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ãOnce only did that enthusiasm expose me to the derision of my schoolboy chums. One day, putting my finger on a spot in the very middle of the then white heart of Africa, I declared that some day I would go there. My chumsâ chaffing was perfectly justifiable. â¦â¦Yet it is a fact that, about eighteen years afterwards, a wretched little stern-wheel steamboat I commanded lay moored to the bank of an African river.
Everything was dark under the stars. Every other white man on board was asleep. I was glad to be alone on deck, smoking the pipe of peace after an anxious day. The subdued thundering mutter of the Stanley Falls hung in the heavy night air of the last navigable reach of the Upper Congo, â¦â¦ , and I said to myself with awe, âThis is the very spot of my boyish boast.â
A great melancholy descended on me. Yes, this was the very spot. But there was no shadowy friend to stand by my side in the night of the enormous wilderness, no great haunting memory, but only the unholy recollection of a prosaic newspaper âstuntâ and the distasteful knowledge of the vilest scramble for loot that ever disfigured the history of human conscience and geographical exploitation. What an end to the idealized realities of a boyâs daydreams! I wondered what I was doing there, for indeed it was only an unforeseen episode, hard to believe in now, in my seamanâs life. Still, the fact remains that I have smoked a pipe of peace at midnight in the very heart of the African continent, and felt very lonely there.
注éãå°ããshadowy friend 㯠schoolboy chum ã«å¯¾å¿ãã¦ããã¨æãã¾ããa prosaic newspaper âstuntâ 㧠stunt ã¯ãã¹ã¿ã³ããæ´¾æãªè¡çºããæå³ããR. Kimbrough ã¯ãã ãStanley and Livingstonãã¨ç´ ã£æ°ãªã注ãä»ãã¦ãã¾ãããããã¯ã¹ã¿ã³ãªã¼ããªãã³ã°ã¹ãã³ãã¢ããªã«ã®å¥¥å°ã§çºè¦ãããã¨ãæ´¾æã«å ±ããæ°èè¨äºã§ã¯ãªããã¹ã¿ã³ãªã¼ã Emin Pasha ã¨ãã人ç©ã®âæå©âã«æåããæã®æ°èå ±éï¼ï¼ï¼ï¼ï¼å¹´ï¼ãæãã¦ããã¨ç§ã¯èãã¾ãã
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ãã³ã³ã©ããã®ã³ã³ã´ä½é¨ã®å®éãã©ã®ãããªãã®ã§ãã£ããã«å°±ãã¦ã¯ãG. Jean-Aubry, Norman Sherry, Zdzislaw Najder ãªã©ã«ãã£ã¦è©³ãã調ã¹ããã¦ãã¾ãããã®ä¸å¿çè³æã¯ã³ã³ã©ããã®ãã³ã³ã´æ¥è¨ãã¨ããã«é£é¢ããæç´ã§ããç 究çµæã«ããã¨ãã³ã³ã©ãããä¹è¹ããè¸æ°è¹ããã«ã®ã¼çãã¯ï¼ï¼ï¼ï¼å¹´ï¼æï¼æ¥ã«ã¹ã¿ã³ãªã¼ã»ãã©ã¼ã«ãºï¼ä»ã®ããµã³ã¬ãï¼ã«å°çããï¼æï¼æ¥ãï¼æ¥ã«ã¯ã帰éã«çãã³ã³ã´æ²³ãä¸ãå§ãã¾ããä¸ãã®èªè¡ã®è¹é·ã¯ã³ããã¨ããï¼ï¼æ³ã®ãã³ãã¼ã¯äººã§ããããããµã³ã¬ãã«æ»å¨ä¸ã«ç æ°ã«ãªããã³ãããæ¢å¾©ããè¿ã¨ããæ¡ä»¶ä»ãã§ãï¼æï¼æ¥ä»ãã§æ¥ã«ã³ã³ã©ãããè¹é·ã«ãªãããã®ç¿æ¥ãç¿ã æ¥ã«ã¯ããå·ä¸ããå§ã¾ãã¾ãããã§ããããå¼ç¨åæã«æããã¦ããã¡ã©ã³ã³ãªãã¯ãªå¤ã¯ï¼æ¥ãï¼æ¥ã®å¤ã ã£ããã¨ã«ãªãã¾ããï¼æï¼ï¼æ¥ã«ã¯æ¢ã«ã³ãããè¹é·ã«æ»ã£ã¦ãããã¨ãåãã£ã¦ãã¾ããããã³ã³ã©ãããè¹é·ã ã£ãã®ã¯å ãæ°æ¥ã ã£ããã¨ã«ãªãã¾ãï¼ãããªãã¨ããaãwretched little stern-wheel steamboat I commanded ⦠ãã¨ããæç« ã«ã¯ä½ãåãããé¿ããåºã¦æ¥ã¾ããå®ã¯ãã³ã³ã©ãããã³ã³ã´æ²³ã«æµ®ãã¶è¸æ°è¹ã®è¹é·ã«æããæããªããã«å°±ãã¦ãï¼ï¼ä½å¹´å¾ã®ã³ã³ã©ããããã ããçç±ãããã¦ç§ããã ããçç±ãããã®ã§ãã
