There were two white men in charge of the trading station. Kayerts, the chief, was short and fat; Carlier,
the assistant, was tall, with a large head and a very broad trunk perched upon a long pair of thin legs.
The third man on the staff was a Sierra Leone nigger, who maintained that his name was Henry Price.
However, for some reason or other, the natives down the river had given him the name of Makola, and it
stuck to him through all his wanderings about the country. He spoke English and French with a warbling
accent, wrote a beautiful hand, understood bookkeeping, and cherished in his innermost heart the worship
of evil spirits. His wife was a negress from Loanda, very large and very noisy. Three children rolled
about in sunshine before the door of his low, shed-like dwelling. Makola, taciturn and impenetrable,
despised the two white men. He had charge of a small clay storehouse with a dried-grass roof, and pretended
to keep a correct account of beads, cotton cloth, red kerchiefs, brass wire, and other trade goods it
contained. Besides the storehouse and Makola's hut, there was only one large building in the cleared
ground of the station. It was built neatly of reeds, with a verandah on all the four sides. There were
three rooms in it. The one in the middle was the living-room, and had two rough tables and a few stools
in it. The other two were the bedrooms for the white men. Each had a bedstead and a mosquito net for all
furniture. The plank floor was littered with the belongings of the white men; open half-empty boxes, torn
wearing apparel, old boots; all the things dirty, and all the things broken, that accumulate mysteriously
round untidy men. There was also another dwelling-place some distance away from the buildings. In it,
under a tall cross much out of the perpendicular, slept the man who had seen the beginning of all this;
who had planned and had watched the construction of this outpost of progress. He had been, at home, an
unsuccessful painter who, weary of pursuing fame on an empty stomach, had gone out there through high
protections. He had been the first chief of that station. Makola had watched the energetic artist die of
fever in the just finished house with his usual kind of "I told you so" indifference. Then, for a time,
he dwelt alone with his family, his account books, and the Evil Spirit that rules the lands under the
equator. He got on very well with his god. Perhaps he had propitiated him by a promise of more white men
to play with, by and by. At any rate the director of the Great Trading Company, coming up in a steamer
that resembled an enormous sardine box with a flat-roofed shed erected on it, found the station in good
order, and Makola as usual quietly diligent. The director had the cross put up over the first agent's
grave, and appointed Kayerts to the post. Carlier was told off as second in charge. The director was a
man ruthless and efficient, who at times, but very imperceptibly, indulged in grim humour. He made a
speech to Kayerts and Carlier, pointing out to them the promising aspect of their station. The nearest
trading-post was about three hundred miles away. It was an exceptional opportunity for them to distinguish
themselves and to earn percentages on the trade. This appointment was a favour done to beginners. Kayerts
was moved almost to tears by his director's kindness. He would, he said, by doing his best, try to justify
the flattering confidence, &c., &c. Kayerts had been in the Administration of the Telegraphs, and knew how
to express himself correctly. Carlier, an ex-non-commissioned officer of cavalry in an army guaranteed
from harm by several European Powers, was less impressed. If there were commissions to get, so much the
better; and, trailing a sulky glance over the river, the forests, the impenetrable bush that seemed to cut
off the station from the rest of the world, he muttered between his teeth, "We shall see, very soon."
Next day, some bales of cotton goods and a few cases of provisions having been thrown on shore, the
sardine-box steamer went off, not to return for another six months. On the deck the director touched
his cap to the two agents, who stood on the bank waving their hats, and turning to an old servant of
the Company on his passage to headquarters, said, "Look at those two imbeciles. They must be mad at home
to send me such specimens. I told those fellows to plant a vegetable garden, build new storehouses and
fences, and construct a landing-stage. I bet nothing will be done! They won't know how to begin. I
always thought the station on this river useless, and they just fit the station!"
"They will form themselves there," said the old stager with a quiet smile.
"At any rate, I am rid of them for six months," retorted the director.
The two men watched the steamer round the bend, then, ascending arm in arm the slope of the bank,
returned to the station. They had been in this vast and dark country only a very short time, and as yet
always in the midst of other white men, under the eye and guidance of their superiors. And now, dull as
they were to the subtle influences of surroundings, they felt themselves very much alone, when suddenly
left unassisted to face the wilderness; a wilderness rendered more strange, more incomprehensible by the
mysterious glimpses of the vigorous life it contained. They were two perfectly insignificant and incapable
individuals, whose existence is only rendered possible through the high organization of civilized crowds.
Few men realize that their life, the very essence of their character, their capabilities and their
audacities, are only the expression of their belief in the safety of their surroundings. The courage, the
composure, the confidence; the emotions and principles; every great and every insignificant thought
belongs not to the individual but to the crowd: to the crowd that believes blindly in the irresistible
force of its institutions and of its morals, in the power of its police and of its opinion. But the
contact with pure unmitigated savagery, with primitive nature and primitive man, brings sudden and
profound trouble into the heart. To the sentiment of being alone of one's kind, to the clear perception
of the loneliness of one's thoughts, of one's sensations--to the negation of the habitual, which is safe,
there is added the affirmation of the unusual, which is dangerous; a suggestion of things vague,
uncontrollable, and repulsive, whose discomposing intrusion excites the imagination and tries the
civilized nerves of the foolish and the wise alike.
Kayerts and Carlier walked arm in arm, drawing close to one another as children do in the dark; and
they had the same, not altogether unpleasant, sense of danger which one half suspects to be imaginary.
They chatted persistently in familiar tones. "Our station is prettily situated," said one. The other
assented with enthusiasm, enlarging volubly on the beauties of the situation. Then they passed near the
grave. "Poor devil!" said Kayerts. "He died of fever, didn't he?" muttered Carlier, stopping short.
