An Outcast of the Islands

by Joseph Conrad
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Del hombre es haber nacito
CALDERON

TO
EDWARD LANCELOT SANDERSON

AUTHOR'S NOTE
"An Outcast of the Islands" is my second novel in the absolute

sense of the word; second in conception, second in execution,
second as it were in its essence. There was no hesitation,

half-formed plan, vague idea, or the vaguest reverie of anything
else between it and "Almayer's Folly." The only doubt I suffered

from, after the publication of "Almayer's Folly," was whether I
should write another line for print. Those days, now grown so

dim, had their poignant moments. Neither in my mind nor in my
heart had I then given up the sea. In truth I was clinging to it

desperately, all the more desperately because, against my will, I
could not help feeling that there was something changed in my

relation to it. "Almayer's Folly," had been finished and done
with. The mood itself was gone. But it had left the memory of

an experience that, both in thought and emotion was unconnected
with the sea, and I suppose that part of my moral being which is

rooted in consistency was badly shaken. I was a victim of
contrary stresses which produced a state of immobility. I gave

myself up to indolence. Since it was impossible for me to face
both ways I had elected to face nothing. The discovery of new

values in life is a very chaotic experience; there is a
tremendous amount of jostling and confusion and a momentary

feeling of darkness. I let my spirit float supine over that
chaos.

A phrase of Edward Garnett's is, as a matter of fact, responsible
for this book. The first of the friends I made for myself by my

pen it was but natural that he should be the recipient, at that
time, of my confidences. One evening when we had dined together

and he had listened to the account of my perplexities (I fear he
must have been growing a little tired of them) he pointed out

that there was no need to determine my future absolutely. Then
he added: "You have the style, you have the temperament; why not

write another?" I believe that as far as one man may wish to
influence another man's life Edward Garnett had a great desire

that I should go on writing. At that time, and I may say, ever
afterwards, he was always very patient and gentle with me. What

strikes me most however in the phrase quoted above which was
offered to me in a tone of detachment is not its gentleness but

its effectivewisdom. Had he said, "Why not go on writing," it
is very probable he would have scared me away from pen and ink

for ever; but there was nothing either to frighten one or arouse
one's antagonism in the mere suggestion to "write another." And

thus a dead point in the revolution of my affairs was insidiously
got over. The word "another" did it. At about eleven o'clock of

a nice London night, Edward and I walked along interminable
streets talking of many things, and I remember that on getting

home I sat down and wrote about half a page of "An Outcast of the
Islands" before I slept. This was committing myself definitely,

I won't say to another life, but to another book. There is
apparently something in my character which will not allow me to

abandon for good any piece of work I have begun. I have laid
aside many beginnings. I have laid them aside with sorrow, with

disgust, with rage, with melancholy and even with self-contempt;
but even at the worst I had an uneasyconsciousness that I would

have to go back to them.
"An Outcast of the Islands" belongs to those novels of mine that

were never laid aside; and though it brought me the qualification
of "exotic writer" I don't think the charge was at all justified.

For the life of me I don't see that there is the slightest exotic
spirit in the conception or style of that novel. It is certainly

the most TROPICAL of my eastern tales. The mere scenery got a
great hold on me as I went on, perhaps because (I may just as

well confess that) the story itself was never very near my heart.
It engaged my imagination much more than my affection. As to my

feeling for Willems it was but the regard one cannot help having
for one's own creation. Obviously I could not be indifferent to

a man on whose head I had brought so much evil simply by
imagining him such as he appears in the novel--and that, too, on

a very slight foundation.
The man who suggested Willems to me was not particularly

interesting in himself. My interest was aroused by his dependent
position, his strange, dubiousstatus of a mistrusted, disliked,

worn-out European living on the reluctant toleration of that
Settlement hidden in the heart of the forest-land, up that sombre

stream which our ship was the only white men's ship to visit.
With his hollow, clean-shaved cheeks, a heavy grey moustache and

eyes without any expression whatever, clad always in a spotless
sleeping suit much be-frogged in front, which left his lean neck

wholly uncovered, and with his bare feet in a pair of straw
slippers, he wandered silentlyamongst the houses in daylight,

almost as dumb as an animal and apparently much more homeless. I
don't know what he did with himself at night. He must have had a

place, a hut, a palm-leaf shed, some sort of hovel where he kept
his razor and his change of sleeping suits. An air of futile

mystery hung over him, something not exactly dark but obviously
ugly. The only definite statement I could extract from anybody

was that it was he who had "brought the Arabs into the river."
That must have happened many years before. But how did he bring

them into the river? He could hardly have done it in his arms
like a lot of kittens. I knew that Almayer founded the

chronology of all his misfortunes on the date of that fateful
advent; and yet the very first time we dined with Almayer there

was Willems sitting at table with us in the manner of the
skeleton at the feast, obviously shunned by everybody, never

addressed by any one, and for all recognition of his existence
getting now and then from Almayer a venomous glance which I

observed with great surprise. In the course of the whole evening
he ventured one single remark which I didn't catch because his

articulation was imperfect, as of a man who had forgotten how to
speak. I was the only person who seemed aware of the sound.

Willems subsided. Presently he retired, pointedly
unnoticed--into the forest maybe? Its immensity was there,

within three hundred yards of the verandah, ready to swallow up
anything. Almayer conversing with my captain did not stop talking

while he glared angrily at the retreating back. Didn't that
fellow bring the Arabs into the river! Nevertheless Willems

turned up next morning on Almayer's verandah. From the bridge of
the steamer I could see plainly these two, breakfasting together,

tete a tete and, I suppose, in dead silence, one with his air of
being no longer interested in this world and the other raising

his eyes now and then with intense dislike.
It was clear that in those days Willems lived on Almayer's

charity. Yet on returning two months later to Sambir I heard
that he had gone on an expedition up the river in charge of a

steam-launch belonging to the Arabs, to make some discovery or
other. On account of the strange reluctance that everyone

manifested to talk about Willems it was impossible for me to get
at the rights of that transaction. Moreover, I was a newcomer,

the youngest of the company, and, I suspect, not judged quite fit
as yet for a full confidence. I was not much concerned about

that exclusion. The faint suggestion of plots and mysteries
pertaining to all matters touching Almayer's affairs amused me

vastly. Almayer was obviously very much affected. I believe he
missed Willems immensely" target="_blank" title="ad.极大地，无限地">immensely. He wore an air of sinister

preoccupation and talked confidentially with my captain. I could
catch only snatches of mumbled sentences. Then one morning as I

came along the deck to take my place at the breakfast table
Almayer checked himself in his low-toned discourse. My captain's

face was perfectly impenetrable. There was a moment of profound
silence and then as if unable to contain himself Almayer burst

out in a loud vicious tone:
"One thing's certain; if he finds anything worth having up there

they will poison him like a dog."