Joseph Conrad ; a study

Front matter

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Book—.-

STUDIES OF LIVING WRITERS BY VARIOUS WRITERS

Preface

The facts in this book relative to Mr Conrad have Mr Conrad's authorization, the criticism is entirely my own affair.

No one can realize more clearly than I the difficulty of writing a pioneer book about Mr Conrad's works. My excuse for doing it must be my excuse for the way in which it is done. There are many points that need further developing — the individual structure of the books, for instance, the general sense of form, the realism and romance of Mr Conrad's art, his feeling for tragedy, and his philosophy. As to this last, I must admit that I dislike the habit of writing gravely about the philosophy of novelists. That is to wreck the meaning of a work of art, although it is true enough that art divorced from ideas soon wears very thin. A novelist's philosophy, as such, does not concern literary criticism, although his personality, which is largely the acciimulative effect of his outlook, does. The purely moral treatise type of fiction is neither more nor less ridiculous than the type which is concerned wholly with experiments in form. As in everything else, common sense is the surest guide in criticism.

Let me point out here that part of my object in writing this book is to arouse interest in the greatest viii JOSEPH CONRAD

and least known of Mr Conrad's novels, in the marvellous Nostromo. My judgment in regard to this novel is, I believe, heterodox, and I am aware that it is almost impossible to convert critics who have already made up their minds, but I do hope that what I have to say will have some influence.

This study of Mr Conrad has been written both for the students of his work and for those who know nothing about it. (The last part of Chapter II. and all of Chapter III. are especially intended for the latter.) But throughout I have aimed at real criticism and not mere statement or, in fact, mere rhetoric. I should like to add that I have received many very valuable suggestions from various friends, of which I have made the freest use.

But, indeed, Mr Conrad is in some respects his own best critic. Readers of Some Reminiscences will remember that that book is full of remarks as to his methods and ideas — criticism of the subtlest and most distinguished order. (" Conrad's Achievement in the Light of his own Criticism " would make an absorbing twelfth chapter to this study.) But it is in The New Review for 1897, in that discarded Preface to The Nigger of the " Narcissus," that Mr Conrad has most beautifully crystalHzed the very foundations of his artistic ideals. Those forgotten pages should be in the hands of every student of Mr Conrad's work.

R. C.

April 1914

Contents

Preface .....

CHAP.

I. Conrad, his Critics and his Contempor

Chapter I Conrad, His Critics And His Contemporaries

I HAVE long wished to say something about Conrad which could not be said in the space of a single article. Since I first began to read his books I have been drawn to them to a very unusual extent. And that must be my chief excuse for doing what it is generally ridiculous to do, writing a book about a living author. In fact, to write books at all about authors is rather stupid. People form their opinions for themselves. Moreover, time settles all questions of merit with a pretty accurate hand. Yes, it is so, and for my final justification I must fall back on a profound conviction. And my conviction is thi&— that Conrad's work actually does mark a new epoch.

I know that it is easy, and not in the least convincing, to make such statements, and that the only proof of the pudding is in the eating. And therefore I would urge every reader of this book to study Conrad for himself. For criticism, unlike creation, has few magic words at its service. There is a kind of intuitive accord that seems to defy expression, a kind of close and familiar appreciation that seems to illumine the mind and to paralyse the tongue. The business of criticism is to surmount this impasse between conviction and the power to convince. And I believe that it can be done. No doubt the magic word would A ^ clothe the voiceless perception in a way that logic alone could not, for it would be the creative element in criticism and would possess the illusive qualities of the thing criticised, but, failing that, the same result can be attained, at last, by absolute sincerity and sympathy. In the long run these do achieve their purpose, they do present a real picture, they do surmount the fearful obstacle of which all critics are so acutely aware. And that is what I would like to claim for this monograph. I have studied Conrad's works very closely and I have come to some definite conclusions. It is these that I present here as well as I can.

