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has remained with me through the fifteen years of my writing
life）； from the moment I had； in the simplicity of my heart and
the amazing ignorance of my mind； written that page the die was
cast。 Never had Rubicon been more blindly forded； without
invocation to the gods； without fear of men。
That morning I got up from my breakfast； pushing the chair back；
and rang the bell violently； or perhaps I should say resolutely；
or perhaps I should say eagerly； I do not know。 But manifestly
it must have been a special ring of the bell； a common sound made
impressive； like the ringing of a bell for the raising of the
curtain upon a new scene。 It was an unusual thing for me to do。
Generally； I dawdled over my breakfast and I solemn took the
trouble to ring the bell for the table to be cleared away； but on
that morning for some reason hidden in the general mysteriousness
of the event I did not dawdle。 And yet I was not in a hurry。 I
pulled the cord casually and while the faint tinkling somewhere
down in the basement went on； I charged my pipe in the usual way
and I looked for the matchbox with glances distraught indeed but
exhibiting； I am ready to swear； no signs of a fine frenzy。 I
was composed enough to perceive after some considerable time the
matchbox lying there on the mantelpiece right under my nose。 And
all this was beautifully and safely usual。 Before I had thrown
down the match my landlady's daughter appeared with her calm；
pale face and an inquisitive look； in the doorway。 Of late it
was the landlady's daughter who answered my bell。 I mention this
little fact with pride； because it proves that during the thirty
or forty days of my tenancy I had produced a favourable
impression。 For a fortnight past I had been spared the
unattractive sight of the domestic slave。 The girls in that
Bessborough Gardens house were often changed； but whether short
or long； fair or dark； they were always untidy and particularly
bedraggled as if in a sordid version of the fairy tale the ashbin
cat had been changed into a maid。 I was infinitely sensible of
the privilege of being waited on by my landlady's daughter。 She
was neat if anaemic。
〃Will you please clear away all this at once？〃 I addressed her in
convulsive accents； being at the same time engaged in getting my
pipe to draw。 This； I admit； was an unusual request。 Generally
on getting up from breakfast I would sit down in the window with
a book and let them clear the table when they liked； but if you
think that on that morning I was in the least impatient； you are
mistaken。 I remember that I was perfectly calm。 As a matter of
fact I was not at all certain that I wanted to write； or that I
meant to write； or that I had anything to write about。 No； I was
not impatient。 I lounged between the mantelpiece and the window；
not even consciously waiting for the table to be cleared。 It was
ten to one that before my landlady's daughter was done I would
pick up a book and sit down with it all the morning in a spirit
of enjoyable indolence。 I affirm it with assurance； and I don't
even know now what were the books then lying about the room。
Whatever they were they were not the works of great masters；
where the secret of clear thought and exact expression can be
found。 Since the age of five I have been a great reader； as is
not perhaps wonderful in a child who was never aware of learning
to read。 At ten years of age I had read much of Victor Hugo and
other romantics。 I had read in Polish and in French； history；
voyages； novels； I knew 〃Gil Blas〃 and 〃Don Quixote〃 in abridged
editions； I had read in early boyhood Polish poets and some
French poets； but I cannot say what I read on the evening before
I began to write myself。 I believe it was a novel and it is
quite possible that it was one of Anthony Trollope's novels。 It
is very likely。 My acquaintance with him was then very recent。
He is one of the English novelists whose works I read for the
first time in English。 With men of European reputation； with
Dickens and Walter Scott and Thackeray； it was otherwise。 My
first introduction to English imaginative literature was
〃Nicholas Nickleby。〃 It is extraordinary how well Mrs。 Nickleby
could chatter disconnectedly in Polish and the sinister Ralph
rage in that language。 As to the Crummles family and the family
of the learned Squeers it seemed as natural to them as their
native speech。 It was； I have no doubt； an excellent
translation。 This must have been in the year '70。 But I really
believe that I am wrong。 That book was not my first introduction
to English literature。 My first acquaintance was （or were） the
〃Two Gentlemen of Verona；〃 and that in the very MS。 of my
father's translation。 It was during our exile in Russia； and it
must have been less than a year after my mother's death； because
I remember myself in the black blouse with a white border of my
heavy mourning。 We were living together； quite alone； in a small
house on the outskirts of the town of T。 That afternoon；
instead of going out to play in the large yard which we shared
with our landlord； I had lingered in the room in which my father
generally wrote。 What emboldened me to clamber into his chair I
am sure I don't know； but a couple of hours afterwards he
discovered me kneeling in it with my elbows on the table and my
head held in both hands over the MS。 of loose pages。 I was
greatly confused； expecting to get into trouble。 He stood in the
doorway looking at me with some surprise； but the only thing he
said after a moment of silence was：
〃Read the page aloud。〃
Luckily the page lying before me was not overblotted with
erasures and corrections； and my father's handwriting was
otherwise extremely legible。 When I got to the end he nodded and
I flew out of doors thinking myself lucky to have escaped reproof
for that piece of impulsive audacity。 I have tried to discover
since the reason of this mildness； and I imagine that all unknown
to myself I had earned； in my father's mind； the right to some
latitude in my relations with his writing…table。 It was only a
month before； or perhaps it was only a week before； that I had
read to him aloud from beginning to end； and to his perfect
satisfaction； as he lay on his bed； not being very well at the
time； the proofs of his translation of Victor Hugo's 〃Toilers of
the Sea。〃 Such was my title to consideration； I believe； and
also my first introduction to the sea in literature。 If I do not
remember where； how and when I learned to rea