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Heart of Darkness part 1 (simplified)
English (ENG 120)
University of Pretoria
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Heart Of Darkness part 1
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 Nellie, a small sailboat, was anchored in the river. There was no wind and the only thing to do was sit and wait for the tide to change before heading down the river and out to sea.
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 mouth of the River Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an endless waterway. Far off in the distance, the sea and the sky blended seamlessly together. Nearby, barges sailing up the river seemed to stand still. A haze rested on the low shores as far as we could see. The air was dark above the port town of Gravesend. Behind us, up the river, the gloomy air hung motionless over the biggest and greatest town on earth, London.
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.
The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. Four of us watched him affectionately as he stared out at the sea. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half as appropriate as he did. He looked the part, which to a sailor is the most important sign of trustworthiness. It was hard to remember that he worked behind us, in the gloomy city, rather than out on the glowing water.
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 sea bonded us sailors. The long periods at sea, separated from everyone else, brought us closer together and made us tolerant of each other’s stories and beliefs. The Lawyer, a great guy, got to use the only cushion on the deck because he had served on board for so long. The Accountant had brought out a box of dominos and was building shapes out of the bony pieces. Marlow sat cross-legged in the back, leaning against a mast. He had sunken cheeks, a
the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzenmast. 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 marsh 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 sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.
yellow complexion, a straight back, and a sour demeanour. With his arms dropped and the palms of his hands facing up, he looked like a statue of a god. The Director, satisfied that the anchor was secure, made his way back and sat with us. We chatted lazily but soon fell into silence. For some reason or other we never played that game of dominos. We were all lost in our own thoughts, up for nothing but sitting and staring. The day was ending with incredible calm. The water was shining peacefully. The spotless sky was a giant blanket of pure light. The mist over the Essex Marsh was like a gauzy and bright fabric hung from the trees and draped over the shore. Only the gloom to the west became more gloomy by the minute, as if growing angry at the ending day.
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.
At last, almost without us noticing, the sun sank. It changed from glowing white to a dull red without rays or heat, like it was about to die or be snuffed out by the gloom hanging over the crowded city.
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, that to evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower
At once the water changed, becoming even calmer but less colourful. The old river rested peacefully at the end of the day, spreading calmly to the ends of the earth. For ages, the river has performed good service to the people who live on its banks. We looked at the river as only sailors could, with respect and affection and with an awareness of its great past. The river’s tides carry the memories of the men and ships they brought home or took into battle. The river has known and served all of the nation’s heroes, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin , all great knights of the sea. It had carried all the ships whose names live forever, like
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.
He was the only one of us who spent all of his time as a sailor, with no fixed home. The worst thing you could say about him was that he was not like other sailors. He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer too. As strange as it may sound, the truth is most seamen lead sedentary lives. They are homebodies and their home—the ship—is always with them. They are citizens of the sea. One ship is just like any other and the sea is the same everywhere. Because their surroundings are always the same, they ignore the foreign lands and people they come across. The only mystery the seaman cares about is the sea itself, which controls his fate and cannot be predicted. After his work is done, the seaman takes a short walk on shore and believes that he has seen all of a continent that he needs to. Any other secrets a place may hold are not secrets that he thinks are worth finding out. Similarly, the stories seamen tell are simple and direct. They reveal their meaning as easily as a shell reveals its nut. But Marlow was different, though he sure liked to tell a tale. To him, the meaning of a story was not like a nut that could be easily removed from its shell. To Marlow, the point of a story was the shell itself—the narration. And just like light will reveal the haze, storytelling will bring things to light that you might not have seen otherwise.
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
His remark wasn’t really surprising. In fact, it was just like him to say something like that. No one even bothered to grunt in response. So, he said, very slowly, “I was thinking of when the Romans first came here 1, years ago—it might as well have been a day ago, considering to the long history of the earth. Great men may have come down this river, but really that greatness is like a flash of lightning in the clouds. All of life is in that brief flicker of light, and hopefully it will last
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 colour of lead, a sky the colour 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 is no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable. And it has a
as long as the old earth keeps rolling. But we should remember that from the earth’s perspective, it was dark only yesterday. Imagine what it must have been like to be a Roman sea-captain, suddenly sent here from home. He had to travel all the way across Europe on foot and sail in one of those boats that Roman soldiers supposedly could build hundreds of in a month. Imagine him here. This was the very end of the world then. The sea was the colour of lead and the sky was the colour of smoke. His ship was about as sturdy as a heavy piano on thin legs. And he had to sail up this river with supplies, passing forests and swamps and savages, with almost nothing to eat and nothing to drink but water from the river. He didn’t have any of that great Roman wine. He couldn’t go ashore. Every once in a while, he would pass a military camp lost in the wilderness, like a needle in a haystack. He sailed on through cold, fog, storms, disease, and death. Death lurked around in the air, in the water, in the bush. They must have been dying like flies here. Oh, yes, he did it. He probably did it very well, too, and without thinking much about it except for the stories he could brag about later. They were men enough to face the darkness. And maybe he was encouraged by the possibility that he’d get promoted if he survived and knew the right people back in Rome. Or think of a decent young Roman citizen in a toga, someone who’d lost his fortune gambling, maybe, and was coming out here to make some money. He lands in a swamp, marches through the woods, and in some post deep in the country, he’s struck by how totally savage everything is around him. He is surrounded by all the mysterious life stirring in the forest, in the jungles, and in the hearts of the wild men. Nothing can prepare a man for that life. He just has to start living in it one day, in the middle of all of that awful confusion. But he’s drawn to that crazy savage life as well. Horrible things can be so fascinating. He starts to feel regret.
