The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without
a flutter of the sails, and was at rest. The flood had made,
the wind was nearly calm, and being bound down the river,
the only thing for it was to come to and wait for the turn
of the tide.
The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an
interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded
together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails
of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red
clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits.
A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness.
The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed
condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest,
and the greatest, town on earth.
The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We four
affectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows looking to seaward.
On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so nautical.
He resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trustworthiness personified.
It was difficult to realize his work was not out there in the luminous
estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom.
Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond
of the sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long
periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant
of each other's yarns--and even convictions. The Lawyer--the best
of old fellows--had, because of his many years and many virtues,
the only cushion on deck, and was lying on the only rug.
The Accountant had brought out already a box of dominoes, and was
toying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged
right aft, leaning against the mizzen-mast. He had sunken cheeks,
a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his
arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an idol.
The Director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way
aft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily.
Afterwards there was silence on board the yacht.
For some reason or other we did not begin that game of dominoes.
We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring.
The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance.
The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a
benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex
marshes was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded
rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds.
Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches,
became more somber every minute, as if angered by the approach
of the sun.
And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low,
and from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat,
as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom
brooding over a crowd of men.
Forthwith a change came over the waters, and the serenity
became less brilliant but more profound. The old river
in its broad reach rested unruffled at the decline of day,
after ages of good service done to the race that peopled its banks,
spread out in the tranquil dignity of a waterway leading
to the uttermost ends of the earth. We looked at the venerable
stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and
departs for ever, but in the august light of abiding memories.
And indeed nothing is easier for a man who has, as the phrase goes,
"followed the sea" with reverence and affection, than to
evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches
of the Thames. The tidal current runs to and fro in its
unceasing service, crowded with memories of men and ships it
had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of the sea.
It had known and served all the men of whom the nation is proud,
from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin, knights all,
titled and untitled--the great knights-errant of the sea.
It had borne all the ships whose names are like jewels
flashing in the night of time, from the Golden Hind returning
with her round flanks full of treasure, to be visited by
the Queen's Highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale,
to the Erebus and Terror, bound on other conquests--
and that never returned. It had known the ships and the men.
They had sailed from Deptford, from Greenwich, from Erith--
the adventurers and the settlers; kings' ships and the ships
of men on `Change; captains, admirals, the dark "interlopers"
of the Eastern trade, and the commissioned "generals"
of East India fleets. Hunters for gold or pursuers of fame,
they all had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword,
and often the torch, messengers of the might within the land,
bearers of a spark from the sacred fire. What greatness had not
floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of an unknown
earth! . . . The dreams of men, the seed of commonwealths,
the germs of empires.
The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to
appear along the shore. The Chapman lighthouse, a three-legged
thing erect on a mud-flat, shone strongly. Lights of ships moved
in the fairway--a great stir of lights going up and going down.
And farther west on the upper reaches the place of the monstrous town
was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine,
a lurid glare under the stars.
"And this also," said Marlow suddenly, "has been one of the dark places
of the earth."
He was the only man of us who still "followed the sea."
The worst that could be said of him was that he did not represent
his class. He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most
seamen lead, if one may so express it, a sedentary life.
Their minds are of the stay-at-home order, and their home is
always with them--the ship; and so is their country--the sea.
One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same.
In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores,
the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past,
veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance;
for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be
the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as
inscrutable as Destiny. For the rest, after his hours of work,
a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him
the secret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the secret
not worth knowing. The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity,
the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut.
But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be
excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside
like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it
out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of
these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral
illumination of moonshine.
His remark did not seem at all surprising. It was just like Marlow. It was
accepted in silence. No one took the trouble to grunt even; and presently
he said, very slow--
"I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here,
nineteen hundred years ago--the other day. . . . Light came
out of this river since--you say Knights? Yes; but it is like a
running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds.
We live in the flicker--may it last as long as the old
earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday.
Imagine the feelings of a commander of a fine--what d'ye call
`em?--trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north;
run overland across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one
of these craft the legionaries,--a wonderful lot of handy men they
must have been too--used to build, apparently by the hundred,
in a month or two, if we may believe what we read. Imagine him here--
the very end of the world, a sea the color of lead, a sky
the color of smoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina--
and going up this river with stores, or orders, or what you like.
Sandbanks, marshes, forests, savages,--precious little to eat
fit for a civilized man, nothing but Thames water to drink.
No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there
a military camp lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle
of hay--cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death,--
death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush.
They must have been dying like flies here. Oh yes--he did it.
Did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much
about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had gone
through in his time, perhaps. They were men enough to face
the darkness. And perhaps he was cheered by keeping his eye
on a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravenna by-and-by,
if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awful climate.
Or think of a decent young citizen in a toga--perhaps too much dice,
you know--coming out here in the train of some prefect,
or tax-gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes.
Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some inland post
feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him,--
all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs
in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men.
There's no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live
in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable.
And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him.
The fascination of the abomination--you know. Imagine the
growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust,
the surrender, the hate."
"Mind," he began again, lifting one arm from the elbow, the palm
of the hand outwards, so that, with his legs folded before him,
he had the pose of a Buddha preaching in European clothes and without
a lotus-flower--"Mind, none of us would feel exactly like this.
What saves us is efficiency--the devotion to efficiency.
But these chaps were not much account, really. They were no colonists;
their administration was merely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect.
They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force--
nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength
is just an accident arising from the weakness of others.
They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got.
It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale,
and men going at it blind--as is very proper for those who tackle
a darkness. The conquest of the earth, which mostly means
the taking it away from those who have a different complexion
or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing
when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only.
An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretense but an idea;
and an unselfish belief in the idea--something you can set up,
and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to. . . ."
He broke off. Flames glided in the river, small green flames, red flames,
white flames, pursuing, overtaking, joining, crossing each other--
then separating slowly or hastily. The traffic of the great city went
on in the deepening night upon the sleepless river. We looked on,
waiting patiently--there was nothing else to do till the end of the flood;
but it was only after a long silence, when he said, in a hesitating voice,
"I suppose you fellows remember I did once turn fresh-water sailor
for a bit," that we knew we were fated, before the ebb began to run,
to hear about one of Marlow's inconclusive experiences.
"I don't want to bother you much with what happened to me personally,"
he began, showing in this remark the weakness of many tellers
of tales who seem so often unaware of what their audience would best
like to hear; "yet to understand the effect of it on me you ought
to know how I got out there, what I saw, how I went up that river
to the place where I first met the poor chap. It was the farthest
point of navigation and the culminating point of my experience.
It seemed somehow to throw a kind of light on everything about me--
and into my thoughts. It was somber enough too--and pitiful--
not extraordinary in any way--not very clear either. No, not very clear.
And yet it seemed to throw a kind of light.
"I had then, as you remember, just returned to London
after a lot of Indian Ocean, Pacific, China Seas--a regular
dose of the East--six years or so, and I was loafing about,
hindering you fellows in your work and invading your homes,
just as though I had got a heavenly mission to civilize you.
It was very fine for a time, but after a bit I did get tired
of resting. Then I began to look for a ship--I should think
the hardest work on earth. But the ships wouldn't even look at me.
And I got tired of that game too.
"Now when I was a little chap I had a passion for maps.
I would look for hours at South America, or Africa, or Australia,
and lose myself in all the glories of exploration.
At that time there were many blank spaces on the earth,
and when I saw one that looked particularly inviting on a map
(but they all look that) I would put my finger on it and say, `When I
grow up I will go there.' The North Pole was one of these places,
I remember. Well, I haven't been there yet, and shall not try now.
The glamour's off. Other places were scattered about the Equator,
and in every sort of latitude all over the two hemispheres.
I have been in some of them, and . . . well, we won't talk about that.
