Capítulo I

 

The Nellie, a cruising y awl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the

sails, and was at rest. The flood had m ade, the wind was nearly calm , and being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to com e to and wait for the turn of the tide.

The sea–reach of the Tham es stretched before us like the beginning of

an interm inable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a j oint, and in the lum inous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seem ed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleam s 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 seem ed condensed into a m ournful gloom , brooding m otionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth.

The Director of Com panies 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 resem bled a pilot, which to a seam an is trustworthiness personified. It was difficult to realize his work was not out there in the lum inous estuary, but behind him , within the brooding gloom .

Between us there was, as I have already said som ewhere, the bond of

the sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of m aking us tolerant of each other’s y arns – and even convictions. The Lawy er – the best of old fellows – had, because of his m any y ears and m any virtues, the only cushion on deck, and was ly ing on the only rug. The Accountant had brought out already a box of dom inoes, and was toy ing architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross–legged right aft, leaning against the m izzen–m ast. He had sunken cheeks, a y ellow com plexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his arm s dropped, the palm s of hands outwards, resem bled an idol. The Director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, m ade his way aft and sat down am ongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterwards there was silence on board the y acht. For som e reason or other we did not begin that gam e of dom inoes. We felt m editative, 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 im m ensity of unstained light; the very m ist on the Essex m arshes 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, becam e m ore som ber every m inute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.

And at last, in its curved and im perceptible fall, the sun sank low, and

from glowing white changed to a dull red without ray s and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding over a crowd of m en.

Forthwith a change cam e over the waters, and the serenity becam e less

brilliant but m ore 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 utterm ost ends of the earth. We looked at the venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that com es and departs for ever, but in the august light of abiding m em ories. And indeed nothing is easier for a m an 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 Tham es. The tidal current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with m em ories of m en and ships it had borne to the rest of hom e or to the battles of the sea. It had known and served all the m en 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 nam es are like j ewels flashing in the night of tim e, 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 m en. They had sailed from Deptford, from Greenwich, from Erith – the adventurers and the settlers; kings’ ships and the ships of m en on ‘Change; captains, adm irals, the dark “interlopers” of the Eastern trade, and the com m issioned “generals” of East India fleets. Hunters for gold or pursuers of fam e, they all had gone out on that stream , bearing the sword, and often the torch, m essengers of the m ight within the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire. What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the m y stery of an unknown earth!... The dream s of m en, the seed of com m onwealths, the germ s of em pires.

The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream , and lights began to appear along

the shore. The Chapm an lighthouse, a three–legged thing erect on a m ud–flat, shone strongly. Lights of ships m oved in the fairway – a great stir of lights going up and going down. And farther west on the upper reaches the place of the m onstrous town was still m arked om inously 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 m an 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 seam an, but he was a wanderer, too, while m ost seam en lead, if one m ay so express it, a sedentary life. Their m inds are of the stay –at–hom e order, and their hom e is alway s with them – the ship; and so is their country – the sea. One ship is very m uch like another, and the sea is alway s the sam e. In the im m utability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing im m ensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of m y stery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing m y sterious to a seam an unless it be the sea itself, which is the m istress 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 y arns of seam en have a direct sim plicity, the whole m eaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not ty pical (if his propensity to spin y arns be excepted), and to him the m eaning 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 m isty halos that som etim es are m ade visible by the spectral illum ination of m oonshine.

His rem ark did not seem at all surprising. It was j ust 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 tim es, when the Rom ans first cam e here,

nineteen hundred y ears ago – the other day... Light cam e out of this river since – y ou 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 – m ay it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here y esterday. Im agine the feelings of a com m ander of a fine – what d’y e call ‘em ? – trirem e 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 m en they m ust have been too – used to build, apparently by the hundred, in a m onth or two, if we m ay believe what we read. Im agine him here – the very end of the world, a sea the color of lead, a sky the color of sm oke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina – and going up this river with stores, or orders, or what y ou like. Sandbanks, m arshes, forests, savages, – precious little to eat fit for a civilized m an, nothing but Tham es water to drink. No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there a m ilitary cam p lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay – cold, fog, tem pests, disease, exile, and death, – death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. They m ust have been dy ing like flies here. Oh y es – he did it. Did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking m uch about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had gone through in his tim e, perhaps. They were m en enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he was cheered by keeping his ey e on a chance of prom otion to the fleet at Ravenna by – and–by, if he had good friends in Rom e and survived the awful clim ate. Or think of a decent y oung citizen in a toga – perhaps too m uch dice, y ou know – com ing out here in the train of som e prefect, or tax–gatherer, or trader even, to m end his fortunes. Land in a swam p, m arch through the woods, and in som e inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him , – all that m y sterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the j ungles, in the hearts of wild m en. There’s no initiation either into such m y steries. He has to live in the m idst of the incom prehensible, which is also detestable. And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him . The fascination of the abom ination – y ou know. Im agine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.”