"Why," retorted Kayerts, with indignation, "I've been told that the fellow exposed himself recklessly
to the sun. The climate here, everybody says, is not at all worse than at home, as long as you keep out
of the sun. Do you hear that, Carlier? I am chief here, and my orders are that you should not expose
yourself to the sun!" He assumed his superiority jocularly, but his meaning was serious. The idea that
he would, perhaps, have to bury Carlier and remain alone, gave him an inward shiver. He felt suddenly
that this Carlier was more precious to him here, in the centre of Africa, than a brother could be anywhere
else. Carlier, entering into the spirit of the thing, made a military salute and answered in a brisk
tone, "Your orders shall be attended to, chief!" Then he burst out laughing, slapped Kayerts on the back
and shouted, "We shall let life run easily here! Just sit still and gather in the ivory those savages will
bring. This country has its good points, after all!" They both laughed loudly while Carlier thought:
"That poor Kayerts; he is so fat and unhealthy. It would be awful if I had to bury him here. He is a
man I respect." . . . Before they reached the verandah of their house they called one another "my dear
The first day they were very active, pottering about with hammers and nails and red calico, to put up
curtains, make their house habitable and pretty; resolved to settle down comfortably to their new life.
For them an impossible task. To grapple effectually with even purely material problems requires more
serenity of mind and more lofty courage than people generally imagine. No two beings could have been
more unfitted for such a struggle. Society, not from any tenderness, but because of its strange needs,
had taken care of those two men, forbidding them all independent thought, all initiative, all departure
from routine; and forbidding it under pain of death. They could only live on condition of being machines.
And now, released from the fostering care of men with pens behind the ears, or of men with gold lace on
the sleeves, they were like those lifelong prisoners who, liberated after many years, do not know what
use to make of their freedom. They did not know what use to make of their faculties, being both, through
want of practice, incapable of independent thought.
At the end of two months Kayerts often would say, "If it was not for my Melie, you wouldn't catch me
here." Melie was his daughter. He had thrown up his post in the Administration of the Telegraphs, though
he had been for seventeen years perfectly happy there, to earn a dowry for his girl. His wife was dead,
and the child was being brought up by his sisters. He regretted the streets, the pavements, the cafes,
his friends of many years; all the things he used to see, day after day; all the thoughts suggested by
familiar things--the thoughts effortless, monotonous, and soothing of a Government clerk; he regretted
all the gossip, the small enmities, the mild venom, and the little jokes of Government offices. "If I
had had a decent brother- in-law," Carlier would remark, "a fellow with a heart, I would not be here."
He had left the army and had made himself so obnoxious to his family by his laziness and impudence, that
an exasperated brother-in-law had made superhuman efforts to procure him an appoint- ment in the Company
as a second-class agent. Having not a penny in the world he was compelled to accept this means of
livelihood as soon as it became quite clear to him that there was nothing more to squeeze out of his
relations. He, like Kayerts, regretted his old life. He regretted the clink of sabre and spurs on a
fine afternoon, the barrack-room witticisms, the girls of garrison towns; but, besides, he had also a
sense of grievance. He was evidently a much ill-used man. This made him moody, at times. But the two
men got on well together in the fellowship of their stupidity and laziness. Together they did nothing,
absolutely nothing, and enjoyed the sense of the idleness for which they were paid. And in time they
came to feel something resembling affection for one another.
They lived like blind men in a large room, aware only of what came in contact with them (and of that
only imperfectly), but unable to see the general aspect of things. The river, the forest, all the great
land throbbing with life, were like a great emptiness. Even the brilliant sunshine disclosed nothing
intelligible. Things appeared and disappeared before their eyes in an unconnected and aimless kind of
way. The river seemed to come from nowhere and flow nowhither. It flowed through a void. Out of that
void, at times, came canoes, and men with spears in their hands would suddenly crowd the yard of the
station. They were naked, glossy black, ornamented with snowy shells and glistening brass wire, perfect
of limb. They made an uncouth babbling noise when they spoke, moved in a stately manner, and sent quick,
wild glances out of their startled, never-resting eyes. Those warriors would squat in long rows, four or
more deep, before the verandah, while their chiefs bargained for hours with Makola over an elephant tusk.
Kayerts sat on his chair and looked down on the proceedings, understanding nothing. He stared at them
with his round blue eyes, called out to Carlier, "Here, look! look at that fellow there--and that other
one, to the left. Did you ever such a face? Oh, the funny brute!"
Carlier, smoking native tobacco in a short wooden pipe, would swagger up twirling his moustaches, and
surveying the warriors with haughty indulgence, would say--
"Fine animals. Brought any bone? Yes? It's not any too soon. Look at the muscles of that fellow third
from the end. I wouldn't care to get a punch on the nose from him. Fine arms, but legs no good below
the knee. Couldn't make cavalry men of them." And after glancing down complacently at his own shanks,
he always concluded: "Pah! Don't they stink! You, Makola! Take that herd over to the fetish"
(the storehouse was in every station called the fetish, perhaps because of the spirit of civilization
it contained) "and give them up some of the rubbish you keep there. I'd rather see it full of bone than
full of rags."
"Yes, yes! Go and finish that palaver over there, Mr. Makola. I will come round when you are ready, to
weigh the tusk. We must be careful." Then turning to his companion: "This is the tribe that lives down
the river; they are rather aromatic. I remember, they had been once before here. D'ye hear that row? What
a fellow has got to put up with in this dog of a country! My head is split."