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ãå®å è©ã¨æä¸ç´ã§æªå®ãããâthe vilest scramble for lootâãç¥ã£ããã¨ãã¹ã¿ã³ãªã¼ã»ãã©ã¼ã«ãºã®å¤ã®éã§ã³ã³ã©ããã®å¿ãèãã ããã«æ¸ãã¦ããã¾ãããããã¯çå®ã§ã¯ããã¾ãã¾ãããã®ã³ã³ã´æ²³é¡è¡ã®çµç¹ã«è¡ãçãã¾ã§ã«ã³ã³ã©ãããè¦èãçµé¨ããäºãã©ããªå 容ã§ãã£ãããåé¡ã§ãããããç¥ãããã®ç¬¬ä¸è³æã¯ã³ã³ã©ãããéãããè¨ããäºã¤ã®ãã¼ãããã¯ã§ããä¸ã¤ã¯âThe Congo Diaryâãããä¸ã¤ã¯âUp-river Bookâ ã¨å¼ã°ãã¾ããã³ã³ã©ããã¯ï¼ï¼ï¼ï¼å¹´ï¼æï¼ï¼æ¥ã«ãã¿ãã£ã«çããï¼æï¼ï¼æ¥ã«ãã¿ãã£ãåºçºãã¦é¸è·¯ããã©ãï¼æï¼æ¥ã«ãã³ã·ã£ãµã«çãã¾ãããã®æéã®æ¥ã ã®ã¡ã¢ããæ¥è¨ãã®å 容ã§ãããä¸æµæ帳ãã®æ¹ã¯è©³ããæ²³ã®æ§åã®æè¡çãªã¡ã¢ã°ããã§ãéããªãè¸æ°è¹ã®æèµãä»»ããããã¨ãäºæãã¦ã®æºåã ã£ãã¨æããã¾ããã³ã³ã©ãããä¹ã£ãè¸æ°è¹ããã«ã®ã¼çãã¯ï¼æï¼æ¥ã«ãã³ã·ã£ãµãçºã¡ãï¼æï¼æ¥ã«çµç¹ã¹ã¿ã³ãªã¼ã»ãã©ã¼ã«ãºã«çãã®ã§ãããä¸æè°ãªãã¨ã«ã¡ã¢ã¯çªç¶ï¼æï¼ï¼æ¥ã§éåãã¦ãã¾ããç æ°ã«ãªã£ãããè¹é·ã«ãã¦ããã¬ã¨ç³ã渡ããããã®ã©ã¡ããã ãã¨ãã説ãããã¾ãããç§ã«ã¨ã£ã¦éè¦ãªã®ã¯ããã¿ãã£ã¨ãã³ã·ã£ãµã®éã®é¸è·¯ã¨ããããã®æ²³ã®èªè·¯ã§ã³ã³ã©ããã¯çµæ§ååãã«äº¤æä¼ç¤¾ã®ä»äºãèãã¦ãããã¨ããããã®äºã¤ã®ãã¼ãããã¯ããèªã¿åããã¨ãããã¨ã§ãããããªãã¨ãå®å è©ãä»ãããææªã®ä¾µç¥äºå¥ªãâthe vilest scramble for lootâã¨ã¯ä½ãæãããè¯ãèããªããã°ãªãã¾ããã
ãã¨ã¼ãããã®ã¢ããªã«ä¾µç¥äºå¥ªã®æ´å²ã«ã¯ãã¹ã¯ã©ã³ãã«ã»ãã©ã¼ã»ã¢ããªã«ãã¨ãããã¼ã¯ã¼ããããã¾ããï¼ï¼ï¼ï¼å¹´ããã«ãªã³ã«éã¾ã£ãã¨ã¼ããã諸å½ã¯ã¢ããªã«ã®åå²ã®ç¸è«ããã¦ã¢ããªã«ã®åå²äºå¥ªãå§ãã¾ãããã«ã®ã¼å½çã¬ãªãã«ãäºä¸ã®ç§çé åã³ã³ã´ã«ã³ã³ã©ãããè¡ã£ãï¼ï¼ï¼ï¼å¹´é ã«ã¯ã¾ã ææªã®äºæ ã«ã¯éãã¦ãã¾ããã§ããããå½¼ãã¨ãã»ã¼ãæ¸ããï¼ï¼ï¼ï¼å¹´ã«ã¯ã¬ãªãã«ãã®ã³ã³ã´å奪ã®åã¾ããã¯åºãä¸ã«ç¥ããã¦ãã¾ãããå®å è©ä»ãã®âthe vilest scramble for lootâã¨ã¯ã¬ãªãã«ãã®æªæ¥ãæãããã®ã ã¨ç§ã¯èãã¾ãããã®æå®ã¯ããéã®å¥¥ãã®è§£éã¨ãã¦ã決ãã¦è»½ããã®ã§ã¯ããã¾ããããã®å°èª¬ãã¤ã®ãªã¹ã®æ¤æ°å°çµå¶ãå«ãå¸å½ä¸»ç¾©ä¸è¬ã®ç³ºå¼¾ã¨ãã¦åãåãããããã¨ããã¬ãªãã«ãäºä¸ã®æãå¿ãã¹ãæªæ¥ã®å¼¾å¾ã§ãããã¤ã®ãªã¹ã®æ¤æ°å°çµå¶ã®æ¹å¤ã¯å«ã¾ãªãã¨ããããããã¯ããéã®å¥¥ãã®è§£éã®ä¸å¿çåé¡ã®ä¸ã¤ã§ãä»å¾ã«è©³ããæ¤è¨ããã¤ããã§ãããã ãä¸ã«å¼ç¨ããåæããï¼ï¼ï¼ï¼å¹´ï¼æï¼æ¥ï¼ã¾ãã¯ï¼æ¥ï¼ã®å¤ãã¹ã¿ã³ãªã¼ã»ãã©ã¼ã«ãºã§ã®ã³ã³ã©ããã®æ³å¿µã ã£ãã¨ããã®ã¯ãã³ã³ã©ããã®åãã§ãããï¼ï¼ï¼ï¼å¹´ã®æç¹ã§ã®ãã¨æºæ §ã§ãã£ãã¨æãã¾ãã
ããã®ããã¨æºæ §ãã§ãã£ãã¨ããè¦æ¹ã¯ç§ã®ãªãªã¸ãã«ã§ã¯ããã¾ãããã²ã©ã¼ãï¼Albert J. Guerardï¼ã®ãConrad the Novelistãã¯ä¸é好夫訳ãéã®å¥¥ããåºçãããï¼ï¼ï¼ï¼å¹´ã«çºè¡¨ãããå¤ãã³ã³ã©ããè«ã§ããããã¾ã ã«è¦ãã¹ãåèã¨ããã¦ãã¾ãããã®ä¸ã«æ¬¡ã®æç« ãããã¾ãã
Thus the adventurous Conrad and Conrad the moralist may have experienced collision. But the collision, again as with so many novelists of the second war, could well have been deferred and retrospective, not felt intensely at the time.
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ãOnce only did that enthusiasm expose me to the derision of my schoolboy chums. One day, putting my finger on a spot in the very middle of the then white heart of Africa, I declared that some day I would go there. My chumsâ chaffing was perfectly justifiable. â¦â¦Yet it is a fact that, about eighteen years afterwards, a wretched little stern-wheel steamboat I commanded lay moored to the bank of an African river.
Everything was dark under the stars. Every other white man on board was asleep. I was glad to be alone on deck, smoking the pipe of peace after an anxious day. The subdued thundering mutter of the Stanley Falls hung in the heavy night air of the last navigable reach of the Upper Congo, â¦â¦ , and I said to myself with awe, âThis is the very spot of my boyish boast.â
A great melancholy descended on me. Yes, this was the very spot. But there was no shadowy friend to stand by my side in the night of the enormous wilderness, no great haunting memory, but only the unholy recollection of a prosaic newspaper âstuntâ and the distasteful knowledge of the vilest scramble for loot that ever disfigured the history of human conscience and geographical exploitation. What an end to the idealized realities of a boyâs daydreams! I wondered what I was doing there, for indeed it was only an unforeseen episode, hard to believe in now, in my seamanâs life. Still, the fact remains that I have smoked a pipe of peace at midnight in the very heart of the African continent, and felt very lonely there.
注éãå°ããshadowy friend 㯠schoolboy chum ã«å¯¾å¿ãã¦ããã¨æãã¾ããa prosaic newspaper âstuntâ 㧠stunt ã¯ãã¹ã¿ã³ããæ´¾æãªè¡çºããæå³ããR. Kimbrough ã¯ãã ãStanley and Livingstonãã¨ç´ ã£æ°ãªã注ãä»ãã¦ãã¾ãããããã¯ã¹ã¿ã³ãªã¼ããªãã³ã°ã¹ãã³ãã¢ããªã«ã®å¥¥å°ã§çºè¦ãããã¨ãæ´¾æã«å ±ããæ°èè¨äºã§ã¯ãªããã¹ã¿ã³ãªã¼ã Emin Pasha ã¨ãã人ç©ã®âæå©âã«æåããæã®æ°èå ±éï¼ï¼ï¼ï¼ï¼å¹´ï¼ãæãã¦ããã¨ç§ã¯èãã¾ãã
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ããã®ããã¨æºæ §ãã§ãã£ãã¨ããè¦æ¹ã¯ç§ã®ãªãªã¸ãã«ã§ã¯ããã¾ãããã²ã©ã¼ãï¼Albert J. Guerardï¼ã®ãConrad the Novelistãã¯ä¸é好夫訳ãéã®å¥¥ããåºçãããï¼ï¼ï¼ï¼å¹´ã«çºè¡¨ãããå¤ãã³ã³ã©ããè«ã§ããããã¾ã ã«è¦ãã¹ãåèã¨ããã¦ãã¾ãããã®ä¸ã«æ¬¡ã®æç« ãããã¾ãã
Thus the adventurous Conrad and Conrad the moralist may have experienced collision. But the collision, again as with so many novelists of the second war, could well have been deferred and retrospective, not felt intensely at the time.
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