He paused.

“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 m uch account, really. They were no colonists; their adm inistration was m erely a squeeze, and nothing m ore, I suspect. They were conquerors, and for that y ou want only brute force – nothing to boast of, when y ou have it, since y our strength is j ust 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 j ust robbery with violence, aggravated m urder on a great scale, and m en going at it blind – as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. The conquest of the earth, which m ostly m eans the taking it away from those who have a different com plexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when y ou look into it too m uch. What redeem s it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentim ental pretense but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea – som ething y ou can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to...”

He broke off. Flam es glided in the river, sm all green flam es, red flam es,

white flam es, pursuing, overtaking, j oining, 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 y ou fellows rem em ber 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 y ou m uch with what happened to m e personally,”

he began, showing in this rem ark the weakness of m any tellers of tales who seem so often unaware of what their audience would best like to hear; “y et to understand the effect of it on m e y ou ought to know how I got out there, what I saw, how I went up that river to the place where I first m et the poor chap. It was the farthest point of navigation and the culm inating point of m y experience. It seem ed som ehow to throw a kind of light on every thing about m e – and into m y thoughts. It was som ber enough too – and pitiful – not extraordinary in any way – not very clear either. No, not very clear. And y et it seem ed to throw a kind of light.

“I had then, as y ou rem em ber, j ust returned to London after a lot of

Indian Ocean, Pacific, China Seas – a regular dose of the East – six y ears or so, and I was loafing about, hindering y ou fellows in y our work and invading y our hom es, j ust as though I had got a heavenly m ission to civilize y ou. It was very fine for a tim e, 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 m e. And I got tired of that gam e too.

“Now when I was a little chap I had a passion for m aps. I would look for

hours at South Am erica, or Africa, or Australia, and lose m y self in all the glories of exploration. At that tim e there were m any blank spaces on the earth, and when I saw one that looked particularly inviting on a m ap (but they all look that) I would put m y finger on it and say, ‘When I grow up I will go there.’ The North Pole was one of these places, I rem em ber. Well, I haven’t been there y et, and shall not try now. The glam our’s off. Other places were scattered about the Equator, and in every sort of latitude all over the two hem ispheres. I have been in som e of them , and… well, we won’t talk about that. But there was one y et – the biggest, the m ost blank, so to speak – that I had a hankering after.

“True, by this tim e it was not a blank space any m ore. It had got filled

since m y boy hood with rivers and lakes and nam es. It had ceased to be a blank space of delightful m y stery – a white patch for a boy to dream gloriously over. It had becom e a place of darkness. But there was in it one river especially, a m ighty big river, that y ou could see on the m ap, resem bling an im m ense 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 m ap of it in a shop– window, it fascinated m e as a snake would a bird – a silly little bird. Then I rem em bered there was a big concern, a Com pany for trade on that river. Dash it all! I thought to m y self, they can’t trade without using som e kind of craft on that lot of fresh water – steam boats! 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 charm ed m e.

“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 m e. I was not used to get things that way, y ou know. I alway s went m y own road and on m y own legs where I had a m ind to go. I wouldn’t have believed it of m y self; but, then – y ou see – I felt som ehow I m ust get there by hook or by crook. So I worried them . The m en said ‘My dear fellow,’ and did nothing. Then – would y ou believe it? – I tried the wom en. I, Charlie Marlow, set the wom en to work – to get a j ob. Heavens! Well, y ou see, the notion drove m e. I had an aunt, a dear enthusiastic soul. She wrote: ‘It will be delightful. I am ready to do any thing, any thing for y ou. It is a glorious idea. I know the wife of a very high personage in the Adm inistration, and also a m an who has lots of influence with,’ & c., & c. She was determ ined to m ake no end of fuss to get m e appointed skipper of a river steam boat, if such was m y fancy.

