t from the
centre of Africa, where, really, I had no sort of business. More
ambitious in its scope and longer in the telling, Heart of Darkness is
quite as authentic in fundamentals as Youth. It is, obviously, written
in another mood. I won't characterize the mood precisely, but anybody
can see that it is anything but the mood of wistful regret, of
reminiscent tenderness.

One more remark may be added. Youth is a feat of memory. It is a record
of experience; but that experience, in its facts, in its inwardness and
in its outward colouring, begins and ends in myself. Heart of Darkness
is experience, too; but it is experience pushed a little (and only very
little) beyond the actual facts of the case for the perfectly
legitimate, I believe, purpose of bringing it home to the minds and
bosoms of the readers. There it was no longer a matter of sincere
colouring. It was like another art altogether. That sombre theme had to
be given a sinister resonance, a tonality of its own, a continued
vibration that, I hoped, would hang in the air and dwell on the ear
after the last note had been struck.

After saying so much there remains the last tale of the book, still
untouched. The End of the Tether is a story of sea-life in a rather
special way; and the most intimate thing I can say of it is this: that
having lived that life fully, amongst its men, its thoughts and
sensations, I have found it possible, without the slightest misgiving,
in all sincerity of heart and peace of conscience, to conceive the
existence of Captain Whalley's personality and to relate the manner of
his end. This statement acquires some force from the circumstance that
the pages of that story--a fair half of the book--are also the product
of experience. That experience belongs (like "Youth's") to the time
before I ever thought of putting pen to paper. As to its "reality" that
is for the readers to determine. One had to pick up one's facts here and
there. More skill would have made them more real and the whole
composition more interesting. But here we are approaching the veiled
region of artistic values which it would be improper and indeed
dangerous for me to enter. I have looked over the proofs, have corrected
a misprint or two, have changed a word or two--and that's all. It is not
very likely that I shall ever read The End of the Tether again. No more
need be said. It accords best with my feelings to part from Captain
Whalley in affectionate silence.

J.