Heart of Darkness


HEART OF DARKNESS








By Joseph Conrad















Contents








I



II



III

















I



The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the
sails, and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind was nearly calm, and
being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to come to and wait
for the turn of the tide.



The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an
interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded
together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of
the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters
of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested
on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was
dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a
mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest,
town on earth.



The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We four
affectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows looking to
seaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so
nautical. He resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trustworthiness
personified. It was difficult to realize his work was not out there in the
luminous estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom.



Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of the
sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of
separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other's yarns—and
even convictions. The Lawyer—the best of old fellows—had,
because of his many years and many virtues, the only cushion on deck, and
was lying on the only rug. The Accountant had brought out already a box of
dominoes, and was toying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat
cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzen-mast. He had sunken
cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with
his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an idol. The
director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way aft and sat
down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterwards there was
silence on board the yacht. For some reason or other we did not begin that
game of dominoes. We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid
staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite
brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a
benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marsh was
like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and
draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west,
brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if
angered by the approach of the sun.



And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and
from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as
if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom
brooding over a crowd of men.



Forthwith a change came over the waters, and the serenity became less
brilliant but more profound. The old river in its broad reach rested
unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to the
race that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a
waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth. We looked at the
venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and
departs for ever, but in the august light of abiding memories. And indeed
nothing is easier for a man who has, as the phrase goes, “followed the
sea” with reverence and affection, than to evoke the great spirit of the
past upon the lower reaches of the Thames. The tidal current runs to and
fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memories of men and ships it
had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of the sea. It had known
and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from Sir Francis Drake
to Sir John Franklin, knights all, titled and untitled—the great
knights-errant of the sea. It had borne all the ships whose names are like
jewels flashing in the night of time, from the Golden Hind
returning with her rotund flanks full of treasure, to be visited by the
Queen's Highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale, to the Erebus
and Terror, bound on other conquests—and that never returned.
It had known the ships and the men. They had sailed from Deptford, from
Greenwich, from Erith—the adventurers and the settlers; kings' ships
and the ships of men on 'Change; captains, admirals, the dark
“interlopers” of the Eastern trade, and the commissioned “generals” of
East India fleets. Hunters for gold or pursuers of fame, they all had gone
out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often the torch, messengers of
the might within the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire. What
greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of an
unknown earth!... The dreams of men, the seed of commonwealths, the germs
of empires.



The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appear along
the shore. The Chapman light-house, a three-legged thing erect on a
mud-flat, shone strongly. Lights of ships moved in the fairway—a
great stir of lights going up and going down. And farther west on the
upper reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously
on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars.



“And this also,” said Marlow suddenly, “has been one of the dark places of
the earth.”



He was the only man of us who still “followed the sea.” The worst that
could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was a
seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may so
express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-home order,
and their home is always with them—the ship; and so is their country—the
sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same.
In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign
faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense
of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing
mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress
of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny. For the rest, after his
hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to
unfold for him the secret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the
secret not worth knowing. The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity,
the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut. But
Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and
to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside,
enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze,
in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made
visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine.



His remark did not seem at all surprising. It was just like Marlow. It was
accepted in silence. No one took the trouble to grunt even; and presently
he said, very slow—“I was thinking of very old times, when the
Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago—the other day
.... Light came out of this river since—you say Knights? Yes; but it
is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the
clouds. We live in the flicker—may it last as long as the old earth
keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday. Imagine the feelings of a
commander of a fine—what d'ye call 'em?—trireme in the
Mediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north; run overland across the
Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft the legionaries—a
wonderful lot of handy men they must have been, too—used to build,
apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if we may believe what we
read. Imagine him here—the very end of the world, a sea the colour
of lead, a sky the colour of smoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a
concertina—and going up this river with stores, or orders, or what
you like. Sand-banks, marshes, forests, savages,—precious little to
eat fit for a civilized man, nothing but Thames water to drink. No
Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there a military camp lost
in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay—cold, fog,
tempests, disease, exile, and death—death skulking in the air, in
the water, in the bush. They must have been dying like flies here. Oh, yes—he
did it. Did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much about
it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had gone through in his
time, perhaps. They were men enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he
was cheered by keeping his eye on a chance of promotion to the fleet at
Ravenna by and by, if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awful
climate. Or think of a decent young citizen in a toga—perhaps too
much dice, you know—coming out here in the train of some prefect, or
tax-gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes. Land in a swamp, march
through the woods, and in some inland post feel the savagery, the utter
savagery, had closed round him—all that mysterious life of the
wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild
men. There's no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in
the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable. And it has a
fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. The fascination of the
abomination—you know, imagine the growing regrets, the longing to
escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.”



He paused.



“Mind,” he began again, lifting one arm from the elbow, the palm of the
hand outwards, so that, with his legs folded before him, he had the pose
of a Buddha preaching in European clothes and without a lotus-flower—“Mind,
none of us would feel exactly like this. What saves us is efficiency—the
devotion to efficiency. But these chaps were not much account, really.
They were no colonists; their administration was merely a squeeze, and
nothing more, I suspect. They were conquerors, and for that you want only
brute force—nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your
strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others. They
grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got. It was
just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men
going at it blind—as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness.
The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from
those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than
ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What
redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental
pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea—something
you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to....”



He broke off. Flames glided in the river, small green flames, red flames,
white flames, pursuing, overtaking, joining, crossing each other—then
separating slowly or hastily. The traffic of the great city went on in the
deepening night upon the sleepless river. We looked on, waiting patiently—there
was nothing else to do till the end of the flood; but it was only after a
long silence, when he said, in a hesitating voice, “I suppose you fellows
remember I did once turn fresh-water sailor for a bit,” that we knew we
were fated, before the ebb began to run, to hear about one of Marlow's
inconclusive experiences.



“I don't want to bother you much with what happened to me personally,” he
began, showing in this remark the weakness of many tellers of tales who
seem so often unaware of what their audience would like best to hear; “yet
to understand the effect of it on me you ought to know how I got out
there, what I saw, how I went up that river to the place where I first met
the poor chap. It was the farthest point of navigation and the culminating
point of my experience. It seemed somehow to throw a kind of light on
everything about me—and into my thoughts. It was sombre enough, too—and
pitiful—not extraordinary in any way—not very clear either.
No, not very clear. And yet it seemed to throw a kind of light.



“I had then, as you remember, just returned to London after a lot of
Indian Ocean, Pacific, China Seas—a regular dose of the East—six
years or so, and I was loafing about, hindering you fellows in your work
and invading your homes, just as though I had got a heavenly mission to
civilize you. It was very fine for a time, but after a bit I did get tired
of resting. Then I began to look for a ship—I should think the
hardest work on earth. But the ships wouldn't even look at me. And I got
tired of that game, too.



“Now when I was a little chap I had a passion for maps. I would look for
hours at South America, or Africa, or Australia, and lose myself in all
the glories of exploration. At that time there were many blank spaces on
the earth, and when I saw one that looked particularly inviting on a map
(but they all look that) I would put my finger on it and say, 'When I grow
up I will go there.' The North Pole was one of these places, I remember.
Well, I haven't been there yet, and shall not try now. The glamour's off.
Other places were scattered about the hemispheres. I have been in some of
them, and... well, we won't talk about that. But there was one yet—the
biggest, the most blank, so to speak—that I had a hankering after.



“True, by this time it was not a blank space any more. It had got filled
since my boyhood with rivers and lakes and names. It had ceased to be a
blank space of delightful mystery—a white patch for a boy to dream
gloriously over. It had become a place of darkness. But there was in it
one river especially, a mighty big river, that you could see on the map,
resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body
at rest curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths
of the land. And as I looked at the map of it in a shop-window, it
fascinated me as a snake would a bird—a silly little bird. Then I
remembered there was a big concern, a Company for trade on that river.
Dash it all! I thought to myself, they can't trade without using some kind
of craft on that lot of fresh water—steamboats! Why shouldn't I try
to get charge of one? I went on along Fleet Street, but could not shake
off the idea. The snake had charmed me.



“You understand it was a Continental concern, that Trading society; but I
have a lot of relations living on the Continent, because it's cheap and
not so nasty as it looks, they say.



“I am sorry to own I began to worry them. This was already a fresh
departure for me. I was not used to get things that way, you know. I
always went my own road and on my own legs where I had a mind to go. I
wouldn't have believed it of myself; but, then—you see—I felt
somehow I must get there by hook or by crook. So I worried them. The men
said 'My dear fellow,' and did nothing. Then—would you believe it?—I
tried the women. I, Charlie Marlow, set the women to work—to get a
job. Heavens! Well, you see, the notion drove me. I had an aunt, a dear
enthusiastic soul. She wrote: 'It will be delightful. I am ready to do
anything, anything for you. It is a glorious idea. I know the wife of a
very high personage in the Administration, and also a man who has lots of
influence with,' etc. She was determined to make no end of fuss to get me
appointed skipper of a river steamboat, if such was my fancy.



“I got my appointment—of course; and I got it very quick. It appears
the Company had received news that one of their captains had been killed
in a scuffle with the natives. This was my chance, and it made me the more
anxious to go. It was only months and months afterwards, when I made the
attempt to recover what was left of the body, that I heard the original
quarrel arose from a misunderstanding about some hens. Yes, two black
hens. Fresleven—that was the fellow's name, a Dane—thought
himself wronged somehow in the bargain, so he went ashore and started to
hammer the chief of the village with a stick. Oh, it didn't surprise me in
the least to hear this, and at the same time to be told that Fresleven was
the gentlest, quietest creature that ever walked on two legs. No doubt he
was; but he had been a couple of years already out there engaged in the
noble cause, you know, and he probably felt the need at last of asserting
his self-respect in some way. Therefore he whacked the old nigger
mercilessly, while a big crowd of his people watched him, thunderstruck,
till some man—I was told the chief's son—in desperation at
hearing the old chap yell, made a tentative jab with a spear at the white
man—and of course it went quite easy between the shoulder-blades.
Then the whole population cleared into the forest, expecting all kinds of
calamities to happen, while, on the other hand, the steamer Fresleven
commanded left also in a bad panic, in charge of the engineer, I believe.
Afterwards nobody seemed to trouble much about Fresleven's remains, till I
got out and stepped into his shoes. I couldn't let it rest, though; but
when an opportunity offered at last to meet my predecessor, the grass
growing through his ribs was tall enough to hide his bones. They were all
there. The supernatural being had not been touched after he fell. And the
village was deserted, the huts gaped black, rotting, all askew within the
fallen enclosures. A calamity had come to it, sure enough. The people had
vanished. Mad terror had scattered them, men, women, and children, through
the bush, and they had never returned. What became of the hens I don't
know either. I should think the cause of progress got them, anyhow.
However, through this glorious affair I got my appointment, before I had
fairly begun to hope for it.



“I flew around like mad to get ready, and before forty-eight hours I was
crossing the Channel to show myself to my employers, and sign the
contract. In a very few hours I arrived in a city that always makes me
think of a whited sepulchre. Prejudice no doubt. I had no difficulty in
finding the Company's offices. It was the biggest thing in the town, and
everybody I met was full of it. They were going to run an over-sea empire,
and make no end of coin by trade.



“A narrow and deserted street in deep shadow, high houses, innumerable
windows with venetian blinds, a dead silence, grass sprouting
between the stones, imposing carriage archways
right and
left, immense double doors standing ponderously ajar. I slipped through
one of these cracks, went up a swept and ungarnished staircase, as arid as
a desert, and opened the first door I came to. Two women, one fat and the
other slim, sat on straw-bottomed chairs, knitting black wool. The slim
one got up and walked straight at me—still knitting with downcast
eyes—and only just as I began to think of getting out of her way, as
you would for a somnambulist, stood still, and looked up. Her dress was as
plain as an umbrella-cover, and she turned round without a word and
preceded me into a waiting-room. I gave my name, and looked about. Deal
table in the middle, plain chairs all round the walls, on one end a large
shining map, marked with all the colours of a rainbow. There was a vast
amount of red—good to see at any time, because one knows that some
real work is done in there, a deuce of a lot of blue, a little green,
smears of orange, and, on the East Coast, a purple patch, to show where
the jolly pioneers of progress drink the jolly lager-beer. However, I
wasn't going into any of these. I was going into the yellow. Dead in the
centre. And the river was there—fascinating—deadly—like
a snake. Ough! A door opened, a white-haired secretarial head, but wearing
a compassionate expression, appeared, and a skinny forefinger beckoned me
into the sanctuary. Its light was dim, and a heavy writing-desk squatted
in the middle. From behind that structure came out an impression of pale
plumpness in a frock-coat. The great man himself. He was five feet six, I
should judge, and had his grip on the handle-end of ever so many millions.
He shook hands, I fancy, murmured vaguely, was satisfied with my French.
Bon Voyage.



