0333672267_A_History_of_English_Literature

Good art, but not necessarily great art, the distinction between great art and good art depending immediately, as regards literature at all events, not on its form, but on the matter ... Given the conditions I have tried to explain as constituting good art - then, if it be devoted further to the increase of men’s happiness, to the redemption of the oppressed, or to the enlargement of our sympathies with each other, or to such presentment of new or old truth about ourselves and our relation to the world as may ennoble and fortify us in our sojourn here, or immediately, as with Dante, to the glory of God, it will be also great art; if, over and above those qualities I summed up as mind and soul - that colour and mystic perfume, and that reasonable structure, it has something of the soul of humanity in it, and finds its logical, architectural place, in the great structure of human life.

A song from the comic opera Patience (1881), with words by W. S. Gilbert and music by Sir Arthur Sullivan, shows that Wilde had been noticed in London. Gilbert and Sullivan operas had the confident rapport with a broad public which serious writers were losing. ‘If You’re Anxious for to Shine in the High Aesthetic Line’ ends:

Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen, An attachment à la Plato for a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean!

Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high aesthetic band, If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your medieval hand.

And everyone will say,

As you walk your flowery way,

‘If he’s content with a vegetable love which would certainly not suit me, Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!’

This satire proved accurate.

A revival of drama

Oscar Wilde

Oscar Fingall O'Flahertie Wills Wilde (1854-1900), son of a famous Dublin surgeon, had gone from Trinity College to Oxford, then to London, to publicize aestheticism

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Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), photographed in London between 1890 and 1894.

and himself. A brilliant talker, he put his art into his lifestyle. Fascinating as Wilde’s act is, his writing looks thin when compared with that of the comparably flamboyant Byron. Serious emotion comes out as sickly sentiment in his early poems and fiction, and in The Ballad of Reading Jail (1898) and De Profundis (1905), written after his fall. (Lord Queensbury had accused Wilde of homosexual practices, a serious legal offence - Wilde was sleeping with Queensbury’s son, Lord Alfred Douglas. Wilde sued for libel, lost, and went to jail, dying in exile in France.) The Romantic movement is sometimes dated from ‘Ossian’ MacPherson’s ‘The Death of Oscar’ (1759). Ossian provided Wilde with his first and second names. The death of Wilde began a legend of Saint Oscar, which has been better for newspapers than for literature.

Wilde is a brilliantly provocative critic, but his distinction lies in his comedies, Lady Windermere’s Fan, A Woman of No Importance, An Ideal Husband and The Importance of Being Earnest, staged in 1892-5. The last has been rated the best English comedy since Sheridan, Goldsmith or even Congreve, and is more quoted than any play not by Shakespeare. Only Bernard Shaw was unamused. The play on Ernest and ‘earnest’ is resolved in the play’s last line, in which Jack Worthing discovers that he is in fact Ernest Moncrieff, and is thus able to marry Gwendolen Fairfax, who will only marry him if he is called Ernest. He releases his ward, Cicely Cardew, to marry Algernon Moncrieff. The cleverly managed plot is a pretext for absurd dialogue full of paradox. Lady Bracknell, Gwendolen’s mother, questions Worthing about his background, and finds that he has money.

LADY BRACKNELL: And now to minor matters. Are your parents living? JACK: I have lost both my parents.

LADY B: Both? To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortuneto lose both seems like carelessness. Who was your father? Was he born in what the Radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of aristocracy?

JACK: I am afraid I really don’t know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I said I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me ... I don’t actually know who I am by birth. I was ... well, I was found.

LADY B: Found? [p. 299]

JACK: The late Mr Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the name of Worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for Worthing in his pocket at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside resort.

LADY B: Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resort find you?

JACK [gravely]: In a handbag. LADY B: A handbag?

JACK [very seriously]: Yes, Lady Bracknell, I was in a handbag - a somewhat large, black leather handbag, with handles to it - an ordinary handbag, in fact.

LADY B: In what locality did this Mr James, or Thomas, Cardew come across this ordinary handbag? JACK: In the cloak room at Victoria Station. It was given to him in mistake for his own.

LADY B: The cloak room at Victoria Station. JACK: Yes. The Brighton line.

LADY B: The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have told me. To be born, or at any rate, bred in a handbag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that reminds one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And I presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the particular locality in which the handbag was found, a cloak room at a railway station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion - has probably, indeed, been used for that purpose before now - but it could hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognised position in good society ... You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter - a girl brought up with the utmost care - to marry into a cloak room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr Worthing!

[Lady Bracknell sweeps majestically from the room]

This comedy of manners is not satire, for it is not mimetic. ‘Good society’ is a pretext for an imaginary world, though Wilde’s wit relies upon social nuance for some of its effects. Though he acknowledged W. S. Gilbert, Wilde’s comedy is personal and extraordinarily verbal, perfecting the techniques of his own conversation.

Lady Bracknell later tries to prevent her nephew Algernon from marrying Cicely Cardew, but on learning that she has £ 130,000. ‘in the Funds’, observes: ‘Miss Cardew seems to me a most attractive young lady, now that I look at her. Few girls of the present day have any really solid qualities, any of the qualities that last, and improve with time. We live, I regret to say, in an age of surfaces.’ She commends the eighteen-year-old Cicely’s habit of admitting to twenty at evening parties: ‘You are perfectly right in making some slight alteration. Indeed, no woman should ever be quite accurate about her age. It looks so calculating ...’. The assumption that society depends upon untruth is the basis of this logic: ‘In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity is the vital thing.’ Echoes of Wilde can be found in the parodist Max Beerbohm (1872-1956). His aunts, butlers, bachelors and debutantes reappear in the weightless world of P. G. Wodehouse (1881-1975).

Wilde reunited literature and theatre after a century in which poets from Shelley to Tennyson wrote poetical plays, little staged and largely forgotten. After Sheridan, the theatre fell into the hands of stock companies, doing farces or sub-literary melodrama, vehicles for actors such as Edmund Kean and William Macready. After making his name in The Bells (1870), the actor-manager Henry Irving dominated in London, putting on lavish Shakespeares with Ellen Terry. In Lyceum productions, acting came first, staging second, text last. Act V of The Merchant of Venice was dropped so that Irving (Shylock) could achieve maximum pathos.

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In comedy, London Assurance (1841) by the Irishman Dion Boucicault was an effective piece, but ripped-off French farces were the staple fare. The work of the great Norwegian, Henrik Ibsen (1828-1906), was first performed in England in 1880 in translation by William Archer. Recovery began with Sir Arthur Pinero (18551935), whose The Second Mrs Tanqueray (1893)

but there are fine things in the three Romances; the classes are not exclusive. A Pair of Blue Eyes was the favourite of the French novelist Marcel Proust (1871-1922); it also provides a background to the poems Hardy wrote after his wife’s death.

Hardy’s first novel, The Poor Man and the Lady, was declined by Macmillan as too fiercely satirical. He wrote Desperate Remedies (1871), a heavily-plotted Novel of Ingenuity, and then the pastoral Under the Greenwood Tree. Ingenuity, fantasy and romance are found in the more serious Novels of Character and Environment. Like Dickens, he borrowed from folklore, popular theatre, and broadsheet ballad tragedies. Despite this ‘stagy’ quality, he visualizes settings topographically (he was trained as an architect) so that their firm features are readily envisaged, as with the famous

description of Egdon Heath which opens The Return of the Native. In The Mayor of Casterbridge, the town (based on Dorchester) is so laid out that the reader locates

Thomas Hardy sits with his second wife, Florence, on the shaft of a ‘bathing machine’ on the beach at Aldeburgh, 1915.

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each scene in street, tavern, house or workplace. Hardy lived much of his life out of doors. Improbable or coincidental scenes can be visualised because he has made sure we see them clearly, often setting them against natural backgrounds. He places human figures against a world which has been inhabited for immense periods of time. In his tragic novels he endows his puppets with nobility, consciously following Greek models. Environment and action are often more important than character. His characters, rather than showing psychological development, are made of simple elements and experience a variety of emotions as plot and situation act upon them. His novels build up to climactic scenes. His mixing of genres invokes a greater variety of dimensions than other novelists.

