Section 1

THE SHADOW LINE
BOOKS BY JOSEPH CONRAD
ALMAYER’S FOLLY
AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS
THE NIGGER OF THE “NARCISSUS”
TALES OF UNREST
LORD JIM: A ROMANCE
YOUTH: A NARRATIVE
TYPHOON
FALK, AND OTHER STORIES
NOSTROMO: A TALE OF THE SEABOARD
THE MIRROR OF THE SEA
THE SECRET AGENT
A SET OF SIX
UNDER WESTERN EYES
A PERSONAL RECORD
*TWIXT LAND AND SEA
CHANCE
WITHIN THE TIDES
VICTORY
THE SHADOW-LINE
THE ARROW OF GOLD
THE RESCUE
NOTES ON LIFE AND LETTERS
THE ROVER
THE SHORTER TALES OF JOSEPH CONRAD
TALES OF HEARSAY
LAUGHING ANNE awp ONE DAY MORE (Two Plays)
SUSPENSE
With Ford Madox Ford (Hueffer)
ROMANCE: A NOVEL
THE INHERITORS: AN EXTRAVAGANT STORY
THE NATURE OF A CRIME
THE SHADOW-LINE
A CONFESSION
BY JOSEPH CONRAD
“Worthy of my undying regard ” SPECIAL EDITION
PUBLISHED BY DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC. FOR
P. F. COLLIER & SON COMPANY . NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1917, 1921, BY DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC, COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY METRO- POLITAN MAGAZINE COMPANY, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
TO BORYS AND ALL OTHERS
WHO LIKE HIMSELF HAVE CROSSED IN EARLY YOUTH THE SHADOW-LINE OF THEIR GENERATION
WITH LOVE
Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2025
https://archive.org/details/bwb_SO-CBV-696
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Tus story, which I admit to be in its brevity a fairly complex piece of work, was not intended to touch on the supernatural. Yet more than one critic has been inclined to take it in that way, seeing in it an attempt on my part to give the fullest scope to my imagination by taking it beyond the confines of the world of living, suffering humanity. But as a matter of fact my imagination is not made of stuff so elastic as all that. I believe that if I attempted to put the strain of the Supernatural on it it would fail deplorably and exhibit an unlovely gap. But I could never have attempted such a thing, because all my moral and in- tellectual being is penetrated by an invincible convic- tion that whatever falls under the dominion of our senses must be in nature and, however exceptional, cannot differ in its essence from all the other effects of the visible and tangible world of which we are a self- conscious part. The world of the living contains enough marvels and mysteries as it is; marvels and mys- teries acting upon our emotions and intelligence in ways so inexplicable that it would almost justify the con- ception of life as an enchanted state. No, I am too firm in my consciousness of the marvellous to be ever fascinated by the mere supernatural, which (take it any way you like) is but a manufactured article, the fabrication of minds insensitive to the intimate deli» čacies of our relation to the dead and to the living, in,
vn
vin AUTHOR'S NOTE their countless multitudes: a deseeration of our tender”
est memories: an outrage on our
Whatever my mative modesty may be it will never eomdescend se lew as to seek help for my imagination within these vain imaginings common to all ages and
= im themselves are enough to fill all levers of man- Pe re aea E As to the effect of a mental or moral shock on a common mind, it is quite a keitimate swbject for study and description. Mr. Barns moral being receives a severe shock in hisrelations with bis Inte captain, and this im his diseased state turns inio a mere superstitious famcy compounded of fear — and animosity. This fact is one of the elements of the. siarp, but there is nothing supernatural in it, nothing æ to speak from beyond the confines of this world, which m all comscience holds enough mystery and terror im itself.
Perhaps if I had published this tale. which I have had for a long time in my mind, under the title of “First Command™ no suggestion of the Supernatural would bave been found in it by any impartial reader, critical or otherwise. I will not consider here the origins of the feelime in which its actual title, “The Shadow Line.” oc- curred to my mind. Primarily the aim of this piece of writing was the presentation of certain facts which certainly were associated with the change from youth, carefree and fervent, to the more self-conscious and more poignant period of maturer lfe. N can doubt that before the supreme trial of a whole genera- tien I had an acute consciousness of the minute and Insignificant character of my own obscure experience. There could be no question here of any parallelism. That notion never entered my head. But there was a feline of identity, though with an enormous difference ef seale—as of one single drop measured against the
AUTHOR’S NOTE ix
bitter and stormy immensity of an ocean. And this was very natural too. For when we begin to meditate on the meaning of our own past it seems to fill all the world in its profundity and its magnitude. This book was written in the last three months of the year 1916. Of all the subjects of which a writer of tales is more or less conscious within himself this is the only one I found it possible to attempt at the time. The depth and the nature of the mood with which I approached it is best expressed perhaps in the dedication which strikes me now as a most disproportionate thing—as but another instance of the overwhelming greatness of our own emotion to ourselves.
