a personal record- 第16部分

impatient；　you　are　mistaken。　　I　remember　that　I　was　perfectly



calm。　　As　a　matter　of　fact　I　was　not　at　all　certain　that　I　wanted



to　write；　or　that　I　meant　to　write；　or　that　I　had　anything　to



write　about。　　No；　I　was　not　impatient。　　I　lounged　between　the



mantelpiece　and　the　window；　not　even　consciously　waiting　for　the



table　to　be　cleared。　　It　was　ten　to　one　that　before　my　landlady's



daughter　was　done　I　would　pick　up　a　book　and　sit　down　with　it　all



the　morning　in　a　spirit　of　enjoyable　indolence。　　I　affirm　it　with



assurance；　and　I　don't　even　know　now　what　were　the　books　then



lying　about　the　room。　　What　ever　they　were；　they　were　not　the



works　of　great　masters；　where　the　secret　of　clear　thought　and



exact　expression　can　be　found。　Since　the　age　of　five　I　have　been



a　great　reader；　as　is　not　perhaps　wonderful　in　a　child　who　was



never　aware　of　learning　to　read。　　At　ten　years　of　age　I　had　read



much　of　Victor　Hugo　and　other　romantics。　　I　had　read　in　Polish



and　in　French；　history；　voyages；　novels；　I　knew　〃Gil　Blas〃　and



〃Don　Quixote〃　in　abridged　editions；　I　had　read　in　early　boyhood



Polish　poets　and　some　French　poets；　but　I　cannot　say　what　I　read



on　the　evening　before　I　began　to　write　myself。　　I　believe　it　was



a　novel；　and　it　is　quite　possible　that　it　was　one　of　Anthony



Trollope's　novels。　　It　is　very　likely。　　My　acquaintance　with　him



was　then　very　recent。　　He　is　one　of　the　English　novelists　whose



works　I　read　for　the　first　time　in　English。　　With　men　of　European



reputation；　with　Dickens　and　Walter　Scott　and　Thackeray；　it　was



otherwise。　　My　first　introduction　to　English　imaginative



literature　was　〃Nicholas　Nickleby。〃　　It　is　extraordinary　how　well



Mrs。　Nickleby　could　chatter　disconnectedly　in　Polish　and　the



sinister　Ralph　rage　in　that　language。　　As　to　the　Crummles　family



and　the　family　of　the　learned　Squeers　it　seemed　as　natural　to



them　as　their　native　speech。　　It　was；　I　have　no　doubt；　an



excellent　translation。　This　must　have　been　in　the　year　'70。　　But



I　really　believe　that　I　am　wrong。　　That　book　was　not　my　first



introduction　to　English　literature。　　My　first　acquaintance　was



（or　were）　the　〃Two　Gentlemen　of　Verona；〃　and　that　in　the　very　MS。



of　my　father's　translation。　　It　was　during　our　exile　in　Russia；



and　it　must　have　been　less　than　a　year　after　my　mother's　death；



because　I　remember　myself　in　the　black　blouse　with　a　white　border



of　my　heavy　mourning。　　We　were　living　together；　quite　alone；　in　a



small　house　on　the　outskirts　of　the　town　of　T。　　That



afternoon；　instead　of　going　out　to　play　in　the　large　yard　which



we　shared　with　our　landlord；　I　had　lingered　in　the　room　in　which



my　father　generally　wrote。　　What　emboldened　me　to　clamber　into



his　chair　I　am　sure　I　don't　know；　but　a　couple　of　hours　afterward



he　discovered　me　kneeling　in　it　with　my　elbows　on　the　table　and



my　head　held　in　both　hands　over　the　MS。　of　loose　pages。　　I　was



greatly　confused；　expecting　to　get　into　trouble。　　He　stood　in　the



doorway　looking　at　me　with　some　surprise；　but　the　only　thing　he



said　after　a　moment　of　silence　was：







〃Read　the　page　aloud。〃







Luckily　the　page　lying　before　me　was　not　overblotted　with



erasures　and　corrections；　and　my　father's　handwriting　was



otherwise　extremely　legible。　　When　I　got　to　the　end　he　nodded；



and　I　flew　out…of…doors；　thinking　myself　lucky　to　have　escaped



reproof　for　that　piece　of　impulsive　audacity。　　I　have　tried　to



discover　since　the　reason　for　this　mildness；　and　I　imagine　that



all　unknown　to　myself　I　had　earned；　in　my　father's　mind；　the



right　to　some　latitude　in　my　relations　with　his　writing…table。　



It　was　only　a　month　beforeor　perhaps　it　was　only　a　week



beforethat　I　had　read　to　him　aloud　from　beginning　to　end；　and



to　his　perfect　satisfaction；　as　he　lay　on　his　bed；　not　being　very



well　at　the　time；　the　proofs　of　his　translation　of　Victor　Hugo's



〃Toilers　of　the　Sea。〃　　Such　was　my　title　to　consideration；　I



believe；　and　also　my　first　introduction　to　the　sea　in　literature。







If　I　do　not　remember　where；　how；　and　when　I　learned　to　read；　I　am



not　likely　to　forget　the　process　of　being　trained　in　the　art　of



reading　aloud。　　My　poor　father；　an　admirable　reader　himself；　was



the　most　exacting　of　masters。　　I　reflect　proudly　that　I　must　have



read　that　page　of　〃Two　Gentlemen　of　Verona〃　tolerably　well　at　the



age　of　eight。　　The　next　time　I　met　them　was　in　a　5s。　one…volume



edition　of　the　dramatic　works　of　William　Shakespeare；　read　in



Falmouth；　at　odd　moments　of　the　day；　to　the　noisy　accompaniment



of　calkers'　mallets　driving　oakum　into　the　deck…seams　of　a　ship



in　dry…dock。　　We　had　run　in；　in　a　sinking　condition　and　with　the



crew　refusing　duty　after　a　month　of　weary　battling　with　the　gales



of　the　North　Atlantic。　　Books　are　an　integral　part　of　one's　life；



and　my　Shakespearian　associations　are　with　that　first　year　of　our



bereavement；　the　last　I　spent　with　my　father　in　exile　（he　sent　me



away　to　Poland　to　my　mother's　brother　directly　he　could　brace



himself　up　for　the　separation）；　and　with　the　year　of　hard　gales；



the　year　in　which　I　came　nearest　to　death　at　sea；　first　by　water



and　then　by　fire。







Those　things　I　remember；　but　what　I　was　reading　the　day　before　my



writing　life　began　I　have　forgotten。　　I　have　only　a　vague　notion



that　it　might　have　been　one　of　Trollope's　political　novels。　　And



I　remember；　too；　the　character　of　the　day。　　It　was　an　autumn　day



with　an　opaline　atmosphere；　a　veiled；　semi…opaque；　lustrous　day；



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　fascinating　softness。　　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　himthe　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　mistan　opaline　mist　as　in　Bessborough



Gardens；　only　without　the　fiery　flicks　on　roof　and　chimney…pot



from　the　rays　of　the　red　London　sunpromised　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　tropical　daybreak　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



bottl