On the river-front at Leopoldville a grossly fat man, collarless,
coatless, purple-faced, perspiring, was rushing up and down. He was
the captain of the port. Black women had assembled to greet
returning black soldiers, and the captain was calling upon the black
sentries to drive them away. The sentries, yelling, fell upon the
women with their six-foot staves and beat them over the head and
bare shoulders, and as they fled, screaming, the captain of the port
danced in the sun shaking his fists after them and raging violently.
Next morning I was told he had tried to calm his nerves with
absinthe, which is not particularly good for nerves, and was
exceedingly unwell. I was sorry for him. The picture of discipline
afforded by the glazed-eyed official, reeling and cursing in the
open street, had been illuminating.
Although at Leopoldville the State has failed to build wharfs, the
esthetic features of the town have not been neglected, and there is
a pretty plaza called Stanley Park. In the centre of this plaza is a
pillar with, at its base, a bust of Leopold, and on the top of the
pillar a plaster-of-Paris lady, nude, and, not unlike the
Bacchante of MacMonnies. Not so much from the likeness as from
history, I deduced that the lady must be Cleo de Merode. But whether
the monument is erected to her or to Leopold, or to both of them, I
do not know.
[Illustration: The Monument in Stanley Park, Erected, not to
Stanley, but to Leopold.
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