Imagine if “the horror” of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness were reversed. What if “Mistah” Kurtz was indeed suffering delusions of being the great godhead, but instead of acting out this delusion in the grips of megalomaniacal madness was merely running an extremely efficient operation there in the midst of the jungle. And suppose it was Marlowe who was the one that went nuts and died? Well, one example of that version of Heart of Darkness might be Somerset Maugham’s “The Outstation.”
Often overlooked in analysis of Maugham’s story amid the rush to situate it merely within the local context of British colonialism and class division is the fact that Mr. Warburton is definitely a close cousin of Kurtz. He, too, has found himself on the outskirts of society—Borneo—and he too goes to some questionable lengths to preserve his European ideas of “civilization” that includes dressing for dinner every single night and his compulsion to read six weeks old newspaper in order in a replication of his morning routine back when he was still a part of that civilized society.
He is not that anymore. He is banished by a fatal flaw—being a bad gambler—to the boonies, but in that banishment has found redemption for himself. Against all odds, the inveterate gambling discovered a truly amazing talent for efficient management. The colonial system is well ordered under the snobbish but surprisingly open-minded mind Mr. Warburton. And then comes Mr. Cooper who is a lower class white man born in one of England’s colonies. You would think Cooper would get along better with the natives than the Warburton, but he is revealed as the true snob and simply cannot take it when those classes even lower the one to which he belongs don’t show him proper respect.
The upshot is that the upper class snob is not really the snob here. At least that is what the message seems to be. But beneath that deceptive lesson lies something much darker. The fact is that Mr. Warburton is a much better snob than Mr. Cooper, but he recognized that that tribal sorts like those who work for the system he manages make gods not of conquerors, but superior beings. And Mr. Warburton has revealed himself to be superior.
Early in the story his favorite place is described as an arbor in the garden where “from the river that flowed below him a voice was heard, the voice of some Malay too timorous to venture into the light of day, and a complaint or an accusation was softly wafted to his ears, a piece of information was whispered to him or a useful hint, which otherwise would never have come into his official ken.” The descriptive powers of Maugham are on full display here; showing no desire to make a moral judgment, he simply states the fact with irony so soft, it may be overlooked. The irony is there: Mr. Warburton is a man but what is being described is a religious ritual of prayer and supplication. It is far from difficult to imagine this exact same sentence being found almost untouched in Heart of Darkness as a description of how Kurtz treats his natives. Warburton, high above and in the light; his worshipers in the darkness below. Secret prayer and appeals made in privacy. Warburton is a benevolent Kurtz.
Warburton is also described as “a queer creature” and his unique habits of dressing for dinner in warm Borneo as if it was a night out in London or reaching six-week old newspaper as if they had arrived fresh on his doorstop that morning only serve to intensify the sense of otherness he projects. They are the kind of queer habits which get describe as “eccentric” rather than “crazy” and that is that status Warburton enjoys. Everything about him is superior and he need not work hard like Cooper does to maintain it. It is a natural extension of himself. One can easily see why this story is so often boiled down to one of class distinction, but the fact is that Warburton is unique. He is not some mere symbol of British colonial superiority; he is superior even to the whites he left behind.
The Prince of Wales that he used to party with (like Falstaff?) became King, but he’s become a god. A minor god, to be sure and certainly not immortal, but he is the godhead figure of Borneo. So much so that even when a white man is killed by a brown native, Warburton’s word alone is enough to ensure it never becomes a scandal.
Warburton’s kingdom is not much smaller than his old friend who used to be merely a prince, but even that white British guy doesn’t enjoy the worshipful respect and unlimited power that Warburton enjoys. It may only be an outstation of the British empire, but it is all his.