Such profitable visits were rare. For days the two pioneers of trade and progress would look on their
empty courtyard in the vibrating brilliance of vertical sunshine. Below the high bank, the silent river
flowed on glittering and steady. On the sands in the middle of the stream, hippos and alligators sunned
themselves side by side. And stretching away in all directions, surrounding the insignificant cleared
spot of the trading post, immense forests, hiding fateful complications of fantastic life, lay in the
eloquent silence of mute greatness. The two men understood nothing, cared for nothing but for the passage
of days that separated them from the steamer's return. Their predecessor had left some torn books. They
took up these wrecks of novels, and, as they had never read anything of the kind before, they were
surprised and amused. Then during long days there were interminable and silly discussions about plots and
personages. In the centre of Africa they made acquaintance of Richelieu and of d'Artagnan, of Hawk's Eye
and of Father Goriot, and of many other people. All these imaginary personages became subjects for gossip
as if they had been living friends. They discounted their virtues, suspected their motives, decried their
successes; were scandalized at their duplicity or were doubtful about their courage. The accounts of crimes
filled them with indignation, while tender or pathetic passages moved them deeply. Carlier cleared his
throat and said in a soldierly voice, "What nonsense!" Kayerts, his round eyes suffused with tears, his
fat cheeks quivering, rubbed his bald head, and declared. "This is a splendid book. I had no idea there
were such clever fellows in the world." They also found some old copies of a home paper. That print
discussed what it was pleased to call "Our Colonial Expansion" in high-flown language. It spoke much of
the rights and duties of civilization, of the sacredness of the civilizing work, and extolled the merits
of those who went about bringing light, and faith and commerce to the dark places of the earth. Carlier
and Kayerts read, wondered, and began to think better of themselves. Carlier said one evening, waving his
hand about, "In a hundred years, there will be perhaps a town here. Quays, and warehouses, and barracks,
and--and--billiard-rooms. Civilization, my boy, and virtue--and all. And then, chaps will read that two
good fellows, Kayerts and Carlier, were the first civilized men to live in this very spot!" Kayerts
nodded, "Yes, it is a consolation to think of that." They seemed to forget their dead predecessor;
but, early one day, Carlier went out and replanted the cross firmly. "It used to make me squint
whenever I walked that way," he explained to Kayerts over the morning coffee. "It made me squint,
leaning over so much. So I just planted it upright. And solid, I promise you! I suspended myself with
both hands to the cross-piece. Not a move. Oh, I did that properly."
At times Gobila came to see them. Gobila was the chief of the neighbouring villages. He was a gray-headed
savage, thin and black, with a white cloth round his loins and a mangy panther skin hanging over his back.
He came up with long strides of his skeleton legs, swinging a staff as tall as himself, and, entering the
common room of the station, would squat on his heels to the left of the door. There he sat, watching
Kayerts, and now and then making a speech which the other did not understand. Kayerts, without
interrupting his occupation, would from time to time say in a friendly manner: "How goes it, you old
image?" and they would smile at one another. The two whites had a liking for that old and incomprehensible
creature, and called him Father Gobila. Gobila's manner was paternal, and he seemed really to love all
white men. They all appeared to him very young, indistinguishably alike (except for stature), and he knew
that they were all brothers, and also immortal. The death of the artist, who was the first white man whom
he knew intimately, did not disturb this belief, because he was firmly convinced that the white stranger
had pretended to die and got himself buried for some mysterious purpose of his own, into which it was
useless to inquire. Perhaps it was his way of going home to his own country? At any rate, these were his
brothers, and he transferred his absurd affection to them. They returned it in a way. Carlier slapped him
on the back, and recklessly struck off matches for his amusement. Kayerts was always ready to let him have
a sniff at the ammonia bottle. In short, they behaved just like that other white creature that had hidden
itself in a hole in the ground. Gobila considered them attentively. Perhaps they were the same being with the other--or one of them was. He couldn't decide--clear up that mystery; but he remained always very friendly. In consequence of that friendship the women of Gobila's village walked in single file through the reedy grass, bringing every morning to the station, fowls, and sweet potatoes, and palm wine, and sometimes a goat. The Company never provisions the stations fully, and
the agents required those local supplies to live. They had them through the good-will of Gobila, and lived
well. Now and then one of them had a bout of fever, and the other nursed him with gentle devotion. They
did not think much of it. It left them weaker, and their appearance changed for the worse. Carlier was
hollow-eyed and irritable. Kayerts showed a drawn, flabby face above the rotundity of his stomach, which
gave him a weird aspect. But being constantly together, they did not notice the change that took place
gradually in their appearance, and also in their dispositions.
Five months passed in that way.
Then, one morning, as Kayerts and Carlier, lounging in their chairs under the verandah, talked about the
approaching visit of the steamer, a knot of armed men came out of the forest and advanced towards the
station. They were strangers to that part of the country. They were tall, slight, draped classically
from neck to heel in blue fringed cloths, and carried percussion muskets over their bare right shoulders.
Makola showed signs of excitement, and ran out of the storehouse (where he spent all his days) to meet
these visitors. They came into the courtyard and looked about them with steady, scornful glances. Their
leader, a powerful and determined-looking negro with bloodshot eyes, stood in front of the verandah and
made a long speech. He gesticulated much, and ceased very suddenly.
There was something in his intonation, in the sounds of the long sentences he used, that startled the two
whites. It was like a reminiscence of something not exactly familiar, and yet resembling the speech of
civilized men. It sounded like one of those impossible languages which sometimes we hear in our dreams.
"What lingo is that?" said the amazed Carlier. "In the first moment I fancied the fellow was going to speak
French. Anyway, it is a different kind of gibberish to what we ever heard."
"Yes," replied Kayerts. "Hey, Makola, what does he say? Where do they come from? Who are they?"
But Makola, who seemed to be standing on hot bricks, answered hurriedly, "I don't know. They come from
very far. Perhaps Mrs. Price will understand. They are perhaps bad men."
The leader, after waiting for a while, said something sharply to Makola, who shook his head. Then the
man, after looking round, noticed Makola's hut and walked over there. The next moment Mrs. Makola was
heard speaking with great volubility. The other strangers--they were six in all--strolled about with an
air of ease, put their heads through the door of the storeroom, congregated round the grave, pointed
understandingly at the cross, and generally made themselves at home.
"I don't like those chaps--and, I say, Kayerts, they must be from the coast; they've got firearms,"
observed the sagacious Carlier.