But there was one yet--the biggest, the most blank, so to speak--
that I had a hankering after.
"True, by this time it was not a blank space any more.
It had got filled since my boyhood with rivers and lakes and names.
It had ceased to be a blank space of delightful mystery--a white patch
for a boy to dream gloriously over. It had become a place of darkness.
But there was in it one river especially, a mighty big river, that you
could see on the map, resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its
head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country,
and its tail lost in the depths of the land. And as I looked at the map
of it in a shop-window, it fascinated me as a snake would a bird--
a silly little bird. Then I remembered there was a big concern,
a Company for trade on that river. Dash it all! I thought to myself,
they can't trade without using some kind of craft on that lot of
fresh water--steamboats! Why shouldn't I try to get charge of one?
I went on along Fleet Street, but could not shake off the idea.
The snake had charmed me.
"You understand it was a Continental concern, that Trading society;
but I have a lot of relations living on the Continent, because it's
cheap and not so nasty as it looks, they say.
"I am sorry to own I began to worry them. This was already a fresh
departure for me. I was not used to get things that way, you know.
I always went my own road and on my own legs where I had a mind to go.
I wouldn't have believed it of myself; but, then--you see--I felt
somehow I must get there by hook or by crook. So I worried them.
The men said `My dear fellow,' and did nothing. Then--would you
believe it?--I tried the women. I, Charlie Marlow, set the women to work--
to get a job. Heavens! Well, you see, the notion drove me.
I had an aunt, a dear enthusiastic soul. She wrote: `It will be delightful.
I am ready to do anything, anything for you. It is a glorious idea.
I know the wife of a very high personage in the Administration,
and also a man who has lots of influence with,' &c., &c. She was determined
to make no end of fuss to get me appointed skipper of a river steamboat,
if such was my fancy.
"I got my appointment--of course; and I got it very quick.
It appears the Company had received news that one of their
captains had been killed in a scuffle with the natives.
This was my chance, and it made me the more anxious to go.
It was only months and months afterwards, when I made the attempt
to recover what was left of the body, that I heard the original
quarrel arose from a misunderstanding about some hens.
Yes, two black hens. Fresleven--that was the fellow's name,
a Dane--thought himself wronged somehow in the bargain,
so he went ashore and started to hammer the chief of the village
with a stick. Oh, it didn't surprise me in the least to
hear this, and at the same time to be told that Fresleven was
the gentlest, quietest creature that ever walked on two legs.
No doubt he was; but he had been a couple of years already out
there engaged in the noble cause, you know, and he probably felt
the need at last of asserting his self-respect in some way.
Therefore he whacked the old nigger mercilessly, while a big
crowd of his people watched him, thunderstruck, till some man,--
I was told the chief's son,--in desperation at hearing the old
chap yell, made a tentative jab with a spear at the white man--
and of course it went quite easy between the shoulder-blades.
Then the whole population cleared into the forest, expecting all
kinds of calamities to happen, while, on the other hand,
the steamer Fresleven commanded left also in a bad panic,
in charge of the engineer, I believe. Afterwards nobody seemed
to trouble much about Fresleven's remains, till I got out and
stepped into his shoes. I couldn't let it rest, though; but when
an opportunity offered at last to meet my predecessor, the grass
growing through his ribs was tall enough to hide his bones.
They were all there. The supernatural being had not been
touched after he fell. And the village was deserted, the huts
gaped black, rotting, all askew within the fallen enclosures.
A calamity had come to it, sure enough. The people had vanished.
Mad terror had scattered them, men, women, and children,
through the bush, and they had never returned.
What became of the hens I don't know either. I should think
the cause of progress got them, anyhow. However, through this
glorious affair I got my appointment, before I had fairly begun
to hope for it.
"I flew around like mad to get ready, and before forty-eight
hours I was crossing the Channel to show myself to my employers,
and sign the contract. In a very few hours I arrived in a city that
always makes me think of a whited sepulcher. Prejudice no doubt.
I had no difficulty in finding the Company's offices. It was
the biggest thing in the town, and everybody I met was full of it.
They were going to run an over-sea empire, and make no end
of coin by trade.
"A narrow and deserted street in deep shadow, high houses,
innumerable windows with venetian blinds, a dead silence,
grass sprouting between the stones, imposing carriage archways
right and left, immense double doors standing ponderously ajar.
I slipped through one of these cracks, went up a swept and ungarnished
staircase, as arid as a desert, and opened the first door I came to.
Two women, one fat and the other slim, sat on straw-bottomed chairs,
knitting black wool. The slim one got up and walked straight at me--
still knitting with downcast eyes--and only just as I began to
think of getting out of her way, as you would for a somnambulist,
stood still, and looked up. Her dress was as plain as an
umbrella-cover, and she turned round without a word and preceded
me into a waiting-room. I gave my name, and looked about.
Deal table in the middle, plain chairs all round the walls, on one
end a large shining map, marked with all the colors of a rainbow.
There was a vast amount of red--good to see at any time, because one
knows that some real work is done in there, a deuce of a lot
of blue, a little green, smears of orange, and, on the East Coast,
a purple patch, to show where the jolly pioneers of progress drink
the jolly lager-beer. However, I wasn't going into any of these.
I was going into the yellow. Dead in the center. And the river
was there--fascinating--deadly--like a snake. Ough! A door opened,
a white-haired secretarial head, but wearing a compassionate expression,
appeared, and a skinny forefinger beckoned me into the sanctuary.
Its light was dim, and a heavy writing-desk squatted in the middle.
From behind that structure came out an impression of pale plumpness
in a frock-coat. The great man himself. He was five feet six,
I should judge, and had his grip on the handle-end of ever
so many millions. He shook hands, I fancy, murmured vaguely,
was satisfied with my French. Bon voyage.
"In about forty-five seconds I found myself again in the waiting-room
with the compassionate secretary, who, full of desolation and sympathy,
made me sign some document. I believe I undertook amongst other things
not to disclose any trade secrets. Well, I am not going to.
"I began to feel slightly uneasy. You know I am not used to
such ceremonies, and there was something ominous in the atmosphere.
It was just as though I had been let into some conspiracy--
I don't know--something not quite right; and I was glad to get out.
In the outer room the two women knitted black wool feverishly.
People were arriving, and the younger one was walking back
and forth introducing them. The old one sat on her chair.
Her flat cloth slippers were propped up on a foot-warmer, and a cat
reposed on her lap. She wore a starched white affair on her head,
had a wart on one cheek, and silver-rimmed spectacles hung
on the tip of her nose. She glanced at me above the glasses.
The swift and indifferent placidity of that look troubled me.
Two youths with foolish and cheery countenances were being piloted over,
and she threw at them the same quick glance of unconcerned wisdom.
She seemed to know all about them and about me too.
An eerie feeling came over me. She seemed uncanny and fateful.
Often far away there I thought of these two, guarding the door
of Darkness, knitting black wool as for a warm pall,
one introducing, introducing continuously to the unknown,
the other scrutinizing the cheery and foolish faces with unconcerned
old eyes. Ave! Old knitter of black wool. Morituri te salutant.
Not many of those she looked at ever saw her again--not half,
by a long way.
"There was yet a visit to the doctor. `A simple formality,' assured me
the secretary, with an air of taking an immense part in all my sorrows.
Accordingly a young chap wearing his hat over the left eyebrow,
some clerk I suppose,--there must have been clerks in the business,
though the house was as still as a house in a city of the dead,--
came from somewhere up-stairs, and led me forth. He was shabby
and careless, with ink-stains on the sleeves of his jacket,
and his cravat was large and billowy, under a chin shaped like the toe
of an old boot. It was a little too early for the doctor, so I
proposed a drink, and thereupon he developed a vein of joviality.
As we sat over our vermouths he glorified the Company's business,
and by-and-by I expressed casually my surprise at him not going
out there. He became very cool and collected all at once.