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 guess you guys know that I once worked on a river boat.” We knew then that our fates were sealed. We were going to hear about one of Marlow’s strange 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 like best 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 sombre 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 don’t want to talk about my personal life,” he said, apparently unaware that that’s what we would have liked most. “But to understand what happened you need to know how I got out there, what I saw, and how I went up the river to the place where I first met the poor fellow. It was as far as you could sail up the river and it was what all of my experiences there were leading up to. It put everything else I saw in a new light, a light that showed me my own thoughts differently. It was depressing and not very clear. No, not very clear. But somehow it seemed to cast a new light on everything.
“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.
“I’d just gotten back to London after sailing all over the East—the Pacific and Indian Oceans, the China Seas. I was kind of hanging around, not doing much but staying with friends and bothering them, almost like I was a missionary invading their land. It was fine for a little bit, but after a while I got tired of resting. I began to look for a ship, which is hard work. But no ship would have me, and that got old fast.
“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
“When I was a kid, I really liked maps. I would spend hours looking at South America or Africa or Australia and daydreaming about being a great explorer. There were many blank spaces on the map then, and when I saw one that seemed interesting (but they all
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 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.
look like that), I’d put my finger on it and say, ‘When I grow up, I will go there.’ The North Pole was one of those places, I remember. Well, I haven’t been there yet and won’t try to go now. It doesn’t seem as exotic anymore. Other places were scattered all over the globe. I’ve been in some of them, and... well, we won’t talk about that. But there was one spot that was the biggest and blankest, and that’s where I wanted to go the most.
“True, by this time it was not a blank space anymore. 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.
“Actually, by the time of my story, it wasn’t a blank space anymore. In the time since I was a child, it had been filled in with rivers and lakes and names. It stopped being a blank space of delightful mystery, a white patch for a boy to dream about. It had become a place of darkness. But there was one special river in it, a huge river that looked like a giant snake with its head in the sea, its body curling over a vast land, and its tail disappearing somewhere deep in the country. I stared at a map of this land in a store window, looking something like a silly bird staring at a snake. That’s when I remembered that there was a big company that did business on that river. Well, hell, I thought, they can’t buy and sell anything on the river without using steamboats, and I could sail one of those. As I walked away, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. 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.
“The company had its headquarters on the European Continent, not in London. I have a lot of relatives who live on the Continent because it’s cheap and not as nasty as it looks, according to them.
“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
“I’m embarrassed to admit that I started pestering them about getting me a job with the Company. This was new to me. I wasn’t used to getting work that way; I always took
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.
man. Fresleven’s crew also panicked and ran away. Nobody seemed to care about picking up the body until I showed up and stepped into his shoes. I felt like I shouldn’t let it sit there, but when I finally had a chance to meet the man whose job I now had, the grass growing through his ribs was tall enough to hide his bones, which were all there. The natives had thought white men had magical powers, so they hadn’t touched his body. And they had apparently fled the village. Their huts were rotting and falling down. Something terrible had happened after all. Terror had sent them running through the bush and they never returned. I don’t know what happened to the hens either. ‘Progress’ probably got them too. In any case, because of this fiasco, I got my job.
“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 sepulchre. 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.
“I ran around like crazy getting ready, and in less than two days I crossed the Channel to sign my contract. I soon arrived in a city that always makes me think of a giant white tomb. That’s probably prejudice on my part. It was easy to find the Company’s office. It was the biggest thing in town and everybody I met was talking about it. They said they were going to have an empire and make more money than you could count.