Kayerts also did not like those chaps. They both, for the first time, became aware that they lived in
conditions where the unusual may be dangerous, and that there was no power on earth outside of themselves
to stand between them and the unusual. They became uneasy, went in and loaded their revolvers. Kayerts
said, "We must order Makola to tell them to go away before dark."
The strangers left in the afternoon, after eating a meal prepared for them by Mrs. Makola. The immense
woman was excited, and talked much with the visitors. She rattled away shrilly, pointing here and there
at the forests and at the river. Makola sat apart and watched. At times he got up and whispered to his
wife. He accompanied the strangers across the ravine at the back of the station-ground, and returned
slowly looking very thoughtful. When questioned by the white men he was very strange, seemed not to
understand, seemed to have forgotten French--seemed to have forgotten how to speak altogether. Kayerts
and Carlier agreed that the nigger had had too much palm wine.
There was some talk about keeping a watch in turn, but in the evening everything seemed so quiet and
peaceful that they retired as usual. All night they were disturbed by a lot of drumming in the villages.
A deep, rapid roll near by would be followed by another far off--then all ceased. Soon short appeals
would rattle out here and there, then all mingle together, increase, become vigorous and sustained,
would spread out over the forest, roll through the night, unbroken and ceaseless, near and far, as if
the whole land had been one immense drum booming out steadily an appeal to heaven. And through the deep
and tremendous noise sudden yells that resembled snatches of songs from a madhouse darted shrill and
high in discordant jets of sound which seemed to rush far above the earth and drive all peace from
under the stars.
Carlier and Kayerts slept badly. They both thought they had heard shots fired during the night--but they
could not agree as to the direction. In the morning Makola was gone somewhere. He returned about noon with
one of yesterday's strangers, and eluded all Kayerts' attempts to close with him: had become deaf
apparently. Kayerts wondered. Carlier, who had been fishing off the bank, came back and remarked
while he showed his catch, "The niggers seem to be in a deuce of a stir; I wonder what's up. I saw
about fifteen canoes cross the river during the two hours I was there fishing." Kayerts, worried,
said, "Isn't this Makola very queer to-day?" Carlier advised, "Keep all our men together in case
of some trouble."
There were ten station men who had been left by the Director. Those fellows, having engaged themselves to
the Company for six months (without having any idea of a month in particular and only a very faint notion
of time in general), had been serving the cause of progress for upwards of two years. Belonging to a tribe
from a very distant part of the land of darkness and sorrow, they did not run away, naturally supposing
that as wandering strangers they would be killed by the inhabitants of the country; in which they were
right. They lived in straw huts on the slope of a ravine overgrown with reedy grass, just behind the
station buildings. They were not happy, regretting the festive incantations, the sorceries, the human
sacrifices of their own land; where they also had parents, brothers, sisters, admired chiefs, respected
magicians, loved friends, and other ties supposed generally to be human. Besides, the rice rations served
out by the Company did not agree with them, being a food unknown to their land, and to which they could
not get used. Consequently they were unhealthy and miserable. Had they been of any other tribe they would
have made up their minds to die--for nothing is easier to certain savages than suicide--and so have
escaped from the puzzling difficulties of existence. But belonging, as they did, to a warlike tribe
with filed teeth, they had more grit, and went on stupidly living through disease and sorrow. They
did very little work, and had lost their splendid physique. Carlier and Kayerts doctored them assiduously
without being able to bring them back into condition again. They were mustered every morning and told off
to different tasks--grass-cutting, fence-building, tree-felling, &c., &c., which no power on earth could
induce them to execute efficiently. The two whites had practically very little control over them.
In the afternoon Makola came over to the big house and found Kayerts watching three heavy columns of
smoke rising above the forests. "What is that?" asked Kayerts. "Some villages burn," answered Makola,
who seemed to have regained his wits. Then he said abruptly: "We have got very little ivory; bad six
months' trading. Do you like get a little more ivory?"
"Yes," said Kayerts, eagerly. He thought of percentages which were low.
"Those men who came yesterday are traders from Loanda who have got more ivory than they can carry home.
Shall I buy? I know their camp."
"Certainly," said Kayerts. "What are those traders?"
"Bad fellows," said Makola, indifferently. "They fight with people, and catch women and children. They
are bad men, and got guns. There is a great disturbance in the country. Do you want ivory?"
"Yes," said Kayerts. Makola said nothing for a while. Then: "Those workmen of ours are no good at
all," he muttered, looking round. "Station in very bad order, sir. Director will growl. Better get
a fine lot of ivory, then he say nothing."
"I can't help it; the men won't work," said Kayerts. "When will you get that ivory?"
"Very soon," said Makola. "Perhaps to-night. You leave it to me, and keep indoors, sir. I think you had
better give some palm wine to our men to make a dance this evening. Enjoy themselves. Work better
tomorrow. There's plenty palm wine--gone a little sour."
Kayerts said "yes," and Makola, with his own hands carried big calabashes to the door of his hut. They
stood there till the evening, and Mrs. Makola looked into every one. The men got them at sunset. When
Kayerts and Carlier retired, a big bonfire was flaring before the men's huts. They could hear their
shouts and drumming. Some men from Gobila's village had joined the station hands, and the entertainment
was a great success.
In the middle of the night, Carlier waking suddenly, heard a man shout loudly; then a shot was fired.
Only one. Carlier ran out and met Kayerts on the verandah. They were both startled. As they went across
the yard to call Makola, they saw shadows moving in the night. One of them cried, "Don't shoot! It's me,
Price." Then Makola appeared close to them. "Go back, go back, please," he urged, "you spoil all." "There
are strange men about," said Carlier. "Never mind; I know," said Makola. Then he whispered, "All right.