`I am not such a fool as I look, quoth Plato to his disciples,'
he said sententiously, emptied his glass with great resolution,
and we rose.
"The old doctor felt my pulse, evidently thinking of something
else the while. `Good, good for there,' he mumbled,
and then with a certain eagerness asked me whether I would
let him measure my head. Rather surprised, I said Yes,
when he produced a thing like calipers and got the dimensions
back and front and every way, taking notes carefully.
He was an unshaven little man in a threadbare coat like a gaberdine,
with his feet in slippers, and I thought him a harmless fool.
`I always ask leave, in the interests of science, to measure
the crania of those going out there,' he said. `And when they
come back, too?' I asked. `Oh, I never see them,' he remarked;
`and, moreover, the changes take place inside, you know.'
He smiled, as if at some quiet joke. `So you are going
out there. Famous. Interesting too.' He gave me a searching glance,
and made another note. `Ever any madness in your family?'
he asked, in a matter-of-fact tone. I felt very annoyed.
`Is that question in the interests of science too?'
`It would be,' he said, without taking notice of my irritation,
`interesting for science to watch the mental changes
of individuals, on the spot, but . . .' `Are you an alienist?'
I interrupted. `Every doctor should be--a little,'
answered that original, imperturbably. `I have a little theory
which you Messieurs who go out there must help me to prove.
This is my share in the advantages my country shall reap
from the possession of such a magnificent dependency.
The mere wealth I leave to others. Pardon my questions,
but you are the first Englishman coming under my observation.
. . .' I hastened to assure him I was not in the least typical.
`If I were,' said I, `I wouldn't be talking like this with you.'
`What you say is rather profound, and probably erroneous,'
he said, with a laugh. `Avoid irritation more than
exposure to the sun. Adieu. How do you English say, eh?
Good-by. Ah! Good-by. Adieu. In the tropics one must before
everything keep calm.' . . . He lifted a warning forefinger.
. . . `Du calme, du calme. Adieu.'
"One thing more remained to do--say good-by to my excellent aunt.
I found her triumphant. I had a cup of tea--the last decent
cup of tea for many days--and in a room that most soothingly
looked just as you would expect a lady's drawing-room to look,
we had a long quiet chat by the fireside. In the course of these
confidences it became quite plain to me I had been represented
to the wife of the high dignitary, and goodness knows to how many
more people besides, as an exceptional and gifted creature--
a piece of good fortune for the Company--a man you don't get hold
of every day. Good heavens! and I was going to take charge of a
two-penny-halfpenny river-steamboat with a penny whistle attached!
It appeared, however, I was also one of the Workers, with a capital--
you know. Something like an emissary of light, something like a
lower sort of apostle. There had been a lot of such rot let loose
in print and talk just about that time, and the excellent woman,
living right in the rush of all that humbug, got carried off her feet.
She talked about `weaning those ignorant millions from their
horrid ways,' till, upon my word, she made me quite uncomfortable.
I ventured to hint that the Company was run for profit.
"`You forget, dear Charlie, that the laborer is worthy of his hire,'
she said, brightly. It's queer how out of touch with truth women are.
They live in a world of their own, and there had never been anything
like it, and never can be. It is too beautiful altogether, and if they
were to set it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset.
Some confounded fact we men have been living contentedly with ever
since the day of creation would start up and knock the whole thing over.
"After this I got embraced, told to wear flannel, be sure to write often,
and so on--and I left. In the street--I don't know why--a queer feeling
came to me that I was an impostor. Odd thing that I, who used to clear out
for any part of the world at twenty-four hours' notice, with less thought
than most men give to the crossing of a street, had a moment--I won't say
of hesitation, but of startled pause, before this commonplace affair.
The best way I can explain it to you is by saying that, for a second
or two, I felt as though, instead of going to the center of a continent,
I were about to set off for the center of the earth.
"I left in a French steamer, and she called in every blamed
port they have out there, for, as far as I could see,
the sole purpose of landing soldiers and custom-house officers.
I watched the coast. Watching a coast as it slips by the ship
is like thinking about an enigma. There it is before you--
smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage,
and always mute with an air of whispering, `Come and find out.'
This one was almost featureless, as if still in the making,
with an aspect of monotonous grimness. The edge of a colossal jungle,
so dark-green as to be almost black, fringed with white surf,
ran straight, like a ruled line, far, far away along
a blue sea whose glitter was blurred by a creeping mist.
The sun was fierce, the land seemed to glisten and drip with steam.
Here and there grayish-whitish specks showed up, clustered inside
the white surf, with a flag flying above them perhaps.
Settlements some centuries old, and still no bigger than
pin-heads on the untouched expanse of their background.
We pounded along, stopped, landed soldiers; went on,
landed custom-house clerks to levy toll in what looked like a
God-forsaken wilderness, with a tin shed and a flag-pole lost
in it; landed more soldiers--to take care of the custom-house
clerks, presumably. Some, I heard, got drowned in the surf;
but whether they did or not, nobody seemed particularly to care.
They were just flung out there, and on we went.
Every day the coast looked the same, as though we had not moved;
but we passed various places--trading places--with names
like Gran' Bassam Little Popo, names that seemed to belong
to some sordid farce acted in front of a sinister backcloth.
The idleness of a passenger, my isolation amongst all these men
with whom I had no point of contact, the oily and languid sea,
the uniform somberness of the coast, seemed to keep me away
from the truth of things, within the toil of a mournful
and senseless delusion. The voice of the surf heard now and
then was a positive pleasure, like the speech of a brother.
It was something natural, that had its reason, that had a meaning.
Now and then a boat from the shore gave one a momentary
contact with reality. It was paddled by black fellows.
You could see from afar the white of their eyeballs glistening.
They shouted, sang; their bodies streamed with perspiration;
they had faces like grotesque masks--these chaps; but they
had bone, muscle, a wild vitality, an intense energy of movement,
that was as natural and true as the surf along their coast.
They wanted no excuse for being there. They were a great comfort
to look at. For a time I would feel I belonged still to a world
of straightforward facts; but the feeling would not last long.
Something would turn up to scare it away. Once, I remember,
we came upon a man-of-war anchored off the coast.
There wasn't even a shed there, and she was shelling the bush.
It appears the French had one of their wars going on thereabouts.
Her ensign dropped limp like a rag; the muzzles of the long
eight-inch guns stuck out all over the low hull; the greasy,
slimy swell swung her up lazily and let her down, swaying her
thin masts. In the empty immensity of earth, sky, and water,
there she was, incomprehensible, firing into a continent.
Pop, would go one of the eight-inch guns; a small flame would
dart and vanish, a little white smoke would disappear, a tiny
projectile would give a feeble screech--and nothing happened.
Nothing could happen. There was a touch of insanity in
the proceeding, a sense of lugubrious drollery in the sight;
and it was not dissipated by somebody on board assuring me
earnestly there was a camp of natives--he called them enemies!--
hidden out of sight somewhere.
"We gave her her letters (I heard the men in that lonely ship were dying
of fever at the rate of three a day) and went on. We called at some more
places with farcical names, where the merry dance of death and trade
goes on in a still and earthy atmosphere as of an overheated catacomb;
all along the formless coast bordered by dangerous surf, as if Nature
herself had tried to ward off intruders; in and out of rivers,
streams of death in life, whose banks were rotting into mud,
whose waters, thickened into slime, invaded the contorted mangroves,
that seemed to writhe at us in the extremity of an impotent despair.
Nowhere did we stop long enough to get a particularized impression,
but the general sense of vague and oppressive wonder grew upon me.
It was like a weary pilgrimage amongst hints for nightmares.
"It was upward of thirty days before I saw the mouth of
the big river. We anchored off the seat of the government.
But my work would not begin till some two hundred miles farther on.
So as soon as I could I made a start for a place thirty
miles higher up.
"I had my passage on a little sea-going steamer. Her captain was
a Swede, and knowing me for a seaman, invited me on the bridge.
He was a young man, lean, fair, and morose, with lanky hair and a
shuffling gait. As we left the miserable little wharf, he tossed
his head contemptuously at the shore. `Been living there?' he asked.
I said, `Yes.' `Fine lot these government chaps--are they not?' he went on,
speaking English with great precision and considerable bitterness.
`It is funny what some people will do for a few francs a month.
I wonder what becomes of that kind when it goes up country?'
I said to him I expected to see that soon. `So-o-o!' he exclaimed.
He shuffled athwart, keeping one eye ahead vigilantly. `Don't be too sure,'
he continued. `The other day I took up a man who hanged himself on the road.
He was a Swede, too.' `Hanged himself! Why, in God's name?' I cried.
He kept on looking out watchfully. `Who knows? The sun too much for him,
or the country perhaps.'
"At last we opened a reach. A rocky cliff appeared, mounds of turned-up
earth by the shore, houses on a hill, others, with iron roofs,
amongst a waste of excavations, or hanging to the declivity.
A continuous noise of the rapids above hovered over this scene
of inhabited devastation. A lot of people, mostly black and naked,
moved about like ants. A jetty projected into the river.
A blinding sunlight drowned all this at times in a sudden recrudescence
of glare. `There's your Company's station,' said the Swede,
pointing to three wooden barrack-like structures on the rocky slope.
`I will send your things up. Four boxes did you say? So. Farewell.'
"I came upon a boiler wallowing in the grass, then found a path leading up
the hill. It turned aside for the bowlders, and also for an undersized
railway-truck lying there on its back with its wheels in the air.
One was off. The thing looked as dead as the carcass of some animal.
I came upon more pieces of decaying machinery, a stack of rusty rails.
To the left a clump of trees made a shady spot, where dark things seemed
to stir feebly. I blinked, the path was steep. A horn tooted to the right,
and I saw the black people run. A heavy and dull detonation shook
the ground, a puff of smoke came out of the cliff, and that was all.
No change appeared on the face of the rock. They were building a railway.
The cliff was not in the way or anything; but this objectless blasting
was all the work going on.
"A slight clinking behind me made me turn my head.
Six black men advanced in a file, toiling up the path.
They walked erect and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth
on their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps.
Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short ends
behind wagged to and fro like tails. I could see every rib,
the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had
an iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with
a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking.
Another report from the cliff made me think suddenly
of that ship of war I had seen firing into a continent.
It was the same kind of ominous voice; but these men could
by no stretch of imagination be called enemies. They were
called criminals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells,
had come to them, an insoluble mystery from over the sea.
All their meager breasts panted together, the violently
dilated nostrils quivered, the eyes stared stonily uphill.
They passed me within six inches, without a glance,
with that complete, deathlike indifference of unhappy savages.
Behind this raw matter one of the reclaimed, the product of the new
forces at work, strolled despondently, carrying a rifle by its middle.
He had a uniform jacket with one button off, and seeing a white man
on the path, hoisted his weapon to his shoulder with alacrity.
This was simple prudence, white men being so much alike at a distance
that he could not tell who I might be. He was speedily reassured,
and with a large, white, rascally grin, and a glance at his charge,
seemed to take me into partnership in his exalted trust.
After all, I also was a part of the great cause of these high
and just proceedings.
"Instead of going up, I turned and descended to the left.
My idea was to let that chain-gang get out of sight before I
climbed the hill. You know I am not particularly tender;
I've had to strike and to fend off. I've had to resist
and to attack sometimes--that's only one way of resisting--
without counting the exact cost, according to the demands
of such sort of life as I had blundered into. I've seen
the devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devil
of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were strong, lusty,
red-eyed devils, that swayed and drove men--men, I tell you.
But as I stood on this hillside, I foresaw that in the blinding
sunshine of that land I would become acquainted with a flabby,
pretending, weak-eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly.
How insidious he could be, too, I was only to find
out several months later and a thousand miles farther.
For a moment I stood appalled, as though by a warning.
Finally I descended the hill, obliquely, towards the trees
I had seen.
"I avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on
the slope, the purpose of which I found it impossible to divine.
It wasn't a quarry or a sandpit, anyhow. It was just a hole.
It might have been connected with the philanthropic desire
of giving the criminals something to do. I don't know.
Then I nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, almost no
more than a scar in the hillside. I discovered that a lot
of imported drainage-pipes for the settlement had been
tumbled in there. There wasn't one that was not broken.
It was a wanton smash-up. At last I got under the trees.
My purpose was to stroll into the shade for a moment;
but no sooner within than it seemed to me I had stepped
into a gloomy circle of some Inferno. The rapids were near,
and an uninterrupted, uniform, headlong, rushing noise filled
the mournful stillness of the grove, where not a breath stirred,
not a leaf moved, with a mysterious sound--as though the tearing
pace of the launched earth had suddenly become audible.
"Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees, leaning against
the trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced within
the dim light, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonment, and despair.
Another mine on the cliff went off, followed by a slight shudder
of the soil under my feet. The work was going on. The work!
And this was the place where some of the helpers had withdrawn to die.
"They were dying slowly--it was very clear. They were not enemies,
they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now,--
nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation, lying
confusedly in the greenish gloom. Brought from all the recesses
of the coast in all the legality of time contracts, lost in
uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfamiliar food, they sickened,
became inefficient, and were then allowed to crawl away and rest.
These moribund shapes were free as air--and nearly as thin.
I began to distinguish the gleam of eyes under the trees.
Then, glancing down, I saw a face near my hand.
The black bones reclined at full length with one shoulder
against the tree, and slowly the eyelids rose and the sunken
eyes looked up at me, enormous and vacant, a kind of blind,
white flicker in the depths of the orbs, which died out slowly.
The man seemed young--almost a boy--but you know with them it's
hard to tell. I found nothing else to do but to offer him
one of my good Swede's ship's biscuits I had in my pocket.
The fingers closed slowly on it and held--there was no
other movement and no other glance. He had tied a bit
of white worsted round his neck--Why? Where did he get it?
Was it a badge--an ornament--a charm--a propitiatory act?
Was there any idea at all connected with it? It looked
startling round his black neck, this bit of white thread from
beyond the seas.
"Near the same tree two more bundles of acute angles sat with
their legs drawn up. One, with his chin propped on his knees,
stared at nothing, in an intolerable and appalling manner:
his brother phantom rested its forehead, as if overcome with a
great weariness; and all about others were scattered in every pose
of contorted collapse, as in some picture of a massacre or a pestilence.
While I stood horror-struck, one of these creatures rose to his hands
and knees, and went off on all-fours towards the river to drink.
He lapped out of his hand, then sat up in the sunlight, crossing his
shins in front of him, and after a time let his woolly head fall
on his breastbone.
"I didn't want any more loitering in the shade, and I made
haste towards the station. When near the buildings I met
a white man, in such an unexpected elegance of get-up
that in the first moment I took him for a sort of vision.
I saw a high starched collar, white cuffs, a light alpaca jacket,
snowy trousers, a clear necktie, and varnished boots. No hat.
Hair parted, brushed, oiled, under a green-lined parasol held
in a big white hand. He was amazing, and had a penholder
behind his ear.
"I shook hands with this miracle, and I learned he was the Company's
chief accountant, and that all the bookkeeping was done at this station.
He had come out for a moment, he said, `to get a breath of fresh air.'
The expression sounded wonderfully odd, with its suggestion of sedentary
desk-life. I wouldn't have mentioned the fellow to you at all, only it was
from his lips that I first heard the name of the man who is so indissolubly
connected with the memories of that time. Moreover, I respected the fellow.
Yes; I respected his collars, his vast cuffs, his brushed hair.
His appearance was certainly that of a hairdresser's dummy; but in the great
demoralization of the land he kept up his appearance. That's backbone.
His starched collars and got-up shirt-fronts were achievements of character.
He had been out nearly three years; and, later on, I could not help asking
him how he managed to sport such linen. He had just the faintest blush,
and said modestly, `I've been teaching one of the native women about
the station. It was difficult. She had a distaste for the work.'
This man had verily accomplished something. And he was devoted to his books,
which were in apple-pie order.
"Everything else in the station was in a muddle,--heads, things, buildings.
Strings of dusty niggers with splay feet arrived and departed; a stream
of manufactured goods, rubbishy cottons, beads, and brass-wire set into
the depths of darkness, and in return came a precious trickle of ivory.
"I had to wait in the station for ten days--an eternity.
I lived in a hut in the yard, but to be out of the chaos
I would sometimes get into the accountant's office.
It was built of horizontal planks, and so badly put together that,
as he bent over his high desk, he was barred from neck
to heels with narrow strips of sunlight. There was no need
to open the big shutter to see. It was hot there too;
big flies buzzed fiendishly, and did not sting, but stabbed.
I sat generally on the floor, while, of faultless appearance
(and even slightly scented), perching on a high stool,
he wrote, he wrote. Sometimes he stood up for exercise.
When a truckle-bed with a sick man (some invalided agent
from up-country) was put in there, he exhibited a gentle annoyance.
`The groans of this sick person,' he said, distract my attention.
And without that it is extremely difficult to guard against
clerical errors in this climate.'
"One day he remarked, without lifting his head, `In the
interior you will no doubt meet Mr. Kurtz.' On my asking
who Mr. Kurtz was, he said he was a first-class agent;
and seeing my disappointment at this information, he added slowly,
laying down his pen, `He is a very remarkable person.'
Further questions elicited from him that Mr. Kurtz was at
present in charge of a trading post, a very important one,
in the true ivory-country, at `the very bottom of there.
Sends in as much ivory as all the others put together.
. . .' He began to write again. The sick man was too ill to groan.
The flies buzzed in a great peace.
"Suddenly there was a growing murmur of voices and a great
tramping of feet. A caravan had come in. A violent babble
of uncouth sounds burst out on the other side of the planks.
All the carriers were speaking together, and in the midst of the uproar
the lamentable voice of the chief agent was heard `giving it up'
tearfully for the twentieth time that day. . . . He rose slowly.
`What a frightful row,' he said. He crossed the room gently
to look at the sick man, and returning, said to me, `He does
not hear.' `What! Dead?' I asked, startled. `No, not yet,'
he answered, with great composure. Then, alluding with a toss
of the head to the tumult in the station-yard, `When one has
got to make correct entries, one comes to hate those savages--
hate them to the death.' He remained thoughtful for a moment.
`When you see Mr. Kurtz,' he went on, `tell him from me that
everything here'--he glanced at the desk--'is very satisfactory.
I don't like to write to him--with those messengers of ours
you never know who may get hold of your letter--at that
Central Station.' He stared at me for a moment with his mild,
bulging eyes. `Oh, he will go far, very far,' he began again.
`He will be a somebody in the Administration before long.
They, above--the Council in Europe, you know--mean him to be.'
"He turned to his work. The noise outside had ceased,
and presently in going out I stopped at the door.
In the steady buzz of flies the homeward-bound agent was lying
flushed and insensible; the other, bent over his books,
was making correct entries of perfectly correct transactions;
and fifty feet below the doorstep I could see the still tree-tops
of the grove of death.
"Next day I left that station at last, with a caravan of sixty men,
for a two-hundred-mile tramp.
"No use telling you much about that. Paths, paths, everywhere;
a stamped-in network of paths spreading over the empty land,
through long grass, through burnt grass, through thickets,
down and up chilly ravines, up and down stony hills ablaze
with heat; and a solitude, a solitude, nobody, not a hut.
The population had cleared out a long time ago. Well, if a lot
of mysterious niggers armed with all kinds of fearful weapons
suddenly took to traveling on the road between Deal and Gravesend,
catching the yokels right and left to carry heavy loads
for them, I fancy every farm and cottage thereabouts would
get empty very soon. Only here the dwellings were gone too.
Still I passed through several abandoned villages.
There's something pathetically childish in the ruins of grass walls.
Day after day, with the stamp and shuffle of sixty pair
of bare feet behind me, each pair under a 60-lb. load.
Camp, cook, sleep, strike camp, march. Now and then a carrier
dead in harness, at rest in the long grass near the path,
with an empty water-gourd and his long staff lying by his side.
A great silence around and above. Perhaps on some quiet night
the tremor of far-off drums, sinking, swelling, a tremor vast, faint;
a sound weird, appealing, suggestive, and wild--and perhaps with as
profound a meaning as the sound of bells in a Christian country.
Once a white man in an unbuttoned uniform, camping on the path
with an armed escort of lank Zanzibaris, very hospitable and festive--
not to say drunk. Was looking after the upkeep of the road,
he declared. Can't say I saw any road or any upkeep,
unless the body of a middle-aged negro, with a bullet-hole
in the forehead, upon which I absolutely stumbled three miles
farther on, may be considered as a permanent improvement.
I had a white companion too, not a bad chap, but rather too fleshy
and with the exasperating habit of fainting on the hot hillsides,
miles away from the least bit of shade and water. Annoying, you know,
to hold your own coat like a parasol over a man's head
while he is coming-to. I couldn't help asking him once what
he meant by coming there at all. `To make money, of course.
What do you think?' he said, scornfully. Then he got fever,
and had to be carried in a hammock slung under a pole.
As he weighed sixteen stone I had no end of rows with the carriers.
They jibbed, ran away, sneaked off with their loads in the night--
quite a mutiny. So, one evening, I made a speech in English
with gestures, not one of which was lost to the sixty pairs of eyes
before me, and the next morning I started the hammock off in front
all right. An hour afterwards I came upon the whole concern
wrecked in a bush--man, hammock, groans, blankets, horrors.
The heavy pole had skinned his poor nose. He was very anxious for me
to kill somebody, but there wasn't the shadow of a carrier near.
I remembered the old doctor,--'It would be interesting for science
to watch the mental changes of individuals, on the spot.'
I felt I was becoming scientifically interesting.
However, all that is to no purpose. On the fifteenth day
I came in sight of the big river again, and hobbled into
the Central Station. It was on a back water surrounded by scrub
and forest, with a pretty border of smelly mud on one side,
and on the three others inclosed by a crazy fence of rushes.
A neglected gap was all the gate it had, and the first glance
at the place was enough to let you see the flabby devil was
running that show. White men with long staves in their hands
appeared languidly from amongst the buildings, strolling up
to take a look at me, and then retired out of sight somewhere.
One of them, a stout, excitable chap with black mustaches,
informed me with great volubility and many digressions, as soon as I
told him who I was, that my steamer was at the bottom of the river.
I was thunderstruck. What, how, why? Oh, it was `all right.'
The `manager himself' was there. All quite correct.
`Everybody had behaved splendidly! splendidly!'--'you must,'
he said in agitation, `go and see the general manager at once.
He is waiting!'
"I did not see the real significance of that wreck at once.
I fancy I see it now, but I am not sure--not at all.
Certainly the affair was too stupid--when I think of it--to be
altogether natural. Still. . . . But at the moment it presented
itself simply as a confounded nuisance. The steamer was sunk.
They had started two days before in a sudden hurry up the river
with the manager on board, in charge of some volunteer skipper,
and before they had been out three hours they tore the bottom
out of her on stones, and she sank near the south bank.
I asked myself what I was to do there, now my boat was lost.
As a matter of fact, I had plenty to do in fishing my command
out of the river. I had to set about it the very next day.
That, and the repairs when I brought the pieces to the station,
took some months.