“A narrow and deserted street in deep shadow, high houses, innumerable windows with venetian blinds, a dead silence, grass sprouting right and left, immense double doors standing ponderously ajar. I slipped
“I went down a narrow, dark, deserted street that was lined with high houses, all with their blinds drawn. Everything was silent and there was grass growing everywhere. The Company’s building had two huge double
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 colours 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 centre. And the river was there— fascinating—deadly—like a snake. Ough! A door opened, ya 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 frockcoat. 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.
doors that were slightly open. I slipped through the crack, went up a clean, undecorated staircase that was as lifeless as a desert. I opened the first door I came to. Two women, one fat and the other slim, sat on stools, knitting black wool. The slim one got up and walked straight to me. She kept her eyes on her knitting and I was about to step out of her way, like you would for a sleepwalker, when she stopped and looked up. Her dress was a plain as an umbrella, and she turned around without saying anything and led me into a waiting room. I gave my name and looked around. There was a table in the middle of the room, plain chairs lined up on the walls, and at one end, a large map marked with all the colours of the rainbow. There was a vast amount of red on the map , which was good to see because it meant that something good was happening in those places. There was a lot of blue , a little green , some smears of orange , and, on the East Coast, a purple patch showing where happy pioneers were drinking lager. But I wasn’t going to any of those places. I was going into the yellow. It was dead in the centre of the map. And the river was there, as fascinating, and deadly as a snake. A door opened and a secretary poked her white but friendly head out and called me in with a wave of a skinny finger. The light was low, and a heavy writing desk squatted in the middle of the room. Behind it was a pale blob in a dress coat. It was the great man himself. He was about five foot six inches and had millions at his fingertips. He shook hands, mumbled vaguely, and 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
“In about forty-five seconds I was back in the waiting room with the friendly-looking secretary, who made me sign some document. I think I agreed not to reveal any Company secrets. Well, I’m not going to.
was shabby and careless, with inkstains 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.
He had a large necktie under a chin shaped like the toe of an old boot. We were too early for the doctor, so I suggested that we get a drink, which perked him up a great deal. As we sat over our vermouths, he praised the Company’s business so much that I asked him why he didn’t go out there. He got very serious all at once. ‘I am not such a fool as I look, said Plato to his students,’ he said gravely. He emptied his glass quickly and completely, 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 callipers 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 your messieurs who go out there must help
“The old doctor felt my pulse, though he seemed to be thinking about something else the whole time. ‘Good, good for there,’ he mumbled, and then excitedly asked whether I would let him measure my head. Surprised, I said Yes. He brought out some tool and used it to measure the back, the front, and every angle, taking notes carefully. He was an unshaven little man in an old coat, with his feet in slippers. I thought he was a harmless fool. ‘I always ask permission, in the interests of science, to measure the skulls of everyone going out there,’ he said. ‘And when they come back, too?’ I asked. ‘Oh, I never see them,’ he remarked, ‘and anyway, the changes take place inside.’ He smiled as though he’d heard a private joke. ‘So, you are going out there. Excellent. Interesting, too.’ He gave me another sharp glance and made another note. ‘Ever any madness in your family?’ he asked in a matter-of-fact tone. I got very annoyed. ‘Is that question in the interests of science?’ I asked. ‘It would be,’ he said, without noticing my irritation, ‘interesting for science to watch the mental changes of individuals on the spot, but.. .’ ‘Are you a psychologist?’ I interrupted. ‘Every doctor should be a bit of one,’ he said coolly. ‘I have a theory that you guys who go out there must help me prove. This is my part of the treasures my country is taking from that
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 your English say, eh? Good-bye. Ah! Good-bye. Adieu. In the tropics one must before everything keep calm.’... He lifted a warning forefinger.... ‘Du calme, du calme.’
place. The mere wealth I leave for others. Pardon my questions, but you are the first Englishman I’ve examined.’ I told him that I wasn’t typical of Englishmen in general. ‘If I were,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t be talking like this with you.’ ‘What you say is profound and probably wrong,’ he said with a laugh. ‘You should avoid irritation more than exposure to the sun. Adieu. How do you English say it —goodbye? Goodbye, then. Adieu. In the tropics one must remember to keep calm more than anything else.’ He pointed his finger at me as a warning. ‘Keep calm. Keep calm.’
“One thing more remained to do—say good- bye 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-half-penny 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
“The only thing I had left to do was say goodbye to my aunt, who’d been so helpful. She was proud of her success at getting me the job. I had a cup of tea, the last decent cup for a long time. We had a long quiet chat by the fire in her dainty living room. It became clear to me that she had described me to all sorts of important people as an uncommonly exceptional and gifted man, such that the Company would be lucky to have. Good God! All I was doing was taking over a cheap riverboat with a little whistle! Apparently, however, I was also a Worker, with a capital W. In her eyes I was practically a saint, bringing civilization and truth to the poor ignorant natives. People were saying a lot of stuff like that at the time, and the poor woman got carried away by it all. She talked so much about ‘weaning those ignorant millions from their horrid ways’ that she made uncomfortable. I hinted that the Company existed to make money.
