Complete Works

the complete works of

JOSEPH
CONRAD

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Version 1.3 [May 2018] by pynch

Joseph Conrad

 

Almayer’s Folly (1895)

An Outcast of the Islands (1896)

The Nigger of the “Narcissus” (1897)

Tales of Unrest (1898; Karain: A Memory, The Idiots, An Outpost of Progress, The Return, The Lagoon)

Lord Jim (1900)

The Inheritors (1901; with Ford Madox Hueffer)

Youth: A Narrative, and Two Other Stories (1902; Youth, Heart of Darkness, The End of the Tether)

Typhoon and Other Stories (1903; Typhoon, Amy Foster, Falk, To-morrow)

Romance (1903; with Ford Madox Hueffer)

One Day More (1904)

Nostromo (1904)

The Mirror of the Sea (1906)

The Secret Agent (1907)

A Set of Six (1908; Gaspar Ruiz, The Informer, The Brute, An Anarchist, The Duel, Il Conde)

Under Western Eyes (1911)

A Personal Record (1912)

’Twixt Land and Sea (1912; A Smile of Fortune, The Secret Sharer, Freya of the Seven Isles)

Chance (1913)

Within the Tides (1915; The Planter of Malata, The Partner, The Inn of the Two Witches, Because of the Dollars)

Victory (1915)

The Shadow-Line (1917)

The Arrow of Gold (1919)

The Rescue (1920)

Notes on Life and Letters (1921)

The Rover (1923)

The Nature of a Crime (1923; with Ford Madox Hueffer)

Suspense (1925)

Tales of Hearsay (1925; The Warrior’s Soul, Prince Roman, The Tale, The Black Mate)

Last Essays (1926)

j o s e p h   c o n r a d ,   1 8 9 5

Almayer’s Folly

A Story of an
Eastern River

Qui de nous n’a eu sa terre promise, son jour d’extase et sa fin en exil?—Amiel.

T. Fisher Unwin, London 1895.

[The text follows the first edition.]

To
the memory
of
T. B.

Almayer’s Folly

 © 

Author’s Note

I • II • III • IV • V • VI • VII • VIII • IX • X • XI • XII

Author’s Note

I am informed that in criticizing that literature which preys on strange people and prowls in far-off countries, under the shade of palms, in the unsheltered glare of sunbeaten beaches, amongst honest cannibals and the more sophisticated pioneers of our glorious virtues, a lady—distinguished in the world of letters—summed up her disapproval of it by saying that the tales it produced were “de-civilized.” And in that sentence not only the tales but, I apprehend, the strange people and the far-off countries also, are finally condemned in a verdict of contemptuous dislike.

A woman’s judgment: intuitive, clever, expressed with felicitous charm—infallible. A judgment that has nothing to do with justice. The critic and the judge seems to think that in those distant lands all joy is a yell and a war dance, all pathos is a howl and a ghastly grin of filed teeth, and that the solution of all problems is found in the barrel of a revolver or on the point of an assegai. And yet it is not so. But the erring magistrate may plead in excuse the misleading nature of the evidence.

The picture of life, there as here, is drawn with the same elaboration of detail, coloured with the same tints. Only in the cruel serenity of the sky, under the merciless brilliance of the sun, the dazzled eye misses the delicate detail, sees only the strong outlines, while the colours, in the steady light, seem crude and-without shadow. Nevertheless it is the same picture.

And there is a bond between us and that humanity so far away. I am speaking here of men and women—not of the charming and graceful phantoms that move about in our mud and smoke and are softly luminous with the radiance of all our virtues; that are possessed of all refinements, of all sensibilities, of all wisdom—but, being only phantoms, possess no heart.

The sympathies of those are (probably) with the immortals: with the angels above or the devils below. I am content to sympathize with common mortals, no matter where they live; in houses or in tents, in the streets under a fog, or in the forests behind the dark line of dismal mangroves that fringe the vast solitude of the sea. For, their land—like ours—lies under the inscrutable eyes of the Most High. Their hearts—like ours—must endure the load of the gifts from Heaven: the curse of facts and the blessing of illusions, the bitterness of our wisdom and the deceptive consolation of our folly.

J. C.

1895.

 © 

·7· Chapter I

“Kaspar! Makan!”

The well-known shrill voice startled Almayer from his dream of splendid future into the unpleasant realities of the present hour. An unpleasant voice too. He had heard it for many years, and with every year he liked it less. No matter; there would be an end to all this soon.

He shuffled uneasily, but took no further notice of the call. Leaning with both his elbows on the balustrade of the verandah, he went on looking fixedly at the great river that flowed—indifferent and hurried—before his eyes. He liked to look at it about the time of sunset; perhaps because at that time the sinking sun would spread a glowing gold tinge on the waters of the Pantai, and Almayer’s thoughts were often busy with gold; gold he had failed to secure; gold the others had secured—dishonestly, of course—or gold he meant ·8· to secure yet, through his own honest exertions, for himself and Nina. He absorbed himself in his dream of wealth and power away from this coast where he had dwelt for so many years, forgetting the bitterness of toil and strife in the vision of a great and splendid reward. They would live in Europe, he and his daughter. They would be rich and respected. Nobody would think of her mixed blood in the presence of her great beauty and of his immense wealth. Witnessing her triumphs he would grow young again, he would forget the twenty-five years of heart-breaking struggle on this coast where he felt like a prisoner. All this was nearly within his reach. Let only Dain return! And return soon he must—in his own interest, for his own share. He was now more than a week late! Perhaps he would return to-night.

Such were Almayer’s thoughts as, standing on the verandah of his new but already decaying house—that last failure of his life—he looked on the broad river. There was no tinge of gold on it this evening, for it had been swollen by the rains, and rolled an angry and muddy flood under his inattentive eyes, carrying small drift-wood and big dead logs, and whole uprooted trees with branches and foliage, amongst which the water swirled and roared angrily.

One of those drifting trees grounded on the shelving shore, just by the house, and Almayer, ·9· neglecting his dream, watched it with languid interest. The tree swung slowly round, amid the hiss and foam of the water, and soon getting free of the obstruction began to move down stream again, rolling slowly over, raising upwards a long, denuded branch, like a hand lifted in mute appeal to heaven against the river’s brutal and unnecessary violence. Almayer’s interest in the fate of that tree increased rapidly.