Of course, Conrad is an exceptionally difficult writer to discuss. He is one of these men whose extraordinarily vivid personality pervades everything he writes to such an extent that a good many people do find him impossible to read. One must differentiate all this from mere mannerism, the mannerism that spoils such writers as Meredith and Hugo. It is not mannerism in the case of men like Conrad, that is to say, it is not the mannerism of eccentricity, it is the positive strength of their personality. Flaubert, for instance, an indubitably great artist, arouses this antipathy to a marked degree. He could efface himself in one sense, but in another he was visible in every line of his work, and not only visible, because, of course, everyone who is anyone is that, but visible in a singular and almost menacing fashion. He sets up in certain minds a temperamental antagonism. Nor is he unique in that. Other commanding writers do the same, such writers as Dostoievsky and Walt Whitman, for instance. And now, as far as I can judge, we have to add Conrad to this list. Some people of intelligence are quite hostile to Conrad. I think it must be that he seems to envelop things with his own sombre and poetic imagination rather than show them to us in their actual light. Take, for example, his story "Youth" and contrast it with Hudson's The Purple Land. Essentially they are both concerned with the same idea — the glamour and romance of youth ; but I can quite understand people asserting that Hudson's story does give the feeling of youth, whereas Conrad's story gives only a philosophic dream of what youth ought to be. Even if that were true, which I doubt, I do not think it matters (it is the difference between a self-conscious and an unselfconscious artist) ; but I see why the supposition might arise, and, in seeing that, I grasp what it is about Conrad that is antipathetic to some. It is his passionately romantic, melancholy, and ironic mind.

But, of course, there is also a much simpler reason. To read Conrad calls for exertion, and nowadays that is enough to damn an3^one. The exertion arises from the fact that he is imaginative, and requires, in his readers, a corresponding and increasing effort of the imagination. Reading him, as a friend of mine says, is " like a leap of the mind." And, furthermore, he is a visualiser. To follow him we have to form very definite images. He actually excites the optic nerve. Unless the reader is prepared for this effort he will lose half the effect. And, again, although he is romantic and a visualiser yet he is emphatically a man of hard edges. In a few words he can create a sharp outline. This is an almost unique gift, and combined as it is with his romantic manner, is quite sufficient to arouse our lurking and natural antagonism for the unexpected.

And Conrad's reputation suffers from another and a much more insidious cause. It appears to me that he is positively misunderstood by many of the people who admire him most. I do not know how I can put it better than by saying that he is regarded as the author of Lord Jim rather than as the author of Nostromo. Anyone who really understands Conrad will follow me. For Lord Jim, powerful as it is, is representative, on the whole, of the more ordinary and didactic side of Conrad, whereas the neglected Nostromo is representative of a much subtler, more moving, and more truly creative side. Indeed, Nostromo has an imaginative maturity quite beyond the scope of Lord Jim. That one instance gives us the key to a widespread misconception about Conrad — a misconception none the less complete and all the more difficult to refute from the fact that it is halfhidden under the guise of judicial wisdom. I don't want to be misapprehended. I only take the question of Lord Jim and Nostromo as a sort of symbol to explain something I find it hard to explain. It seems to me that the really poetical and thrilling things in Conrad are largely ignored and that they are ignored because most of the critics are upon the wrong tack. Most, not all. Moreover, there is a kind of Conrad ' ' tradition in the air — a thing as dea.dly to a man as a spider's web to a fly. For a tradition enwraps an artist's endeavour in a mist of delicate falsehood. How many careers have been ruined by an epigram ? And though Conrad is obviously too striking a writer to be summarised in a phrase, still the critics have begun to expect from him work of a certain kind. Not only is he pre- judged, which at the best is a stultifying process, but he is pre-judged along bad lines. These " traditions " about authors are always dangerous, and v/hen they are positively wrong then the whole critical ground slips from under the feet. Year by year Conrad is emerging into recognition, a Conrad famous, respected, but a Conrad more or less " placed." And " placing " is a compliment v/hich is meant to round you off for good and all.

These charges are vague, indeed, and hard to substantiate. There has been little set criticism of Conrad and the ordinary book review is notoriously untrustworthy. Of course, I do not mean to say there has not been some good criticism. The most penetrating I have read was that by Ford Madox Hueffer in The English Revieiv for December 191 1. Unfortunately it is very slight. But, indeed, it is to Edward Garnett that readers of Conrad owe the greatest debt. For he was the first to "discover" him — if I must use such an offensive expression. That his earliest work should have fallen into the hands of this eclectic and un-insular critic is something to be thankful for. For Conrad has told me, himself, that if Almayer's Folly had been rejected he would never have written another book. But, except for such rare and shining exceptions, we can put all the criticisms aside. If I had to prove my point from them alone it would be easy enough. Denser ineptitudes never gave heartier praise to an original genius. I include my own past writings. But in saying that discerning critics miss the best in Conrad I am not talking so much of the written word. The wisest remarks about modern authors are nearly alwaj'^s those spoken, and' it is in conversation, mainly, that one feels the pulse of current opinion. And though I have heard some very wise and piercing things said about Conrad the general pulse is beating in a groove and beating in vain. And in all this, let me emphasise, I am not referring to his enemies but to his admirers.

For it is they who have leavened public taste in regard to Conrad.

In making the general statement that Conrad is not properly understood I do not want to run my head against a wall. I know I put my case roughly. Such impressions are often only highly sensitive reactions and as such quite beyond positive proof. A parrot cry is easy to lay hold of, but a mental attitude is like a will-o'-the-wisp. Besides, criticism has become something of an intellectual vested interest. When critics get hold of an author they are not only annoyed if outsiders disagree with them, but they are annoyed if the author, himself, disagrees. In other words, they are pained when an author's work does not fit into their preconceived theories about it. That is one reason why critics are so fond of labels. The more remarkable the author the more intolerant are they of his reputation. This is curious but easily explicable. Anyone whose personality lies strongly upon his work is bound to affect his readers in a very definite way. At once an image is formed, which is cherished like a fetish and guarded with an excluding jealousy. Such images are precious, dogmatic, and easily outraged. (I need only instance the reception of The Secret Agent in Conrad's case.) Whatever happens, the author is prejudged. And in my opinion Conrad is in grave peril of this. The final word on him trembles upon the critics' lips.

The truth of the matter is that Conrad, as a phenomenon, is as yet but little realised. He is still confounded with men of talent. For it is hard to believe that a real genius can have arisen with so small a perceptible stir. Conrad never woke to find himself suddenly famous. And the very scope and essence of his originality is bewildering. For he is not simply original in the ordinary sense, he is volcanic without being anarchic. There is nothing bizarre about Conrad. His work belongs to a tradition (not an English tradition, it is true), but it no more resembles the work from which it derives than a fish spued up from the bottom of the Atlantic might resemble a fish of the surface except in so far as they were both fishes. The volcanic in Conrad staggers some people, whereas his lack of anarchy and fanaticism annoys others. For in England an original writer is the man of ideas rather than the man of subtlety. We want brilliance, and if we cannot have brilliance we want a problem. It is not the least surprising that men like Shaw, Wells, and Galsworthy are so influential. They are influential because they are representative of the best side of English insularity. Of course their popularity is as nothing compared to that of Florence Barclay or Hall Caine, and perhaps not even so big as that of the society novelists, Hichens, Benson, Locke, and so on, but they are probably as popular as any intellectuals are ever likely to be with us. Conrad's genius, on the other hand, is foreign to even the most advanced English tradition. He is not concerned with righting the world and he is not sparkling. He is neither the novelist of himself like Chesterton nor the novelist of types like Meredith. He is the novelist of real people. Such impersonality has never been appreciated in England. And Conrad's romantic spirit, too, is alien to the English mind. It is not the mere spirit of improbable adventure, but a sort of philosophy impressing itself with ardour and pessimism upon the splendour and darkness of the world. Romance as the last word of realism is an uncomfortable idea. People hasten to explain it by the word "Slavonic," just as they hasten to explain the exuberance of his style by the words " The Tropics " — if, indeed, anyone who so transgresses the ideals of Pater and Wilde can be said to have a style at all.

To speak frankly, there is a far-reaching popular delusion as to style. What is regarded by many people as style is technique of a particularly conceited and self-conscious type. Not only has taste for the negative qualities been obliterated, but taste for the robust personal qualities as well. I discuss Conrad's prose elsewhere, so will merely say here that his defects and his qualities alike would horrify a "stylist." Who can wonder at the reaction against style or blame those who consider it a devilish invention, banishing jollity, and humanity ? Better far revert to fire-works, morality, and complicated plots than swoon with " stylists " in a garden of roses.

That Conrad should have an increasing reputation on the Continent is not astonishing, for, after all, his affinities lie there, but that he is now considerably read in England and America calls for some remark. Of course, there is a fashion in these things, founded chiefly on curiosity and vanity, but we must suppose, also, that Conrad's enormous power has really begun to make headway against prejudice. If ever a man has forced the enemy's gate that man is Conrad. It is an odd thing that both in England and America deep originality is generally appreciated in the long run though it may not be much understood. And in both countries people are now becoming " aware " . of Conrad, although he is too massive to be seen clearly all at once. It is always thus.