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 greyish-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 pinheads 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 back-cloth. 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 sombreness 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, which 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
were settlements from centuries past. They looked like mere dots in the enormous jungle. We kept sailing and dropping off soldiers and clerks at little tin sheds in the wilderness. The soldiers, I assume, were there to protect the clerks. I heard that some drowned making their way ashore, but nobody seemed to know for sure or even care. They were just flung into the wilderness as we passed. The coast looked the same day in and day out. It seemed like we weren’t moving at all. The trading posts we passed had names like Gran’ Bassam and Little Popo —they sounded like names out of a bad play. I felt far away from everything happening around me. The sound of the waves was comforting, like the voice of a brother. It was something natural and meaningful. Now and then a boat from the shore brought me back in touch with reality. It was being paddled by black fellows. You could see the whites of their eyes glistening from far away. They shouted and sang, and their bodies dripped with sweat. They had faces like bizarre masks, but they had a natural energy and life, like the sea itself. Their presence didn’t need to be explained. They were very comforting to look at. For a while I would feel that the world made sense and was full of straightforward facts. That feeling would not last long, however. Something would always scare it away. Once, I remember, we met a warship anchored off the coast. There was no settlement visible, but the ship was firing its guns into the forest. Apparently, the French were fighting some war near there. The boat’s flag hung limp like a rag while the hull, with guns sticking out over it, rose gently and fell on the greasy, slimy waves. The ship was a tiny speck firing away into a continent. It was pointless and impossible to understand. The guns would pop, a small flame would appear from their barrels, a little white smoke would puff out, and nothing would happen. Nothing could happen. It was insane, and it only seemed
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 six-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 six-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.
more insane when someone swore to me that there was a camp of natives (or ‘enemies,’ as he called them) hidden in the jungle.
“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
“We carried some mail out to the warship and sailed on. I heard that the men on that ship were dying of fever at a rate of three a day. We stopped at some more places with ridiculous names, places where the only things happening were death and trade. The shoreline was jagged and twisted, as if Nature herself was trying to keep intruders out. We never stopped long enough in any one place to get a real sense of it. I had only a vague feeling of wonder and fear.
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 boulders, 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.
“As I walked up the hill, I passed a train engine and a railway car lying in the grass next to a boulder. The car was upside down, with one wheel missing. It looked like a dead animal. I passed more pieces of rusty machinery. In the shade off to the side I saw dark shapes moving around. I blinked and looked at the steep path. A horn tooted and the black people scattered. A heavy explosion shook the ground and a puff of smoke came out of the rocks. The cliff wasn’t changed. They were building a railway, or trying to, anyway. The cliff didn’t appear to be in the way, but they were blasting it anyway
“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 waggled 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 the sea. All their meagre breasts panted together, the violently dilated nostrils quivered, the eyes
“I heard a clinking noise behind me. Six black men were walking single file up the path. They were walking slowly, balancing small baskets full of dirt on their heads. Their only clothes were black rags wrapped around their waists, with bits of fabric hanging down in the back like tails. I could see every rib and every joint. Each man had an iron collar on his neck, and they were all chained together. The chains clinked as they walked. Another explosion from the dynamite made me think about the warship I had seen firing into a continent. It was the same sound. By no stretch of the imagination could these men be called enemies. They were called criminals. They broke laws they never heard of, laws that came, like the cannonballs crashing into the jungle, from the mysterious strangers who arrived from the sea. All the men panted, their nostrils shook, and their eyes stared uphill. They passed within six inches of me without a glance. They were as indifferent as death. Behind the chained men
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.
came another black man, this one a soldier, forced to guard his brothers. He looked heartbroken and sloppy, but when he saw that there was a white man on the path, he stood up straight. White men looked so similar to him from far away that he couldn’t tell if I was one of his bosses or not. When he saw that I was not, he grinned and relaxed, like we were partners. After all, we were both part of this noble and just business.
“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.
“Instead of going up, I turned and went down the other side of the hill. I didn’t want to follow the chain gang up to the top. I’m not usually emotional or sensitive. All my life I’ve had to fight and defend myself without caring much about feelings. But as I stood on that hillside, I was overwhelmed by what a terrible and colossal mistake this all was. I’ve seen violence, greed, and ruthless desire, but the lusty greed and heartlessness of the men who ran this system was astounding. Standing on that hillside, I just knew I would find out how terrible all of this greedy, treacherous, and pitiless undertaking really was. I would find all of this out several months later and a thousand miles away. But at that moment I was frozen, as if I had heard a horrible warning. I walked down the hill and wandered toward the shady spot I’d seen earlier.
“I avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on the slope, the purpose of which I found it impossible to divine. It
“I stepped around a large hole someone had dug in the hillside for no apparent reason. It wasn’t a quarry or anything like that. It was
Heart of Darkness part 1 (simplified)
Course: English (ENG 120)
University: University of Pretoria
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