The Rescue
THE RESCUE
A ROMANCE OF THE SHALLOWS
* * *
JOSEPH CONRAD

*
The Rescue
A Romance of the Shallows
First published in 1920
ISBN 978-1-775419-31-0
© 2010 The Floating Press
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Contents
*
Author's Note
Part I - The Man and the Brig
I
II
III
IV
Part II - The Shore of Refuge
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
Part III - The Capture
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
Part IV - The Gift of the Shallows
I
II
III
IV
V
Part V - The Point of Honour and the Point of Passion
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
Part VI - The Claim of Life and the Toll of Death
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
Author's Note
*
Of the three long novels of mine which suffered an interruption, "The
Rescue" was the one that had to wait the longest for the good pleasure
of the Fates. I am betraying no secret when I state here that it had
to wait precisely for twenty years. I laid it aside at the end of the
summer of 1898 and it was about the end of the summer of 1918 that I
took it up again with the firm determination to see the end of it and
helped by the sudden feeling that I might be equal to the task.
This does not mean that I turned to it with elation. I was well aware
and perhaps even too much aware of the dangers of such an adventure.
The amazingly sympathetic kindness which men of various temperaments,
diverse views and different literary tastes have been for years
displaying towards my work has done much for me, has done all—except
giving me that over-weening self-confidence which may assist an
adventurer sometimes but in the long run ends by leading him to the
gallows.
As the characteristic I want most to impress upon these short Author's
Notes prepared for my first Collected Edition is that of absolute
frankness, I hasten to declare that I founded my hopes not on my
supposed merits but on the continued goodwill of my readers. I may say
at once that my hopes have been justified out of all proportion to my
deserts. I met with the most considerate, most delicately expressed
criticism free from all antagonism and in its conclusions showing
an insight which in itself could not fail to move me deeply, but was
associated also with enough commendation to make me feel rich beyond the
dreams of avarice—I mean an artist's avarice which seeks its treasure
in the hearts of men and women.
No! Whatever the preliminary anxieties might have been this adventure
was not to end in sorrow. Once more Fortune favoured audacity; and yet
I have never forgotten the jocular translation of Audaces fortuna juvat
offered to me by my tutor when I was a small boy: "The Audacious get
bitten." However he took care to mention that there were various kinds
of audacity. Oh, there are, there are! . . . There is, for instance, the
kind of audacity almost indistinguishable from impudence. . . . I
must believe that in this case I have not been impudent for I am not
conscious of having been bitten.
The truth is that when "The Rescue" was laid aside it was not laid aside
in despair. Several reasons contributed to this abandonment and, no
doubt, the first of them was the growing sense of general difficulty in
the handling of the subject. The contents and the course of the story I
had clearly in my mind. But as to the way of presenting the facts, and
perhaps in a certain measure as to the nature of the facts themselves,
I had many doubts. I mean the telling, representative facts, helpful
to carry on the idea, and, at the same time, of such a nature as not to
demand an elaborate creation of the atmosphere to the detriment of
the action. I did not see how I could avoid becoming wearisome in the
presentation of detail and in the pursuit of clearness. I saw the action
plainly enough. What I had lost for the moment was the sense of the
proper formula of expression, the only formula that would suit. This,
of course, weakened my confidence in the intrinsic worth and in the
possible interest of the story—that is in my invention. But I suspect
that all the trouble was, in reality, the doubt of my prose, the doubt
of its adequacy, of its power to master both the colours and the shades.
It is difficult to describe, exactly as I remember it, the complex state
of my feelings; but those of my readers who take an interest in artistic
perplexities will understand me best when I point out that I dropped
"The Rescue" not to give myself up to idleness, regrets, or dreaming,
but to begin "The Nigger of the 'Narcissus'" and to go on with it
without hesitation and without a pause. A comparison of any page of
"The Rescue" with any page of "The Nigger" will furnish an ocular
demonstration of the nature and the inward meaning of this first crisis
of my writing life. For it was a crisis undoubtedly. The laying aside of
a work so far advanced was a very awful decision to take.
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