Сердце тьмы. Уровень 2 / Heart of Darkness

Goodness knows to how many more people besides. They recommended me as an exceptional and gifted creature – a piece of good fortune for the Company. Good heavens! I was going to take charge of a cheap river-steamboat with a cheap whistle!

It appeared, however, I was also one of the Workers, with a capital[16 - with a capital – с прописной буквы] – you know. Something like an emissary of light, something like an apostle. The excellent woman talked about �weaning those ignorant millions from their horrid ways,’ till she made me quite uncomfortable.

I ventured to hint that the Company was run for profit[17 - was run for profit – поставила себе целью собирать барыши].

“You forget, dear Charlie, that the labourer 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.

After this she told me to wear flannel, be sure to write often, and so on – and I left.

In the street – I don’t know why – a queer feeling came to me that I was an imposter. I had a moment – I won’t say of hesitation, but of startled pause, before this commonplace affair.

7

I left in a French steamer. That steamer called in every blamed port – to land soldiers and custom-house officers. I watched the coast. To watch a coast is to think 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. The edge of a colossal jungle, so dark-green, almost black, fringed with white surf, ran straight, like a ruled line, far, far away along a blue sea whose glitter was blurred by a mist. The sun was fierce. The land glistened and dripped with steam. Here and there greyish-whitish specks showed up clustered inside the white surf, with a flag above them perhaps.

Settlements some centuries old, and still no bigger than pinheads.

We pounded along, stopped, landed soldiers; went on, landed custom-house clerks. Some people got drowned in the surf. But nobody particularly cared. On we went.

Every day the coast looked the same. We passed various places – trading places – with names like Gran’ Bassam, Little Popo. These names seemed to belong to some sordid farce.