Hardy’s obscure birthplace ‘far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife’ (Gray’s Elegy) gave him a long perspective, increased by the longevity of his family. His grandmother told him of ‘that far-back day when they learnt astonished/Of the death of the king of France’ (‘One We Knew (M. H. 1772-1857)’). Hardy observed that Wordsworth could have seen him in his cradle, as Gray could have seen Wordsworth in his. Hardy’s last visit to London was to attend the wedding of Harold Macmillan to the daughter of the Duke of Devonshire. When he died in 1928, two years before D. H. Lawrence, he had not written a novel for thirty-three years. That career had ended in a storm of protest: Tess of the d'Urbervilles, and especially Jude the Obscure, shocked a public Hardy had earlier wooed with rustic humour, and such winning characters as Gabriel Oak in the abundant tragicomedy of Far From the Madding Crowd. The middle novels which end unhappily, The Mayor of Casterbridge and The Woodlanders, do not depart absolutely from what may befall star-crossed lovers in romantic tragedy. He had concealed his views from the pious and the prudish in a career as a popular novelist, buying a financial independence. He then booby-trapped the Wessex of the endpaper maps with the corpses of Tess and Jude and their symbolically-named children, repaying the public for the accommodations he had had to make.

Tess of the d'Urbervilles

All the novels have moments of grandeur, and The Mayor of Casterbridge is a balanced tragedy, but his most powerful book is Tess of the d'Urbervilles: A Pure Woman. Tess Durbeyfield is the hope of her poor family. After the horse on which her father’s work depends is killed in an accident, she goes to work for a rich relative, Alec, who seduces her. Tess improvises a baptism for the child, who dies; the vicar is reluctant to bury the child (called Sorrow) in consecrated ground. In a later summer, as a dairymaid, she becomes engaged to Angel Clare, the agnostic son of an evangelical clergyman. On her wedding night she tells her husband about her past. Disgusted, although he has been no angel himself, he leaves her. Things at her home get worse. Working on a harsh upland farm, she meets Alec, who has become an itinerant preacher but gives it up to pursue her. Her letters to Angel unanswered, she becomes Alec’s mistress for the sake of her family. She kills him, then spends a hidden ‘honeymoon’ in the woods with Angel, who has returned. She is arrested at Stonehenge and hanged, leaving Angel with her younger sister. ‘“Justice” was done, and the President of the Immortals, in Aeschylean phrase, had ended his sport with Tess.’ This outraged readers: the book not only attacked social hypocrisy, double standards, the Church, the law and God, but seemed by its subtitle to condone adultery and murder. Hardy expressed surprise.

The ‘faults and falsity’ in Tess (Henry James’s phrase) come from Hardy’s

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ambiguous use of popular methods. The crude plot and simple characterization of the ‘shocker’ lured the public into an ambush where conventional values were upended. The pure woman’s confession that she has been ‘ruined’ by the devilish Alec causes her impure Angel to abandon her. Her innocent fineness then causes the ‘reformed’ Alec to abandon evangelism. The Victorian reader sees that the conventional norms of class, gender, morality and the supernatural do not work; and that it is natural for Tess to attract Alec and Angel, and may be natural for her to kill Alec. The use of paradox in the Nineties is not confined to Shaw and Wilde.

Tess is crude in plot and in the character of Alec, but not in its natural and imaginative style, although at times there are awkwardly learned references. After the Chaseborough dance, a village beauty jealous of Tess challenges her to a fight. She strips off her bodice and

bared her plump neck, shoulders, arid arms to the moonshine, under which they looked as luminous and beautiful as some Praxitelean creation, in their possession of the faultless rotundities of a lusty country girl. She closed her fists and squared up to Tess.

Alec rides up and rescues her: ‘Jump up behind me,’ he whispered, ‘and we’ll get shot of the screaming cats in a jiffy!’ Although a female punch-up is subject for neo-classical laughter in Fielding’s Tom Jones, the Greek sculptor Praxiteles has not much to do with this episode, omitted from Tess’s serialization in the popular Graphic. The mention of Aeschylus, as the curtain comes down on Tess, forces a comparison with Tragedy. But ‘the President of the Immortals’ was not a familiar phrase even to classicists, and is less well introduced than the mention of Cyrus at the end of Middlemarch. Hardy may have thought his pure suffering woman a more realistic modern counterpart to St Theresa than Eliot’s martyr to idealism, Dorothea.

Having rescued Tess from the frying-pan, and the ‘screaming cats’, Alec loses his way in the night. Tess is tired, and he stops to give her a rest, lending her his overcoat. He finds out where they are, and returns.

