黑暗的心 英文版 Heart of Darkness
约瑟夫.康拉德 Joseph Conrad
I Page 2
"In about forty-five seconds I found myself again in the waiting-roomwith the compassionate secretary, who, full of desolation and sympathy,made me sign some document. I believe I undertook amongst other thingsnot to disclose any trade secrets. Well, I am not going to.
"I began to feel slightly uneasy. You know I am not used tosuch ceremonies, and there was something ominous in the atmosphere.It was just as though I had been let into some conspiracy--I don't know--something not quite right; and I was glad to get out.In the outer room the two women knitted black wool feverishly.People were arriving, and the younger one was walking backand forth introducing them. The old one sat on her chair.Her flat cloth slippers were propped up on a foot-warmer, and a catreposed on her lap. She wore a starched white affair on her head,had a wart on one cheek, and silver-rimmed spectacles hungon the tip of her nose. She glanced at me above the glasses.The swift and indifferent placidity of that look troubled me.Two youths with foolish and cheery countenances were being piloted over,and she threw at them the same quick glance of unconcerned wisdom.She seemed to know all about them and about me too.An eerie feeling came over me. She seemed uncanny and fateful.Often far away there I thought of these two, guarding the doorof 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 unconcernedold eyes. Ave! Old knitter of black wool. Morituri te salutant.Not many of those she looked at ever saw her again--not half,by a long way.
"There was yet a visit to the doctor. `A simple formality,' assured methe secretary, with an air of taking an immense part in all my sorrows.Accordingly a young chap wearing his hat over the left eyebrow,some clerk I suppose,--there must have been clerks in the business,though the house was as still as a house in a city of the dead,--came from somewhere up-stairs, and led me forth. He was shabbyand careless, with ink-stains on the sleeves of his jacket,and his cravat was large and billowy, under a chin shaped like the toeof an old boot. It was a little too early for the doctor, so Iproposed 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 goingout there. He became very cool and collected all at once.`I am not such a fool as I look, quoth Plato to his disciples,'he said sententiously, emptied his glass with great resolution,and we rose.
"The old doctor felt my pulse, evidently thinking of somethingelse the while. `Good, good for there,' he mumbled,and then with a certain eagerness asked me whether I wouldlet him measure my head. Rather surprised, I said Yes,when he produced a thing like calipers and got the dimensionsback 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 measurethe crania of those going out there,' he said. `And when theycome 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 goingout 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 changesof 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 theorywhich you Messieurs who go out there must help me to prove.This is my share in the advantages my country shall reapfrom 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 thanexposure to the sun. Adieu. How do you English say, eh?Good-by. Ah! Good-by. Adieu. In the tropics one must beforeeverything keep calm.' . . . He lifted a warning forefinger.. . . `Du calme, du calme. Adieu.'
"One thing more remained to do--say good-by to my excellent aunt.I found her triumphant. I had a cup of tea--the last decentcup of tea for many days--and in a room that most soothinglylooked 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 theseconfidences it became quite plain to me I had been representedto the wife of the high dignitary, and goodness knows to how manymore people besides, as an exceptional and gifted creature--a piece of good fortune for the Company--a man you don't get holdof every day. Good heavens! and I was going to take charge of atwo-penny-halfpenny river-steamboat with a penny whistle attached!It appeared, however, I was also one of the Workers, with a capital--you know. Something like an emissary of light, something like alower sort of apostle. There had been a lot of such rot let loosein 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 theirhorrid ways,' till, upon my word, she made me quite uncomfortable.I ventured to hint that the Company was run for profit.
"`You forget, dear Charlie, that the laborer is worthy of his hire,'she said, brightly. It's queer how out of touch with truth women are.They live in a world of their own, and there had never been anythinglike it, and never can be. It is too beautiful altogether, and if theywere to set it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset.Some confounded fact we men have been living contentedly with eversince the day of creation would start up and knock the whole thing over.
"After this I got embraced, told to wear flannel, be sure to write often,and so on--and I left. In the street--I don't know why--a queer feelingcame to me that I was an impostor. Odd thing that I, who used to clear outfor any part of the world at twenty-four hours' notice, with less thoughtthan most men give to the crossing of a street, had a moment--I won't sayof hesitation, but of startled pause, before this commonplace affair.The best way I can explain it to you is by saying that, for a secondor two, I felt as though, instead of going to the center of a continent,I were about to set off for the center of the earth.