“In about forty-five seconds I found myself again in the waiting-room with
the compassionate secretary, who, full of desolation and sympathy, made me
sign some document. I believe I undertook amongst other things not to
disclose any trade secrets. Well, I am not going to.



“I began to feel slightly uneasy. You know I am not used to such
ceremonies, and there was something ominous in the atmosphere. It was just
as though I had been let into some conspiracy—I don't know—something
not quite right; and I was glad to get out. In the outer room the two
women knitted black wool feverishly. People were arriving, and the younger
one was walking back and forth introducing them. The old one sat on her
chair. Her flat cloth slippers were propped up on a foot-warmer, and a cat
reposed on her lap. She wore a starched white affair on her head, had a
wart on one cheek, and silver-rimmed spectacles hung on the tip of her
nose. She glanced at me above the glasses. The swift and indifferent
placidity of that look troubled me. Two youths with foolish and cheery
countenances were being piloted over, and she threw at them the same quick
glance of unconcerned wisdom. She seemed to know all about them and about
me, too. An eerie feeling came over me. She seemed uncanny and fateful.
Often far away there I thought of these two, guarding the door of
Darkness, knitting black wool as for a warm pall, one introducing,
introducing continuously to the unknown, the other scrutinizing the cheery
and foolish faces with unconcerned old eyes. Ave! Old knitter of
black wool. Morituri te salutant. Not many of those she looked at
ever saw her again—not half, by a long way.



“There was yet a visit to the doctor. 'A simple formality,' assured me the
secretary, with an air of taking an immense part in all my sorrows.
Accordingly a young chap wearing his hat over the left eyebrow, some clerk
I suppose—there must have been clerks in the business, though the
house was as still as a house in a city of the dead—came from
somewhere up-stairs, and led me forth. He was shabby and careless, with
inkstains on the sleeves of his jacket, and his cravat was large and
billowy, under a chin shaped like the toe of an old boot. It was a little
too early for the doctor, so I proposed a drink, and thereupon he
developed a vein of joviality. As we sat over our vermouths he glorified
the Company's business, and by and by I expressed casually my surprise at
him not going out there. He became very cool and collected all at once. 'I
am not such a fool as I look, quoth Plato to his disciples,' he said
sententiously, emptied his glass with great resolution, and we rose.



“The old doctor felt my pulse, evidently thinking of something else the
while. 'Good, good for there,' he mumbled, and then with a certain
eagerness asked me whether I would let him measure my head. Rather
surprised, I said Yes, when he produced a thing like calipers and got the
dimensions back and front and every way, taking notes carefully. He was an
unshaven little man in a threadbare coat like a gaberdine, with his feet
in slippers, and I thought him a harmless fool. 'I always ask leave, in
the interests of science, to measure the crania of those going out there,'
he said. 'And when they come back, too?' I asked. 'Oh, I never see them,'
he remarked; 'and, moreover, the changes take place inside, you know.' He
smiled, as if at some quiet joke. 'So you are going out there. Famous.
Interesting, too.' He gave me a searching glance, and made another note.
'Ever any madness in your family?' he asked, in a matter-of-fact tone. I
felt very annoyed. 'Is that question in the interests of science, too?'
'It would be,' he said, without taking notice of my irritation,
'interesting for science to watch the mental changes of individuals, on
the spot, but...' 'Are you an alienist?' I interrupted. 'Every doctor
should be—a little,' answered that original, imperturbably. 'I have
a little theory which you messieurs who go out there must help me to
prove. This is my share in the advantages my country shall reap from the
possession of such a magnificent dependency. The mere wealth I leave to
others. Pardon my questions, but you are the first Englishman coming under
my observation...' I hastened to assure him I was not in the least
typical. 'If I were,' said I, 'I wouldn't be talking like this with you.'
'What you say is rather profound, and probably erroneous,' he said, with a
laugh. 'Avoid irritation more than exposure to the sun. Adieu. How
do you English say, eh? Good-bye. Ah! Good-bye. Adieu. In the
tropics one must before everything keep calm.'... He lifted a warning
forefinger.... 'Du calme, du calme.'



“One thing more remained to do—say good-bye to my excellent aunt. I
found her triumphant. I had a cup of tea—the last decent cup of tea
for many days—and in a room that most soothingly looked just as you
would expect a lady's drawing-room to look, we had a long quiet chat by
the fireside. In the course of these confidences it became quite plain to
me I had been represented to the wife of the high dignitary, and goodness
knows to how many more people besides, as an exceptional and gifted
creature—a piece of good fortune for the Company—a man you
don't get hold of every day. Good heavens! and I was going to take charge
of a two-penny-half-penny river-steamboat with a penny whistle attached!
It appeared, however, I was also one of the Workers, with a capital—you
know. Something like an emissary of light, something like a lower sort of
apostle. There had been a lot of such rot let loose in print and talk just
about that time, and the excellent woman, living right in the rush of all
that humbug, got carried off her feet. She talked about 'weaning those
ignorant millions from their horrid ways,' till, upon my word, she made me
quite uncomfortable. I ventured to hint that the Company was run for
profit.



“'You forget, dear Charlie, that the labourer is worthy of his hire,' she
said, brightly. It's queer how out of touch with truth women are. They
live in a world of their own, and there has never been anything like it,
and never can be. It is too beautiful altogether, and if they were to set
it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset. Some confounded fact
we men have been living contentedly with ever since the day of creation
would start up and knock the whole thing over.



“After this I got embraced, told to wear flannel, be sure to write often,
and so on—and I left. In the street—I don't know why—a
queer feeling came to me that I was an imposter. Odd thing that I, who
used to clear out for any part of the world at twenty-four hours' notice,
with less thought than most men give to the crossing of a street, had a
moment—I won't say of hesitation, but of startled pause, before this
commonplace affair. The best way I can explain it to you is by saying
that, for a second or two, I felt as though, instead of going to the
centre of a continent, I were about to set off for the centre of the
earth.



