings to you yet as to make you feel aggrieved (it was
the note of your
earthly voice, Almayer), then, I
entreat you,
seek speech without delay with our
sublime fellow-Shade--with him
who, in his
transientexistence as a poet, commented upon the
smell of the rose. He will comfort you. You came to me stripped
of all
prestige by men's queer smiles and the disrespectful
chatter of every
vagranttrader in the Islands. Your name was
the common property of the winds; it, as it were, floated naked
over the waters about the
equator. I wrapped round its
unhonoured form the royal
mantle of the tropics, and have essayed
to put into the hollow sound the very
anguish of paternity--feats
which you did not demand from me--but remember that all the toil
and all the pain were mine. In your
earthly life you
haunted me,
Almayer. Consider that this was
taking a great liberty. Since
you were always complaining of being lost to the world, you
should remember that if I had not believed enough in your
existence to let you haunt my rooms in Bessborough Gardens, you
would have been much more lost. You
affirm that had I been
capable of looking at you with a more perfect
detachment and a
greater
simplicity, I might have perceived better the inward
marvellousness which, you insist, attended your
career upon that
tiny pin-point of light, hardly
visible far, far below us, where
both our graves lie. No doubt! But
reflect, O complaining
Shade! that this was not so much my fault as your crowning
misfortune. I believed in you in the only way it was possible
for me to believe. It was not
worthy of your merits? So be it.
But you were always an
unlucky man, Almayer. Nothing was ever
quite
worthy of you. What made you so real to me was that you
held this lofty theory with some force of
conviction and with an
admirable consistency."
It is with some such words translated into the proper shadowy
expressions that I am prepared to placate Almayer in the Elysian
Abode of Shades, since it has come to pass that, having parted