Notes on My Books | Page 6

his
agitation upon the restfulness of the landscape; and even, if in a
brotherly frame of mind, we may bring ourselves to forgive his failure.
We understood his object, and, after all, the fellow has tried, and
perhaps he had not the strength--and perhaps he had not the knowledge.
We forgive, go on our way--and forget.
And so it is with the workman of art. Art is long and life is short, and
success is very far off. And thus, doubtful of strength to travel so far,
we talk a little about the aim--the aim of art, which, like life itself, is
inspiring, difficult--obscured by mists. It is not in the clear logic of a
triumphant conclusion; it is not in the unveiling of one of those
heartless secrets which are called the Laws of Nature. It is not less great,
but only more difficult.
To arrest, for the space of a breath, the hands busy about the work of
the earth, and compel men entranced by the sight of distant goals to
glance for a moment at the surrounding vision of form and colour, of
sunshine and shadows; to make them pause for a look, for a sigh, for a
smile--such is the aim, difficult and evanescent, and reserved only for a
very few to achieve. But sometimes, by the deserving and the fortunate,
even that task is accomplished. And when it is
accomplished--behold!--all the truth of life is there: a moment of vision,
a sigh, a smile--and the return to an eternal rest.

J. C.
1897.

TALES OF UNREST
Of the five stories in this volume The Lagoon, the last in order, is the
earliest in date. It is the first short story I ever wrote and marks, in a
manner of speaking, the end of my first phase, the Malayan phase with
its special subject and its verbal suggestions. Conceived in the same
mood which produced "Almayer's Folly" and "An Outcast of the
Islands," it is told in the same breath (with what was left of it, that is,
after the end of "An Outcast"), seen with the same vision rendered in
the same method--if such a thing as method did exist then in my
conscious relation to this new adventure of writing for print. I doubt it
very much. One does one's work first and theorizes about it afterwards.
It is a very amusing and egotistical occupation of no use whatever to
any one and just as likely as not to lead to false conclusions.
Anybody can see that between the last paragraph of "An Outcast" and
the first of The Lagoon there has been no change of pen, figuratively
speaking. It happens also to be literally true. It was the same pen: a
common steel pen. Having been charged with a certain lack of
emotional faculty I am glad to be able to say that on one occasion at
least I did give way to a sentimental impulse. I thought the pen had
been a good pen and that it had done enough for me, and so, with the
idea of keeping it for a sort of memento on which I could look later
with tender eyes, I put it into my waistcoat pocket. Afterwards it used
to turn up in all sorts of places, at the bottom of small drawers, among
my studs in cardboard boxes, till at last it found permanent rest in a
large wooden bowl containing some loose keys, bits of sealing wax,
bits of string, small broken chains, a few buttons, and similar minute
wreckage that washes out of a man's life into such receptacles. I would
catch sight of it from time to time with a distinct feeling of satisfaction
till, one day, I perceived with horror that there were two old pens in
there. How the other pen found its way into the bowl instead of the

fireplace or waste-paper basket I can't imagine, but there the two were,
lying side by side, both encrusted with ink and completely
undistinguishable from each other. It was very distressing, but being
determined not to share my sentiment between two pens or run the risk
of sentimentalizing over a mere stranger, I threw them both out of the
window into a flower bed--which strikes me now as a poetical grave for
the remnants of one's past.
But the tale remained. It was first fixed in print in the Cornhill
Magazine, being my first appearance in a serial of any kind; and I have
lived long enough to see it most agreeably guyed by Mr. Max
Beerbohm in a volume of parodies entitled "A Christmas Garland,"
where I found myself in very good company. I was immensely gratified.
I began to believe in my public existence. I have much to thank The
Lagoon