He was, as anyone may see from his books, a very rigid moralist and by nomeans politically sympathetic with revolutionaries. He and I were in most ofour opinions by no means in agreement, but in something very fundamentalwe were extraordinarily at one.My relation to Joseph Conrad was unlike any other that I have ever had. Isaw him seldom, and not over a long period of years. In the out-works of ourlives, we were almost strangers, but we shared a certain outlook on humanlife and human destiny, which, from the very ?rst, made a bond of extremestrength. I may perhaps be pardoned for quoting a sentence from a letter thathe wrote to me very soon after we had become acquainted. I should feel thatmodesty forbids the quotation except for the fact that it expresses so exactlywhat I felt about him. What he expressed and I equally felt was, in his words,‘A deep admiring a?ection which, if you were never to see me again andforgot my existence tomorrow, would be unalterably yours usque ad ?nem’.Of all that he had written I admired most the terrible story called The Heartof Darkness, in which a rather weak idealist is driven mad by horror of thetropical forest and loneliness among savages. This story expresses, I think,most completely his philosophy of life. I felt, though I do not know whetherhe would have accepted such an image, that he thought of civilised andmorally tolerable human life as a dangerous walk on a thin crust of barelycooled lava which at any moment might break and let the unwary sink into?ery depths. He was very conscious of the various forms of passionate mad-ness to which men are prone, and it was this that gave him such a profoundbelief in the importance of discipline. His point of view, one might perhapssay, was the antithesis of Rousseau’s: ‘Man is born in chains, but he canbecome free.’ He becomes free, so I believe Conrad would have said, not bycambridge again 201letting loose his impulses, not by being casual and uncontrolled, but bysubduing wayward impulse to a dominant purpose.He was not much interested in political systems, though he had somestrong political feelings. The strongest of these were love of England andhatred of Russia, of which both are expressed in The Secret Agent; and the hatredof Russia, both Czarist and revolutionary, is set forth with great power inUnder Western Eyes. His dislike of Russia was that which was traditional inPoland. It went so far that he would not allow merit to either Tolstoy orDostoievsky. Turgeniev, he told me once, was the only Russian novelist whomhe admired.Except for love of England and hatred of Russia, politics did not muchconcern him. What interested him was the individual human soul faced withthe indi?erence of nature, and often with the hostility of man, and subjectto inner struggles with passions both good and bad that led towards destruc-tion. Tragedies of loneliness occupied a great part of his thought and feeling.One of his most typical stories is Typhoon. In this story the Captain, who is asimple soul, pulls his ship through by unshakeable courage and grimdetermination. When the storm is over, he writes a long letter to his wife,telling about it. In his account his own part is, to him, perfectly simple. Hehas merely performed his Captain’s duty as, of course, anyone would expect.But the reader, through his narrative, becomes aware of all that he has doneand dared and endured. The letter, before he sends it o?, is read surrepti-tiously by his steward, but is never read by anyone else at all because his wife?nds it boring and throws it away unread.The two things that seem most to occupy Conrad’s imagination areloneliness and fear of what is strange. An Outcast of the Islands like The Heart ofDarkness is concerned with fear of what is strange. Both come together in theextraordinarily moving story called Amy Foster. In this story a South-Slav peas-ant, on his way to America, is the sole survivor of the wreck of his ship, and iscast away in a Kentish village. All the village fears and ill-treats him, exceptAmy Foster, a dull, plain girl who brings him bread when he is starving and?nally marries him. But she, too, when, in fever, he reverts to his nativelanguage, is seized with a fear of his strangeness, snatches up their child andabandons him. He dies alone and hopeless. I have wondered at times howmuch of this man’s loneliness Conrad had felt among the English and hadsuppressed by a stern e?ort of will.Conrad’s point of view was far from modern. In the modern world there aretwo philosophies: the one which stems from Rousseau, and sweeps asidediscipline as unnecessary, the other, which ?nds its fullest expression in totali-tarianism, which thinks of discipline as essentially imposed from without.Conrad adhered to the older tradition, that discipline should come fromwithin. He despised indiscipline and hated discipline that was merely external.the autobiography of bertrand russell 202In all this I found myself closely in agreement with him. At our very ?rstmeeting, we talked with continually increasing intimacy. We seemed to sinkthrough layer after layer of what was super?cial, till gradually both