“I left in a French steamer, and she called in every blamed port they have
out there, for, as far as I could see, the sole purpose of landing
soldiers and custom-house officers. I watched the coast. Watching a coast
as it slips by the ship is like thinking about an enigma. There it is
before you—smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or
savage, and always mute with an air of whispering, 'Come and find out.'
This one was almost featureless, as if still in the making, with an aspect
of monotonous grimness. The edge of a colossal jungle, so dark-green as to
be almost black, fringed with white surf, ran straight, like a ruled line,
far, far away along a blue sea whose glitter was blurred by a creeping
mist. The sun was fierce, the land seemed to glisten and drip with steam.
Here and there greyish-whitish specks showed up clustered inside the white
surf, with a flag flying above them perhaps. Settlements some centuries
old, and still no bigger than pinheads on the untouched expanse of their
background. We pounded along, stopped, landed soldiers; went on, landed
custom-house clerks to levy toll in what looked like a God-forsaken
wilderness, with a tin shed and a flag-pole lost in it; landed more
soldiers—to take care of the custom-house clerks, presumably. Some,
I heard, got drowned in the surf; but whether they did or not, nobody
seemed particularly to care. They were just flung out there, and on we
went. Every day the coast looked the same, as though we had not moved; but
we passed various places—trading places—with names like Gran'
Bassam, Little Popo; names that seemed to belong to some sordid farce
acted in front of a sinister back-cloth. The idleness of a passenger, my
isolation amongst all these men with whom I had no point of contact, the
oily and languid sea, the uniform sombreness of the coast, seemed to keep
me away from the truth of things, within the toil of a mournful and
senseless delusion. The voice of the surf heard now and then was a
positive pleasure, like the speech of a brother. It was something natural,
that had its reason, that had a meaning. Now and then a boat from the
shore gave one a momentary contact with reality. It was paddled by black
fellows. You could see from afar the white of their eyeballs glistening.
They shouted, sang; their bodies streamed with perspiration; they had
faces like grotesque masks—these chaps; but they had bone, muscle, a
wild vitality, an intense energy of movement, that was as natural and true
as the surf along their coast. They wanted no excuse for being there. They
were a great comfort to look at. For a time I would feel I belonged still
to a world of straightforward facts; but the feeling would not last long.
Something would turn up to scare it away. Once, I remember, we came upon a
man-of-war anchored off the coast. There wasn't even a shed there, and she
was shelling the bush. It appears the French had one of their wars going
on thereabouts. Her ensign dropped limp like a rag; the muzzles of the
long six-inch guns stuck out all over the low hull; the greasy, slimy
swell swung her up lazily and let her down, swaying her thin masts. In the
empty immensity of earth, sky, and water, there she was, incomprehensible,
firing into a continent. Pop, would go one of the six-inch guns; a small
flame would dart and vanish, a little white smoke would disappear, a tiny
projectile would give a feeble screech—and nothing happened. Nothing
could happen. There was a touch of insanity in the proceeding, a sense of
lugubrious drollery in the sight; and it was not dissipated by somebody on
board assuring me earnestly there was a camp of natives—he called
them enemies!—hidden out of sight somewhere.



“We gave her her letters (I heard the men in that lonely ship were dying
of fever at the rate of three a day) and went on. We called at some more
places with farcical names, where the merry dance of death and trade goes
on in a still and earthy atmosphere as of an overheated catacomb; all
along the formless coast bordered by dangerous surf, as if Nature herself
had tried to ward off intruders; in and out of rivers, streams of death in
life, whose banks were rotting into mud, whose waters, thickened into
slime, invaded the contorted mangroves, that seemed to writhe at us in the
extremity of an impotent despair. Nowhere did we stop long enough to get a
particularized impression, but the general sense of vague and oppressive
wonder grew upon me. It was like a weary pilgrimage amongst hints for
nightmares.



“It was upward of thirty days before I saw the mouth of the big river. We
anchored off the seat of the government. But my work would not begin till
some two hundred miles farther on. So as soon as I could I made a start
for a place thirty miles higher up.



“I had my passage on a little sea-going steamer. Her captain was a Swede,
and knowing me for a seaman, invited me on the bridge. He was a young man,
lean, fair, and morose, with lanky hair and a shuffling gait. As we left
the miserable little wharf, he tossed his head contemptuously at the
shore. 'Been living there?' he asked. I said, 'Yes.' 'Fine lot these
government chaps—are they not?' he went on, speaking English with
great precision and considerable bitterness. 'It is funny what some people
will do for a few francs a month. I wonder what becomes of that kind when
it goes upcountry?' I said to him I expected to see that soon. 'So-o-o!'
he exclaimed. He shuffled athwart, keeping one eye ahead vigilantly.
'Don't be too sure,' he continued. 'The other day I took up a man who
hanged himself on the road. He was a Swede, too.' 'Hanged himself! Why, in
God's name?' I cried. He kept on looking out watchfully. 'Who knows? The
sun too much for him, or the country perhaps.'



“At last we opened a reach. A rocky cliff appeared, mounds of turned-up
earth by the shore, houses on a hill, others with iron roofs, amongst a
waste of excavations, or hanging to the declivity. A continuous noise of
the rapids above hovered over this scene of inhabited devastation. A lot
of people, mostly black and naked, moved about like ants. A jetty
projected into the river. A blinding sunlight drowned all this at times in
a sudden recrudescence of glare. 'There's your Company's station,' said
the Swede, pointing to three wooden barrack-like structures on the rocky
slope. 'I will send your things up. Four boxes did you say? So. Farewell.'



“I came upon a boiler wallowing in the grass, then found a path leading up
the hill. It turned aside for the boulders, and also for an undersized
railway-truck lying there on its back with its wheels in the air. One was
off. The thing looked as dead as the carcass of some animal. I came upon
more pieces of decaying machinery, a stack of rusty rails. To the left a
clump of trees made a shady spot, where dark things seemed to stir feebly.
I blinked, the path was steep. A horn tooted to the right, and I saw the
black people run. A heavy and dull detonation shook the ground, a puff of
smoke came out of the cliff, and that was all. No change appeared on the
face of the rock. They were building a railway. The cliff was not in the
way or anything; but this objectless blasting was all the work going on.



“A slight clinking behind me made me turn my head. Six black men advanced
in a file, toiling up the path. They walked erect and slow, balancing
small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with
their footsteps. Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short
ends behind waggled to and fro like tails. I could see every rib, the
joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had an iron collar
on his neck, and all were connected together with a chain whose bights
swung between them, rhythmically clinking. Another report from the cliff
made me think suddenly of that ship of war I had seen firing into a
continent. It was the same kind of ominous voice; but these men could by
no stretch of imagination be called enemies. They were called criminals,
and the outraged law, like the bursting shells, had come to them, an
insoluble mystery from the sea. All their meagre breasts panted together,
the violently dilated nostrils quivered, the eyes stared stonily uphill.
They passed me within six inches, without a glance, with that complete,
deathlike indifference of unhappy savages. Behind this raw matter one of
the reclaimed, the product of the new forces at work, strolled
despondently, carrying a rifle by its middle. He had a uniform jacket with
one button off, and seeing a white man on the path, hoisted his weapon to
his shoulder with alacrity. This was simple prudence, white men being so
much alike at a distance that he could not tell who I might be. He was
speedily reassured, and with a large, white, rascally grin, and a glance
at his charge, seemed to take me into partnership in his exalted trust.
After all, I also was a part of the great cause of these high and just
proceedings.



