"You might tell me something of your life while you are

dressing," he suggested kindly.
I do not think I told him much of my life-story either then or

later. The talk of the select little party with which he made me
dine was extremelyanimated and embraced most subjects under

heaven, from big-game shooting in Africa to the last poem
published in a very modernist review, edited by the very young

and patronised by the highest society. But it never touched upon
"Almayer's Folly," and next morning, in uninterrupted obscurity,

this inseparablecompanion went on rolling with me in the south-
east direction towards the Government of Kiev.

At that time there was an eight-hours' drive, if not more, from
the railway station to the country house which was my

destination.
"Dear boy" (these words were always written in English), so ran

the last letter from that house received in London,--"Get
yourself driven to the only inn in the place, dine as well as you

can, and some time in the evening my own confidential servant,
factotum and major-domo, a Mr. V.S. (I warn you he is of noble

extraction), will present himself before you, reporting the
arrival of the small sledge which will take you here on the next

day. I send with him my heaviest fur, which I suppose with such
overcoats as you may have with you will keep you from freezing on

the road."
Sure enough, as I was dining, served by a Hebrew waiter, in an

enormous barn-like bedroom with a freshly painted floor, the door
opened and, in a travelling costume of long boots, big sheep-skin

cap and a short coat girt with a leather belt, the Mr. V.S. (of
noble extraction), a man of about thirty-five, appeared with an

air of perplexity on his open and moustachioed countenance. I
got up from the table and greeted him in Polish, with, I hope,

the right shade of consideration demanded by his noble blood and
his confidential position. His face cleared up in a wonderful

way. It appeared that, standing" target="_blank" title="prep.&conj.虽然；还是">notwithstanding my uncle's earnest
assurances, the good fellow had remained in doubt of our

understanding each other. He imagined I would talk to him in
some foreign language. I was told that his last words on getting

into the sledge to come to meet me shaped an anxious exclamation:
"Well! Well! Here I am going, but God only knows how I am to

make myself understood to our master's nephew."
We understood each other very well from the first. He took

charge of me as if I were not quite of age. I had a delightful
boyish feeling of coming home from school when he muffled me up

next morning in an enormous bear-skin travelling-coat and took
his seat protectively by my side. The sledge was a very small

one and it looked utterly insignificant, almost like a toy behind
the four big bays harnessed two and two. We three, counting the

coachman, filled it completely. He was a young fellow with clear
blue eyes; the high collar of his livery fur coat framed his

cheery countenance and stood all round level with the top of his
head.

"Now, Joseph," my companion addressed him, "do you think we shall
manage to get home before six?" His answer was that we would

surely, with God's help, and providing there were no heavy drifts
in the long stretch between certain villages whose names came

with an extremely familiar sound to my ears. He turned out an
excellent coachman with an instinct for keeping the road amongst

the snow-covered fields and a natural gift of getting the best
out of his horses.

"He is the son of that Joseph that I suppose the Captain
remembers. He who used to drive the Captain's late grandmother

of holy memory," remarked V.S. busy tucking fur rugs about my
feet.

I remembered perfectly the trusty Joseph who used to drive my
grandmother. Why! he it was who let me hold the reins for the

first time in my life and allowed me to play with the great four-
in-hand whip outside the doors of the coach-house.

"What became of him?" I asked. "He is no longer serving, I
suppose."

"He served our master," was the reply. "But he died of cholera
ten years ago now--that great epidemic we had. And his wife died

at the same time--the whole houseful of them, and this is the
only boy that was left."

The MS. of "Almayer's Folly" was reposing in the bag under our
feet.

I saw again the sun setting on the plains as I saw it in the
travels of my childhood. It set, clear and red, dipping into the

snow in full view as if it were setting on the sea. It was
twenty-three years since I had seen the sun set over that land;

and we drove on in the darkness which fell swiftly upon the livid
expanse of snows till, out of the waste of a white earth joining

a bestarred sky, surged up black shapes, the clumps of trees
about a village of the Ukrainian plain. A cottage or two glided

by, a low interminable wall and then, glimmering and winking
through a screen of fir-trees, the lights of the master's house.

That very evening the wandering MS. of "Almayer's Folly" was
unpacked and unostentatiously laid on the writing-table in my

room, the guest-room which had been, I was informed in an
affectedly careless tone, awaiting me for some fifteen years or

so. It attracted no attention from the affectionate presence
hovering round the son of the favourite sister.

"You won't have many hours to yourself while you are staying with
me, brother," he said--this form of address borrowed from the

speech of our peasants being the usual expression of the highest
good humour in a moment of affectionate elation. "I shall be

always coming in for a chat."
As a matter of fact we had the whole house to chat in, and were

everlastingly intruding upon each other. I invaded the
retirement of his study where the principal feature was a

colossal silver inkstand presented to him on his fiftieth year by
a subscription of all his wards then living. He had been

guardian of many orphans of land-owning families from the three
southern provinces--ever since the year 1860. Some of them had

been my schoolfellows and playmates, but not one of them, girls
or boys, that I know of has ever written a novel. One or two

were older than myself--considerably older, too. One of them, a
visitor I remember in my early years, was the man who first put

me on horseback, and his four-horse bachelor turn-out, his
perfect horsemanship and general skill in manly exercises was one

of my earliest admirations. I seem to remember my mother looking
on from a colonnade in front of the dining-room windows as I was

lifted upon the pony, held, for all I know, by the very Joseph--
the groom attached specially to my grandmother's service--who

died of cholera. It was certainly a young man in a dark blue,
tail-less coat and huge Cossack trousers, that being the livery

of the men about the stables. It must have been in 1864, but
reckoning by another mode of calculating time, it was certainly

in the year in which my mother obtained permission to travel
south and visit her family, from the exile into which she had

followed my father. For that, too, she had had to ask
permission, and I know that one of the conditions of that favour

was that she should be treated exactly as a condemned exile
herself. Yet a couple of years later, in memory of her eldest

brother who had served in the Guards and dying early left hosts
of friends and a loved memory in the great world of St.

Petersburg, some influential personages procured for her this
permission--it was officially called the "Highest Grace"--of a

three months' leave from exile.
This is also the year in which I first begin to remember my

mother with more distinctness than a mere loving, wide-browed,