Quotation from: Heart of Darkness

Written by: Joseph Conrad


"I went forward, and ordered the chain to be hauled in short, so as to
be ready to trip the anchor and move the steamboat at once if necessary.
'Will they attack?' whispered an awed voice. 'We will be all butchered
in this fog,' murmured another. The faces twitched with the strain, the
hands trembled slightly, the eyes forgot to wink. It was very curious
to see the contrast of expressions of the white men and of the black
fellows of our crew, who were as much strangers to that part of the
river as we, though their homes were only eight hundred miles away. The
whites, of course greatly discomposed, had besides a curious look of
being painfully shocked by such an outrageous row. The others had an
alert, naturally interested expression; but their faces were essentially
quiet, even those of the one or two who grinned as they hauled at the
chain. Several exchanged short, grunting phrases, which seemed to settle
the matter to their satisfaction. Their headman, a young, broad-chested
black, severely draped in dark-blue fringed cloths, with fierce nostrils
and his hair all done up artfully in oily ringlets, stood near me.
'Aha!' I said, just for good fellowship's sake. 'Catch 'im,' he snapped,
with a bloodshot widening of his eyes and a flash of sharp teeth--'catch
'im. Give 'im to us.' 'To you, eh?' I asked; 'what would you do with
them?' 'Eat 'im!' he said curtly, and, leaning his elbow on the rail,
looked out into the fog in a dignified and profoundly pensive attitude.
I would no doubt have been properly horrified, had it not occurred to
me that he and his chaps must be very hungry: that they must have been
growing increasingly hungry for at least this month past. They had been
engaged for six months (I don't think a single one of them had any
clear idea of time, as we at the end of countless ages have. They still
belonged to the beginnings of time--had no inherited experience to teach
them as it were), and of course, as long as there was a piece of paper
written over in accordance with some farcical law or other made down the
river, it didn't enter anybody's head to trouble how they would live.
Certainly they had brought with them some rotten hippo-meat, which
couldn't have lasted very long, anyway, even if the pilgrims hadn't, in
the midst of a shocking hullabaloo, thrown a considerable quantity of it
overboard. It looked like a high-handed proceeding; but it was really
a case of legitimate self-defence. You can't breathe dead hippo waking,
sleeping, and eating, and at the same time keep your precarious grip on
existence. Besides that, they had given them every week three pieces of
brass wire, each about nine inches long; and the theory was they were to
buy their provisions with that currency in riverside villages. You can
see how _that_ worked. There were either no villages, or the people were
hostile, or the director, who like the rest of us fed out of tins, with
an occasional old he-goat thrown in, didn't want to stop the steamer for
some more or less recondite reason. So, unless they swallowed the wire
itself, or made loops of it to snare the fishes with, I don't see what
good their extravagant salary could be to them. I must say it was paid
with a regularity worthy of a large and honourable trading company. For
the rest, the only thing to eat--though it didn't look eatable in the
least--I saw in their possession was a few lumps of some stuff like
half-cooked dough, of a dirty lavender colour, they kept wrapped in
leaves, and now and then swallowed a piece of, but so small that it
seemed done more for the looks of the thing than for any serious purpose
of sustenance. Why in the name of all the gnawing devils of hunger they
didn't go for us--they were thirty to five--and have a good tuck-in for
once, amazes me now when I think of it. They were big powerful men,
with not much capacity to weigh the consequences, with courage, with
strength, even yet, though their skins were no longer glossy and their
muscles no longer hard. And I saw that something restraining, one of
those human secrets that baffle probability, had come into play there.
I looked at them with a swift quickening of interest--not because it
occurred to me I might be eaten by them before very long, though I own
to you that just then I perceived--in a new light, as it were--how
unwholesome the pilgrims looked, and I hoped, yes, I positively hoped,
that my aspect was not so--what shall I say?--so--unappetizing: a touch
of fantastic vanity which fitted well with the dream-sensation that
pervaded all my days at that time. Perhaps I had a little fever, too.
One can't live with one's finger everlastingly on one's pulse. I had
often 'a little fever,' or a little touch of other things--the playful
paw-strokes of the wilderness, the preliminary trifling before the more
serious onslaught which came in due course. Yes; I looked at them as you
would on any human being, with a curiosity of their impulses, motives,
capacities, weaknesses, when brought to the test of an inexorable
physical necessity. Restraint! What possible restraint? Was it
superstition, disgust, patience, fear--or some kind of primitive honour?
No fear can stand up to hunger, no patience can wear it out, disgust
simply does not exist where hunger is; and as to superstition, beliefs,
and what you may call principles, they are less than chaff in a breeze.
Don't you know the devilry of lingering starvation, its exasperating
torment, its black thoughts, its sombre and brooding ferocity? Well,
I do. It takes a man all his inborn strength to fight hunger properly.
It's really easier to face bereavement, dishonour, and the perdition of
one's soul--than this kind of prolonged hunger. Sad, but true. And these
chaps, too, had no earthly reason for any kind of scruple. Restraint! I
would just as soon have expected restraint from a hyena prowling amongst
the corpses of a battlefield. But there was the fact facing me--the fact
dazzling, to be seen, like the foam on the depths of the sea, like a
ripple on an unfathomable enigma, a mystery greater--when I thought
of it--than the curious, inexplicable note of desperate grief in this
savage clamour that had swept by us on the river-bank, behind the blind
whiteness of the fog.

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