But when we talk of Conrad's popularity (for fame is not popularity) we must bear in mind that there are other reasons that militate against him. He is aloof not only in his style but in his whole manner and range of subject. He does not give us the warm, comfortable feeling of an Arnold Bennett. About him there is not that placid, unhurried faculty which makes Bennett's finest novels so engrossing and so easy to read. Conrad is as restless as the sea. And his sardonic humour hovers over his work with a suggestion, not so much of mockery as in Anatole France, as of disillusionment. His irony can be severe (as in " Heart of Darkness "), or it can be a form of pity (as in " Freya of the Seven Islands"), but in any case it is "un- English." And furthermore, his psychology is partly developed in disquieting hints — in that resembling the wonderful psychology of Dostoievsky. In no sense is Conrad a "homely" writer. He knows too much about "the secret of hearts" to be that, even had he placed the scenes of his books in the valley of the Thames instead of in the wild places of dark continents, as he usually does. And, indeed, when he choses London for his scene, as in The Secret Agent, there is something mysterious and exotic in his touch which throws a film of sinister romance over the friendly city.

And then, again, Conrad is not preoccupied solely with the emotion of love. That, generally speaking, is the great touchstone of popularity, although, strangely enough, two of the most popular of modern writers, Stevenson and Synge, did try to avoid it as much as possible. It is a sickness that has affected nearly every writer of our time with a fatal loss of the sense of proportion. Of course, literature has always concerned itself with passion, but it is only recently, as time goes, that it has turned it into a universally morbid disease. Introspection has much to answer for in art even if it has unbared for us the last shelters of egoism.

Although Conrad is an artist there is nothing in him of that pale phantom " art for art's sake." After all, he is absorbed with life, and his choice of words and his descriptive ability are part of, and not distinct from, that illusion of reality which he is intent on creating. You will not find in him the corrupt simplicity of a George Moore or the dashing pose of a Cunninghame Graham. And being entirely natural he is neither purposely hectic like Masefield, nor purposely vulgar like Kipling. His work, like the work of Henry James, is essentially dignified and quite untinged by the pettiness of conscious self-approval. That is not to deny that it is mannered. In its own way it is as mannered as the work of Stevenson. But Stevenson allowed his love of words to get between him and his object, whereas Conrad, with a similar love of words, realises that they are subordinate to the object itself. Both Conrad and Henry James have a passion for their theme. And thus their mannerisms have a genuine ring and, not being an aim in themselves, merge at last, together with all their other idiosyncrasies, into one revelation of the " grand manner " — a term for expressing real eminence in art.

Although a writer of Conrad's calibre must eventually have been recognised, still it is interesting to notice that he did appear at a rather favourable moment. Within the last few years a new and vitalising energy has been breathed into English literature, which had been languishing deplorably since the early '90's, since the end of the aesthetes and the dawn of the empire builders. Men of concrete vigour and tireless production are now the leaders. And it is on the crest of their popularity that Conrad, himself outside and beyond their ideals, has achieved fame. Let me make myself clear. He could not have gained his reputation unless he had been what he is, but under the anaemic conditions of twenty years ago he could hardly have gained it at all. A wave of sound common sense has blown the cobwebs out of English literature — (that it has blown in other obnoxious things in their stead is not our business here). Conrad could only be understood in a society where reality had some sort of a hold.

But I will venture the remark that it is Stevenson, rather than the contributors to The Yellow Book or The National Observer, who has poisoned our English critical intelligence for a decade. For Stevenson's appeal is more cunning. He is neither unhealthy nor exaggerated and he does not lay himself open to ridicule or hatred. Our error has been in taking him too seriously. Why should this charming light-weight be considered a demi-god ? His mind was intelligent, humane, but not particularly distinguished, and his style was a transparent and empty mannerism. But his personality was attractive and his appeal has the glitter of romance. And the result of it all is really disastrous. In innumerable minds he is now the model of what an artist should be. And by this standard the great masters are judged and found wanting. Stevenson sailed delightfully over the surface, little guessing of the tragic depths waiting to be plumbed by men like Conrad.

Well, this is something of a digression, but it may serve to show one of the reasons why such a writer as Conrad finds himself, so to speak, on virgin soil in England. People take a long time to admit that there are two sides to a question and a still longer to admit that the second side may be the correct one. And even if they allow Conrad to be an artist, his art may seem to them almost purposeless. Realism u uncoloured by erotic emotion appears to belie its title. In England one allows for the attenuated mysticism of a W. B. Yeats or a Rabindranath Tagore, and one allows for the frank sensuality of an H. G. Wells or a D. H. Lawrence, but one looks askance at I , an austere morality that is founded neither on the \ life of dreams nor on the restraint of the senses. That- \'. remark of Giorgio Viola's at the end of No stroma, when everything is shattering about his head, " Si — duty," falls upon inattentive ears., Few of us can even appreciate the incorruptibility of the old Garibaldino. But to Conrad duty is the basis not only of existence but of art itself. I state this with no moralising significance — Conrad's work is built upon no idea other than that of reality. But to him sincerity, duty, self-command are essential to reality. Without them there is only the chaos of anarchy. That is why so much modern literature is worthless — because, in its very essence, it is insincere and consequently anarchic. For there is as much anarchy in the banal as in Post-Impressionism.

