Victory (Dover Thrift Editions)

  "An old bird like me! To let myself be trapped by those damned Portuguese

  rascals! I should never hear the last of it. We must keep it dark."

  From quite other motives, among which his native delicacy was the principal,

  Heyst was even more anxious to bind himself to silence. A gentleman would

  naturally shrink from the part of heavenly messenger that Morrison would force

  upon him. It made Heyst uncomfortable, as it was. And perhaps he did not care that

  it should be known that he had some means, whatever they might have been—

  sufficient, at any rate, to enable him to lend money to people. These two had a duet

  down there, like conspirators in a comic opera, of "Sh—ssh, shssh! Secrecy!

  Secrecy!" It must have been funny, because they were very serious about it.

  And for a time the conspiracy was successful in so far that we all concluded that

  Heyst was boarding with the good-natured—some said: sponging on the

  imbecile—Morrison, in his brig. But you know how it is with all such mysteries.

  There is always a leak somewhere. Morrison himself, not a perfect vessel by any

  means, was bursting with gratitude, and under the stress he must have let out

  something vague—enough to give the island gossip a chance. And you know how

  kindly the world is in its comments on what it does not understand. A rumour

  sprang out that Heyst, having obtained some mysterious hold on Morrison, had

  fastened himself on him and was sucking him dry. Those who had traced these

  mutters back to their origin were very careful not to believe them. The originator, it

  seems, was a certain Schomberg, a big, manly, bearded creature of the Teutonic

  persuasion, with an ungovernable tongue which surely must have worked on a

  pivot. Whether he was a Lieutenant of the Reserve, as he declared, I don't know.

  Out there he was by profession a hotel-keeper, first in Bangkok, then somewhere

  http://www.gutenberg.org/files/6378/6378-h/6378-h.htm

  3/28/2007

  Victory: an Island Tale, by Joseph Conrad

  Page 17 of 59

  else, and ultimately in Sourabaya. He dragged after him up and down that section

  of the tropical belt a silent, frightened, little woman with long ringlets, who smiled

  at one stupidly, showing a blue tooth. I don't know why so many of us patronized

  his various establishments. He was a noxious ass, and he satisfied his lust for silly

  gossip at the cost of his customers. It was he who, one evening, as Morrison and

  Heyst went past the hotel—they were not his regular patrons—whispered

  mysteriously to the mixed company assembled on the veranda:

  "The spider and the fly just gone by, gentlemen." Then, very important and

  confidential, his thick paw at the side of his mouth: "We are among ourselves; well,

  gentlemen, all I can say is, I don't you ever get mixed up with that Swede. Don't

  you ever get caught in his web."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Human nature being what it is, having a silly side to it as well as a mean side,

  there were not a few who pretended to be indignant on no better authority than a

  general propensity to believe every evil report; and a good many others who found

  it simply funny to call Heyst the Spider—behind his back, of course. He was as

  serenely unconscious of this as of his several other nicknames. But soon people

  found other things to say of Heyst; not long afterwards he came very much to the

  fore in larger affairs. He blossomed out into something definite. He filled the public

  eye as the manager on the spot of the Tropical Belt Coal Company with offices in

  London and Amsterdam, and other things about it that sounded and looked

  grandiose. The offices in the two capitals may have consisted—and probably did—

  of one room in each; but at that distance, out East there, all this had an air. We were

  more puzzled than dazzled, it is true; but even the most sober-minded among us

  began to think that there was something in it. The Tesmans appointed agents, a

  contract for government mail-boats secured, the era of steam beginning for the

  islands—a great stride forward—Heyst's stride!

  And all this sprang from the meeting of the cornered Morrison and of the

  wandering Heyst, which may or may not have been the direct outcome of a prayer.

  Morrison was not an imbecile, but he seemed to have got himself into a state of

  remarkable haziness as to his exact position towards Heyst. For, if Heyst had been

  sent with money in his pocket by a direct decree of the Almighty in answer to

  Morrison's prayer then there was no reason for special gratitude, since obviously he

  could not help himself. But Morrison believed both, in the efficacy of prayer and in

  the infinite goodness of Heyst. He thanked God with awed sincerity for his mercy,

  and could not thank Heyst enough for the service rendered as between man and

  man. In this (highly creditable) tangle of strong feelings Morrison's gratitude

  insisted on Heyst's partnership in the great discovery. Ultimately we heard that

  Morrison had gone home through the Suez Canal in order to push the magnificent

  coal idea personally in London. He parted from his brig and disappeared from our

  ken; but we heard that he had written a letter or letters to Heyst, saying that London

  was cold and gloomy; that he did not like either the men or things, that he was "as

  http://www.gutenberg.org/files/6378/6378-h/6378-h.htm

  3/28/2007

  Victory: an Island Tale, by Joseph Conrad

  Page 18 of 59

  lonely as a crow in a strange country." In truth, he pined after the Capricorn—I

  don't mean only the tropic; I mean the ship too. Finally he went into Dorsetshire to

  see his people, caught a bad cold, and died with extraordinary precipitation in the

  bosom of his appalled family. Whether his exertions in the City of London had

  enfeebled his vitality I don't know; but I believe it was this visit which put life into

  the coal idea. Be it as it may, the Tropical Belt Coal Company was born very

  shortly after Morrison, the victim of gratitude and his native climate, had gone to

  join his forefathers in a Dorsetshire churchyard.

  Heyst was immensely shocked. He got the news in the Moluccas through the

  Tesmans, and then disappeared for a time. It appears that he stayed with a Dutch

  government doctor in Amboyna, a friend of his who looked after him for a bit in his

  bungalow. He became visible again rather suddenly, his eyes sunk in his head, and

  with a sort of guarded attitude, as if afraid someone would reproach him with the

  death of Morrison.

  Naive Heyst! As if anybody would . . . Nobody amongst us had any interest in

  men who went home. They were all right; they did not count any more. Going to

  Europe was nearly as final as going to Heaven. It removed a man from the world of

  hazard and adventure.

  As a matter of fact, many of us did not hear of this death till months

  afterwards—from Schomberg, who disliked Heyst gratuitously and made up a

  piece of sinister whispered gossip:

  "That's what comes of having anything to do with that fellow. He squeezes you

  dry like a lemon, then chucks you out—sends you home to die. Take warning by

  Morrison!"

  Of course, we laughed at the innkeeper's suggestions of black mystery. Several

  of us he
ard that Heyst was prepared to go to Europe himself, to push on his coal

  enterprise personally; but he never went. It wasn't necessary. The company was

  formed without him, and his nomination of manager in the tropics came out to him

  by post.

  From the first he had selected Samburan, or Round Island, for the central station.

  Some copies of the prospectus issued in Europe, having found their way out East,

  were passed from hand to hand. We greatly admired the map which accompanied

  them for the edification of the shareholders. On it Samburan was represented as the

  central spot of the Eastern Hemisphere with its name engraved in enormous

  capitals. Heavy lines radiated from it in all directions through the tropics, figuring a

  mysterious and effective star—lines of influence or lines of distance, or something

  of that sort. Company promoters have an imagination of their own. There's no more

  romantic temperament on earth than the temperament of a company promoter.

  Engineers came out, coolies were imported, bungalows were put up on Samburan, a

  gallery driven into the hillside, and actually some coal got out.

  These manifestations shook the soberest minds. For a time everybody in the

  islands was talking of the Tropical Belt Coal, and even those who smiled quietly to

  themselves were only hiding their uneasiness. Oh, yes; it had come, and anybody

  could see what would be the consequences—the end of the individual trader,

  smothered under a great invasion of steamers. We could not afford to buy steamers.

  Not we. And Heyst was the manager.

  http://www.gutenberg.org/files/6378/6378-h/6378-h.htm

  3/28/2007

  Victory: an Island Tale, by Joseph Conrad

  Page 19 of 59

  "You know, Heyst, enchanted Heyst."

  "Oh, come! He has been no better than a loafer around here as far back as any of

  us can remember."

  "Yes, he said he was looking for facts. Well, he's got hold of one that will do for

  all of us," commented a bitter voice.

  "That's what they call development—and be hanged to it!" muttered another.

  Never was Heyst talked about so much in the tropical belt before.

  "Isn't he a Swedish baron or something?"

  "He, a baron? Get along with you!"

  For my part I haven't the slightest doubt that he was. While he was still drifting

  amongst the islands, enigmatical and disregarded like an insignificant ghost, he told

  me so himself on a certain occasion. It was a long time before he materialized in

  this alarming way into the destroyer of our little industry—Heyst the Enemy.

  It became the fashion with a good many to speak of Heyst as the Enemy. He was

  very concrete, very visible now. He was rushing all over the Archipelago, jumping

  in and out of local mail-packets as if they had been tram-cars, here, there, and

  everywhere—organizing with all his might. This was no mooning about. This was

  business. And this sudden display of purposeful energy shook the incredulity of the

  most sceptical more than any scientific demonstration of the value of these coal-

  outcrops could have done. It was impressive. Schomberg was the only one who

  resisted the infection. Big, manly in a portly style, and profusely bearded, with a

  glass of beer in his thick paw, he would approach some table where the topic of the

  hour was being discussed, would listen for a moment, and then come out with his

  invariable declaration:

  "All this is very well, gentlemen; but he can't throw any of his coal-dust in my

  eyes. There's nothing in it. Why, there can't be anything in it. A fellow like that for

  manager? Phoo!"

  Was it the clairvoyance of imbecile hatred, or mere stupid tenacity of opinion,

  which ends sometimes by scoring against the world in a most astonishing manner?

  Most of us can remember instances of triumphant folly; and that ass Schomberg

  triumphed. The T.B.C. Company went into liquidation, as I began by telling you.