Bring ivory. Say nothing! I know my business." The two white men reluctantly went back to the house, but
did not sleep. They heard footsteps, whispers, some groans. It seemed as if a lot of men came in, dumped
heavy things on the ground, squabbled a long time, then went away. They lay on their hard beds and
thought: "This Makola is invaluable." In the morning Carlier came out, very sleepy, and pulled at the
cord of the big bell. The station hands mustered every morning to the sound of the bell. That morning
nobody came. Kayerts turned out also, yawning. Across the yard they saw Makola come out of his hut, a
tin basin of soapy water in his hand. Makola, a civilized nigger, was very neat in his person. He threw
the soapsuds skilfully over a wretched little yellow cur he had, then turning his face to the agent's
house, he shouted from the distance, "All the men gone last night!"
They heard him plainly, but in their surprise they both yelled out together: "What!" Then they stared
at one another. "We are in a proper fix now," growled Carlier. "It's incredible!" muttered Kayerts.
"I will go to the huts and see," said Carlier, striding off. Makola coming up found Kayerts standing
"I can hardly believe it," said Kayerts, tearfully. "We took care of them as if they had been our children."
"They went with the coast people," said Makola after a moment of hesitation.
"What do I care with whom they went--the ungrateful brutes!" exclaimed the other. Then with sudden
suspicion, and looking hard at Makola, he added: "What do you know about it?"
Makola moved his shoulders, looking down on the ground. "What do I know? I think only. Will you come
and look at the ivory I've got there? It is a fine lot. You never saw such."
He moved towards the store. Kayerts followed him mechanically, thinking about the incredible desertion
of the men. On the ground before the door of the fetish lay six splendid tusks.
"What did you give for it?" asked Kayerts, after surveying the lot with satisfaction.
"No regular trade," said Makola. "They brought the ivory and gave it to me. I told them to take what
they most wanted in the station. It is a beautiful lot. No station can show such tusks. Those traders
wanted carriers badly, and our men were no good here. No trade, no entry in books: all correct."
Kayerts nearly burst with indignation. "Why!" he shouted, "I believe you have sold our men for these
tusks!" Makola stood impassive and silent. "I--I--will--I," stuttered Kayerts. "You fiend!" he yelled
"I did the best for you and the Company," said Makola, imperturbably. "Why you shout so much? Look at
"I dismiss you! I will report you--I won't look at the tusk. I forbid you to touch them. I order you to
throw them into the river. You--you!"
"You very red, Mr. Kayerts. If you are so irritable in the sun, you will get fever and die--like the
first chief!" pronounced Makola impressively.
They stood still, contemplating one another with intense eyes, as if they had been looking with effort
across immense distances. Kayerts shivered. Makola had meant no more than he said, but his words seemed
to Kayerts full of ominous menace! He turned sharply and went away to the house. Makola retired into the
bosom of his family; and the tusks, left lying before the store, looked very large and valuable in the
Carlier came back on the verandah. "They're all gone, hey?" asked Kayerts from the far end of the common
room in a muffled voice. "You did not find anybody?"
"Oh, yes," said Carlier, "I found one of Gobila's people lying dead before the huts--shot through the
body. We heard that shot last night."
Kayerts came out quickly. He found his companion staring grimly over the yard at the tusks, away by
the store. They both sat in silence for a while. Then Kayerts related his conversation with Makola.
Carlier said nothing. At the midday meal they ate very little. They hardly exchanged a word that day.
A great silence seemed to lie heavily over the station and press on their lips. Makola did not open
the store; he spent the day playing with his children. He lay full-length on a mat outside his door,
and the youngsters sat on his chest and clambered all over him. It was a touching picture. Mrs. Makola
was busy cooking all day, as usual. The white men made a somewhat better meal in the evening. Afterwards,
Carlier smoking his pipe strolled over to the store; he stood for a long time over the tusks, touched
one or two with his foot, even tried to lift the largest one by its small end. He came back to his
chief, who had not stirred from the verandah, threw himself in the chair and said--
"I can see it! They were pounced upon while they slept heavily after drinking all that palm wine you've
allowed Makola to give them. A put-up job! See? The worst is, some of Gobila's people were there, and
got carried off too, no doubt. The least drunk woke up, and got shot for his sobriety. This is a funny
country. What will you do now?"
"We can't touch it, of course," said Kayerts.
"Of course not," assented Carlier.
"Slavery is an awful thing," stammered out Kayerts in an unsteady voice.
"Frightful--the sufferings," grunted Carlier with conviction.
They believed their words. Everybody shows a respectful deference to certain sounds that he and his
fellows can make. But about feelings people really know nothing. We talk with indignation or enthusiasm;
we talk about oppression, cruelty, crime, devotion, self-sacrifice, virtue, and we know nothing real
beyond the words. Nobody knows what suffering or sacrifice mean--except, perhaps the victims of the
mysterious purpose of these illusions.
Next morning they saw Makola very busy setting up in the yard the big scales used for weighing ivory.
By and by Carlier said: "What's that filthy scoundrel up to?" and lounged out into the yard. Kayerts
followed. They stood watching. Makola took no notice. When the balance was swung true, he tried to
lift a tusk into the scale. It was too heavy. He looked up helplessly without a word, and for a minute
they stood round that balance as mute and still as three statues. Suddenly Carlier said: "Catch hold of
the other end, Makola--you beast!" and together they swung the tusk up. Kayerts trembled in every limb.
He muttered, "I say! O! I say!" and putting his hand in his pocket found there a dirty bit of paper and
the stump of a pencil. He turned his back on the others, as if about to do something tricky, and noted
stealthily the weights which Carlier shouted out to him with unnecessary loudness. When all was over
Makola whispered to himself: "The sun's very strong here for the tusks." Carlier said to Kayerts in a
careless tone: "I say, chief, I might just as well give him a lift with this lot into the store."
