Читать книгу Сердце тьмы. Уровень 2 / Heart of Darkness - Джозеф Конрад, Ford Madox Hueffer - Страница 2

The Nellie[1], a cruising yawl, swung and was at rest[2]. The wind was nearly calm. The only thing for it was to wait for the turn of the tide.

The sea-reach[3] of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. Here the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint. In the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges were drifting up with the tide. They stood still in red clusters of canvas, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea. The air was dark above Gravesend. Farther back, it condensed into a mournful gloom. It was brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth.

The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We were four. We affectionately watched his back. He stood in the bows. He was looking to seaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so nautical. He resembled a pilot. A seaman may trust a pilot, of course. It was difficult to realize that his work was not out there in the luminous estuary, but behind him. His work was within the brooding gloom.

Between us there was the bond of the sea. Besides our connection through long periods of separation, we were tolerant of each other’s stories – and even convictions. The Lawyer – the best of old fellows – had many years and many virtues. And he had the only cushion on deck. So he was lying on the only rug. The Accountant brought a box of dominoes, and was toying with the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged[4] right aft. He was leaning against the mizzen-mast[5]. He had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, and an ascetic aspect. With his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, he resembled an idol. The director was satisfied with the anchor and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily.

Afterwards there was silence on board the yacht. For some reason we did not begin that game of dominoes. We felt meditative. We were just staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically. The sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light. The mist on the Essex marsh was like a gauzy and radiant fabric. It hung from the wooded rises inland. It was draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west became more sombre every minute.

At last, the sun sank low in its curved and imperceptible fall. From glowing white it changed to a dull red without rays and without heat. The gloom was brooding over a crowd of men.

Forthwith a change came over the waters. The serenity became less brilliant but more profound. The old river in its broad reach rested unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service. We looked at the venerable stream in the august light of memories. And indeed nothing is easier for a man who, as the phrase goes, “follows the sea” with reverence and affection, than to evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of the Thames.

The tidal current runs to and fro[6]. It is crowded with memories of men and ships. It knew and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin, the great titled and untitled knights of the sea. It bore all the ships whose names were like jewels in the night, from the Golden Hind to the Erebus and Terror. Yes, it knew the ships and the men. They sailed from Deptford, from Greenwich, from Erith – the adventurers and the settlers; kings’ ships and the ships of captains, admirals, the dark “interlopers” of the Eastern trade, and the “generals” of East India fleets, hunters for gold or pursuers of fame. The dreams of men, the seed of commonwealths, the germs of empires!

The sun set. The dusk fell on the stream. Lights began to appear along the shore. The Chapman light-house[7] shone strongly. Lights of ships moved in the fairway. And farther west on the upper the place of the monstrous town was marked ominously on the sky. It was a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars.

“And this is also,” said Marlow suddenly, “one of the dark places of the earth.”

He was the only man of us who still “followed the sea.” The worst thing was that he did not represent his class. He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead a sedentary life. Their home is always with them – the ship. So is their country – the sea. One ship is very much like another. The sea is always the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the immensity of life, glide past. There is nothing mysterious to a seaman but the sea itself. The sea is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny.