Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad [simple e reader TXT] 📗

`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.