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Islām is a prominent presence in Conrad’s early fiction yet, surprisingly, has attracted little critical attention. There is need, therefore, to consider the likely sources and depth of his knowledge of the religion before deciding on the uses to which these were put. Conrad’s Muslims are usually bigoted, frequently violent, invariably unscrupulous and always complacently exclusive. They constantly accuse the Europeans of being unbelievers, infidels, and sons of Satan, and it is important to ascertain whether Conrad uses them for some more profound purpose than at first appears. If it is accepted that he had specific reasons for producing Christian bigots such as Podmore and Therese, why should this not be the case with his Muslims?

The apparent neglect of Islāmic elements of Conrad’s work by critics cannot be said to extend to Buddhist references, although these are far less pervasive. Comments vary from an arbitrary application of very basic Buddhism (The Noble Eight Fold Path) to ‘Heart of Darkness’1 to assumptions of a much closer acquaintance with its doctrines on Conrad’s part in this and other works. These latter readings require Conrad to have possessed a detailed knowledge of Buddhist iconography (W. B. Stein)2 or the traditions of Zen Buddhism (Jerry Wasserman)3 when describing Marlow’s Buddha poses in ‘Heart of Darkness’, a familiarity with Buddhist parables in Almayer’s Folly and An Outcast of the Islands (Stein again)4 and extensive information about Tantrik Buddhism and a Buddhist holy city — Patna— in Lord Jim (William W. Bonney).5 Others (notably R. O. Evans)6 think it unlikely that Conrad knew much about eastern religions at all.

Conrad was born in the Ukraine in 1857 as Jozef Teodor Konrad Nalecz Korzeniowski, the son of a father who was deeply imbued with the Messianic visions of Poland’s romantic poets. Significantly, Conrad’s first sense of identity was that of ‘Pole, Catholic, nobleman’, expressed by him at the age of five in a letter to his grandmother.1 Earlier, his baptism had been greeted by Apollo Korzeniowski with verses that exemplify the father’s nationalistic beliefs: My child, my son, if the enemy calls you a nobleman and a Christian — tell yourself that you are a pagan and that your nobility is rot… My child, my son — tell yourself that you are without land, without love, without Fatherland, without humanity — as long as Poland, our mother, is enslaved.2

The state of Conrad’s religious belief has attracted some vastly differing opinions over the years, from steadfast Catholicism to antagonistic atheism. The evidence (as one would expect) is contradictory. An anecdote of Jessie Conrad illustrates, at least, that Christianity had very little place in the author’s household. Conrad, she reveals, alluded to their younger son, John, ‘as a little pagan and refused to let him learn any religion until he was turned six years old. Then he chuckled with delight because the boy’s first words when he heard of the crucifixion were, “It’s disgusting, it ought to be forgotten, it’s not a thing to be proud of.” ’ Jessie comments, ‘Possibly such an opinion is unique, but it would not have been possible if the child had been taught any religion whatever.’1 John Conrad himself, however, recalls a quite different incident with his father in which, during a walk, the pair spent some time in a church: We carried on, pausing now and then to look at some tombstone and then, as though thinking aloud, he said, “Profanity is the preserve of the devil.” Then as we passed through the lychgate he said, “Don’t assume that because I do not go to church that I do not believe, I do; all true seamen do in their hearts.”2

It was noted earlier that, in Conrad’s novels, literal religion offers little spiritual sustenance to his characters, and, accordingly, very few of them can give a definite answer to any question of faith. Thus, when Razumov asks Haldin about his belief in God (UWE, 23) and later enquires of Sophia Antonovna, firstly whether she is ‘a materialist’ (UWE, 251) and then (in contrast) whether she believes in ‘the actual devil’ (UWE, 281), the answer he receives in each case is equivocal. When questioned about hell and eternal punishment by her father, Flora de Barral can only make a vague and inarticulate reply (C, 394); asked about his belief by Heyst, Morrison’s response, despite his admission of prayers, is similarly indirect (V, 14); and M. George completely evades the accusations of ‘scoffing and irreverence,’ brought by the fanatical Villarel (AG, 251). For the most part, therefore, the certainties of belief or disbelief are not held by the inhabitants of Conrad’s fiction; even the sceptical Martin Decoud will not admit the charges of being ‘godless — a materialist’ and a ‘victim of this faithless age’ (N, 198). In the few cases where faith is proclaimed (such as Whalley), the claim is rigorously tested and the nature of the belief shown to be illusory. Thus, with this source of comfort apparently inadequate or unavailing, many of Conrad’s characters are forced to look elsewhere for their spiritual fulfilment, and the figurative use of religious language indicates these new objects of devotion. The chief engineer in Nostromo speaks truly when he refers to ‘the spiritual value which everyone discovers in his own form of activity’ (N, 318), and Martin Decoud is no less perceptive when he says of the materialists in Charles Gould’s salon, ‘Those gentlemen talk about their gods’ (N, 199).

Two aspects of Conrad’s religious lexis merit special attention; his use of the demonic and its natural prey, the soul. Both seem to have meanings beyond their traditional theological ones and their usage is frequently closely connected with the novelist’s major themes.

It will be recalled that the enormities of Conrad’s Muslims in his early works provide an exaggerated reflection of the faults of his Christians, particularly in the areas of exclusiveness, superstition and hypocrisy. As we have seen, Conrad hovered uneasily between belief and disbelief and attempted to fulfil himself spiritually in his literary career. To convey ‘things human’ in ‘a spirit of piety’ would clearly involve him with the whole human being, including what may be called man’s spiritual side; an intangible component from which, at least, the reaction to art is drawn (or so he suggests in ‘The Ascending Effort’). ‘A moralist,’ he writes to Galsworthy, ‘must present us with a gospel — he must give counsel, not to our reason or sentiment, but to our very soul.’1