The contemporaneous very short Author’s Note which is preserved in this edition bears sufficient witness to the feelings with which I consented to the publication of the book. The fact of the book having been published in the United States early in the year made it difficult to delay its appearance in England any longer. It came out in the thirteenth month of the war, and my conscience was troubled by the awful incongruity1 of throwing this bit of imagined drama into the welter of reality, tragic2 enough in all conscience, but even more cruel than tragic and more inspiring than cruel. It seemed awfully3 presumptuous4 to think there would be eyes to spare for those pages in a community which in the crash of the big guns and in the din5 of brave words expressing the truth of an indomitable faith could not but feel the edge of a sharp knife at its throat.
The unchanging Man of history is wonderfully adaptable6 both by his power of endurance and in his capacity for detachment. The fact seems to be that the play of his destiny is too great for his fears and too mysterious for his understanding. Were the trump7 of the Last Judgement to sound suddenly on a working day the musician at his piano would go on with his performance of Beethoven’s sonata8 and the cobbler at his stall stick to his last in undisturbed confidence in the virtues9 of the leather. And with perfect propriety11. For what are we to let ourselves be disturbed by an angel’s vengeful music too mighty12 our ears and too awful for our terrors? Thus it happens to us to be struck suddenly by the lightning of wrath13. The reader will go on reading if the book pleases him and the critic will go on criticizing with that faculty14 of detachment born perhaps from a sense of infinite littleness and which is yet the only faculty that seems to assimilate man to the immortal15 gods.
It is only when the catastrophe16 matches the natural obscurity of our fate that even the best representative of the race is liable to lose his detachment. It is very obvious that on the arrival of the gentlemanly Mr. Jones, the single-minded Ricardo, and the faithful Pedro, Heyst, the man of universal detachment, loses his mental self-possession, that fine attitude before the universally irremediable which wears the name of stoicism. It is all a matter of proportion. There should have been a remedy for that sort of thing. And yet there is no remedy. Behind this minute instance of life’s hazards Heyst sees the power of blind destiny. Besides, Heyst in his fine detachment had lost the habit asserting himself. I don’t mean the courage of self-assertion, either moral or physical, but the mere17 way of it, the trick of the thing, the readiness of mind and the turn of the hand that come without reflection and lead the man to excellence18 in life, in art, in crime, in virtue10, and, for the matter of that, even in love. Thinking is the great enemy of perfection. The habit of profound reflection, I am compelled to say, is the most pernicious of all the habits formed by the civilized19 man.
But I wouldn’t be suspected even remotely of making fun of Axel Heyst. I have always liked him. The flesh-and-blood individual who stands behind the infinitely20 more familiar figure of the book I remember as a mysterious Swede right enough. Whether he was a baron21, too, I am not so certain. He himself never laid claim to that distinction. His detachment was too great to make any claims, big or small, on one’s credulity. I will not say where I met him because I fear to give my readers a wrong impression, since a marked incongruity between a man and his surroundings is often a very misleading circumstance. We became very friendly for a time, and I would not like to expose him to unpleasant suspicions though, personally, I am sure he would have been indifferent to suspicions as he was indifferent to all the other disadvantages of life. He was not the whole Heyst of course; he is only the physical and moral foundation of my Heyst laid on the ground of a short acquaintance. That it was short was certainly not my fault for he had charmed me by the mere amenity22 of his detachment which, in this case, I cannot help thinking he had carried to excess. He went away from his rooms without leaving a trace. I wondered where he had gone to — but now I know. He vanished from my ken23 only to drift into this adventure that, unavoidable, waited for him in a world which he persisted in looking upon as a malevolent24 shadow spinning in the sunlight. Often in the course of years an expressed sentiment, the particular sense of a phrase heard casually25, would recall him to my mind so that I have fastened on to him many words heard on other men’s lips and belonging to other men’s less perfect, less pathetic moods.
The same observation will apply mutatis mutandis to Mr. Jones, who is built on a much slenderer connection. Mr. Jones (or whatever his name was) did not drift away from me. He turned his back on me and walked out of the room. It was in a little hotel in the island of St. Thomas in the West Indies (in the year ‘75) where we found him one hot afternoon extended on three chairs, all alone in the loud buzzing of flies to which his immobility and his cadaverous aspect gave a most gruesome significance. Our invasion must have displeased26 him because he got off the chairs brusquely and walked out, leaving with me an indelibly weird27 impression of his thin shanks. One of the men with me said that the fellow was the most desperate gambler he had ever come across. I said: “A professional sharper?” and got for an answer: “He’s a terror; but I must say that up to a certain point he will play fair . . . “ I wonder what the point was. I never saw him again because I believe he went straight on board a mail-boat which left within the hour for other ports of call in the direction of Aspinall. Mr. Jones’s characteristic insolence28 belongs to another man of a quite different type. I will say nothing as to the origins of his mentality29 because I don’t intend to make any damaging admissions.