As they were going back to the house Kayerts observed with a sigh: "It had to be done." And Carlier
said: "It's deplorable, but, the men being Company's men the ivory is Company's ivory. We must look
after it." "I will report to the Director, of course," said Kayerts. "Of course; let him decide,"
At midday they made a hearty meal. Kayerts sighed from time to time. Whenever they mentioned Makola's
name they always added to it an opprobrious epithet. It eased their conscience. Makola gave himself a
half-holiday, and bathed his children in the river. No one from Gobila's villages came near the station
that day. No one came the next day, and the next, nor for a whole week. Gobila's people might have been
dead and buried for any sign of life they gave. But they were only mourning for those they had lost by
the witchcraft of white men, who had brought wicked people into their country. The wicked people were
gone, but fear remained. Fear always remains. A man may destroy everything within himself, love and hate
and belief, and even doubt; but as long as he clings to life he cannot destroy fear: the fear, subtle,
indestructible, and terrible, that pervades his being; that tinges his thoughts; that lurks in his heart;
that watches on his lips the struggle of his last breath. In his fear, the mild old Gobila offered extra
human sacrifices to all the Evil Spirits that had taken possession of his white friends. His heart was
heavy. Some warriors spoke about burning and killing, but the cautious old savage dissuaded them. Who
could foresee the woe those mysterious creatures, if irritated, might bring? They should be left alone.
Perhaps in time they would disappear into the earth as the first one had disappeared. His people must
keep away from them, and hope for the best.
Kayerts and Carlier did not disappear, but remained above on this earth, that, somehow, they fancied had
become bigger and very empty. It was not the absolute and dumb solitude of the post that impressed them
so much as an inarticulate feeling that something from within them was gone, something that worked for
their safety, and had kept the wilderness from interfering with their hearts. The images of home; the
memory of people like them, of men that thought and felt as they used to think and feel, receded into
distances made indistinct by the glare of unclouded sunshine. And out of the great silence of the
surrounding wilderness, its very hopelessness and savagery seemed to approach them nearer, to draw
them gently, to look upon them, to envelop them with a solicitude irresistible, familiar, and disgusting.
Days lengthened into weeks, then into months. Gobila's people drummed and yelled to every new moon, as
of yore, but kept away from the station. Makola and Carlier tried once in a canoe to open communications,
but were received with a shower of arrows, and had to fly back to the station for dear life. That attempt
set the country up and down the river into an uproar that could be very distinctly heard for days. The
steamer was late. At first they spoke of delay jauntily, then anxiously, then gloomily. The matter was
becoming serious. Stores were running short. Carlier cast his lines off the bank, but the river was low,
and the fish kept out in the stream. They dared not stroll far away from the station to shoot. Moreover,
there was no game in the impenetrable forest. Once Carlier shot a hippo in the river. They had no boat to
secure it, and it sank. When it floated up it drifted away, and Gobila's people secured the carcase. It
was the occasion for a national holiday, but Carlier had a fit of rage over it and talked about the
necessity of exterminating all the niggers before the country could be made habitable. Kayerts mooned
about silently; spent hours looking at the portrait of his Melie. It represented a little girl with long
bleached tresses and a rather sour face. His legs were much swollen, and he could hardly walk. Carlier,
undermined by fever, could not swagger any more, but kept tottering about, still with a devil-may-care
air, as became a man who remembered his crack regiment. He had become hoarse, sarcastic, and inclined
to say unpleasant things. He called it "being frank with you." They had long ago reckoned their
percentages on trade, including in them that last deal of "this infamous Makola." They had also
concluded not to say anything about it. Kayerts hesitated at first--was afraid of the Director.
"He has seen worse things done on the quiet," maintained Carlier, with a hoarse laugh. "Trust him! He
won't thank you if you blab. He is no better than you or me. Who will talk if we hold our tongues?
There is nobody here."
That was the root of the trouble! There was nobody there; and being left there alone with their weakness,
they became daily more like a pair of accomplices than like a couple of devoted friends. They had heard
nothing from home for eight months. Every evening they said, "To-morrow we shall see the steamer." But
one of the Company's steamers had been wrecked, and the Director was busy with the other, relieving
very distant and important stations on the main river. He thought that the useless station, and the
useless men, could wait. Meantime Kayerts and Carlier lived on rice boiled without salt, and cursed
the Company, all Africa, and the day they were born. One must have lived on such diet to discover
what ghastly trouble the necessity of swallowing one's food may become. There was literally nothing
else in the station but rice and coffee; they drank the coffee without sugar. The last fifteen lumps
Kayerts had solemnly locked away in his box, together with a half-bottle of Cognac, "in case of
sickness," he explained. Carlier approved. "When one is sick," he said, "any little extra like that
They waited. Rank grass began to sprout over the courtyard. The bell never rang now. Days passed, silent,
exasperating, and slow. When the two men spoke, they snarled; and their silences were bitter, as if tinged
by the bitterness of their thoughts.
One day after a lunch of boiled rice, Carlier put down his cup untasted, and said: "Hang it all! Let's
have a decent cup of coffee for once. Bring out that sugar, Kayerts!"
"For the sick," muttered Kayerts, without looking up.
"For the sick," mocked Carlier. "Bosh! . . . Well! I am sick."
"You are no more sick than I am, and I go without," said Kayerts in a peaceful tone.
"Come! out with that sugar, you stingy old slave-dealer."
Kayerts looked up quickly. Carlier was smiling with marked insolence. And suddenly it seemed to
Kayerts that he had never seen that man before. Who was he? He knew nothing about him. What was
he capable of? There was a surprising flash of violent emotion within him, as if in the presence
of something undreamt-of, dangerous, and final. But he managed to pronounce with composure--
"That joke is in very bad taste. Don't repeat it."
"Joke!" said Carlier, hitching himself forward on his seat. "I am hungry--I am sick--I don't joke! I
hate hypocrites. You are a hypocrite. You are a slave-dealer. I am a slave-dealer. There's nothing but
slave-dealers in this cursed country. I mean to have sugar in my coffee to-day, anyhow!"