"I left in a French steamer, and she called in every blamedport 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 shipis like thinking about an enigma. There it is before you--smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage,and always mute with an air of whispering, `Come and find out.'This one was almost featureless, as if still in the making,with an aspect of monotonous grimness. The edge of a colossal jungle,so dark-green as to be almost black, fringed with white surf,ran straight, like a ruled line, far, far away alonga blue sea whose glitter was blurred by a creeping mist.The sun was fierce, the land seemed to glisten and drip with steam.Here and there grayish-whitish specks showed up, clustered insidethe white surf, with a flag flying above them perhaps.Settlements some centuries old, and still no bigger thanpin-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 aGod-forsaken wilderness, with a tin shed and a flag-pole lostin it; landed more soldiers--to take care of the custom-houseclerks, 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 nameslike Gran' Bassam Little Popo, names that seemed to belongto some sordid farce acted in front of a sinister backcloth.The idleness of a passenger, my isolation amongst all these menwith whom I had no point of contact, the oily and languid sea,the uniform somberness of the coast, seemed to keep me awayfrom the truth of things, within the toil of a mournfuland senseless delusion. The voice of the surf heard now andthen was a positive pleasure, like the speech of a brother.It was something natural, that had its reason, that had a meaning.Now and then a boat from the shore gave one a momentarycontact 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 theyhad 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 comfortto look at. For a time I would feel I belonged still to a worldof 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 longeight-inch guns stuck out all over the low hull; the greasy,slimy swell swung her up lazily and let her down, swaying herthin masts. In the empty immensity of earth, sky, and water,there she was, incomprehensible, firing into a continent.Pop, would go one of the eight-inch guns; a small flame woulddart and vanish, a little white smoke would disappear, a tinyprojectile would give a feeble screech--and nothing happened.Nothing could happen. There was a touch of insanity inthe proceeding, a sense of lugubrious drollery in the sight;and it was not dissipated by somebody on board assuring meearnestly there was a camp of natives--he called them enemies!--hidden out of sight somewhere.
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.over our vermouths he glorified the Company's business,and by-and-by I expressed casually my surprise at him not goingout!
"We gave her her letters (I heard the men in that lonely ship were dyingof fever at the rate of three a day) and went on. We called at some moreplaces with farcical names, where the merry dance of death and tradegoes on in a still and earthy atmosphere as of an overheated catacomb;all along the formless coast bordered by dangerous surf, as if Natureherself had tried to ward off intruders; in and out of rivers,streams of death in life, whose banks were rotting into mud,whose waters, thickened into slime, invaded the contorted mangroves,that seemed to writhe at us in the extremity of an impotent despair.Nowhere did we stop long enough to get a particularized impression,but the general sense of vague and oppressive wonder grew upon me.It was like a weary pilgrimage amongst hints for nightmares.
"It was upward of thirty days before I saw the mouth ofthe big river. We anchored off the seat of the government.But my work would not begin till some two hundred miles farther on.So as soon as I could I made a start for a place thirtymiles higher up.
"At last we opened a reach. A rocky cliff appeared, mounds of turned-upearth by the shore, houses on a hill, others, with iron roofs,amongst a waste of excavations, or hanging to the declivity.A continuous noise of the rapids above hovered over this sceneof inhabited devastation. A lot of people, mostly black and naked,moved about like ants. A jetty projected into the river.A blinding sunlight drowned all this at times in a sudden recrudescenceof glare. `There's your Company's station,' said the Swede,pointing to three wooden barrack-like structures on the rocky slope.`I will send your things up. Four boxes did you say? So. Farewell.'
"I came upon a boiler wallowing in the grass, then found a path leading upthe hill. It turned aside for the bowlders, and also for an undersizedrailway-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 seemedto 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 shookthe 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 blastingwas 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 earthon their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps.Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short endsbehind wagged to and fro like tails. I could see every rib,the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each hadan iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together witha chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking.Another report from the cliff made me think suddenlyof that ship of war I had seen firing into a continent.It was the same kind of ominous voice; but these men couldby no stretch of imagination be called enemies. They werecalled 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 violentlydilated 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 newforces at work, strolled despondently, carrying a rifle by its middle.He had a uniform jacket with one button off, and seeing a white manon the path, hoisted his weapon to his shoulder with alacrity.This was simple prudence, white men being so much alike at a distancethat 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 highand 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 Iclimbed the hill. You know I am not particularly tender;I've had to strike and to fend off. I've had to resistand to attack sometimes--that's only one way of resisting--without counting the exact cost, according to the demandsof such sort of life as I had blundered into. I've seenthe devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devilof 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 blindingsunshine 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 findout 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 treesI had seen.
"I avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging onthe 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 desireof giving the criminals something to do. I don't know.Then I nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, almost nomore than a scar in the hillside. I discovered that a lotof imported drainage-pipes for the settlement had beentumbled 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 steppedinto a gloomy circle of some Inferno. The rapids were near,and an uninterrupted, uniform, headlong, rushing noise filledthe mournful stillness of the grove, where not a breath stirred,not a leaf moved, with a mysterious sound--as though the tearingpace of the launched earth had suddenly become audible.
"Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees, leaning againstthe trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced withinthe dim light, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonment, and despair.Another mine on the cliff went off, followed by a slight shudderof 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, lyingconfusedly in the greenish gloom. Brought from all the recessesof the coast in all the legality of time contracts, lost inuncongenial 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 shoulderagainst the tree, and slowly the eyelids rose and the sunkeneyes 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'shard to tell. I found nothing else to do but to offer himone of my good Swede's ship's biscuits I had in my pocket.The fingers closed slowly on it and held--there was noother movement and no other glance. He had tied a bitof 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 lookedstartling round his black neck, this bit of white thread frombeyond the seas.