It so happened that the very same year Ricardo — the physical Ricardo — was a fellow passenger of mine on board an extremely small and extremely dirty little schooner30, during a four days’ passage between two places in the Gulf31 of Mexico whose names don’t matter. For the most part he lay on deck aft as it were at my feet, and raising himself from time to time on his elbow would talk about himself and go on talking, not exactly to me or even at me (he would not even look up but kept his eyes fixed32 on the deck) but more as if communing in a low voice with his familiar devil. Now and then he would give me a glance and make the hairs of his stiff little moustache stir quaintly33. His eyes were green and every cat I see to this day reminds me of the exact contour of his face. What he was travelling for or what was his business in life he never confided34 to me. Truth to say, the only passenger on board that schooner who could have talked openly about his activities and purposes was a very snuffy and conversationally35 delightful36 friar, the superior of a convent, attended by a very young lay brother, of a particularly ferocious37 countenance38. We had with us also, lying prostrate39 in the dark and unspeakable cuddy of that schooner, an old Spanish gentleman, owner of much luggage and, as Ricardo assured me, very ill indeed. Ricardo seemed to be either a servant or the confidant of that aged40 and distinguished-looking invalid41, who early on the passage held a long murmured conversation with the friar, and after that did nothing but groan42 feebly, smoke cigarettes, and now and then call for Martin in a voice full of pain. Then he who had become Ricardo in the book would go below into that beastly and noisome43 hole, remain there mysteriously, and coming up on deck again with a face on which nothing could be read, would as likely as not resume for my edification the exposition of his moral attitude towards life illustrated44 by striking particular instances of the most atrocious complexion45. Did he mean to frighten me? Or seduce46 me? Or astonish me? Or arouse my admiration47? All he did was to arouse my amused incredulity. As scoundrels go he was far from being a bore. For the rest my innocence48 was so great then that I could not take his philosophy seriously. All the time he kept one ear turned to the cuddy in the manner of a devoted49 servant, but I had the idea that in some way or other he had imposed the connection on the invalid for some end of his own. The reader, therefore, won’t be surprised to hear that one morning I was told without any particular emotion by the padrone of the schooner that the “rich man” down there was dead: He had died in the night. I don’t remember ever being so moved by the desolate50 end of a complete stranger. I looked down the skylight, and there was the devoted Martin busy cording cowhide trunks belonging to the deceased whose white beard and hooked nose were the only parts I could make out in the dark depths of a horrible stuffy51 bunk52.
As it fell calm in the course of the afternoon and continued calm during all that night and the terrible, flaming day, the late “rich man” had to be thrown overboard at sunset, though as a matter of fact we were in sight of the low pestilential mangrove-lined coast of our destination. The excellent Father Superior mentioned to me with an air of immense commiseration53: “The poor man has left a young daughter.” Who was to look after her I don’t know, but I saw the devoted Martin taking the trunks ashore54 with great care just before I landed myself. I would perhaps have tracked the ways of that man of immense sincerity55 for a little while, but I had some of my own very pressing business to attend to, which in the end got mixed up with an earthquake and so I had no time to give to Ricardo. The reader need not be told that I have not forgotten him, though.
My contact with the faithful Pedro was much shorter and my observation of him was less complete but incomparably more anxious. It ended in a sudden inspiration to get out of his way. It was in a hovel of sticks and mats by the side of a path. As I went in there only to ask for a bottle of lemonade I have not to this day the slightest idea what in my appearance or actions could have roused his terrible ire. It became manifest to me less than two minutes after I had set eyes on him for the first time, and though immensely surprised of course I didn’t stop to think it out I took the nearest short cut — through the wall. This bestial56 apparition57 and a certain enormous buck58 nigger encountered in Haiti only a couple of months afterwards, have fixed my conception of blind, furious, unreasoning rage, as manifested in the human animal, to the end of my days. Of the nigger I used to dream for years afterwards. Of Pedro never. The impression was less vivid. I got away from him too quickly.
