Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad (books for 5 year olds to read themselves .txt) 📗

hill. It turned aside for the bowlders, and also for an undersized railway-truck lying there on its back with its wheels in the air.

One was off. The thing looked as dead as the carcass of some animal.

I came upon more pieces of decaying machinery, a stack of rusty rails.

To the left a clump of trees made a shady spot, where dark things seemed to stir feebly. I blinked, the path was steep. A horn tooted to the right, and I saw the black people run. A heavy and dull detonation shook the ground, a puff of smoke came out of the cliff, and that was all.

No change appeared on the face of the rock. They were building a railway.

The cliff was not in the way or anything; but this objectless blasting was all the work going on.

 

“A slight clinking behind me made me turn my head.

Six black men advanced in a file, toiling up the path.

They walked erect and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps.

Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short ends behind wagged to and fro like tails. I could see every rib, the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had an iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking.

Another report from the cliff made me think suddenly of that ship of war I had seen firing into a continent.

It was the same kind of ominous voice; but these men could by no stretch of imagination be called enemies. They were called criminals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells, had come to them, an insoluble mystery from over the sea.

All their meager breasts panted together, the violently dilated nostrils quivered, the eyes stared stonily uphill.

They passed me within six inches, without a glance, with that complete, deathlike indifference of unhappy savages.

Behind this raw matter one of the reclaimed, the product of the new forces at work, strolled despondently, carrying a rifle by its middle.

He had a uniform jacket with one button off, and seeing a white man on the path, hoisted his weapon to his shoulder with alacrity.

This was simple prudence, white men being so much alike at a distance that he could not tell who I might be. He was speedily reassured, and with a large, white, rascally grin, and a glance at his charge, seemed to take me into partnership in his exalted trust.

After all, I also was a part of the great cause of these high and just proceedings.

 

“Instead of going up, I turned and descended to the left.

My idea was to let that chain-gang get out of sight before I climbed the hill. You know I am not particularly tender; I’ve had to strike and to fend off. I’ve had to resist and to attack sometimes—that’s only one way of resisting—

without counting the exact cost, according to the demands of such sort of life as I had blundered into. I’ve seen the devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayed and drove men—men, I tell you.

But as I stood on this hillside, I foresaw that in the blinding sunshine of that land I would become acquainted with a flabby, pretending, weak-eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly.

How insidious he could be, too, I was only to find out several months later and a thousand miles farther.

For a moment I stood appalled, as though by a warning.

Finally I descended the hill, obliquely, towards the trees I had seen.

 

“I avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on the slope, the purpose of which I found it impossible to divine.

It wasn’t a quarry or a sandpit, anyhow. It was just a hole.

It might have been connected with the philanthropic desire of giving the criminals something to do. I don’t know.

Then I nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, almost no more than a scar in the hillside. I discovered that a lot of imported drainage-pipes for the settlement had been tumbled in there. There wasn’t one that was not broken.

It was a wanton smash-up. At last I got under the trees.

My purpose was to stroll into the shade for a moment; but no sooner within than it seemed to me I had stepped into a gloomy circle of some Inferno. The rapids were near, and an uninterrupted, uniform, headlong, rushing noise filled the mournful stillness of the grove, where not a breath stirred, not a leaf moved, with a mysterious sound—as though the tearing pace of the launched earth had suddenly become audible.

 

“Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees, leaning against the trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced within the dim light, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonment, and despair.

Another mine on the cliff went off, followed by a slight shudder of the soil under my feet. The work was going on. The work!

And this was the place where some of the helpers had withdrawn to die.

 

“They were dying slowly—it was very clear. They were not enemies, they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now,—

nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation, lying confusedly in the greenish gloom. Brought from all the recesses of the coast in all the legality of time contracts, lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfamiliar food, they sickened, became inefficient, and were then allowed to crawl away and rest.

These moribund shapes were free as air—and nearly as thin.

I began to distinguish the gleam of eyes under the trees.

Then, glancing down, I saw a face near my hand.

The black bones reclined at full length with one shoulder against the tree, and slowly the eyelids rose and the sunken eyes looked up at me, enormous and vacant, a kind of blind, white flicker in the depths of the orbs, which died out slowly.

The man seemed young—almost a boy—but you know with them it’s hard to tell. I found nothing else to do but to offer him one of my good Swede’s ship’s biscuits I had in my pocket.