“Instead of going up, I turned and descended to the left. My idea was to
let that chain-gang get out of sight before I climbed the hill. You know I
am not particularly tender; I've had to strike and to fend off. I've had
to resist and to attack sometimes—that's only one way of resisting—without
counting the exact cost, according to the demands of such sort of life as
I had blundered into. I've seen the devil of violence, and the devil of
greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were
strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayed and drove men—men, I
tell you. But as I stood on this hillside, I foresaw that in the blinding
sunshine of that land I would become acquainted with a flabby, pretending,
weak-eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly. How insidious he could
be, too, I was only to find out several months later and a thousand miles
farther. For a moment I stood appalled, as though by a warning. Finally I
descended the hill, obliquely, towards the trees I had seen.



“I avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on the slope,
the purpose of which I found it impossible to divine. It wasn't a quarry
or a sandpit, anyhow. It was just a hole. It might have been connected
with the philanthropic desire of giving the criminals something to do. I
don't know. Then I nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, almost no more
than a scar in the hillside. I discovered that a lot of imported
drainage-pipes for the settlement had been tumbled in there. There wasn't
one that was not broken. It was a wanton smash-up. At last I got under the
trees. My purpose was to stroll into the shade for a moment; but no sooner
within than it seemed to me I had stepped into the gloomy circle of some
Inferno. The rapids were near, and an uninterrupted, uniform, headlong,
rushing noise filled the mournful stillness of the grove, where not a
breath stirred, not a leaf moved, with a mysterious sound—as though
the tearing pace of the launched earth had suddenly become audible.



“Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees leaning against the
trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced within the
dim light, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonment, and despair. Another
mine on the cliff went off, followed by a slight shudder of the soil under
my feet. The work was going on. The work! And this was the place where
some of the helpers had withdrawn to die.



“They were dying slowly—it was very clear. They were not enemies,
they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now—nothing but
black shadows of disease and starvation, lying confusedly in the greenish
gloom. Brought from all the recesses of the coast in all the legality of
time contracts, lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfamiliar food,
they sickened, became inefficient, and were then allowed to crawl away and
rest. These moribund shapes were free as air—and nearly as thin. I
began to distinguish the gleam of the eyes under the trees. Then, glancing
down, I saw a face near my hand. The black bones reclined at full length
with one shoulder against the tree, and slowly the eyelids rose and the
sunken eyes looked up at me, enormous and vacant, a kind of blind, white
flicker in the depths of the orbs, which died out slowly. The man seemed
young—almost a boy—but you know with them it's hard to tell. I
found nothing else to do but to offer him one of my good Swede's ship's
biscuits I had in my pocket. The fingers closed slowly on it and held—there
was no other movement and no other glance. He had tied a bit of white
worsted round his neck—Why? Where did he get it? Was it a badge—an
ornament—a charm—a propitiatory act? Was there any idea at all
connected with it? It looked startling round his black neck, this bit of
white thread from beyond the seas.



“Near the same tree two more bundles of acute angles sat with their legs
drawn up. One, with his chin propped on his knees, stared at nothing, in
an intolerable and appalling manner: his brother phantom rested its
forehead, as if overcome with a great weariness; and all about others were
scattered in every pose of contorted collapse, as in some picture of a
massacre or a pestilence. While I stood horror-struck, one of these
creatures rose to his hands and knees, and went off on all-fours towards
the river to drink. He lapped out of his hand, then sat up in the
sunlight, crossing his shins in front of him, and after a time let his
woolly head fall on his breastbone.



“I didn't want any more loitering in the shade, and I made haste towards
the station. When near the buildings I met a white man, in such an
unexpected elegance of get-up that in the first moment I took him for a
sort of vision. I saw a high starched collar, white cuffs, a light alpaca
jacket, snowy trousers, a clean necktie, and varnished boots. No hat. Hair
parted, brushed, oiled, under a green-lined parasol held in a big white
hand. He was amazing, and had a penholder behind his ear.



“I shook hands with this miracle, and I learned he was the Company's chief
accountant, and that all the book-keeping was done at this station. He had
come out for a moment, he said, 'to get a breath of fresh air. The
expression sounded wonderfully odd, with its suggestion of sedentary
desk-life. I wouldn't have mentioned the fellow to you at all, only it was
from his lips that I first heard the name of the man who is so
indissolubly connected with the memories of that time. Moreover, I
respected the fellow. Yes; I respected his collars, his vast cuffs, his
brushed hair. His appearance was certainly that of a hairdresser's dummy;
but in the great demoralization of the land he kept up his appearance.
That's backbone. His starched collars and got-up shirt-fronts were
achievements of character. He had been out nearly three years; and, later,
I could not help asking him how he managed to sport such linen. He had
just the faintest blush, and said modestly, 'I've been teaching one of the
native women about the station. It was difficult. She had a distaste for
the work.' Thus this man had verily accomplished something. And he was
devoted to his books, which were in apple-pie order.



“Everything else in the station was in a muddle—heads, things,
buildings. Strings of dusty niggers with splay feet arrived and departed;
a stream of manufactured goods, rubbishy cottons, beads, and brass-wire
sent into the depths of darkness, and in return came a precious trickle of
ivory.



“I had to wait in the station for ten days—an eternity. I lived in a
hut in the yard, but to be out of the chaos I would sometimes get into the
accountant's office. It was built of horizontal planks, and so badly put
together that, as he bent over his high desk, he was barred from neck to
heels with narrow strips of sunlight. There was no need to open the big
shutter to see. It was hot there, too; big flies buzzed fiendishly, and
did not sting, but stabbed. I sat generally on the floor, while, of
faultless appearance (and even slightly scented), perching on a high
stool, he wrote, he wrote. Sometimes he stood up for exercise. When a
truckle-bed with a sick man (some invalid agent from upcountry) was put in
there, he exhibited a gentle annoyance. 'The groans of this sick person,'
he said, 'distract my attention. And without that it is extremely
difficult to guard against clerical errors in this climate.'



