Heart Of The Darkness

Author’s Note

The three stories in this volum e lay no claim to unity of artistic purpose.

The only bond between them is that of the tim e in which they were written. They

belong to the period im m ediately following the publication of the “Nigger of the

Narcissus,” and pre-ceding the first conception of “Nostromo,” two books which, it

seem s to m e, stand apart and by them selves in the body of m y work. It is also the

period during which I contributed to Maga; a period dom inated by “Lord Jim ”

and associated in m y grateful m em ory with the late Mr. William Blackwood’s

encouraging and helpful kindness.

“Youth” was not m y first contribution to Maga. It was the second. But

that story m arks the first appearance in the world of the m an Marlow, with whom

m y relations have grown very intim ate in the

course of y ears. The origins of that gentlem an (nobody as far as I know had ever

hinted that he was any thing but that) – his origins have been the subj ect of som e

literary speculation of, I am glad to say, a friendly nature.

One would think that I am the proper person to throw a light on the

m atter; but in truth I find that it isn’t so easy. It is pleasant to rem em ber that

nobody had charged him with fraudulent purposes or looked down on him as a

charlatan; but apart from that he was supposed to be all sorts of things: a clever

screen, a m ere device, a “personator,” a fam iliar spirit, a whispering “dæm on.” I

m y self have been suspected of a m editated plan for his capture.

That is not so. I m ade no plans. The m an Marlow and I cam e together in

the casual m anner of those health-resort acquaintances which som etim es ripen into friendships. This one has ripened. For all his assertiveness in m atters of opinion he is not an intrusive person. He haunts m y hours of solitude, when, in silence, we lay our heads together in great com fort and harm ony ; but as we part at the end of a tale I am never sure that it m ay not be for the last tim e. Yet I don’t think that either of us would care m uch to survive the other. In his case, at any rate, his occupation would be gone and he would suffer from that extinction, because I suspect him of som e vanity. I don’t m ean vanity in the Solom onian sense. Of all m y people he’s the one that has never been a vexation to m y spirit. A m ost discreet, understanding m an…

Even before appearing in book-form “Youth” was very well received. It

lies on m e to confess at last, and this is as good a place for it as another, that I have been all m y life -- all m y two lives – the spoiled adopted child of Great Britain and even of the Em pire; for it was Australia that gave m e m y first com m and. I break out into this declaration not because of a lurking tendency to m egalom ania, but, on the contrary, as a m an who has no very notable illusions about him self. I follow the instincts of vain-glory and hum ility natural to all m ankind. For it can hardly be denied that it is not their own deserts that m en are m ost proud of, but rather of their prodigious luck, of their m arvellous fortune: of that in their lives for which thanks and sacrifices m ust be offered on the altars of the inscrutable gods.

“Heart of Darkness” also received a certain am ount of notice from the first; and of its origins this m uch m ay be said: it is well known that curious m en go pry ing into all sorts of places (where they have no business) and com e out of them with all kinds of spoil. This story, and one other, not in this volum e, are all the spoil I brought out from the centre of Africa, where, really, I had no sort of business. More am bitious in its scope and longer in the telling, “Heart of Darkness” is quite as authentic in fundam entals as “Youth.” It is, obviously, written in another m ood. I won’t characterize the m ood precisely, but any body can see that it is any thing but the m ood of wistful regret, of rem iniscent tenderness.

One m ore rem ark m ay be added. “Youth” is a feat of m em ory. It is a

record of experience; but that experience, in its facts, in its inwardness and in its outward colouring, begins and ends in m y self. “Heart of Darkness” is experience, too; but it is experience pushed a little (and only very little) bey ond the actual facts of the case for the perfectly legitim ate, I believe, purpose of bringing it hom e to the m inds and bosom s of the readers. There it was no longer a m atter of sincere colouring. It was like another art altogether. That som bre them e had to be given a sinister resonance, a tonality of its own, a continued vibration that, I hoped, would hang in the air and dwell on the ear after the last note had been struck.

After say ing so m uch there rem ains the last tale of the book, still

untouched. “The End of the Tether” is a story of sea-life in a rather special way ; and the m ost intim ate thing I can say of it is this; that having lived that life fully, am ongst its m en, its thoughts and sensations, I have found it possible, without the slightest m isgiving, in all sincerity of heart and peace of conscience, to conceive the existence of Captain Whalley ’s personality and to relate the m anner of his end. This statem ent acquires som e force from the circum stance that the pages of that story – a fair half of the book – are also the product of experience. That experience belongs (like “Youth’s”) to the tim e before I ever thought of putting pen to paper. As to its “reality,” that is for the readers to determ ine. One had to pick up one’s facts here and there. More skill would have m ade them m ore real and the whole com position m ore interesting. But here we are approaching the veiled region of artistic values which it would be im proper and indeed dangerous for m e to enter. I have looked over the proofs, have corrected a m isprint or two, have changed a word or two--and that’s all. It is not very likely that I shall ever read “The End of the Tether” again. No m ore need be said. It accords best with m y feelings to part from Captain Whalley in affectionate silence.

J. C.

1917