The fingers closed slowly on it and held—there was no other movement and no other glance. He had tied a bit of white worsted round his neck—Why? Where did he get it?

Was it a badge—an ornament—a charm—a propitiatory act?

Was there any idea at all connected with it? It looked startling round his black neck, this bit of white thread from beyond the seas.

 

“Near the same tree two more bundles of acute angles sat with their legs drawn up. One, with his chin propped on his knees, stared at nothing, in an intolerable and appalling manner: his brother phantom rested its forehead, as if overcome with a great weariness; and all about others were scattered in every pose of contorted collapse, as in some picture of a massacre or a pestilence.

While I stood horror-struck, one of these creatures rose to his hands and knees, and went off on all-fours towards the river to drink.

He lapped out of his hand, then sat up in the sunlight, crossing his shins in front of him, and after a time let his woolly head fall on his breastbone.

 

“I didn’t want any more loitering in the shade, and I made haste towards the station. When near the buildings I met a white man, in such an unexpected elegance of get-up that in the first moment I took him for a sort of vision.

I saw a high starched collar, white cuffs, a light alpaca jacket, snowy trousers, a clear necktie, and varnished boots. No hat.

Hair parted, brushed, oiled, under a green-lined parasol held in a big white hand. He was amazing, and had a penholder behind his ear.

 

“I shook hands with this miracle, and I learned he was the Company’s chief accountant, and that all the bookkeeping was done at this station.

He had come out for a moment, he said, `to get a breath of fresh air.’

The expression sounded wonderfully odd, with its suggestion of sedentary desk-life. I wouldn’t have mentioned the fellow to you at all, only it was from his lips that I first heard the name of the man who is so indissolubly connected with the memories of that time. Moreover, I respected the fellow.

Yes; I respected his collars, his vast cuffs, his brushed hair.

His appearance was certainly that of a hairdresser’s dummy; but in the great demoralization of the land he kept up his appearance. That’s backbone.

His starched collars and got-up shirt-fronts were achievements of character.

He had been out nearly three years; and, later on, I could not help asking him how he managed to sport such linen. He had just the faintest blush, and said modestly, `I’ve been teaching one of the native women about the station. It was difficult. She had a distaste for the work.’

This man had verily accomplished something. And he was devoted to his books, which were in apple-pie order.

 

“Everything else in the station was in a muddle,—heads, things, buildings.

Strings of dusty niggers with splay feet arrived and departed; a stream of manufactured goods, rubbishy cottons, beads, and brass-wire set into the depths of darkness, and in return came a precious trickle of ivory.

 

“I had to wait in the station for ten days—an eternity.

I lived in a hut in the yard, but to be out of the chaos I would sometimes get into the accountant’s office.

It was built of horizontal planks, and so badly put together that, as he bent over his high desk, he was barred from neck to heels with narrow strips of sunlight. There was no need to open the big shutter to see. It was hot there too; big flies buzzed fiendishly, and did not sting, but stabbed.

I sat generally on the floor, while, of faultless appearance (and even slightly scented), perching on a high stool, he wrote, he wrote. Sometimes he stood up for exercise.

When a truckle-bed with a sick man (some invalided agent from up-country) was put in there, he exhibited a gentle annoyance.

`The groans of this sick person,’ he said, distract my attention.

And without that it is extremely difficult to guard against clerical errors in this climate.’

 

“One day he remarked, without lifting his head, `In the interior you will no doubt meet Mr. Kurtz.’ On my asking who Mr. Kurtz was, he said he was a first-class agent; and seeing my disappointment at this information, he added slowly, laying down his pen, `He is a very remarkable person.’

Further questions elicited from him that Mr. Kurtz was at present in charge of a trading post, a very important one, in the true ivory-country, at `the very bottom of there.

Sends in as much ivory as all the others put together.

…’ He began to write again. The sick man was too ill to groan.

The flies buzzed in a great peace.

 

“Suddenly there was a growing murmur of voices and a great tramping of feet. A caravan had come in. A violent babble of uncouth sounds burst out on the other side of the planks.

All the carriers were speaking together, and in the midst of the uproar the lamentable voice of the chief agent was heard `giving it up’

tearfully for the twentieth time that day… . He rose slowly.

`What a frightful row,’ he said. He crossed the room gently to look at the sick man, and returning, said to me, `He does not hear.’