“One day he remarked, without lifting his head, 'In the interior you will
no doubt meet Mr. Kurtz.' On my asking who Mr. Kurtz was, he said he was a
first-class agent; and seeing my disappointment at this information, he
added slowly, laying down his pen, 'He is a very remarkable person.'
Further questions elicited from him that Mr. Kurtz was at present in
charge of a trading-post, a very important one, in the true ivory-country,
at 'the very bottom of there. Sends in as much ivory as all the others put
together...' He began to write again. The sick man was too ill to groan.
The flies buzzed in a great peace.



“Suddenly there was a growing murmur of voices and a great tramping of
feet. A caravan had come in. A violent babble of uncouth sounds burst out
on the other side of the planks. All the carriers were speaking together,
and in the midst of the uproar the lamentable voice of the chief agent was
heard 'giving it up' tearfully for the twentieth time that day.... He rose
slowly. 'What a frightful row,' he said. He crossed the room gently to
look at the sick man, and returning, said to me, 'He does not hear.'
'What! Dead?' I asked, startled. 'No, not yet,' he answered, with great
composure. Then, alluding with a toss of the head to the tumult in the
station-yard, 'When one has got to make correct entries, one comes to hate
those savages—hate them to the death.' He remained thoughtful for a
moment. 'When you see Mr. Kurtz' he went on, 'tell him from me that
everything here'—he glanced at the deck—' is very
satisfactory. I don't like to write to him—with those messengers of
ours you never know who may get hold of your letter—at that Central
Station.' He stared at me for a moment with his mild, bulging eyes. 'Oh,
he will go far, very far,' he began again. 'He will be a somebody in the
Administration before long. They, above—the Council in Europe, you
know—mean him to be.'



“He turned to his work. The noise outside had ceased, and presently in
going out I stopped at the door. In the steady buzz of flies the
homeward-bound agent was lying finished and insensible; the other, bent
over his books, was making correct entries of perfectly correct
transactions; and fifty feet below the doorstep I could see the still
tree-tops of the grove of death.



“Next day I left that station at last, with a caravan of sixty men, for a
two-hundred-mile tramp.



“No use telling you much about that. Paths, paths, everywhere; a
stamped-in network of paths spreading over the empty land, through the
long grass, through burnt grass, through thickets, down and up chilly
ravines, up and down stony hills ablaze with heat; and a solitude, a
solitude, nobody, not a hut. The population had cleared out a long time
ago. Well, if a lot of mysterious niggers armed with all kinds of fearful
weapons suddenly took to travelling on the road between Deal and
Gravesend, catching the yokels right and left to carry heavy loads for
them, I fancy every farm and cottage thereabouts would get empty very
soon. Only here the dwellings were gone, too. Still I passed through
several abandoned villages. There's something pathetically childish in the
ruins of grass walls. Day after day, with the stamp and shuffle of sixty
pair of bare feet behind me, each pair under a 60-lb. load. Camp, cook,
sleep, strike camp, march. Now and then a carrier dead in harness, at rest
in the long grass near the path, with an empty water-gourd and his long
staff lying by his side. A great silence around and above. Perhaps on some
quiet night the tremor of far-off drums, sinking, swelling, a tremor vast,
faint; a sound weird, appealing, suggestive, and wild—and perhaps
with as profound a meaning as the sound of bells in a Christian country.
Once a white man in an unbuttoned uniform, camping on the path with an
armed escort of lank Zanzibaris, very hospitable and festive—not to
say drunk. Was looking after the upkeep of the road, he declared. Can't
say I saw any road or any upkeep, unless the body of a middle-aged negro,
with a bullet-hole in the forehead, upon which I absolutely stumbled three
miles farther on, may be considered as a permanent improvement. I had a
white companion, too, not a bad chap, but rather too fleshy and with the
exasperating habit of fainting on the hot hillsides, miles away from the
least bit of shade and water. Annoying, you know, to hold your own coat
like a parasol over a man's head while he is coming to. I couldn't help
asking him once what he meant by coming there at all. 'To make money, of
course. What do you think?' he said, scornfully. Then he got fever, and
had to be carried in a hammock slung under a pole. As he weighed sixteen
stone I had no end of rows with the carriers. They jibbed, ran away,
sneaked off with their loads in the night—quite a mutiny. So, one
evening, I made a speech in English with gestures, not one of which was
lost to the sixty pairs of eyes before me, and the next morning I started
the hammock off in front all right. An hour afterwards I came upon the
whole concern wrecked in a bush—man, hammock, groans, blankets,
horrors. The heavy pole had skinned his poor nose. He was very anxious for
me to kill somebody, but there wasn't the shadow of a carrier near. I
remembered the old doctor—'It would be interesting for science to
watch the mental changes of individuals, on the spot.' I felt I was
becoming scientifically interesting. However, all that is to no purpose.
On the fifteenth day I came in sight of the big river again, and hobbled
into the Central Station. It was on a back water surrounded by scrub and
forest, with a pretty border of smelly mud on one side, and on the three
others enclosed by a crazy fence of rushes. A neglected gap was all the
gate it had, and the first glance at the place was enough to let you see
the flabby devil was running that show. White men with long staves in
their hands appeared languidly from amongst the buildings, strolling up to
take a look at me, and then retired out of sight somewhere. One of them, a
stout, excitable chap with black moustaches, informed me with great
volubility and many digressions, as soon as I told him who I was, that my
steamer was at the bottom of the river. I was thunderstruck. What, how,
why? Oh, it was 'all right.' The 'manager himself' was there. All quite
correct. 'Everybody had behaved splendidly! splendidly!'—'you must,'
he said in agitation, 'go and see the general manager at once. He is
waiting!'



“I did not see the real significance of that wreck at once. I fancy I see
it now, but I am not sure—not at all. Certainly the affair was too
stupid—when I think of it—to be altogether natural. Still...
But at the moment it presented itself simply as a confounded nuisance. The
steamer was sunk. They had started two days before in a sudden hurry up
the river with the manager on board, in charge of some volunteer skipper,
and before they had been out three hours they tore the bottom out of her
on stones, and she sank near the south bank. I asked myself what I was to
do there, now my boat was lost. As a matter of fact, I had plenty to do in
fishing my command out of the river. I had to set about it the very next
day. That, and the repairs when I brought the pieces to the station, took
some months.