This much having been said, I may pass on now to a ‘few remarks about the mere material of the story. As to locality it belongs to that part of the Eastern Seas from which I have carried away into my writing life the greatest number of suggestions. From my state- ment that I thought of this story for a long time under the title of “First Command” the reader may guess that it is concerned with my personal experience. And as a matter of fact it is personal experience seen in per- spective with the eye of the mind and coloured by that affection one can’t help feeling for such events of one’s life as one has no reason to be ashamed of. And that affection is as intense (I appeal here to universal ex- perience) as the shame, and almost the anguish with which one remembers some unfortunate occurrences, down to mere mistakes in speech, that have been per- petrated by one in the past. The effect of perspective in memory is to make things loom large because the essentials stand out isolated from their surroundings of insignificant daily facts which have naturally faded out of one’s mind. I remember that period of my sea-life with pleasure because begun inauspiciously it turned.
x AUTHOR’S NOTE
out in the end a success from a personal point of view, leaving a tangible proof in the terms of the letter the owners of the ship wrote to me two years afterwards when I resigned my command in order to come home. This resignation marked the beginning of another phase of my seaman’s life, its terminal phase, if I may say so, which in its own way has coloured another portion of my writings. I didn’t know then how near its end my sea-lfe was, and therefore I felt no sorrow except at parting with the ship. I was sorry also to break my connection with the firm who owned her and who were pleased to receive with friendly kindness and give their confidence to a man who had entered their service in an accidental manner and in very adverse circumstances. Without disparaging the earnestness of my purpose I suspect now that luck had no small part in the success of the trust reposed in me. And ‘one cannot help remembering with pleasure the time when one’s best efforts were seconded by a run of luck.
The words “ Worthy of my undying regard” selected by me for the motto on the title page are quoted from the text of the book itself; and, though one of my critics surmised that they applied to the ship, it is evi- dent from the place where they stand that they refer to the men of that ship’s company: complete strangers to their new captain and who yet stood by him so well during those twenty days that seemed to have been passed on the brink of a slow and agonizing destruc- tion. And that is the greatest memory of all! For surely it is a great thing to have commanded a handful of men worthy of one’s undying regard.
1920. JC
THE SHADOW LINE
THE SHADOW-LINE
» + +—D’autres fois, calme plat, grand mirroir De mon désespoir. BAUDELAIRE.
I
Onty the young have such moments. I don’t mean the very young. No. The very young have, properly speaking, no moments. It is the privilege of early youth to live in advance of its days in all the beautiful continuity of hope which knows no pauses and no in- trospection.
One closes behind one the little gate of mere boyish- 'ness—and enters an enchanted garden. Its very shades glow with promise. Every turn of the path has its seduction. And it isn’t because it is an undiscovered country. One knows well enough that all mankind had streamed that way. It is the charm of universal experience from which one expects an uncommon or personal sensation—a bit of one’s own.
One goes on recognising the landmarks of the pre- decessors, excited, amused, taking the hard luck and the good luck together—the kicks and the halfpence, as the saying is—the picturesque common lot that holds so many possibilities for the deserving or perhaps for the lucky. Yes. One goes on. And the time, too, goes on—till one perceives ahead a shadow-line warning one that the region of early youth, too, must be left behind.
This is the period of life in which such moments of
8
4 THE SHADOW-LINE
which I have spoken are likely to come. What mo- ments? Why, the moments of boredom, of weariness, of dissatisfaction. Rash moments. I mean moments when the still young are inclined to commit rash actions, such as getting married suddenly or else throwing up a job for no reason.
This is not a marriage story. It wasn’t so bad as that with me. My action, rash as it was, had more the character of divorce—almost of desertion. For no reason on which a sensible person could put a finger I threw up my job—chucked my berth—left the ship of which the worst that could be said was that she was a steamship and therefore, perhaps, not entitled to that blind loyalty which. . . . However, it’s no use try- ing to put a gloss on what even at the time I myself half suspected to be a caprice.
It was in an Eastern port. She was an Eastern ship, inasmuch as then she belonged to that port. She traded among dark islands on a blue reef-scarred sea, with the Red Ensign over the taffrail and at her mast- head a house-flag, also red, but with a green border and with a white crescent init. Foran Arab owned her, and a Syed at that. Hence the green border on the flag. He was the head of a great House of Straits Arabs, but as loyal a subject of the complex British Empire as you could find east of the Suez Canal. World politics did not trouble him at all, but he had a great occult power amongst his own people.
