house"--it went on to
say--"on the morning of the day specified on her permit, you are
to despatch her at once under escort, direct" (underlined) "to the
prison-hospital in Kiev, where she will be treated as her case demands."

"For God's sake, Mr. B., see that your sister goes away punctually on
that day. Don't give me this work to do with a woman--and with one of
your family too. I simply cannot bear to think of it."

He was absolutely wringing his hands. My uncle looked at him in silence.

"Thank you for this warning. I assure you that even if she were dying
she would be carried out to the carriage."

"Yes--indeed--and what difference would it make--travel to Kiev or back
to her husband. For she would have to go--death or no death. And mind,
Mr. B., I will be here on the day, not that I doubt your promise, but
because I must. I have got to. Duty. All the same my trade is not fit
for a dog since some of you Poles will persist in rebelling, and all of
you have got to suffer for it."

This is the reason why he was there in an open three-horse trap pulled
up between the house and the great gates. I regret not being able
to give up his name to the scorn of all believers in the rights of
conquest, as a reprehensibly sensitive guardian of Imperial greatness.
On the other hand, I am in a position to state the name of the
Governor-General who signed the order with the marginal note "to be
carried out to the letter" in his own handwriting. The gentleman's name
was Bezak. A high dignitary, an energetic official, the idol for a time
of the Russian Patriotic Press.

Each generation has its memories.

Chapter IV.

It must not be supposed that in setting forth the memories of this
half-hour between the moment my uncle left my room till we met again at
dinner, I am losing sight of "Almayer's Folly." Having confessed that my
first novel was begun in idleness--a holiday task--I think I have also
given the impression that it was a much-delayed book. It was never
dismissed from my mind, even when the hope of ever finishing it was very
faint. Many things came in its way: daily duties, new impressions,
old memories. It was not the outcome of a need--the famous need of
self-expression which artists find in their search for motives.
The necessity which impelled me was a hidden, obscure necessity, a
completely masked and unaccountable phenomenon. Or perhaps some idle and
frivolous magician (there must be magicians in London) had