reachedthe central ?re. It was an experience unlike any other that I have known. Welooked into each other’s eyes, half appalled and half intoxicated to ?nd our-selves together in such a region. The emotion was as intense as passionatelove, and at the same time all-embracing. I came away bewildered, and hardlyable to ?nd my way among ordinary a?airs.I saw nothing of Conrad during the war or after it until my return fromChina in 1921. When my ?rst son was born in that year I wished Conrad tobe as nearly his godfather as was possible without a formal ceremony. I wroteto Conrad saying: ‘I wish, with your permission, to call my son John Conrad.My father was called John, my grandfather was called John, and my greatgrandfather was called John; and Conrad is a name in which I see merits.’ Heaccepted the position and duly presented my son with the cup which is usualon such occasions.I did not see much of him, as I lived most of the year in Cornwall, and hishealth was failing. But I had some charming letters from him, especially oneabout my book on China. He wrote: ‘I have always liked the Chinese, eventhose that tried to kill me (and some other people) in the yard of a privatehouse in Chantabun, even (but not so much) the fellow who stole all mymoney one night in Bangkok, but brushed and folded my clothes neatly for meto dress in the morning, before vanishing into the depths of Siam. I alsoreceived many kindnesses at the hands of various Chinese. This with theaddition of an evening’s conversation with the secretary of His ExcellencyTseng on the verandah of an hotel and a perfunctory study of a poem, “TheHeathen Chinee”, is all I know about the Chinese. But after reading yourextremely interesting view of the Chinese Problem I take a gloomy view ofthe future of their country.’ He went on to say that my views of the future ofChina ‘strike a chill into one’s soul’, the more so, he said, as I pinned myhopes on international socialism – ‘The sort of thing’, he commented, ‘towhich I cannot attach any sort of de?nite meaning. I have never been ableto ?nd in any man’s book or any man’s talk anything convincing enough tostand up for a moment against my deep-seated sense of fatality governing thisman-inhabited world.’ He went on to say that although man has taken to?ying, ‘he doesn’t ?y like an eagle, he ?ies like a beetle. And you must havenoticed how ugly, ridiculous and fatuous is the ?ight of a beetle.’ In thesepessimistic remarks, I felt that he was showing a deeper wisdom than I hadshown in my somewhat arti?cial hopes for a happy issue in China. It must besaid that so far events have proved him right.This letter was my last contact with him. I never again saw him to speak to.Once I saw him across the street, in earnest conversation with a man I did notcambridge again 203know, standing outside the door of what had been my grandmother’s house,but after her death had become the Arts Club. I did not like to interruptwhat seemed a serious conversation, and I went away. When he died,shortly afterwards, I was sorry I had not been bolder. The house is gone,demolished by Hitler. Conrad, I suppose, is in process of being forgotten, buthis intense and passionate nobility shines in my memory like a star seen fromthe bottom of a well. I wish I could make his light shine for others as itshone for me.I was invited to give the Lowell lectures in Boston during the spring of1914, and concurrently to act as temporary professor of philosophy atHarvard. I announced the subject of my Lowell lectures, but could not thinkof anything to say. I used to sit in the parlour of ‘The Beetle and Wedge’ atMoulsford, wondering what there was to say about our knowledge of theexternal world, on which before long I had to deliver a course of lectures. Igot back to Cambridge from Rome on New Year’s Day 1914, and, thinkingthat the time had come when I really must get my lectures prepared, Iarranged for a shorthand typist to come next day, though I had not thevaguest idea what I should say to her when she came. As she entered theroom, my ideas fell into place, and I dictated in a completely orderlysequence from that moment until the work was ?nished. What I dictated toher was subsequently published as a book with the title Our Knowledge of theExternal World as a Field for Scienti?c Method in Philosophy.I sailed on the Mauretania on March 7th. Sir Hugh Bell was on the ship. Hiswife spent the whole voyage looking for him, or ?nding him with a prettygirl. Whenever I met him after the sinking of the Lusitania, I found himasserting that it was on the Lusitania he had sailed.I travelled straight from New York to Boston, and was made to feel at homein the train by the fact that my two neighbours were talking to each otherabout George Trevelyan. At Harvard I met all the professors. I am proud to saythat I took a violent dislike to Professor Lowell, who subsequently assisted inthe murder of Sacco and Vanzetti. I had at that time no reason to dislike him,but the feeling was just as strong as it was in later years, when his qualities asa saviour of society had been manifested. Every professor to whom I wasintroduced in Harvard made me the following speech: ‘Our philosophicalfaculty, Dr Russell, as doubtless you are aware, has lately su?ered three greatlosses. We have lost our esteemed colleague, Professor William James,through his lamented death; Professor Santayana, for reasons which doubtlessappear to him to be su?cient, has taken up his residence in Europe; last, butnot least, Professor Royce, who, I am happy to say, is still with us, has had astroke.’ This speech was delivered slowly, seriously, and pompously. Thetime came when I felt that I must do something about it. So the next timethat I was introduced to a professor, I rattled o? the speech myself atthe autobiography of bertrand russell 204top speed. This device, however, proved worthless. ‘Yes, Dr Russell,’ theprofessor replied: ‘As you very justly observe, our philosophical faculty. . . .’and so the speech went on to its inexorable conclusion. I do not knowwhether this is a fact about professors or a fact about Americans. I think,however, that it is the former. I noticed another fact about Harvard professors:that when I dined with them, they would always tell me the way home,although I had had to ?nd their house without this assistance. There werelimitations to Harvard culture. Scho?eld, the professor of Fine Arts, consideredAlfred Noyes a very good poet.On the other hand, the students, especially the post-graduates, made agreat impression upon me. The Harvard school of philosophy, until the threegreat losses mentioned above, had been the best in the world. I had stayedwith William James at Harvard in 1896, and I had admired Royce’sdetermination to introduce mathematical logic into the philosophical curric-ulum. Santayana, who had a great friendship for my brother, had been knownto me since 1893, and I admired him as much as I disagreed with him. Thetradition of these men was still strong. Ralph Barton Perry was doing his bestto take their place, and was inspired with the full vigour of what was called‘the new realism’. He had married Berenson’s sister. He already displayed,however, something of that New England moralism which caused him to beintellectually ruined by the ?rst War. On one occasion he met, in my rooms,Rupert Brooke, of whom he had not then heard. Rupert was on his way backfrom the South Sea Islands, and discoursed at length about the decay ofmanhood in these regions produced by the cessation of cannibalism.Professor Perry was pained, for is not cannibalism a sin? I have no doubt thatwhen Rupert died, Professor Perry joined in his apotheosis, and I do notsuppose he ever realised that the ?ippant young man he had met in my roomswas identical with the golden-haired god who had given his life for hiscountry.The students, however, as I said before, were admirable. I had a post-graduate class of twelve, who used to come to tea with me once a week. Oneof them was T. S. Eliot, who subsequently wrote a poem about it, called‘Mr Apollinax’. I did not know at the time that Eliot wrote poetry. He had, Ithink, already written ‘A Portrait of a Lady’, and ‘Prufrock’, but he did not see?t to mention the fact. He was extraordinarily silent, and only once made aremark which struck me. I was praising Heraclitus, and he observed: ‘Yes, healways reminds me of Villon.’ I thought this remark so good that I alwayswished he would make another. Another pupil who interested me was a mancalled Demos. He was a Greek whose father, having been converted by themissionaries, was an evangelical minister. Demos had been brought up inAsia Minor, and has risen to be librarian of some small library there, butwhen he had read all the books in that library he felt that Asia Minor hadcambridge again 205nothing further to o?er him. He therefore saved up until he could a?ord apassage, steerage, to Boston. Having arrived there, he ?rst got a job as a waiterin a restaurant, and then entered Harvard. He worked hard, and had consider-able ability. In the course of nature he ultimately became a professor.His intellect was not free from the usual limitations. He explained to me in1917 that while he could see through the case made by the other belligerentsfor their participation in the war, and perceived clearly that their argumentswere humbug, the matter was quite di?erent in the case of Greece, whichwas coming in on a genuine moral issue.When the Harvard term came to an end, I gave single lectures in a fewother universities. Among others I went to Ann Arbor, where the presidentshowed me all the new buildings, more especially the library, of which hewas very proud. It appeared that the library had the most scienti?c card-indexin the world, and that its method of central heating was extraordinarily up-to-date. While he was explaining all this, we were standing in the middle of alarge room with admirable desks. ‘And does anybody ever read the books?’ Iasked. He seemed surprised, but answered: ‘Why yes, there is a man overthere now reading.’ We went to look, and found that he was reading a novel.From Ann Arbor I went to Chicago, where I stayed with an eminentgynaecologist and his family. This gynaecologist had written a book onthe diseases of women containing a coloured frontispiece of the uterus. Hepresented this book to me, but I found it somewhat embarrassing, andultimately gave it to a medical friend. In theology he was a free-thinker, butin morals a frigid Puritan. He was obviously a man of very strong sexualpassions, and his face was ravaged by the e?ort of self-control. His wife was acharming old lady, rather shrewd within her limitations, but something of atrial to the younger generation. They had four daughters and a son, but theson, who died shortly after the war, I never met. One of their daughters cameto Oxford to work at Greek under Gilbert Murray, while I was living at BagleyWood, and brought an introduction to Alys and me from her teacher ofEnglish literature at Bryn Mawr. I only saw the girl a few times at Oxford, but Ifound her very interesting, and wished to know her better. When I wascoming to Chicago, she wrote and invited me to stay at her parents’ house.She met me at the station, and I at once felt more at home with her than I hadwith anybody else that I had met in America. I found that she wrote rathergood poetry, and that her feeling for literature was remarkable and unusual. Ispent two nights under her parents’ roof, and the second I spent with her. Herthree sisters mounted guard to give warning if either of the parentsapproached. She was very delightful, not beautiful in the conventional sense,but passionate, poetic, and strange. Her youth had been lonely and unhappy,and it seemed that I could give her what she wanted. We agreed that sheshould come to England as soon as possible and that we would live togetherthe autobiography of bertrand russell 206openly, perhaps marrying later on if a divorce could be obtained. Immedi-ately after this I returned to England. On the boat I wrote to Ottoline tellingher what had occurred. My letter crossed one from her, saying that shewished our relations henceforth to be platonic. My news and the fact that inAmerica I had been cured of pyorrhoea caused her to change her mind.Ottoline could still, when she chose, be a lover so delightful that to leave herseemed impossible, but for a long time past she had seldom been at her bestwith me. I returned to England in June, and found her in London. We took togoing to Burnham Beeches every Tuesday for the day. The last of theseexpeditions was on the day on which Austria declared war on Serbia.Ottoline was at her best. Meanwhile, the girl in Chicago had induced herfather, who remained in ignorance, to take her to Europe. They sailed onAugust 3rd. When she arrived I could think of nothing but the war, and as Ihad determined to come out publicly against it, I did not wish to complicatemy position with a private scandal, which would have made anything that Imight say of no account. I felt it therefore impossible to carry out what wehad planned. She stayed in England and I had relations with her from time totime, but the shock of the war killed my passion for her, and I broke herheart. Ultimately she fell a victim to a rare disease, which ?rst paralysed her,and then made her insane. In her insanity she told her father all that hadhappened. The last time I saw her was in 1924. At that time paralysis madeher incapable of walking, but she was enjoying a lucid interval. When Italked with her, however, I could feel dark, insane thoughts lurking in thebackground. I understand that since then she had no lucid intervals. Beforeinsanity attacked her, she had a rare and remarkable mind, and a dispositionas lovable as it was unusual. If the war had not intervened, the plan which weformed in Chicago might have brought great happiness to us both. I feel stillthe sorrow of this tragedy.LETTERSJan. 15, 1911Colonial ClubCambridge, Mass.Dear RussellIt is rather late to thank you for your Philosophical Essays, but you maysoon see unmistakable evidence of the great interest I have taken in them, as Iam writing an elaborate review – in three articles – for the Whited Sepulchre –which is what we call the Columbia Journal of Philosophy, etc. You will not expectme to agree with you in everything, but, whatever you may think of my ideas,I always feel that yours, and Moore’s too, make for the sort of reconstructionin philosophy which I should welcome. It is a great bond to dislike the samecambridge again 207things, and dislike is perhaps a deeper indication of our real nature thanexplicit a?ections, since the latter may be e?ects of circumstances, whiledislike is a reaction against them.I had hoped to go to Cambridge in June, but now it is arranged that I shallgo instead to California, where I have never been. I am both glad and sorryfor this, but it seemed as well to see the Far West once in one’s life, especiallyas I hope soon to turn my face resolutely in the opposite direction.Thank you again very much for sending me the book.Yours sincerelyG. Santayana(June 1911)Newnham CollegeCambridgeDear BertieI have heard from Alys. I cannot help saying how sad I am for you as well asher – you have been thro’ hell I know – that is written in your face.May I say just this? You have always stood to me for goodness and asceti-cism – I shall