“I got m y appointm ent – of course; and I got it very quick. It appears the

Com pany had received news that one of their captains had been killed in a scuffle with the natives. This was m y chance, and it m ade m e the m ore anxious to go. It was only m onths and m onths afterwards, when I m ade the attem pt to recover what was left of the body, that I heard the original quarrel arose from a m isunderstanding about som e hens. Yes, two black hens. Fresleven – that was the fellow’s nam e, a Dane – thought him self wronged som ehow in the bargain, so he went ashore and started to ham m er the chief of the village with a stick. Oh, it didn’t surprise m e in the least to hear this, and at the sam e tim e 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 y ears already out there engaged in the noble cause, y ou know, and he probably felt the need at last of asserting his self– respect in som e way. Therefore he whacked the old nigger m ercilessly, while a big crowd of his people watched him , thunderstruck, till som e m an, – I was told the chief ’s son, – in desperation at hearing the old chap y ell, m ade a tentative j ab with a spear at the white m an – and of course it went quite easy between the shoulder–blades. Then the whole population cleared into the forest, expecting all kinds of calam ities to happen, while, on the other hand, the steam er Fresleven com m anded left also in a bad panic, in charge of the engineer, I believe. Afterwards nobody seem ed to trouble m uch about Fresleven’s rem ains, till I got out and stepped into his shoes. I couldn’t let it rest, though; but when an opportunity offered at last to m eet m y 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 calam ity had com e to it, sure enough. The people had vanished. Mad terror had scattered them , m en, wom en, and children, through the bush, and they had never returned. What becam e of the hens I don’t know either. I should think the cause of progress got them , any how. However, through this glorious affair I got m y appointm ent, before I had fairly begun to hope for it.

“I flew around like m ad to get ready, and before forty –eight hours I was

crossing the Channel to show m y self to m y em ploy ers, and sign the contract. In a very few hours I arrived in a city that alway s m akes m e think of a whited sepulcher. Prej udice no doubt. I had no difficulty in finding the Com pany ’s offices. It was the biggest thing in the town, and every body I m et was full of it. They were going to run an over–sea em pire, and m ake no end of coin by trade.

“A narrow and deserted street in deep shadow, high houses, innum erable

windows with venetian blinds, a dead silence, grass sprouting between the stones, im posing carriage archway s right and left, im m ense double doors standing ponderously aj ar. 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 cam e to. Two wom en, one fat and the other slim , sat on straw–bottom ed chairs, knitting black wool. The slim one got up and walked straight at m e – still knitting with downcast ey es – and only j ust as I began to think of getting out of her way, as y ou would for a som nam bulist, stood still, and looked up. Her dress was as plain as an um brella–cover, and she turned round without a word and preceded m e into a waiting–room . I gave m y nam e, and looked about. Deal table in the m iddle, plain chairs all round the walls, on one end a large shining m ap, m arked with all the colors of a rainbow. There was a vast am ount of red – good to see at any tim e, because one knows that som e real work is done in there, a deuce of a lot of blue, a little green, sm ears of orange, and, on the East Coast, a purple patch, to show where the j olly pioneers of progress drink the j olly lager–beer. However, I wasn’t going into any of these. I was going into the y ellow. 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 com passionate expression, appeared, and a skinny forefinger beckoned m e into the sanctuary. Its light was dim , and a heavy writing–desk squatted in the m iddle. From behind that structure cam e out an im pression of pale plum pness in a frock–coat. The great m an him self. He was five feet six, I should j udge, and had his grip on the handle–end of ever so m any m illions. He shook hands, I fancy, m urm ured vaguely, was satisfied with m y French. Bon voy age.

“In about forty –five seconds I found m y self again in the waiting–room

with the com passionate secretary, who, full of desolation and sy m pathy, m ade m e sign som e docum ent. I believe I undertook am ongst 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

cerem onies, and there was som ething om inous in the atm osphere. It was j ust as though I had been let into som e conspiracy – I don’t know – som ething not quite right; and I was glad to get out. In the outer room the two wom en knitted black wool feverishly. People were arriving, and the y ounger 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–warm er, and a cat reposed on her lap. She wore a starched white affair on her head, had a wart on one cheek, and silver–rim m ed spectacles hung on the tip of her nose. She glanced at m e above the glasses. The swift and indifferent placidity of that look troubled m e. Two y ouths with foolish and cheery countenances were being piloted over, and she threw at them the sam e quick glance of unconcerned wisdom . She seem ed to know all about them and about m e too. An eerie feeling cam e over m e. She seem ed 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 ey es. Ave! Old knitter of black wool. Morituri te salutant. Not m any of those she looked at ever saw her again – not half, by a long way.