I have no wish, in this chapter, to be led into a discussion of Conrad's work or point of view. I just put forward these instances to try to account, in part, for his lack of wider and deeper appreciation. There are yet other causes no doubt. A certain indirectness in his manner of narration must explain a good deal, and a monotonous richness of language in his earlier work has certainly repelled many. The popular idea ■of Conrad as a "picturesque " writer is unfortunate, because people at once jump to the conclusion that he is that and nothing more. In the ordinary way there is not much critical discrimination in England and one false cry may help or retard a man's reputation for years. Still, why should I labour a subject that will soon be merely historical ? For I am sure that Conrad's day is at hand and that once his sun has risen it will not set.

I do not mean, of course, that he will ever be popular. His work is not cast in that mould. But I mean that he will be genuinely revered. The popular appeal is not necessarily debased and Conrad's v/ork loses something by not possessing it. It loses a certain universal significance which is the birthright of those artists, such artists as Shakespeare, or Turgenev, or even Maupassant, who have also been popular. And it must be understood that by artists I mean realists. In my opinion realists are the only true artists in fiction. And I do not mean the realism of a Zola which is coarseness or the realism of a Dickens which is caricature — I mean, essentially, the realism of a writer like Turgenev or Conrad, the realism, in fact, of typical and distinguished reality. Anthony Trollope, it is true, is a realist, but he has obviously a second rate intelligence and therefore his creations are wanting in the highest actuality. They are not imagined with the passionate nuances of real life. So when I say that Conrad lacks the popular appeal I am not really meaning the appeal of a man like Dickens (great genius though he is), but rather the appeal of a man of his own genre such as Turgenev.

There is something exalted in Conrad's creations which will for ever keep them slightly apart from widespread sympathy. We must grasp that when comparing him with his contemporaries, some of whom have more than a touch of this intimate, universal appeal. In a sense it is easier to get en rapport with the people of Gissing or Bennett than with the people of Conrad. This is partly for two reasons. Firstly, they have a wider general interest, and secondly they

U JOSEPH CONRAD

lack just that touch of distinction which is inherent in the projections of a mind as subtly reserved as Conrad's. About all Conrad's work there is a kind of aristocratic flavour which has nothing directly to do with the work itself. Just consider the difference between his view of the East and Kipling's view. There is something sublime about one and something cockney about the other. Conrad is a philosopher and Kipling is an observer. Both have sanity (that uncommon possession), both know their subject, both show literary genius — and yet no two men could be further apart. For Conrad has his eye upon destiny, whereas Kipling has his eye upon Simla society.

Of course, there is a good deal of unfairness in this comparison — as there is in all such comparisons. One sets out to prove a point and one proves it — but other people may not agree that the point is worth proving or that it has, indeed, been fairly proved. On certain formulas one can demonstrate that almost anyone is either great or negligible. Fortunately unbacked ex parte statements do not carry conviction. I say all this because I am unwilling that people should think that I am simply putting Conrad on a pinnacle. I quite realise Conrad's defects and I quite realise other people's merits. But perfection is not necessarily a criterion of genius and the finest writers may be the easiest to criticise. What differentiates Conrad from nearly all his contemporaries is the quality of greatness. He is on a different plane, as it were, and therefore comparisons are almost certain to miss the real point. I present this here as an opinion, but in the following pages I hope to demonstrate it as a truth.

BIOGRAPHY AND AUTOBIOGRAPHY 25

the two men ! For it is in such things, above all, that the secret character reveals itself. Who, for instance, would not respect Evelyn more than Pepys, and like Pepys more than Evelyn ? And Conrad, in his two books of memories, stands before us in the clear light of day. He may tell us little about himself in one way, in the material way, but in another he tells us much. To read these books sympathetically is to understand Conrad's attitude towards life and art. His works should never again be mysterious to us, as the works of the few men of real temperamental genius are so apt to be. No, these two books of Conrad's are the true " open sesame " to his novels and stories. In the complete rectitude and sincerity of his art he never allows imagination to rob him for more than a moment of his hold upon the earth.