“My first interview with the manager was curious. He did not ask me to sit
down after my twenty-mile walk that morning. He was commonplace in
complexion, in features, in manners, and in voice. He was of middle size
and of ordinary build. His eyes, of the usual blue, were perhaps
remarkably cold, and he certainly could make his glance fall on one as
trenchant and heavy as an axe. But even at these times the rest of his
person seemed to disclaim the intention. Otherwise there was only an
indefinable, faint expression of his lips, something stealthy—a
smile—not a smile—I remember it, but I can't explain. It was
unconscious, this smile was, though just after he had said something it
got intensified for an instant. It came at the end of his speeches like a
seal applied on the words to make the meaning of the commonest phrase
appear absolutely inscrutable. He was a common trader, from his youth up
employed in these parts—nothing more. He was obeyed, yet he inspired
neither love nor fear, nor even respect. He inspired uneasiness. That was
it! Uneasiness. Not a definite mistrust—just uneasiness—nothing
more. You have no idea how effective such a... a... faculty can be. He had
no genius for organizing, for initiative, or for order even. That was
evident in such things as the deplorable state of the station. He had no
learning, and no intelligence. His position had come to him—why?
Perhaps because he was never ill... He had served three terms of three
years out there... Because triumphant health in the general rout of
constitutions is a kind of power in itself. When he went home on leave he
rioted on a large scale—pompously. Jack ashore—with a
difference—in externals only. This one could gather from his casual
talk. He originated nothing, he could keep the routine going—that's
all. But he was great. He was great by this little thing that it was
impossible to tell what could control such a man. He never gave that
secret away. Perhaps there was nothing within him. Such a suspicion made
one pause—for out there there were no external checks. Once when
various tropical diseases had laid low almost every 'agent' in the
station, he was heard to say, 'Men who come out here should have no
entrails.' He sealed the utterance with that smile of his, as though it
had been a door opening into a darkness he had in his keeping. You fancied
you had seen things—but the seal was on. When annoyed at meal-times
by the constant quarrels of the white men about precedence, he ordered an
immense round table to be made, for which a special house had to be built.
This was the station's mess-room. Where he sat was the first place—the
rest were nowhere. One felt this to be his unalterable conviction. He was
neither civil nor uncivil. He was quiet. He allowed his 'boy'—an
overfed young negro from the coast—to treat the white men, under his
very eyes, with provoking insolence.



“He began to speak as soon as he saw me. I had been very long on the road.
He could not wait. Had to start without me. The up-river stations had to
be relieved. There had been so many delays already that he did not know
who was dead and who was alive, and how they got on—and so on, and
so on. He paid no attention to my explanations, and, playing with a stick
of sealing-wax, repeated several times that the situation was 'very grave,
very grave.' There were rumours that a very important station was in
jeopardy, and its chief, Mr. Kurtz, was ill. Hoped it was not true. Mr.
Kurtz was... I felt weary and irritable. Hang Kurtz, I thought. I
interrupted him by saying I had heard of Mr. Kurtz on the coast. 'Ah! So
they talk of him down there,' he murmured to himself. Then he began again,
assuring me Mr. Kurtz was the best agent he had, an exceptional man, of
the greatest importance to the Company; therefore I could understand his
anxiety. He was, he said, 'very, very uneasy.' Certainly he fidgeted on
his chair a good deal, exclaimed, 'Ah, Mr. Kurtz!' broke the stick of
sealing-wax and seemed dumfounded by the accident. Next thing he wanted to
know 'how long it would take to'... I interrupted him again. Being hungry,
you know, and kept on my feet too. I was getting savage. 'How can I tell?'
I said. 'I haven't even seen the wreck yet—some months, no doubt.'
All this talk seemed to me so futile. 'Some months,' he said. 'Well, let
us say three months before we can make a start. Yes. That ought to do the
affair.' I flung out of his hut (he lived all alone in a clay hut with a
sort of verandah) muttering to myself my opinion of him. He was a
chattering idiot. Afterwards I took it back when it was borne in upon me
startlingly with what extreme nicety he had estimated the time requisite
for the 'affair.'



“I went to work the next day, turning, so to speak, my back on that
station. In that way only it seemed to me I could keep my hold on the
redeeming facts of life. Still, one must look about sometimes; and then I
saw this station, these men strolling aimlessly about in the sunshine of
the yard. I asked myself sometimes what it all meant. They wandered here
and there with their absurd long staves in their hands, like a lot of
faithless pilgrims bewitched inside a rotten fence. The word 'ivory' rang
in the air, was whispered, was sighed. You would think they were praying
to it. A taint of imbecile rapacity blew through it all, like a whiff from
some corpse. By Jove! I've never seen anything so unreal in my life. And
outside, the silent wilderness surrounding this cleared speck on the earth
struck me as something great and invincible, like evil or truth, waiting
patiently for the passing away of this fantastic invasion.



“Oh, these months! Well, never mind. Various things happened. One evening
a grass shed full of calico, cotton prints, beads, and I don't know what
else, burst into a blaze so suddenly that you would have thought the earth
had opened to let an avenging fire consume all that trash. I was smoking
my pipe quietly by my dismantled steamer, and saw them all cutting capers
in the light, with their arms lifted high, when the stout man with
moustaches came tearing down to the river, a tin pail in his hand, assured
me that everybody was 'behaving splendidly, splendidly,' dipped about a
quart of water and tore back again. I noticed there was a hole in the
bottom of his pail.