“There was y et a visit to the doctor. ‘A sim ple form ality,’ assured m e the

secretary, with an air of taking an im m ense part in all m y sorrows. Accordingly a y oung chap wearing his hat over the left ey ebrow, som e clerk I suppose, – there m ust have been clerks in the business, though the house was as still as a house in a city of the dead, – cam e from som ewhere up–stairs, and led m e forth. He was shabby and careless, with ink–stains on the sleeves of his j acket, 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 j oviality. As we sat over our verm ouths he glorified the Com pany ’s business, and by –and–by I expressed casually m y surprise at him not going out there. He becam e very cool and collected all at once. ‘I am not such a fool as I look, quoth Plato to his disciples,’ he said sententiously, em ptied his glass with great resolution, and we rose.

“The old doctor felt m y pulse, evidently thinking of som ething else the

while. ‘Good, good for there,’ he m um bled, and then with a certain eagerness asked m e whether I would let him m easure m y head. Rather surprised, I said Yes, when he produced a thing like calipers and got the dim ensions back and front and every way, taking notes carefully. He was an unshaven little m an in a threadbare coat like a gaberdine, with his feet in slippers, and I thought him a harm less fool. ‘I alway s ask leave, in the interests of science, to m easure the crania of those going out there,’ he said. ‘And when they com e back, too?’ I asked. ‘Oh, I never see them ,’ he rem arked; ‘and, m oreover, the changes take place inside, y ou know.’ He sm iled, as if at som e quiet j oke. ‘So y ou are going out there. Fam ous. Interesting too.’ He gave m e a searching glance, and m ade another note. ‘Ever any m adness in y our fam ily ?’ he asked, in a m atter–of–fact tone. I felt very annoy ed. ‘Is that question in the interests of science too?’ ‘It would be,’ he said, without taking notice of m y irritation, ‘interesting for science to watch the m ental changes of individuals, on the spot, but ...’ ‘Are y ou an alienist?’ I interrupted. ‘Every doctor should be – a little,’ answered that original, im perturbably. ‘I have a little theory which y ou Messieurs who go out there m ust help m e to prove. This is m y share in the advantages m y country shall reap from the possession of such a m agnificent dependency. The m ere wealth I leave to others. Pardon m y questions, but y ou are the first Englishm an com ing under m y observation...’ I hastened to assure him I was not in the least ty pical. ‘If I were,’ said I, ‘I wouldn’t be talking like this with y ou.’ ‘What y ou say is rather profound, and probably erroneous,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘Avoid irritation m ore than exposure to the sun. Adieu. How do y ou English say, eh? Good–by. Ah! Good–by. Adieu. In the tropics one m ust before every thing keep calm ’… He lifted a warning forefinger... ‘Du calm e, du calm e. Adieu.’

“One thing m ore rem ained to do – say good–by to m y excellent aunt. I

found her trium phant. I had a cup of tea – the last decent cup of tea for m any day s – and in a room that m ost soothingly looked j ust as y ou 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 becam e quite plain to m e I had been represented to the wife of the high dignitary, and goodness knows to how m any m ore people besides, as an exceptional and gifted creature – a piece of good fortune for the Com pany – a m an y ou don’t get hold of every day. Good heavens! and I was going to take charge of a two–penny –halfpenny river–steam boat with a penny whistle attached! It appeared, however, I was also one of the Workers, with a capital – y ou know. Som ething like an em issary of light, som ething like a lower sort of apostle. There had been a lot of such rot let loose in print and talk j ust about that tim e, and the excellent wom an, living right in the rush of all that hum bug, got carried off her feet. She talked about ‘weaning those ignorant m illions from their horrid way s,’ till, upon m y word, she m ade m e quite uncom fortable. I ventured to hint that the Com pany 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 wom en are. They live in a world of their own, and there had never been any thing 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. Som e confounded fact we m en have been living contentedly with ever since the day of creation would start up and knock the whole thing over.