The Chase was wrapped in thick darkness, although morning was not far off. He was obliged to advance with outstretched hands to avoid contact with the boughs, and discovered that to hit the exact spot from which he had started was at first entirely beyond him. Roaming up and down, round and round, he at length heard a slight movement of the horse close at hand; and the sleeve of his overcoat unexpectedly caught his foot.

‘Tess!’ said d’Urberville.

There was no answer. The obscurity was now so great that he could see absolutely nothing but a pale nebulousness at his feet, which represented the white muslin figure he had left upon the dead leaves. Everything else was blackness alike. D’Urberville stooped; and heard a gentle regular breathing. He knelt and bent lower, till her breath warmed his face, and in a moment his cheek was in contact with hers. She was sleeping soundly, and upon her eyelashes there lingered tears.

Darkness and silence ruled everywhere around. Above them rose the primeval yews and oaks of The Chase, in which were poised gentle roosting birds in their last nap; and about them stole the hopping rabbits and bares. But, might some say, where was Tess’s guardian angel?

The Chase speaks better of innocence and wrong than this last question. Hardy is best when he allows description to interpret itself, as in the visionary scenes of courtship at Talbothays Dairy. He is a great visual and symbolic storyteller, rather than a social analyst in the tradition of the 19th-century realistic novel. The red-mouthed pure-hearted Tess is a memorable symbolic figure.

In Jude the Obscure, a child called Old Father Time hangs the two babies and then

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himself, leaving a note: ‘Done because we are too menny’. Grotesque! But it reflects Hardy’s idea of life as determined, not by heredity, environment and economics but by ‘crass Casualty’. Chance, in logic, cannot be cruel, although it can feel so. Such a pathos makes one think less about the victims than about their creator, Hardy.

These poets, like Swinburne and the painters Whistler and Sicken, often pursued their French aesthetic ideals, sometimes in French cafes. In The Importance of Being Earnest, the fictitious brother Ernest, killed off by Jack, is ‘said to have expressed a desire to be buried in Paris.’ ‘In Paris!’, exclaims Canon Chasuble. ‘I fear that hardly points to any very serious state of mind at the last.’ Lionel Johnson is the only one of this wasted group to write more than ten poems of interest, notably ‘The Dark Angel’ and ‘On the Statue of Charles I at Charing Cross’. His art imposed economy on the Swinburnian tendency to swoon. Both Yeats and Ezra Pound were related by marriage to Johnson.

A.E. Housman

A.E. Housman’s A Shropshire Lad (1896), the most distinct volume of the decade, later became very popular. Housman, the

son of a Worcestershire solicitor, had feelings for a fellow student at Oxford which were not reciprocated, as is suggested in an unpublished poem: ‘Because I liked you better/Than it suits a man to say ...’. A classical scholar, he failed his Finals and became a clerk in the Patent Office, yet in

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1892 his learning earned him the Chair of Latin at University College, London. A great textual critic of Latin poetry, he kept his own verse quite separate, his second volume, Last Poems, appearing in 1922.

A Shropshire Lad is set in a timeless country inhaled from the pages of Horace as much as in Shropshire, a county not well known to Housman. Its short lyrics, simple in form and refined in diction, turn on youth and death. A note of stoic, contained despair is struck plangently and often. Some of the poems have been set to music: ‘Loveliest of trees, the cherry now’, ‘In summertime on Bredon’, ‘Is my team ploughing?’, ‘On Wenlock Edge the wood’s in trouble’. Much of Housman is in this short poem:

Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows:

What are those blue remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,

I see it shining plain,

The happy highway where I went

And cannot come again.

Pastoral nostalgia rarely has this painful economy. In Hardy, Wilde and Housman there is a temptation to self-pity which is not always resisted.

Rudyard Kipling

Most of the notable poems of the time are not at all aesthetic. An earlier, remarkable work, ‘The City of Dreadful Night’ by James Thomson (1834-82), pen-name ‘B.V.’, and John Davidson’s pseudo-Cockney ‘Thirty Bob a Week’ are poems of the urban wasteland, both by Scots. Some are ruggedly earnest, such as W. E. Henley’s ‘Invictus’ (‘I am the master of my fate;/I am the captain of my soul’) and ‘England, my England’. His ‘Madam Life’s a piece in bloom/Death goes dogging everywhere’, a realistic sketch of urban life, uses the figure of the prostitute not for stock pathos but to make an unromantic moral point.

