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.