"My first interview with the manager was curious. He did not
ask me to sit down after my twenty-mile walk that morning.
He was commonplace in complexion, in features, in manners, and in voice.
He was of middle size and of ordinary build. His eyes, of the usual blue,
were perhaps remarkably cold, and he certainly could make his glance
fall on one as trenchant and heavy as an ax. But even at these
times the rest of his person seemed to disclaim the intention.
Otherwise there was only an indefinable, faint expression of his lips,
something stealthy--a smile--not a smile--I remember it, but I
can't explain. It was unconscious, this smile was, though just
after he had said something it got intensified for an instant.
It came at the end of his speeches like a seal applied on the words to make
the meaning of the commonest phrase appear absolutely inscrutable.
He was a common trader, from his youth up employed in these parts--
nothing more. He was obeyed, yet he inspired neither love nor fear,
nor even respect. He inspired uneasiness. That was it!
Uneasiness. Not a definite mistrust--just uneasiness--nothing more.
You have no idea how effective such a . . . a . . . faculty can be.
He had no genius for organizing, for initiative, or for order even.
That was evident in such things as the deplorable state of the station.
He had no learning, and no intelligence. His position had come
to him--why? Perhaps because he was never ill . . . He had served
three terms of three years out there . . . Because triumphant health
in the general rout of constitutions is a kind of power in itself.
When he went home on leave he rioted on a large scale--pompously.
Jack ashore--with a difference--in externals only.
This one could gather from his casual talk. He originated nothing,
he could keep the routine going--that's all. But he was great.
He was great by this little thing that it was impossible to tell
what could control such a man. He never gave that secret away.
Perhaps there was nothing within him. Such a suspicion made one pause--
for out there there were no external checks. Once when various
tropical diseases had laid low almost every `agent' in the station,
he was heard to say, `Men who come out here should have no entrails.'
He sealed the utterance with that smile of his, as though it
had been a door opening into a darkness he had in his keeping.
You fancied you had seen things--but the seal was on.
When annoyed at meal-times by the constant quarrels of the white
men about precedence, he ordered an immense round table to be made,
for which a special house had to be built. This was the station's
mess-room. Where he sat was the first place--the rest were nowhere.
One felt this to be his unalterable conviction. He was neither civil
nor uncivil. He was quiet. He allowed his `boy'--an overfed young
negro from the coast--to treat the white men, under his very eyes,
with provoking insolence.
"He began to speak as soon as he saw me. I had been very long
on the road. He could not wait. Had to start without me.
The up-river stations had to be relieved. There had been so many
delays already that he did not know who was dead and who was alive,
and how they got on--and so on, and so on. He paid no attention
to my explanations, and, playing with a stick of sealing-wax, repeated
several times that the situation was `very grave, very grave.'
There were rumors that a very important station was in jeopardy,
and its chief, Mr. Kurtz, was ill. Hoped it was not true.
Mr. Kurtz was . . . I felt weary and irritable. Hang Kurtz, I thought.
I interrupted him by saying I had heard of Mr. Kurtz on the coast.
`Ah! So they talk of him down there,' he murmured to himself.
Then he began again, assuring me Mr. Kurtz was the best agent he had,
an exceptional man, of the greatest importance to the Company;
therefore I could understand his anxiety. He was, he said,
`very, very uneasy.' Certainly he fidgeted on his chair a
good deal, exclaimed, `Ah, Mr. Kurtz!' broke the stick of sealing-wax
and seemed dumbfounded by the accident. Next thing he wanted
to know `how long it would take to' . . . I interrupted him again.
Being hungry, you know, and kept on my feet too, I was getting savage.
`How could I tell,' I said. `I hadn't even seen the wreck yet--
some months, no doubt.' All this talk seemed to me so futile.
`Some months,' he said. `Well, let us say three months before we
can make a start. Yes. That ought to do the affair.' I flung out
of his hut (he lived all alone in a clay hut with a sort of veranda)
muttering to myself my opinion of him. He was a chattering idiot.
Afterwards I took it back when it was borne in upon me startlingly
with what extreme nicety he had estimated the time requisite
for the `affair.'
"I went to work the next day, turning, so to speak, my back
on that station. In that way only it seemed to me I could
keep my hold on the redeeming facts of life. Still, one must
look about sometimes; and then I saw this station, these men
strolling aimlessly about in the sunshine of the yard.
I asked myself sometimes what it all meant. They wandered
here and there with their absurd long staves in their hands,
like a lot of faithless pilgrims bewitched inside a rotten fence.
The word `ivory' rang in the air, was whispered, was sighed.
You would think they were praying to it. A taint of imbecile
rapacity blew through it all, like a whiff from some corpse.
By Jove! I've never seen anything so unreal in my life.
And outside, the silent wilderness surrounding this cleared
speck on the earth struck me as something great and invincible,
like evil or truth, waiting patiently for the passing away
of this fantastic invasion.
"Oh, these months! Well, never mind. Various things happened.
One evening a grass shed full of calico, cotton prints, beads, and I don't
know what else, burst into a blaze so suddenly that you would have thought
the earth had opened to let an avenging fire consume all that trash.
I was smoking my pipe quietly by my dismantled steamer, and saw
them all cutting capers in the light, with their arms lifted high,
when the stout man with mustaches came tearing down to the river, a tin
pail in his hand, assured me that everybody was `behaving splendidly,
splendidly,' dipped about a quart of water and tore back again.
I noticed there was a hole in the bottom of his pail.
"I strolled up. There was no hurry. You see the thing had gone off
like a box of matches. It had been hopeless from the very first.
The flame had leaped high, driven everybody back, lighted up everything--
and collapsed. The shed was already a heap of embers glowing fiercely.
A nigger was being beaten near by. They said he had caused the fire
in some way; be that as it may, he was screeching most horribly.
I saw him, later on, for several days, sitting in a bit of shade looking
very sick and trying to recover himself: afterwards he arose and went out--
and the wilderness without a sound took him into its bosom again.
As I approached the glow from the dark I found myself at the back of
two men, talking. I heard the name of Kurtz pronounced, then the words, `take
advantage of this unfortunate accident.' One of the men was the manager.
I wished him a good evening. `Did you ever see anything like it--
eh? it is incredible,' he said, and walked off. The other man remained.
He was a first-class agent, young, gentlemanly, a bit reserved,
with a forked little beard and a hooked nose. He was stand-offish
with the other agents, and they on their side said he was the manager's
spy upon them. As to me, I had hardly ever spoken to him before.
We got into talk, and by-and-by we strolled away from the hissing ruins.
Then he asked me to his room, which was in the main building of the station.
He struck a match, and I perceived that this young aristocrat had not only
a silver-mounted dressing-case but also a whole candle all to himself.
Just at that time the manager was the only man supposed to have any
right to candles. Native mats covered the clay walls; a collection
of spears, assegais, shields, knives was hung up in trophies.
The business intrusted to this fellow was the making of bricks--
so I had been informed; but there wasn't a fragment of a brick anywhere
in the station, and he had been there more than a year--waiting. It seems
he could not make bricks without something, I don't know what--straw maybe.
Anyways, it could not be found there, and as it was not likely to be sent
from Europe, it did not appear clear to me what he was waiting for.
An act of special creation perhaps. However, they were all waiting--
all the sixteen or twenty pilgrims of them--for something; and upon
my word it did not seem an uncongenial occupation, from the way they
took it, though the only thing that ever came to them was disease--
as far as I could see. They beguiled the time by backbiting and
intriguing against each other in a foolish kind of way. There was an air
of plotting about that station, but nothing came of it, of course.
It was as unreal as everything else--as the philanthropic pretense of the
whole concern, as their talk, as their government, as their show of work.
The only real feeling was a desire to get appointed to a trading-post
where ivory was to be had, so that they could earn percentages.