But the master of the hearty mode was Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936), born in India, schooled in England. A journalist back in India, his prose reputation began with Plain Tales from the Hills (1888) and the Jungle Books (1894, 1895). Barrack Room Ballads (1892) come in the Cockney accents of the soldier who knows nothing of ‘the Widow of Windsor’, Queen Victoria, and the policy of her empire: all he knows is the army. The rollicking vigour of this verse made it welcome in houses without bookshelves. Kipling became the favourite writer of millions in the Empire, with poems like ‘Gunga Din’, ‘Ladies’, ‘If’, ‘Tommy’, ‘Danny Deever’ and ‘The Road to Mandalay’. His quotability has been used against him: ‘A woman is only a woman,/But a good cigar is a smoke’, for example, but these are the words of a nervous man, not of his creator.

Kipling’s popularity fell with that of the Empire, but his imperialism was never uncritical. In 1897, he warned the British of their fate in ‘Recessional’, written for Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee; a recessional hymn is sung as the priest processes out of church at the end of the service.

God of our fathers, known of old, Lord of our far-flung battle-line, Beneath whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine — Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget — lest we forget.

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The end of empire is foreseen: ‘The tumult and the shouting dies;/The Captains and the Kings depart’ ... ‘Far off, our navies melt away.’ Kipling’s final petition is: ‘For frantic boast and foolish word - Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!’ Few of the Queen-Empress’s subjects would have been surprised by the idea that the English were God’s people.

Further reading

Innes, C. Modern British Drama, 1880-1990 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992).

Raby, P. (ed.). The Cambridge Companion to Oscar Wilde (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). Thornton, R. K. R. (ed.). The Decadent Dilemma (London: Edward Arnold, 1983).

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Part Five: The Twentieth Century

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12. Ends and Beginnings: 1901-19

Overview

The war of 1914-18 made the England of Edward VII (1901-10) and of the start of George V’s reign seem forever ‘pre-war’, and a pendant to the 19th century. Those years were rich in good writing of many kinds, old and new, major and minor, but established masters and modes were dominant: poetry by Hardy, drama by Shaw. In 1910 Swinburne died, and Yeats’ Collected Poems appeared. The fiction of James and Conrad, and of Kipling, was more ambitious and far-reaching than that of younger writers such as Arnold Bennett. Ford Madox Ford’s career is representative of the changes to come. Yet by 1918, the impression made by ‘modernist’ writing before 1914 had faded, and writers later famous as modernists or as war poets were little known.

The new century

Queen Victoria’s death in 1901 renewed the novelty of the century. Her elderly, cigarsmoking son, Edward VII, diffused a far more relaxed atmosphere. In clubs, men left the bottom buttons of their waistcoats undone, as the new King did; there was talk of Votes for Women. In 1910 the accession of George V again promised fresh beginnings: the new Georgian era would differ from the Edwardian ... but all is dwarfed in retrospect by how the

Great War altered everything. The old world of social rank, of (unequal) prosperity, and of horses and railways, had a liberal hope: the way of life of Britain, of Europe and America, and of the Empire, would gradually improve - materially, politically, morally. The world would grow more civilized. It did not. The words put to Sir Edward Elgar’s ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ march, ‘Land of Hope and Glory’, have a chorus, still lustily sung each year at the Last Night of the Promenade Concerts in the Albert Hall: ‘... wider still, and wider, may your bounds be set./God that made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet!’ How strange this must have sounded in 1919, and again in 1947, when India became independent and the Empire became the Commonwealth.

We can read about the pre-war English world in the novels of John Galsworthy, Arnold Bennett, H. G. Wells and E. M. Forster; in light fiction such as G. K. Chesterton’s The Innocence of Father Brown (1911) and E. C. Bentley's Trent’s last Case

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Pound and Virginia Woolf was the mark of the beast. Kipling and Wells drove large new motor cars. In Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows the ‘Poop, poop!’ of the motor car driven by Mr Toad embodies the unwelcome in modern life.

