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man to whom we owe the memorable saying； 〃The good critic is he
who relates the adventures of his soul among masterpieces；〃 M。
Anatole France maintained that there were no rules and no
principles。 And that may be very true。 Rules； principles； and
standards die and vanish every day。 Perhaps they are all dead
and vanished by this time。 These； if ever； are the brave； free
days of destroyed landmarks； while the ingenious minds are busy
inventing the forms of the new beacons which； it is consoling to
think； will be set up presently in the old places。 But what is
interesting to a writer is the possession of an inward certitude
that literary criticism will never die； for man （so variously
defined） is； before everything else； a critical animal。 And as
long as distinguished minds are ready to treat it in the spirit
of high adventure literary criticism shall appeal to us with all
the charm and wisdom of a well…told tale of personal experience。
For Englishmen especially； of all the races of the earth； a task；
any task； undertaken in an adventurous spirit acquires the merit
of romance。 But the critics as a rule exhibit but little of an
adventurous spirit。 They take risks； of courseone can hardly
live with out that。 The daily bread is served out to us （however
sparingly） with a pinch of salt。 Otherwise one would get sick of
the diet one prays for； and that would be not only improper； but
impious。 From impiety of that or any other kindsave us！ An
ideal of reserved manner； adhered to from a sense of proprieties；
from shyness； perhaps； or caution； or simply from weariness；
induces； I suspect； some writers of criticism to conceal the
adventurous side of their calling； and then the criticism becomes
a mere 〃notice；〃 as it were； the relation of a journey where
nothing but the distances and the geology of a new country should
be set down； the glimpses of strange beasts； the dangers of flood
and field； the hairbreadth escapes； and the sufferings （oh； the
sufferings； too！ I have no doubt of the sufferings） of the
traveller being carefully kept out； no shady spot； no fruitful
plant being ever mentioned either； so that the whole performance
looks like a mere feat of agility on the part of a trained pen
running in a desert。 A cruel spectaclea most deplorable
adventure！ 〃Life；〃 in the words of an immortal thinker of； I
should say； bucolic origin； but whose perishable name is lost to
the worship of posterity〃life is not all beer and skittles。〃
Neither is the writing of novels。 It isn't； really。 Je vous
donne ma parole d'honneur that itisnot。 Not ALL。 I am thus
emphatic because some years ago； I remember； the daughter of a
general。 。 。 。
Sudden revelations of the profane world must have come now and
then to hermits in their cells； to the cloistered monks of middle
ages； to lonely sages； men of science； reformers； the revelations
of the world's superficial judgment； shocking to the souls
concentrated upon their own bitter labour in the cause of
sanctity； or of knowledge； or of temperance； let us say； or of
art； if only the art of cracking jokes or playing the flute。 And
thus this general's daughter came to meor I should say one of
the general's daughters did。 There were three of these bachelor
ladies； of nicely graduated ages； who held a neighbouring
farm…house in a united and more or less military occupation。 The
eldest warred against the decay of manners in the village
children； and executed frontal attacks upon the village mothers
for the conquest of courtesies。 It sounds futile； but it was
really a war for an idea。 The second skirmished and scouted all
over the country； and it was that one who pushed a reconnaissance
right to my very tableI mean the one who wore stand…up collars。
She was really calling upon my wife in the soft spirit of
afternoon friendliness； but with her usual martial determination。
She marched into my room swinging her stick 。 。 。 but noI
mustn't exaggerate。 It is not my specialty。 I am not a
humoristic writer。 In all soberness； then； all I am certain of
is that she had a stick to swing。
No ditch or wall encompassed my abode。 The window was open； the
door； too； stood open to that best friend of my work； the warm；
still sunshine of the wide fields。 They lay around me infinitely
helpful； but； truth to say； I had not known for weeks whether the
sun shone upon the earth and whether the stars above still moved
on their appointed courses。 I was just then giving up some days
of my allotted span to the last chapters of the novel 〃Nostromo；〃
a tale of an imaginary （but true） seaboard； which is still
mentioned now and again； and indeed kindly； sometimes in
connection with the word 〃failure〃 and sometimes in conjunction
with the word 〃astonishing。〃 I have no opinion on this
discrepancy。 It's the sort of difference that can never be
settled。 All I know is that； for twenty months； neglecting the
common joys of life that fall to the lot of the humblest on this
earth； I had； like the prophet of old； 〃wrestled with the Lord〃
for my creation； for the headlands of the coast； for the darkness
of the Placid Gulf； the light on the snows； the clouds in the
sky； and for the breath of life that had to be blown into the
shapes of men and women； of Latin and Saxon； of Jew and Gentile。
These are； perhaps； strong words； but it is difficult to
characterize other wise the intimacy and the strain of a creative
effort in which mind and will and conscience are engaged to the
full； hour after hour； day after day； away from the world； and to
the exclusion of all that makes life really lovable and
gentlesomething for which a material parallel can only be found
in the everlasting sombre stress of the westward winter passage
round Cape Horn。 For that； too； is the wrestling of men with the
might of their Creator； in a great isolation from the world；
without the amenities and consolations of life； a lonely struggle
under a sense of overmatched littleness； for no reward that could
be adequate； but for the mere winning of a longitude。 Yet a
certain longitude； once won； cannot be disputed。 The sun and the
stars and the shape of your earth are the witnesses of your gain；
whereas a handful of pages； no matter how much you have made them
your own； are at best but an obscure and questionable spoil。
Here they are。 〃Failure〃〃Astonishing〃： take your choice； or
perhaps both； or neithera mere rustle and flutter of pieces of
paper settling down in the night； and undistinguishable； like the
snowflakes of a great drift destined to melt away in sunshine。
〃How do you do？〃
It was the greeting of the general's daughter。 I had heard
nothingno rustle； no footsteps。 I had felt only a moment
before a sort of premonition of evil； I had the sense of an
inauspicious presencejust that much warning and no more； and
then came the sound of the voice and the jar as of a terrible
fall from a great heighta fall； let us say； from the highest of
the clouds floating in gentle procession over the fields in the
faint westerly air of that July afternoon。 I picked myself up
quickly； of course； in other words； I jumped up from my chair
stunned and dazed； every nerve quivering with the pain of being
uprooted out of one world and flung down into anotherperfectly
civil。
〃Oh！ How do you do？ Won't you sit down？〃
That's what I said。 This horrible but； I assure you； perfectly
true reminiscence tells you more than a whole volume of
confessions a la Jean Jacques Rousseau would do。 Observe！ I
didn't howl at her； or start up setting furniture； or throw
myself on the floor and kick； or allow myself to hint in any
other way at the appalling magnitude of the disaster。 The whole
world of Costaguana （the country； you may remember； of my
seaboard tale）； men； women； headlands； houses； mountains； town；
campo（there was not a single brick； stone； or grain of sand of
its soil I had not placed in position with my own hands）； all the
history； geography； politics； finance； the wealth of Charles
Gould's silver…mine； and the splendour of the magnificent Capataz
de Cargadores； whose name； cried out in the night （Dr。 Monygham
heard it pass over his headin Linda Viola's voice）； dominated
even after death the dark gulf containing his conquests of
treasure and loveall that had come down crashing about my ears。