It was all one to us who owned the ship. He had to employ white men in the shipping part of his business, and many of those he so employed had never set eyes on him from the first to the last day. I myself saw him but once, quite accidentally on a wharf—an old, dark little man blind in one eye, in a snowy robe and yellow slippers. He was having his hand severely kissed
THE SHADOW-LINE 5
by a crowd of Malay pilgrims to whom he had done some favour, in the way of food and money. His alms-' giving, I have heard, was most extensive, covering al- most the whole Archipelago. For isn’t it said that “The charitable man is the friend of Allah ”?
Excellent (and picturesque) Arab owner, about whom one needed not to trouble one’s head, a most excellent Scottish ship—for she was that from the keel up— excellent sea-boat, easy to keep clean, most handy in every way, and if it had not been for her internal propulsion, worthy of any man’s love, I cherish to this day a profound respect for her memory. As to the kind of trade she was engaged in and the character of my shipmates, I could not have been happier if I had had the life and the men made to my order by a benevolent Enchanter.
And suddenly I left all this. I left it in that, to us, inconsequential manner in which a bird flies away from a comfortable branch. It was as though all unknowing I had heard a whisper or seen something. Well—per- haps! One day I was perfectly right and the next everything was gone—glamour, flavour, interest, con-
tentment—everything. It was one of those moments,
you know. The green sickness of late youth descended on me and carried me off. Carried me off that ship, I mean.
We were only four white men on board, with a large crew of Kalashes and two Malay petty officers. The Captain stared hard as if wondering what ailed me. But he was a sailor, and he, too, had been young at one time. Presently a smile came to lurk under his thick iron-grey moustache, and he observed that, of course, if I felt I must go he couldn’t keep me by main force. And it was arranged that I should be paid off the next morn- ing. As I was going out of the chart-room he added
6 THE SHADOW-LINE
suddenly, in a peculiar, wistful tone, that he hoped f would find what I was so anxious to go and look for. A soft, cryptic utterance which seemed to reach deeper than any diamond-hard tool could have done. I do believe he understood my case.
But the second engineer attacked me differently. He was a sturdy young Scot, with a smooth face and light eyes. His honest red countenance emerged out of the engine-room companion and then the whole robust man, with shirt sleeves turned up, wiping slowly the massive fore-arms with a lump of cotton-waste. And his light eyes expressed bitter distaste, as though our friendship had turned to ashes. He said weightily: “Oh! Aye! Tve been thinking it was about time for you to run away home and get married to some silly girl.”
It was tacitly understood in the port that John Nieven was a fierce misogynist; and the absurd charac- ter of the sally convinced me that he meant to be nasty—very nasty—had meant to say the most crush- ing thing he could think of. My laugh sounded dep- recatory. Nobody but a friend could be so angry as that. I became a little crestfallen. Our chief engineer also took a characteristic view of my action, but in a kindlier spirit.
He was young, too, but very thin, and with a mist of fluffy brown beard all round his haggard face. All day long, at sea or in harbour, he could be seen walking hastily up and down the after-deck, wearing an intense, spiritually rapt expression, which was caused by a perpetual consciousness of unpleasant physical sen- jsations in his internal economy. For he was a con- firmed dyspeptic. His view of my case was very simple. He said it was nothing but deranged liver. Of course! He suggested I should stay for another trip and mean- time dose myself with a certain patent medicine in
THE SHADOW-LINE 7
which his own belief was absolute. “TIl tell you what Tildo. Ill buy you two bottles, out of my own pocket. There. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?”
I believe he would have perpetrated the atrocity (or generosity) at the merest sign of weakening on my part. By that time, however, I was more discontented, disgusted, and dogged than ever. The past eighteen months, so full of new and varied experience, appeared a dreary, prosaic waste of days. I felt—how shall I express it?—that there was no truth to be got out of them.
What truth? I should have been hard put to it to explain. Probably, if pressed, I would have burst into tears simply. I was young enough for that.
Next day the Captain and I transacted our business in the Harbour Office. It was a lofty, big, cool, white room, where the screened light of day glowed serenely. Everybody in it—the officials, the public—was in white. Only the heavy polished desks gleamed darkly in a central avenue, and some papers lying on them were blue. Enormous punkahs sent from on high a gentle draught through that immaculate interior and upon our perspiring heads.
The official behind the desk we approached grinned amiably and kept it up till, in answer to his perfunctory question, “Sign off and on again?” my Captain an- swered, “No! Signing off for good.” And then his grin vanished in sudden solemnity. He did not look at me again till he handed me my papers with a sorrowful expression, as if they had been my passports for Hades.
While I was putting them away he murmured some question to the Captain, and I heard the latter answer good-humouredly :
“No. He leaves us to go home.”
8 THE SHADOW-LINE
“Oh!” the other exclaimed, nodding mournfully over my sad condition.
I didn’t know him outside the official building, but he leaned forward over the desk to shake hands with me, compassionately, as one would with some poor devil going out to be hanged; and I am afraid I performed my part ungraciously, in the hardened manner of an im- penitent criminal.