always think of you – till you tell me not – as doing the straighthard thing.Yours alwaysJane E. HarrisonThis needs no answer, forgive my writing it. You have been thro’ toomuch these last days to want to see people, but I am always glad whenyou come.Telegraph HouseChichester6 June, 1911My dear BertieMollie and I have both received your news with much regret. We had asyou say an idea, but only an idea, that the original devotion had rather passedaway, and that you found each other trying, but we hoped nothing so de?niteas a separation would result. People of good manners can often manage to geton in the same house, once they have agreed to di?er, and I hope for thecomfort of both of you, and your friends, that this may still be the case. But ofthat of course you are the only possible judges.In the meantime we can only regret the annoyance any such rearrange-ment causes, and the break up of a union which seemed to promise well atthe beginning. A broken marriage is always a tragedy.Yours a?ectionatelyRussellthe autobiography of bertrand russell 208Trinity CollegeCambridgeJune 11th, 1911My dear GilbertThank you very much indeed for your kind letter. The decision3as youknow, is not sudden or hasty; and though the present is painful, I feel nodoubt that both will in the long run be happier.It is true that I have seen less of you than formerly – I wish it were not. Butbusiness and work seem to overwhelm one more and more. During the time Ilived at Oxford I never could shake o? work except by going away. I supposethat is the essence of middle age. But I do not ?nd, on that account, that mya?ections grow less – it is only the outward show that su?ers.Please give my love to Mary.Yours everBertrand RussellJune 17, 1911I TattiSettignano (Florence)My dear BertieI have just received a telegram, telling me of Karin’s success in her Tripos,and I cannot help writing to express my gratitude to you for your over-whelming share in bringing this about. I feel most sincerely grateful. Icannot but hope further work of the same nature may be temptingly put inher way, for she seems to have a capacity to do it well, and it might ‘make aman of her’, so to speak. So I beg of you to continue to bear the child inmind, and suggest her doing any work that you may think it worth whilefor her to do.I won’t say anything about the decision you and Alys have come to, exceptto send you my love and sympathy in all you have certainly su?ered over it,and to assure you of B. B.’s and my continued friendliness and good wishes.Yours always a?ectionatelyMary Berenson(From Gilbert Murray, on The Home University LibraryProblems of Philosophy) 14 Henrietta StreetCovent Garden, W.C.August 10, 1911Messrs Williams and Norgate4will be glad to meet Mr Russell’s wishes asfar as practicable, but have some di?culty in understanding his point of view.About the earwig, for instance, they are ready, if Mr Russell is inconveniencedcambridge again 209by his suspicions of its presence in his room, to pay a rat-catcher (who is alsoaccustomed to earwigs) two-shillings an hour to look for it and make sure,provided the total payment does not exceed Ten Shillings. (10s.) The animal,if caught, shall be regarded as Mr Russell’s property, but in no case shall itscapture, or the failure to capture it, be held as exonerating Mr Russell fromhis contract with Messrs W & N. Mr Russell’s further complaint that he hasnot the acquaintance of the Emperor of China cannot be regarded by MessrsW & N as due in any way to any oversight or neglect of theirs. Mr R shouldhave stipulated for an introduction before signing his contract. As to MrRussell’s memory of his breakfast and his constantly returning alarm lest hisnext meal should poison him, Messrs W & N express their fullest sympathywith Mr R in his trying situation, but would point out that remonstrancesshould be addressed not to them but to the Head Cook at Trinity College. Inthe meantime they trust that they do not exceed their duty in reminding MrRussell that, in his own words, a philosopher should not always have hismind centred upon such subjects. They would observe further that theirsenior editor is much grati?ed by Mr Russell’s frank admission that a baldman is, nevertheless, a man, while his next sentence has caused some littletrouble among the sta?. All three editors have rather good ?gures; at leastthere is no one among them who could be called conspicuously ‘plain’ inthat respect. Perhaps Mr Russell referred to Mr Perris?5If so, however, we donot quite understand who is meant by the poet. We would almost ventureto suggest the omission of all these personalities. When gratifying to oneindividual, they nearly always give pain to others.The Mischief Inn,Madingley Road26. VIII. 11Dear RussellI send you all I can ?nd of the notes Frege sent me on my account of hiswork.Hardy told me of your translation into symbolism of the Deceased Wife’sSister Bill. If you have time would you send it to me to include in the‘Philosophy of Mr B — R —’.6Also Hardy told me of your proof of theexistence of God by an in?nite complex of false propositions.7May I havethis too?Yrs. everPhilip Jourdain