It seems to me but natural that those three buried in a corner of my memory should suddenly get out into the light of the world — so natural that I offer no excuse for their existence, They were there, they had to come out; and this is a sufficient excuse for a writer of tales who had taken to his trade without preparation, or premeditation, and without any moral intention but that which pervades59 the whole scheme of this world of senses.
Since this Note is mostly concerned with personal contacts and the origins of the persons in the tale, I am bound also to speak of Lena, because if I were to leave her out it would look like a slight; and nothing would be further from my thoughts than putting a slight on Lena. If of all the personages involved in the “mystery of Samburan” I have lived longest with Heyst (or with him I call Heyst) it was at her, whom I call Lena, that I have looked the longest and with a most sustained attention. This attention originated in idleness for which I have a natural talent. One evening I wandered into a cafe, in a town not of the tropics but of the South of France. It was filled with tobacco smoke, the hum of voices, the rattling60 of dominoes, and the sounds of strident music. The orchestra was rather smaller than the one that performed at Schomberg’s hotel, had the air more of a family party than of an enlisted61 band, and, I must confess, seemed rather more respectable than the Zangiacomo musical enterprise. It was less pretentious62 also, more homely63 and familiar, so to speak, insomuch that in the intervals64 when all the performers left the platform one of them went amongst the marble tables collecting offerings of sous and francs in a battered65 tin receptacle recalling the shape of a sauceboat. It was a girl. Her detachment from her task seems to me now to have equalled or even surpassed Heyst’s aloofness66 from all the mental degradations67 to which a man’s intelligence is exposed in its way through life. Silent and wide-eyed she went from table to table with the air of a sleep-walker and with no other sound but the slight rattle68 of the coins to attract attention. It was long after the sea-chapter of my life had been closed but it is difficult to discard completely the characteristics of half a lifetime, and it was in something of the Jack-ashore spirit that I dropped a five-franc piece into the sauceboat; whereupon the sleep-walker turned her head to gaze at me and said “Merci, Monsieur” in a tone in which there was no gratitude69 but only surprise. I must have been idle indeed to take the trouble to remark on such slight evidence that the voice was very charming and when the performers resumed their seats I shifted my position slightly in order not to have that particular performer hidden from me by the little man with the beard who conducted, and who might for all I know have been her father, but whose real mission in life was to be a model for the Zangiacomo of Victory. Having got a clear line of sight I naturally (being idle) continued to look at the girl through all the second part of the programme. The shape of her dark head inclined over the violin was fascinating, and, while resting between the pieces of that interminable programme she was, in her white dress and with her brown hands reposing70 in her lap, the very image of dreamy innocence. The mature, bad-tempered71 woman at the piano might have been her mother, though there was not the slightest resemblance between them. All I am certain of in their personal relation to each other is that cruel pinch on the upper part of the arm. That I am sure I have seen! There could be no mistake. I was in too idle a mood to imagine such a gratuitous72 barbarity. It may have been playfulness, yet the girl jumped up as if she had been stung by a wasp73. It may have been playfulness. Yet I saw plainly poor “dreamy innocence” rub gently the affected74 place as she filed off with the other performers down the middle aisle75 between the marble tables in the uproar76 of voices, the rattling of dominoes through a blue atmosphere of tobacco smoke. I believe that those people left the town next day.
Or perhaps they had only migrated to the other big cafe, on the other side of the Place de la Comedie. It is very possible. I did not go across to find out. It was my perfect idleness that had invested the girl with a peculiar77 charm, and I did not want to destroy it by any superfluous78 exertion79. The receptivity of my indolence made the impression so permanent that when the moment came for her meeting with Heyst I felt that she would be heroically equal to every demand of the risky80 and uncertain future. I was so convinced of it that I let her go with Heyst, I won’t say without a pang81 but certainly without misgivings82. And in view of her triumphant83 end what more could I have done for her rehabilitation84 and her happiness?
1920. J. C.
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1
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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adaptable
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| adj.能适应的，适应性强的，可改编的 | |
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trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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sonata
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| n.奏鸣曲 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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amenity
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| n.pl.生活福利设施，文娱康乐场所；（不可数）愉快，适意 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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insolence
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mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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conversationally
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| adv.会话地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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stuffy
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bunk
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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degradations
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| 堕落( degradation的名词复数 )； 下降； 陵削； 毁坏 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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bad-tempered
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| adj.脾气坏的 | |
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gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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wasp
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| n.黄蜂，蚂蜂 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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80
risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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81
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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82
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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83
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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rehabilitation
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| n.康复，悔过自新，修复，复兴，复职，复位 | |
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