H. G. Wells

Herbert George Wells (1866-1946), the son of a small tradesman and professional cricketer, won a scholarship to study science in South Kensington, and soon burst

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into print. He wrote pioneering science fiction in The Time Machine (1895) and others; a feminist novel, Ann Veronica (1909); a spoof on advertising in Tono-Bungay (1910); and a social comedy in The History of Mr Polly (1910), about being a draper. The unhappy Polly, trying to burn himself to death, becomes frightened of the flames and runs out of the house - and out of his marriage, and his shop, to happiness: a riverside pub. Wells’s belief in progress turned him to tracts and popularization (The Outline of History, 1920). His last book was Mind at the End of its Tether (1945), as might have been predicted by G. K. Chesterton, who mistrusted salvation by the corporate state.

Joseph Conrad

Josef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski (1857-1924) was the son and grandson of Polish gentlemen who dedicated their lives to resisting Russian rule of the Ukraine. His mother died

in exile in northern Russia when he was seven, his father when he was eleven; at sixteen he went to sea, joining a French ship at Marseilles. There are rumours of gun-running, attempted suicide, of having killed a man. After ten years at sea, he became a master mariner and a British subject.

In 1893 a young product of Harrow, Oxford and the Bar wrote home from the Torrens, sailing to Adelaide:

The first mate is a Pole called Conrad and is a capital chap, though queer to look at; he is a man of travel and experience in many parts of the world, and has a fund of yarns on which I draw freely. He has been right up the Congo and all around Malacca and Borneo and other out of the way parts, to say nothing of a little smuggling in the days of his youth ...

The writer was Galsworthy, who was to help Conrad. In 1895, after twenty years at sea, this aristocratic Pole published Alrnayer’s Folly and married an English typist. He explained in his Preface to The Nigger of the Narcissus (1897) that ‘My task ... is by the power of the written word to make you hear, to make you feel - it is, before all, to make you see.’ As ‘before all’ suggests, Conrad still thought in French; ‘above all’ would be more natural in English. He soon suggested to Ford Madox Ford that they should collaborate; they wrote The Inheritors and Romance. Ford shared Conrad’s view that the English novelist

does not go about building up his book with a precise intention and a steady mind. It never occurs to him that a book is a deed, that the writing of it is as an enterprise as much as the conquest of a colony. He has no such clear conception of his craft.

Conrad’s books were admired rather than bought; his narration was unstraightforward and his style was not idiomatic. An exile from nation, language and family, writing in his third language, he wrote of lonely lives, on ships or in outposts, or of exiles in London. Family history and personal experience had made Conrad mistrust political idealists. His writing is torn between a proud sense of honour and a sardonic sense of irony.

Heart of Darkness

The first words of Conrad encountered by many students are ‘Mistah Kurtz - he dead,’ the epigraph T. S. Eliot used for ‘The Hollow Men’. They are spoken in Heart of Darkness, a long short story or novella based on Conrad’s trip up the Congo in 1890 to become a river pilot for the Belgians, who ran the trade on the river. To reach

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the heart of the dark continent had been a dream of Conrad’s boyhood; the experience undermined his health and changed him. Kurtz is the company agent at the Inner Station, a colonialist intellectual corrupted by the pursuit of ivory and of power; he is worshipped in ‘unspeakable rites’ involving human sacrifice. Marlow, Conrad’s narrator, unfolds his tale to three men in a yawl at the mouth of the Thames. His nightmare experience has affected him more seriously than he realizes. Impressed against his will by Kurtz’s intensity, he found that, back in Brussels, he could not tell Kurtz’s ‘Intended’ the truth of his last words, ‘The horror! The horror!’ He says instead that Kurtz’s last words were ‘your name’, whereupon he hears ‘an exulting and terrible cry, of inconceivable triumph and of unspeakable pain. “I knew it - I was sure!’” These are the words of the Intended, yet it is not clear that the cry comes from her only, for the story is also a fable about evil, and Marlow too has been partly possessed by it. The story ends with the Thames ‘leading into the heart of an immense darkness’.

That darkness is the darkness of the human heart, but also that of London and of the future of empires. Marlow has three hearers: a Director of Companies, an Accountant and a Lawyer. ‘“And this also,” said Marlow suddenly, “has been one of the dark places of the earth.’” Britannia, he explains, would have looked ‘dark’ to a young Roman naval commander waiting to invade. London is like imperial Rome, but also like commercial Brussels, directed by companies, accountants and lawyers. The conquest of Britannia, as described by Tacitus in his Agricola (AD 98), is parallelled with the exploitation of the Congo: a defiant African queen on the banks of the river is described in terms which echo Tacitus’ account of the British queen