"I forbid you to speak to me in that way," said Kayerts with a fair show of resolution.
"You!--What?" shouted Carlier, jumping up.
Kayerts stood up also. "I am your chief," he began, trying to master the shakiness of his voice.
"What?" yelled the other. "Who's chief? There's no chief here. There's nothing here: there's nothing but
you and I. Fetch the sugar--you pot-bellied ass."
"Hold your tongue. Go out of this room," screamed Kayerts. "I dismiss you--you scoundrel!"
Carlier swung a stool. All at once he looked dangerously in earnest. "You flabby, good-for-nothing
civilian--take that!" he howled.
Kayerts dropped under the table, and the stool struck the grass inner wall of the room. Then, as Carlier
was trying to upset the table, Kayerts in desperation made a blind rush, head low, like a cornered pig
would do, and over-turning his friend, bolted along the verandah, and into his room. He locked the door,
snatched his revolver, and stood panting. In less than a minute Carlier was kicking at the door furiously,
howling, "If you don't bring out that sugar, I will shoot you at sight, like a dog.
Now then--one--two--three. You won't? I will show you who's the master."
Kayerts thought the door would fall in, and scrambled through the square hole that served for a window
in his room. There was then the whole breadth of the house between them. But the other was apparently not
strong enough to break in the door, and Kayerts heard him running round. Then he also began to run
laboriously on his swollen legs. He ran as quickly as he could, grasping the revolver, and unable
yet to understand what was happening to him. He saw in succession Makola's house, the store, the
river, the ravine, and the low bushes; and he saw all those things again as he ran for the second
time round the house. Then again they flashed past him. That morning he could not have walked a
yard without a groan.
And now he ran. He ran fast enough to keep out of sight of the other man
Then as, weak and desperate, he thought, "Before I finish the next round I shall die," he heard the
other man stumble heavily, then stop. He stopped also. He had the back and Carlier the front of the
house, as before. He heard him drop into a chair cursing, and suddenly his own legs gave way, and he
slid down into a sitting posture with his back to the wall. His mouth was as dry as a cinder, and his
face was wet with perspiration--and tears. What was it all about? He thought it must be a horrible
illusion; he thought he was dreaming; he thought he was going mad! After a while he collected his
What did they quarrel about? That sugar! How absurd! He would give it to him--didn't want it himself.
And he began scrambling to his feet with a sudden feeling of security. But before he had fairly stood
upright, a commonsense reflection occurred to him and drove him back into despair. He thought: "If I
give way now to that brute of a soldier, he will begin this horror again to-morrow--and the day
after--every day--raise other pretensions, trample on me, torture me, make me his slave--and I will
be lost! Lost! The steamer may not come for days--may never come." He shook so that he had to sit
down on the floor again. He shivered forlornly. He felt he could not, would not move any more. He
was completely distracted by the sudden perception that the position was without issue--that death
and life had in a moment become equally difficult and terrible.
All at once he heard the other push his chair back; and he leaped to his feet with extreme facility.
He listened and got confused. Must run again! Right or left? He heard footsteps. He darted to the left,
grasping his revolver, and at the very same instant, as it seemed to him, they came into violent collision.
Both shouted with surprise. A loud explosion took place between them; a roar of red fire, thick smoke;
and Kayerts, deafened and blinded, rushed back thinking: "I am hit--it's all over." He expected the
other to come round--to gloat over his agony. He caught hold of an upright of the roof--"All over!"
Then he heard a crashing fall on the other side of the house, as if somebody had tumbled headlong
over a chair--then silence. Nothing more happened. He did not die. Only his shoulder felt as if it
had been badly wrenched, and he had lost his revolver. He was disarmed and helpless! He waited for
his fate. The other man made no sound. It was a stratagem. He was stalking him now! Along what side?
Perhaps he was taking aim this very minute!
After a few moments of an agony frightful and absurd, he decided to go and meet his doom. He was
prepared for every surrender. He turned the corner, steadying himself with one hand on the wall;
made a few paces, and nearly swooned. He had seen on the floor, protruding past the other corner,
a pair of turned-up feet. A pair of white naked feet in red slippers. He felt deadly sick, and stood
for a time in profound darkness. Then Makola appeared before him, saying quietly: "Come along, Mr.
Kayerts. He is dead." He burst into tears of gratitude; a loud, sobbing fit of crying. After a time
he found himself sitting in a chair and looking at Carlier, who lay stretched on his back. Makola was
kneeling over the body.
"Is this your revolver?" asked Makola, getting up.
"Yes," said Kayerts; then he added very quickly, "He ran after me to shoot me--you saw!"
"Yes, I saw," said Makola. "There is only one revolver; where's his?"
"Don't know," whispered Kayerts in a voice that had become suddenly very faint.
"I will go and look for it," said the other, gently. He made the round along the verandah, while Kayerts
sat still and looked at the corpse. Makola came back empty-handed, stood in deep thought, then stepped
quietly into the dead man's room, and came out directly with a revolver, which he held up before Kayerts.
Kayerts shut his eyes. Everything was going round. He found life more terrible and difficult than death.
He had shot an unarmed man.
After meditating for a while, Makola said softly, pointing at the dead man who lay there with his right
eye blown out--
"He died of fever." Kayerts looked at him with a stony stare. "Yes," repeated Makola, thoughtfully,
stepping over the corpse, "I think he died of fever. Bury him to-morrow."
And he went away slowly to his expectant wife, leaving the two white men alone on the verandah.
Night came, and Kayerts sat unmoving on his chair. He sat quiet as if he had taken a dose of opium. The
violence of the emotions he had passed through produced a feeling of exhausted serenity. He had plumbed
in one short afternoon the depths of horror and despair, and now found repose in the conviction that life
had no more secrets for him: neither had death! He sat by the corpse thinking; thinking very actively,
thinking very new thoughts. He seemed to have broken loose from himself altogether. His old thoughts,
convictions, likes and dislikes, things he respected and things he abhorred, appeared in their true
light at last! Appeared contemptible and childish, false and ridiculous. He revelled in his new wisdom
while he sat by the man he had killed. He argued with himself about all things under heaven with that
kind of wrong-headed lucidity which may be observed in some lunatics. Incidentally he reflected that
the fellow dead there had been a noxious beast anyway; that men died every day in thousands; perhaps
in hundreds of thousands--who could tell?--and that in the number, that one death could not possibly
make any difference; couldn't have any importance, at least to a thinking creature. He, Kayerts, was
a thinking creature. He had been all his life, till that moment, a believer in a lot of nonsense like
the rest of mankind--who are fools; but now he thought! He knew! He was at peace; he was familiar with
the highest wisdom! Then he tried to imagine himself dead, and Carlier sitting in his chair watching him;
and his attempt met with such unexpected success, that in a very few moments he became not at all sure
who was dead and who was alive. This extraordinary achievement of his fancy startled him, however, and
by a clever and timely effort of mind he saved himself just in time from becoming Carlier. His heart
thumped, and he felt hot all over at the thought of that danger. Carlier! What a beastly thing! To
compose his now disturbed nerves--and no wonder!--he tried to whistle a little. Then, suddenly, he
fell asleep, or thought he had slept; but at any rate there was a fog, and somebody had whistled in
He stood up. The day had come, and a heavy mist had descended upon the land: the mist penetrating,
enveloping, and silent; the morning mist of tropical lands; the mist that clings and kills; the mist
white and deadly, immaculate and poisonous. He stood up, saw the body, and threw his arms above his head
with a cry like that of a man who, waking from a trance, finds himself immured forever in a tomb.
"Help! . . . . My God!"
A shriek inhuman, vibrating and sudden, pierced like a sharp dart the white shroud of that land of
sorrow. Three short, impatient screeches followed, and then, for a time, the fog-wreaths rolled on,
undisturbed, through a formidable silence. Then many more shrieks, rapid and piercing, like the yells
of some exasperated and ruthless creature, rent the air. Progress was calling to Kayerts from the river.
Progress and civilization and all the virtues. Society was calling to its accomplished child to come,
to be taken care of, to be instructed, to be judged, to be condemned; it called him to return to that
rubbish heap from which he had wandered away, so that justice could be done.
Kayerts heard and understood. He stumbled out of the verandah, leaving the other man quite alone for
the first time since they had been thrown there together. He groped his way through the fog, calling
in his ignorance upon the invisible heaven to undo its work. Makola flitted by in the mist, shouting
as he ran--
"Steamer! Steamer! They can't see. They whistle for the station. I go ring the bell. Go down to the
landing, sir. I ring."
He disappeared. Kayerts stood still. He looked upwards; the fog rolled low over his head. He looked round
like a man who has lost his way; and he saw a dark smudge, a cross-shaped stain, upon the shifting
purity of the mist. As he began to stumble towards it, the station bell rang in a tumultuous peal its
answer to the impatient clamour of the steamer.
The Managing Director of the Great Civilizing Company (since we know that civilization follows trade)
landed first, and incontinently lost sight of the steamer. The fog down by the river was exceedingly
dense; above, at the station, the bell rang unceasing and brazen.
The Director shouted loudly to the steamer:
"There is nobody down to meet us; there may be something wrong, though they are ringing. You had better
And he began to toil up the steep bank. The captain and the engine-driver of the boat followed behind.
As they scrambled up the fog thinned, and they could see their Director a good way ahead. Suddenly they
saw him start forward, calling to them over his shoulder:--"Run! Run to the house! I've found one of them.
Run, look for the other!"
He had found one of them! And even he, the man of varied and startling experience, was somewhat
discomposed by the manner of this finding. He stood and fumbled in his pockets (for a knife) while he
faced Kayerts, who was hanging by a leather strap from the cross. He had evidently climbed the grave,
which was high and narrow, and after tying the end of the strap to the arm, had swung himself off. His
toes were only a couple of inches above the ground; his arms hung stiffly down; he seemed to be standing
rigidly at attention, but with one purple cheek playfully posed on the shoulder. And, irreverently, he
was putting out a swollen tongue at his Managing Director.
About the author:zurück zur Übersicht
1857–1924, English novelist, b. Berdichev, Russia (now Berdychiv, Ukraine), originally named Jósef Teodor
Konrad Walecz Korzeniowski. Born of Polish parents, he is considered one of the greatest novelists and
prose stylists in English literature. In 1874, Conrad went to sea and later joined (1878) an English
merchant ship, becoming (1884) a master mariner as well as a British citizen. Retiring from the merchant
fleet in 1894, he began his career as a novelist, and all of his novels are written in English, an acquired
language. His notable early works include The Nigger of the Narcissus (1897), Lord Jim (1900), and the
novellas Youth (1902), Heart of Darkness (1902), and Typhoon (1903). The novels Nostromo (1904), The Secret
Agent (1907), Under Western Eyes (1911), and Chance (1913) are regarded by many as Conrad’s greatest works.
Of his later works, Victory (1915) is the best known. He also collaborated on two novels with Ford Madox
Ford, The Inheritors (1901) and Romance (1903). Marked by a distinctive, opulent prose style, Conrad’s
novels combine realism and high drama. Their settings include nautical backgrounds as well as high
society, and international politics. Conrad was a skilled creator of atmosphere and character; the
impact of various situations was augmented by his use of symbolism. He portrayed acutely the conflict
between non-western cultures and modern civilization. His characters exhibit the possibilities for
isolation and moral deterioration in modern life.
An Outpost of Progress by Joseph Conrad
Verlag: Travelman Publishing (2003)
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