  The Tesmans washed their hands of it. The Government cancelled those famous

  contracts, the talk died out, and presently it was remarked here and there that Heyst

  had faded completely away. He had become invisible, as in those early days when

  he used to make a bolt clear out of sight in his attempts to break away from the

  enchantment of "these isles," either in the direction of New Guinea or in the

  direction of Saigon—to cannibals or to cafes. The enchanted Heyst! Had he at last

  broken the spell? Had he died? We were too indifferent to wonder overmuch. You

  see we had on the whole liked him well enough. And liking is not sufficient to keep

  going the interest one takes in a human being. With hatred, apparently, it is

  otherwise. Schomberg couldn't forget Heyst. The keen, manly Teutonic creature

  was a good hater. A fool often is.

  "Good evening, gentlemen. Have you got everything you want? So! Good! You

  http://www.gutenberg.org/files/6378/6378-h/6378-h.htm

  3/28/2007

  Victory: an Island Tale, by Joseph Conrad

  Page 20 of 59

  see? What was I always telling you? Aha! There was nothing in it. I knew it. But

  what I would like to know is what became of that—Swede."

  He put a stress on the word Swede as if it meant scoundrel. He detested

  Scandinavians generally. Why? Goodness only knows. A fool like that is

  unfathomable. He continued:

  "It's five months or more since I have spoken to anybody who has seen him."

  As I have said, we were not much interested; but Schomberg, of course, could

  not understand that. He was grotesquely dense. Whenever three people came

  together in his hotel, he took good care that Heyst should be with them.

  "I hope the fellow did not go and drown himself," he would add with a comical

  earnestness that ought to have made us shudder; only our crowd was superficial,

  and did not apprehend the psychology of this pious hope.

  "Why? Heyst isn't in debt to you for drinks is he?" somebody asked him once

  with shallow scorn.

  "Drinks! Oh, dear no!"

  The innkeeper was not mercenary. Teutonic temperament seldom is. But he put

  on a sinister expression to tell us that Heyst had not paid perhaps three visits

  altogether to his "establishment." This was Heyst's crime, for which Schomberg

  wished him nothing less than a long and tormented existence. Observe the Teutonic

  sense of proportion and nice forgiving temper.

  At last, one afternoon, Schomberg was seen approaching a group of his

  customers. He was obviously in high glee. He squared his manly chest with great

  importance.

  "Gentlemen, I have news of him. Who? why, that Swede. He is still on

  Samburan. He's never been away from it. The company is gone, the engineers are

  gone, the clerks are gone, the coolies are gone, everything's gone; but there he

  sticks. Captain Davidson, coming by from the westward, saw him with his own

  eyes. Something white on the wharf, so he steamed in and went ashore in a small

  boat. Heyst, right enough. Put a book into his pocket, always very polite. Been

  strolling on the wharf and reading. 'I remain in possession here,' he told Captain

  Davidson. What I want to know is what he gets to eat there. A piece of dried fish

  now and then—what? That's coming down pretty low for a man who turned up his

&n
bsp; nose at my table d'hote!"

  He winked with immense malice. A bell started ringing, and he led the way to

  the dining-room as if into a temple, very grave, with the air of a benefactor of

  mankind. His ambition was to feed it at a profitable price, and his delight was to

  talk of it behind its back. It was very characteristic of him to gloat over the idea of

  Heyst having nothing decent to eat.

  http://www.gutenberg.org/files/6378/6378-h/6378-h.htm

  3/28/2007

  Victory: an Island Tale, by Joseph Conrad

  Page 21 of 59

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A few of us who were sufficiently interested went to Davidson for details. These

  were not many. He told us that he passed to the north of Samburan on purpose to

  see what was going on. At first, it looked as if that side of the island had been

  altogether abandoned. This was what he expected. Presently, above the dense mass

  of vegetation that Samburan presents to view, he saw the head of the flagstaff

  without a flag. Then, while steaming across the slight indentation which for a time

  was known officially as Black Diamond Bay, he made out with his glass the white

  figure on the coaling-wharf. It could be no one but Heyst.

  "I thought for certain he wanted to be taken off, so I steamed in. He made no

  signs. However, I lowered a boat. I could not see another living being anywhere.

  Yes. He had a book in his hand. He looked exactly as we have always seen him—

  very neat, white shoes, cork helmet. He explained to me that he had always had a

  taste for solitude. It was the first I ever heard of it, I told him. He only smiled. What

  could I say? He isn't the sort of man one can speak familiarly to. There's something

  in him. One doesn't care to.

  "'But what's the object? Are you thinking of keeping possession of the mine?' I

  asked him.

  "'Something of the sort,' he says. 'I am keeping hold.'

  "'But all this is as dead as Julius Caesar,' I cried. 'In fact, you have nothing worth

  holding on to, Heyst.'

  "'Oh, I am done with facts,' says he, putting his hand to his helmet sharply with

  one of his short bows."

  Thus dismissed, Davidson went on board his ship, swung her out, and as he was

  steaming away he watched from the bridge Heyst walking shoreward along the