“After this I got em braced, 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 cam e to m e that I was an im postor. Odd thing that I, who used to clear out for any part of the world at twenty –four hours’ notice, with less thought than m ost m en give to the crossing of a street, had a m om ent – I won’t say of hesitation, but of startled pause, before this com m onplace affair. The best way I can explain it to y ou is by say ing 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 steam er, and she called in every blam ed 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 enigm a. There it is before y ou – sm iling, frowning, inviting, grand, m ean, insipid, or savage, and alway s m ute with an air of whispering, ‘Com e and find out.’ This one was alm ost featureless, as if still in the m aking, with an aspect of m onotonous grim ness. The edge of a colossal j ungle, so dark–green as to be alm ost 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 m ist. The sun was fierce, the land seem ed to glisten and drip with steam . Here and there gray ish–whitish specks showed up, clustered inside the white surf, with a flag fly ing above them perhaps. Settlem ents som e 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 m ore soldiers – to take care of the custom –house clerks, presum ably. Som e, I heard, got drowned in the surf; but whether they did or not, nobody seem ed particularly to care. They were j ust flung out there, and on we went. Every day the coast looked the sam e, as though we had not m oved; but we passed various places – trading places – with nam es like Gran’ Bassam Little Popo, nam es that seem ed to belong to som e sordid farce acted in front of a sinister backcloth. The idleness of a passenger, m y isolation am ongst all these m en with whom I had no point of contact, the oily and languid sea, the uniform som berness of the coast, seem ed to keep m e away from the truth of things, within the toil of a m ournful and senseless delusion. The voice of the surf heard now and then was a positive pleasure, like the speech of a brother. It was som ething natural, that had its reason, that had a m eaning. Now and then a boat from the shore gave one a m om entary contact with reality. It was paddled by black fellows. You could see from afar the white of their ey eballs glistening. They shouted, sang; their bodies stream ed with perspiration; they had faces like grotesque m asks – these chaps; but they had bone, m uscle, a wild vitality, an intense energy of m ovem ent, that was as natural and true as the surf along their coast. They wanted no excuse for being there. They were a great com fort to look at. For a tim e I would feel I belonged still to a world of straightforward facts; but the feeling would not last long. Som ething would turn up to scare it away. Once, I rem em ber, we cam e upon a m an–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 lim p like a rag; the m uzzles of the long eight– inch guns stuck out all over the low hull; the greasy, slim y swell swung her up lazily and let her down, sway ing her thin m asts. In the em pty im m ensity of earth, sky, and water, there she was, incom prehensible, firing into a continent. Pop, would go one of the eight–inch guns; a sm all flam e would dart and vanish, a little white sm oke would disappear, a tiny proj ectile 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 som ebody on board assuring m e earnestly there was a cam p of natives – he called them enem ies! – hidden out of sight som ewhere.

“We gave her her letters (I heard the m en in that lonely ship were dy ing

of fever at the rate of three a day ) and went on. We called at som e m ore places with farcical nam es, where the m erry dance of death and trade goes on in a still and earthy atm osphere as of an overheated catacom b; all along the form less coast bordered by dangerous surf, as if Nature herself had tried to ward off intruders; in and out of rivers, stream s of death in life, whose banks were rotting into m ud, whose waters, thickened into slim e, invaded the contorted m angroves, that seem ed to writhe at us in the extrem ity of an im potent despair. Nowhere did we stop long enough to get a particularized im pression, but the general sense of vague and oppressive wonder grew upon m e. It was like a weary pilgrim age am ongst hints for nightm ares.

“It was upward of thirty day s before I saw the m outh of the big river.

We anchored off the seat of the governm ent. But m y work would not begin till som e two hundred m iles farther on. So as soon as I could I m ade a start for a place thirty m iles higher up.

“I had m y passage on a little sea–going steam er. Her captain was a

Swede, and knowing m e for a seam an, invited m e on the bridge. He was a y oung m an, lean, fair, and m orose, with lanky hair and a shuffling gait. As we left the m iserable little wharf, he tossed his head contem ptuously at the shore. ‘Been living there?’ he asked. I said, ‘Yes.’ ‘Fine lot these governm ent chaps – are they not?’ he went on, speaking English with great precision and considerable bitterness. ‘It is funny what som e people will do for a few francs a m onth. I wonder what becom es of that kind when it goes up country ?’ I said to him I expected to see that soon. ‘So–o–o!’ he exclaim ed. He shuffled athwart, keeping one ey e ahead vigilantly. ‘Don’t be too sure,’ he continued. ‘The other day I took up a m an who hanged him self on the road. He was a Swede, too.’ ‘Hanged him self! Why, in God’s nam e?’ I cried. He kept on looking out watchfully. ‘Who knows? The sun too m uch for him , or the country perhaps.’

“At last we opened a reach. A rocky cliff appeared, m ounds of turned–

up earth by the shore, houses on a hill, others, with iron roofs, am ongst 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, m ostly black and naked, m oved about like ants. A j etty proj ected into the river. A blinding sunlight drowned all this at tim es in a sudden recrudescence of glare. ‘There’s y our Com pany ’s station,’ said the Swede, pointing to three wooden barrack–like structures on the rocky slope. ‘I will send y our things up. Four boxes did y ou say ? So. Farewell.’

“I cam e 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 ly ing there on its back with its wheels in the air. One was off. The thing looked as dead as the carcass of som e anim al. I cam e upon m ore pieces of decay ing m achinery, a stack of rusty rails. To the left a clum p of trees m ade a shady spot, where dark things seem ed 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 sm oke cam e 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 any thing; but this obj ectless blasting was all the work going on.

“A slight clinking behind m e m ade m e turn m y head. Six black m en

advanced in a file, toiling up the path. They walked erect and slow, balancing sm all baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept tim e 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 j oints of their lim bs 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 , rhy thm ically clinking. Another report from the cliff m ade m e think suddenly of that ship of war I had seen firing into a continent. It was the sam e kind of om inous voice; but these m en could by no stretch of im agination be called enem ies. They were called crim inals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells, had com e to them , an insoluble m y stery from over the sea. All their m eager breasts panted together, the violently dilated nostrils quivered, the ey es stared stonily uphill. They passed m e within six inches, without a glance, with that com plete, deathlike indifference of unhappy savages. Behind this raw m atter one of the reclaim ed, the product of the new forces at work, strolled despondently, carry ing a rifle by its m iddle. He had a uniform j acket with one button off, and seeing a white m an on the path, hoisted his weapon to his shoulder with alacrity. This was sim ple prudence, white m en being so m uch alike at a distance that he could not tell who I m ight be. He was speedily reassured, and with a large, white, rascally grin, and a glance at his charge, seem ed to take m e into partnership in his exalted trust. After all, I also was a part of the great cause of these high and j ust 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 clim bed 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 som etim es – that’s only one way of resisting – without counting the exact cost, according to the dem ands 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–ey ed devils, that sway ed and drove m en – m en, I tell y ou. But as I stood on this hillside, I foresaw that in the blinding sunshine of that land I would becom e acquainted with a flabby, pretending, weak– ey ed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly. How insidious he could be, too, I was only to find out several m onths later and a thousand m iles farther. For a m om ent 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 som ebody had been digging on the slope,

the purpose of which I found it im possible to divine. It wasn’t a quarry or a sandpit, any how. It was j ust a hole. It m ight have been connected with the philanthropic desire of giving the crim inals som ething to do. I don’t know. Then I nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, alm ost no m ore than a scar in the hillside. I discovered that a lot of im ported drainage–pipes for the settlem ent had been tum bled in there. There wasn’t one that was not broken. It was a wanton sm ash– up. At last I got under the trees. My purpose was to stroll into the shade for a m om ent; but no sooner within than it seem ed to m e I had stepped into a gloom y circle of som e Inferno. The rapids were near, and an uninterrupted, uniform , headlong, rushing noise filled the m ournful stillness of the grove, where not a breath stirred, not a leaf m oved, with a m y sterious sound – as though the tearing pace of the launched earth had suddenly becom e audible.

“Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees, leaning against the

trunks, clinging to the earth, half com ing out, half effaced within the dim light, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonm ent, and despair. Another m ine on the cliff went off, followed by a slight shudder of the soil under m y feet. The work was going on. The work! And this was the place where som e of the helpers had withdrawn to die.

“They were dy ing slowly – it was very clear. They were not enem ies,

they were not crim inals, they were nothing earthly now, – nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation, ly ing confusedly in the greenish gloom . Brought from all the recesses of the coast in all the legality of tim e contracts, lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfam iliar food, they sickened, becam e inefficient, and were then allowed to crawl away and rest. These m oribund shapes were free as air – and nearly as thin. I began to distinguish the gleam of ey es under the trees. Then, glancing down, I saw a face near m y hand. The black bones reclined at full length with one shoulder against the tree, and slowly the ey elids rose and the sunken ey es looked up at m e, enorm ous and vacant, a kind of blind, white flicker in the depths of the orbs, which died out slowly. The m an seem ed y oung – alm ost a boy – but y ou know with them it’s hard to tell. I found nothing else to do but to offer him one of m y good Swede’s ship’s biscuits I had in m y pocket. The fingers closed slowly on it and held – there was no other m ovem ent 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 ornam ent – 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 bey ond the seas.