AUTHOR'S NOTE
The
main characteristic of this volume consists in this, that all the
stories composing it belong not only to the same period but have been
written one after another in the order in which they appear in the
book.The
period is that which follows on my connection with Blackwood's
Magazine. I had just finished writing "The End of the Tether"
and was casting about for some subject which could be developed in a
shorter form than the tales in the volume of "Youth" when
the instance of a steamship full of returning coolies from Singapore
to some port in northern China occurred to my recollection. Years
before I had heard it being talked about in the East as a recent
occurrence. It was for us merely one subject of conversation amongst
many others of the kind. Men earning their bread in any very
specialized occupation will talk shop, not only because it is the
most vital interest of their lives but also because they have not
much knowledge of other subjects. They have never had the time to get
acquainted with them. Life, for most of us, is not so much a hard as
an exacting taskmaster.I
never met anybody personally concerned in this affair, the interest
of which for us was, of course, not the bad weather but the
extraordinary complication brought into the ship's life at a moment
of exceptional stress by the human element below her deck. Neither
was the story itself ever enlarged upon in my hearing. In that
company each of us could imagine easily what the whole thing was
like. The financial difficulty of it, presenting also a human
problem, was solved by a mind much too simple to be perplexed by
anything in the world except men's idle talk for which it was not
adapted.From
the first the mere anecdote, the mere statement I might say, that
such a thing had happened on the high seas, appeared to me a
sufficient subject for meditation. Yet it was but a bit of a sea yarn
after all. I felt that to bring out its deeper significance which was
quite apparent to me, something other, something more was required; a
leading motive that would harmonize all these violent noises, and a
point of view that would put all that elemental fury into its proper
place.What
was needed of course was Captain MacWhirr. Directly I perceived him I
could see that he was the man for the situation. I don't mean to say
that I ever saw Captain MacWhirr in the flesh, or had ever come in
contact with his literal mind and his dauntless temperament. MacWhirr
is not an acquaintance of a few hours, or a few weeks, or a few
months. He is the product of twenty years of life. My own life.
Conscious invention had little to do with him. If it is true that
Captain MacWhirr never walked and breathed on this earth (which I
find for my part extremely difficult to believe) I can also assure my
readers that he is perfectly authentic. I may venture to assert the
same of every aspect of the story, while I confess that the
particular typhoon of the tale was not a typhoon of my actual
experience.At
its first appearance "Typhoon," the story, was classed by
some critics as a deliberately intended storm-piece. Others picked
out MacWhirr, in whom they perceived a definite symbolic intention.
Neither was exclusively my intention. Both the typhoon and Captain
MacWhirr presented themselves to me as the necessities of the deep
conviction with which I approached the subject of the story. It was
their opportunity. It was also my opportunity; and it would be vain
to discourse about what I made of it in a handful of pages, since the
pages themselves are here, between the covers of this volume, to
speak for themselves.This
is a belated reflection. If it had occurred to me before it would
have perhaps done away with the existence of this Author's Note; for,
indeed, the same remark applies to every story in this volume. None
of them are stories of experience in the absolute sense of the word.
Experience in them is but the canvas of the attempted picture. Each
of them has its more than one intention. With each the question is
what the writer has done with his opportunity; and each answers the
question for itself in words which, if I may say so without undue
solemnity, were written with a conscientious regard for the truth of
my own sensations. And each of those stories, to mean something, must
justify itself in its own way to the conscience of each successive
reader."Falk"—the
second story in the volume—offended the delicacy of one critic at
least by certain peculiarities of its subject. But what is the
subject of "Falk"? I personally do not feel so very certain
about it. He who reads must find out for himself. My intention in
writing "Falk" was not to shock anybody. As in most of my
writings I insist not on the events but on their effect upon the
persons in the tale. But in everything I have written there is always
one invariable intention, and that is to capture the reader's
attention, by securing his interest and enlisting his sympathies for
the matter in hand, whatever it may be, within the limits of the
visible world and within the boundaries of human emotions.I
may safely say that Falk is absolutely true to my experience of
certain straightforward characters combining a perfectly natural
ruthlessness with a certain amount of moral delicacy. Falk obeys the
law of self-preservation without the slightest misgivings as to his
right, but at a crucial turn of that ruthlessly preserved life he
will not condescend to dodge the truth. As he is presented as
sensitive enough to be affected permanently by a certain unusual
experience, that experience had to be set by me before the reader
vividly; but it is not the subject of the tale. If we go by mere
facts then the subject is Falk's attempt to get married; in which the
narrator of the tale finds himself unexpectedly involved both on its
ruthless and its delicate side."Falk"
shares with one other of my stories ("The Return" in the
"Tales of Unrest" volume) the distinction of never having
been serialized. I think the copy was shown to the editor of some
magazine who rejected it indignantly on the sole ground that "the
girl never says anything." This is perfectly true. From first to
last Hermann's niece utters no word in the tale—and it is not
because she is dumb, but for the simple reason that whenever she
happens to come under the observation of the narrator she has either
no occasion or is too profoundly moved to speak. The editor, who
obviously had read the story, might have perceived that for himself.
Apparently he did not, and I refrained from pointing out the
impossibility to him because, since he did not venture to say that
"the girl" did not live, I felt no concern at his
indignation.All
the other stories were serialized. The "Typhoon" appeared
in the early numbers of the Pall Mall Magazine, then under the
direction of the late Mr. Halkett. It was on that occasion, too, that
I saw for the first time my conceptions rendered by an artist in
another medium. Mr. Maurice Grieffenhagen knew how to combine in his
illustrations the effect of his own most distinguished personal
vision with an absolute fidelity to the inspiration of the writer.
"Amy Foster" was published in The Illustrated London News
with a fine drawing of Amy on her day out giving tea to the children
at her home, in a hat with a big feather. "To-morrow"
appeared first in the Pall Mall Magazine. Of that story I will only
say that it struck many people by its adaptability to the stage and
that I was induced to dramatize it under the title of "One Day
More"; up to the present my only effort in that direction. I may
also add that each of the four stories on their appearance in book
form was picked out on various grounds as the "best of the lot"
by different critics, who reviewed the volume with a warmth of
appreciation and understanding, a sympathetic insight and a
friendliness of expression for which I cannot be sufficiently
grateful.