They intrigued and slandered and hated each other only on that account,--
but as to effectually lifting a little finger--oh, no. By heavens! there
is something after all in the world allowing one man to steal a horse
while another must not look at a halter. Steal a horse straight out.
Very well. He has done it. Perhaps he can ride. But there is a way
of looking at a halter that would provoke the most charitable of saints
into a kick.
"I had no idea why he wanted to be sociable, but as we chatted in there
it suddenly occurred to me the fellow was trying to get at something--
in fact, pumping me. He alluded constantly to Europe, to the people I was
supposed to know there--putting leading questions as to my acquaintances
in the sepulchral city, and so on. His little eyes glittered like mica discs--
with curiosity,--though he tried to keep up a bit of superciliousness.
At first I was astonished, but very soon I became awfully curious
to see what he would find out from me. I couldn't possibly imagine
what I had in me to make it worth his while. It was very pretty to see
how he baffled himself, for in truth my body was full of chills,
and my head had nothing in it but that wretched steamboat business.
It was evident he took me for a perfectly shameless prevaricator.
At last he got angry, and to conceal a movement of furious annoyance,
he yawned. I rose. Then I noticed a small sketch in oils, on a panel,
representing a woman, draped and blindfolded, carrying a lighted torch.
The background was somber--almost black. The movement of the woman
was stately, and the effect of the torchlight on the face was sinister.
"It arrested me, and he stood by civilly, holding a half-pint champagne bottle
(medical comforts) with the candle stuck in it. To my question he said
Mr. Kurtz had painted this--in this very station more than a year ago--
while waiting for means to go to his trading-post. `Tell me, pray,' said I,
`who is this Mr. Kurtz?'
"`The chief of the Inner Station,' he answered in a short tone,
looking away. `Much obliged,' I said, laughing. `And you are
the brickmaker of the Central Station. Everyone knows that.'
He was silent for a while. `He is a prodigy,' he said at last.
`He is an emissary of pity, and science, and progress, and devil
knows what else. We want,' he began to declaim suddenly,
`for the guidance of the cause intrusted to us by Europe, so to speak,
higher intelligence, wide sympathies, a singleness of purpose.'
`Who says that?' I asked. `Lots of them,' he replied.
`Some even write that; and so HE comes here, a special being,
as you ought to know.' `Why ought I to know?' I interrupted,
really surprised. He paid no attention. `Yes. To-day he is chief
of the best station, next year he will be assistant-manager,
two years more and . . . but I dare say you know what he will be
in two years' time. You are of the new gang--the gang of virtue.
The same people who sent him specially also recommended you.
Oh, don't say no. I've my own eyes to trust.' Light dawned upon me.
My dear aunt's influential acquaintances were producing an unexpected
effect upon that young man. I nearly burst into a laugh.
`Do you read the Company's confidential correspondence?'
I asked. He hadn't a word to say. It was great fun.
`When Mr. Kurtz,' I continued severely, `is General Manager,
you won't have the opportunity.'
"He blew the candle out suddenly, and we went outside.
The moon had risen. Black figures strolled about listlessly,
pouring water on the glow, whence proceeded a sound of hissing;
steam ascended in the moonlight, the beaten nigger groaned somewhere.
`What a row the brute makes!' said the indefatigable man
with the mustaches, appearing near us. `Serve him right.
Transgression--punishment--bang! Pitiless, pitiless.
That's the only way. This will prevent all conflagrations
for the future. I was just telling the manager . . .' He
noticed my companion, and became crestfallen all at once.
`Not in bed yet,' he said, with a kind of servile heartiness;
`it's so natural. Ha! Danger--agitation.' He vanished.
I went on to the river-side, and the other followed me.
I heard a scathing murmur at my ear, `Heap of muffs--go to.'
The pilgrims could be seen in knots gesticulating, discussing.
Several had still their staves in their hands. I verily believe they
took these sticks to bed with them. Beyond the fence the forest
stood up spectrally in the moonlight, and through the dim stir,
through the faint sounds of that lamentable courtyard, the silence
of the land went home to one's very heart,--its mystery,
its greatness, the amazing reality of its concealed life.
The hurt nigger moaned feebly somewhere near by, and then
fetched a deep sigh that made me mend my pace away from there.
I felt a hand introducing itself under my arm. `My dear sir,'
said the fellow, `I don't want to be misunderstood, and especially
by you, who will see Mr. Kurtz long before I can have that pleasure.
I wouldn't like him to get a false idea of my disposition.
. . .'
"I let him run on, this papier-mache Mephistopheles, and it seemed
to me that if I tried I could poke my forefinger through him,
and would find nothing inside but a little loose dirt, maybe.
He, don't you see, had been planning to be assistant-manager
by-and-by under the present man, and I could see that
the coming of that Kurtz had upset them both not a little.
He talked precipitately, and I did not try to stop him.
I had my shoulders against the wreck of my steamer, hauled up
on the slope like a carcass of some big river animal.
The smell of mud, of primeval mud, by Jove! was in my nostrils,
the high stillness of primeval forest was before my eyes;
there were shiny patches on the black creek.
The moon had spread over everything a thin layer of silver--
over the rank grass, over the mud, upon the wall of matted
vegetation standing higher than the wall of a temple,
over the great river I could see through a somber gap glittering,
glittering, as it flowed broadly by without a murmur.
All this was great, expectant, mute, while the man jabbered
about himself. I wondered whether the stillness on the face
of the immensity looking at us two were meant as an appeal
or as a menace. What were we who had strayed in here?
Could we handle that dumb thing, or would it handle us?
I felt how big, how confoundedly big, was that thing that
couldn't talk, and perhaps was deaf as well. What was in there?
I could see a little ivory coming out from there, and I had
heard Mr. Kurtz was in there. I had heard enough about it too--
God knows! Yet somehow it didn't bring any image with it--
no more than if I had been told an angel or a fiend was in there.
I believed it in the same way one of you might believe there are
inhabitants in the planet Mars. I knew once a Scotch sailmaker
who was certain, dead sure, there were people in Mars. If you
asked him for some idea how they looked and behaved, he would
get shy and mutter something about `walking on all-fours.'
If you as much as smiled, he would--though a man of sixty--
offer to fight you. I would not have gone so far as to
fight for Kurtz, but I went for him near enough to a lie.
You know I hate, detest, and can't bear a lie, not because I am
straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it appalls me.
There is a taint of death, a flavor of mortality in lies,--
which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world--
what I want to forget. It makes me miserable and sick,
like biting something rotten would do. Temperament, I suppose.
Well, I went near enough to it by letting the young fool
there believe anything he liked to imagine as to my influence
in Europe. I became in an instant as much of a pretense as the rest
of the bewitched pilgrims. This simply because I had a notion
it somehow would be of help to that Kurtz whom at the time
I did not see--you understand. He was just a word for me.
I did not see the man in the name any more than you do.
Do you see him? Do you see the story? Do you see anything?
It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream--making a vain attempt,
because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation,
that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment
in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured
by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams.
. . ."
He was silent for a while.
". . . No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation
of any given epoch of one's existence,--that which makes its truth,
its meaning--its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible.
We live, as we dream--alone. . . ."
He paused again as if reflecting, then added--
"Of course in this you fellows see more than I could then.
You see me, whom you know. . . ."
It had become so pitch dark that we listeners could hardly see
one another. For a long time already he, sitting apart, had been
no more to us than a voice. There was not a word from anybody.
The others might have been asleep, but I was awake.
I listened, I listened on the watch for the sentence, for the word,
that would give me the clew to the faint uneasiness inspired
by this narrative that seemed to shape itself without human
lips in the heavy night-air of the river.
". . . Yes--I let him run on," Marlow began again, "and think
what he pleased about the powers that were behind me. I did!
And there was nothing behind me! There was nothing but that wretched,
old, mangled steamboat I was leaning against, while he talked
fluently about `the necessity for every man to get on.' `And when
one comes out here, you conceive, it is not to gaze at the moon.'
Mr. Kurtz was a `universal genius,' but even a genius would
find it easier to work with `adequate tools--intelligent men.'
He did not make bricks--why, there was a physical impossibility
in the way--as I was well aware; and if he did secretarial
work for the manager, it was because `no sensible man rejects
wantonly the confidence of his superiors.' Did I see it?
I saw it. What more did I want? What I really wanted was rivets,
by heaven! Rivets. To get on with the work--to stop the hole.
Rivets I wanted. There were cases of them down at the coast--
cases--piled up--burst--split! You kicked a loose rivet
at every second step in that station yard on the hillside.
Rivets had rolled into the grove of death. You could fill
your pockets with rivets for the trouble of stooping down--
and there wasn't one rivet to be found where it was wanted.
We had plates that would do, but nothing to fasten them with.
And every week the messenger, a lone negro, letter-bag on
shoulder and staff in hand, left our station for the coast.
And several times a week a coast caravan came in with trade goods,--
ghastly glazed calico that made you shudder only to look at it,
glass beads value about a penny a quart, confounded spotted
cotton handkerchiefs. And no rivets. Three carriers could
have brought all that was wanted to set that steamboat afloat.
"He was becoming confidential now, but I fancy my unresponsive
attitude must have exasperated him at last, for he judged it necessary
to inform me he feared neither God nor devil, let alone any mere man.
I said I could see that very well, but what I wanted was a certain
quantity of rivets--and rivets were what really Mr. Kurtz wanted,
if he had only known it. Now letters went to the coast every week.
. . . `My dear sir,' he cried, `I write from dictation.'
I demanded rivets. There was a way--for an intelligent man.
He changed his manner; became very cold, and suddenly began to talk
about a hippopotamus; wondered whether sleeping on board the steamer
(I stuck to my salvage night and day) I wasn't disturbed.
There was an old hippo that had the bad habit of getting out
on the bank and roaming at night over the station grounds.
The pilgrims used to turn out in a body and empty every rifle they
could lay hands on at him. Some even had sat up o' nights for him.
All this energy was wasted, though. `That animal has a charmed life,'
he said; `but you can say this only of brutes in this country.
No man--you apprehend me?--no man here bears a charmed life.'
He stood there for a moment in the moonlight with his delicate
hooked nose set a little askew, and his mica eyes glittering
without a wink, then, with a curt Good night, he strode off.
I could see he was disturbed and considerably puzzled,
which made me feel more hopeful than I had been for days.
It was a great comfort to turn from that chap to my influential
friend, the battered, twisted, ruined, tin-pot steamboat.
I clambered on board. She rang under my feet like an empty
Huntley & Palmer biscuit-tin kicked along a gutter; she was
nothing so solid in make, and rather less pretty in shape,
but I had expended enough hard work on her to make me love her.
No influential friend would have served me better. She had given
me a chance to come out a bit--to find out what I could do.
No, I don't like work. I had rather laze about and think of all
the fine things that can be done. I don't like work--no man does--
but I like what is in the work,--the chance to find yourself.
Your own reality--for yourself, not for others--what no other man
can ever know. They can only see the mere show, and never can
tell what it really means.
"I was not surprised to see somebody sitting aft, on the deck,
with his legs dangling over the mud. You see I rather chummed with
the few mechanics there were in that station, whom the other pilgrims
naturally despised--on account of their imperfect manners, I suppose.
This was the foreman--a boiler-maker by trade--a good worker.
He was a lank, bony, yellow-faced man, with big intense eyes.
His aspect was worried, and his head was as bald as the palm of my hand;
but his hair in falling seemed to have stuck to his chin, and had
prospered in the new locality, for his beard hung down to his waist.
He was a widower with six young children (he had left them in charge
of a sister of his to come out there), and the passion of his
life was pigeon-flying. He was an enthusiast and a connoisseur.
He would rave about pigeons. After work hours he used sometimes to come
over from his hut for a talk about his children and his pigeons; at work,
when he had to crawl in the mud under the bottom of the steamboat,
he would tie up that beard of his in a kind of white serviette
he brought for the purpose. It had loops to go over his ears.
In the evening he could be seen squatted on the bank rinsing that
wrapper in the creek with great care, then spreading it solemnly
on a bush to dry.
"I slapped him on the back and shouted, `We shall have rivets!'
He scrambled to his feet exclaiming `No! Rivets!' as though
he couldn't believe his ears. Then in a low voice, `You . . . eh?'
I don't know why we behaved like lunatics. I put my finger
to the side of my nose and nodded mysteriously. `Good for you!'
he cried, snapped his fingers above his head, lifting one foot.
I tried a jig. We capered on the iron deck. A frightful clatter came
out of that hulk, and the virgin forest on the other bank of the creek
sent it back in a thundering roll upon the sleeping station.
It must have made some of the pilgrims sit up in their hovels.
A dark figure obscured the lighted doorway of the manager's hut,
vanished, then, a second or so after, the doorway itself vanished too.
We stopped, and the silence driven away by the stamping
of our feet flowed back again from the recesses of the land.
The great wall of vegetation, an exuberant and entangled mass of trunks,
branches, leaves, boughs, festoons, motionless in the moonlight,
was like a rioting invasion of soundless life, a rolling wave
of plants, piled up, crested, ready to topple over the creek,
to sweep every little man of us out of his little existence.
And it moved not. A deadened burst of mighty splashes and snorts
reached us from afar, as though an ichthyosaurus had been taking a bath
of glitter in the great river. `After all,' said the boiler-maker
in a reasonable tone, `why shouldn't we get the rivets?'
Why not, indeed! I did not know of any reason why we shouldn't.
`They'll come in three weeks,' I said confidently.
"But they didn't. Instead of rivets there came an invasion,
an infliction, a visitation. It came in sections during
the next three weeks, each section headed by a donkey carrying
a white man in new clothes and tan shoes, bowing from
that elevation right and left to the impressed pilgrims.
A quarrelsome band of footsore sulky niggers trod on the heels
of the donkeys; a lot of tents, camp-stools, tin boxes, white cases,
brown bales would be shot down in the courtyard, and the air
of mystery would deepen a little over the muddle of the station.
Five such installments came, with their absurd air of
disorderly flight with the loot of innumerable outfit shops
and provision stores, that, one would think, they were lugging,
after a raid, into the wilderness for equitable division.
It was an inextricable mess of things decent in themselves
but that human folly made look like the spoils of thieving.
"This devoted band called itself the Eldorado Exploring Expedition,
and I believe they were sworn to secrecy. Their talk, however,
was the talk of sordid buccaneers: it was reckless without hardihood,
greedy without audacity, and cruel without courage; there was not an atom
of foresight or of serious intention in the whole batch of them, and they
did not seem aware these things are wanted for the work of the world.
To tear treasure out of the bowels of the land was their desire, with no
more moral purpose at the back of it than there is in burglars breaking
into a safe. Who paid the expenses of the noble enterprise I don't know;
but the uncle of our manager was leader of that lot.
"In exterior he resembled a butcher in a poor neighborhood,
and his eyes had a look of sleepy cunning. He carried his fat
paunch with ostentation on his short legs, and during the time
his gang infested the station spoke to no one but his nephew.
You could see these two roaming about all day long with their
heads close together in an everlasting confab.
"I had given up worrying myself about the rivets.
One's capacity for that kind of folly is more limited than
you would suppose. I said Hang!--and let things slide.
I had plenty of time for meditation, and now and then I would
give some thought to Kurtz. I wasn't very interested in him.
No. Still, I was curious to see whether this man, who had come
out equipped with moral ideas of some sort, would climb to the top
after all, and how he would set about his work when there."