“I strolled up. There was no hurry. You see the thing had gone off like a
box of matches. It had been hopeless from the very first. The flame had
leaped high, driven everybody back, lighted up everything—and
collapsed. The shed was already a heap of embers glowing fiercely. A
nigger was being beaten near by. They said he had caused the fire in some
way; be that as it may, he was screeching most horribly. I saw him, later,
for several days, sitting in a bit of shade looking very sick and trying
to recover himself; afterwards he arose and went out—and the
wilderness without a sound took him into its bosom again. As I approached
the glow from the dark I found myself at the back of two men, talking. I
heard the name of Kurtz pronounced, then the words, 'take advantage of
this unfortunate accident.' One of the men was the manager. I wished him a
good evening. 'Did you ever see anything like it—eh? it is
incredible,' he said, and walked off. The other man remained. He was a
first-class agent, young, gentlemanly, a bit reserved, with a forked
little beard and a hooked nose. He was stand-offish with the other agents,
and they on their side said he was the manager's spy upon them. As to me,
I had hardly ever spoken to him before. We got into talk, and by and by we
strolled away from the hissing ruins. Then he asked me to his room, which
was in the main building of the station. He struck a match, and I
perceived that this young aristocrat had not only a silver-mounted
dressing-case but also a whole candle all to himself. Just at that time
the manager was the only man supposed to have any right to candles. Native
mats covered the clay walls; a collection of spears, assegais, shields,
knives was hung up in trophies. The business intrusted to this fellow was
the making of bricks—so I had been informed; but there wasn't a
fragment of a brick anywhere in the station, and he had been there more
than a year—waiting. It seems he could not make bricks without
something, I don't know what—straw maybe. Anyway, it could not be
found there and as it was not likely to be sent from Europe, it did not
appear clear to me what he was waiting for. An act of special creation
perhaps. However, they were all waiting—all the sixteen or twenty
pilgrims of them—for something; and upon my word it did not seem an
uncongenial occupation, from the way they took it, though the only thing
that ever came to them was disease—as far as I could see. They
beguiled the time by back-biting and intriguing against each other in a
foolish kind of way. There was an air of plotting about that station, but
nothing came of it, of course. It was as unreal as everything else—as
the philanthropic pretence of the whole concern, as their talk, as their
government, as their show of work. The only real feeling was a desire to
get appointed to a trading-post where ivory was to be had, so that they
could earn percentages. They intrigued and slandered and hated each other
only on that account—but as to effectually lifting a little finger—oh,
no. By heavens! there is something after all in the world allowing one man
to steal a horse while another must not look at a halter. Steal a horse
straight out. Very well. He has done it. Perhaps he can ride. But there is
a way of looking at a halter that would provoke the most charitable of
saints into a kick.



“I had no idea why he wanted to be sociable, but as we chatted in there it
suddenly occurred to me the fellow was trying to get at something—in
fact, pumping me. He alluded constantly to Europe, to the people I was
supposed to know there—putting leading questions as to my
acquaintances in the sepulchral city, and so on. His little eyes glittered
like mica discs—with curiosity—though he tried to keep up a
bit of superciliousness. At first I was astonished, but very soon I became
awfully curious to see what he would find out from me. I couldn't possibly
imagine what I had in me to make it worth his while. It was very pretty to
see how he baffled himself, for in truth my body was full only of chills,
and my head had nothing in it but that wretched steamboat business. It was
evident he took me for a perfectly shameless prevaricator. At last he got
angry, and, to conceal a movement of furious annoyance, he yawned. I rose.
Then I noticed a small sketch in oils, on a panel, representing a woman,
draped and blindfolded, carrying a lighted torch. The background was
sombre—almost black. The movement of the woman was stately, and the
effect of the torchlight on the face was sinister.



“It arrested me, and he stood by civilly, holding an empty half-pint
champagne bottle (medical comforts) with the candle stuck in it. To my
question he said Mr. Kurtz had painted this—in this very station
more than a year ago—while waiting for means to go to his trading
post. 'Tell me, pray,' said I, 'who is this Mr. Kurtz?'



“'The chief of the Inner Station,' he answered in a short tone, looking
away. 'Much obliged,' I said, laughing. 'And you are the brickmaker of the
Central Station. Every one knows that.' He was silent for a while. 'He is
a prodigy,' he said at last. 'He is an emissary of pity and science and
progress, and devil knows what else. We want,' he began to declaim
suddenly, 'for the guidance of the cause intrusted to us by Europe, so to
speak, higher intelligence, wide sympathies, a singleness of purpose.'
'Who says that?' I asked. 'Lots of them,' he replied. 'Some even write
that; and so he comes here, a special being, as you ought to know.'
'Why ought I to know?' I interrupted, really surprised. He paid no
attention. 'Yes. Today he is chief of the best station, next year he will
be assistant-manager, two years more and... but I dare-say you know what
he will be in two years' time. You are of the new gang—the gang of
virtue. The same people who sent him specially also recommended you. Oh,
don't say no. I've my own eyes to trust.' Light dawned upon me. My dear
aunt's influential acquaintances were producing an unexpected effect upon
that young man. I nearly burst into a laugh. 'Do you read the Company's
confidential correspondence?' I asked. He hadn't a word to say. It was
great fun. 'When Mr. Kurtz,' I continued, severely, 'is General Manager,
you won't have the opportunity.'



“He blew the candle out suddenly, and we went outside. The moon had risen.
Black figures strolled about listlessly, pouring water on the glow, whence
proceeded a sound of hissing; steam ascended in the moonlight, the beaten
nigger groaned somewhere. 'What a row the brute makes!' said the
indefatigable man with the moustaches, appearing near us. 'Serve him
right. Transgression—punishment—bang! Pitiless, pitiless.
That's the only way. This will prevent all conflagrations for the future.
I was just telling the manager...' He noticed my companion, and became
crestfallen all at once. 'Not in bed yet,' he said, with a kind of servile
heartiness; 'it's so natural. Ha! Danger—agitation.' He vanished. I
went on to the riverside, and the other followed me. I heard a scathing
murmur at my ear, 'Heap of muffs—go to.' The pilgrims could be seen
in knots gesticulating, discussing. Several had still their staves in
their hands. I verily believe they took these sticks to bed with them.
Beyond the fence the forest stood up spectrally in the moonlight, and
through that dim stir, through the faint sounds of that lamentable
courtyard, the silence of the land went home to one's very heart—its
mystery, its greatness, the amazing reality of its concealed life. The
hurt nigger moaned feebly somewhere near by, and then fetched a deep sigh
that made me mend my pace away from there. I felt a hand introducing
itself under my arm. 'My dear sir,' said the fellow, 'I don't want to be
misunderstood, and especially by you, who will see Mr. Kurtz long before I
can have that pleasure. I wouldn't like him to get a false idea of my
disposition....'



“I let him run on, this papier-mache Mephistopheles, and it seemed
to me that if I tried I could poke my forefinger through him, and would
find nothing inside but a little loose dirt, maybe. He, don't you see, had
been planning to be assistant-manager by and by under the present man, and
I could see that the coming of that Kurtz had upset them both not a
little. He talked precipitately, and I did not try to stop him. I had my
shoulders against the wreck of my steamer, hauled up on the slope like a
carcass of some big river animal. The smell of mud, of primeval mud, by
Jove! was in my nostrils, the high stillness of primeval forest was before
my eyes; there were shiny patches on the black creek. The moon had spread
over everything a thin layer of silver—over the rank grass, over the
mud, upon the wall of matted vegetation standing higher than the wall of a
temple, over the great river I could see through a sombre gap glittering,
glittering, as it flowed broadly by without a murmur. All this was great,
expectant, mute, while the man jabbered about himself. I wondered whether
the stillness on the face of the immensity looking at us two were meant as
an appeal or as a menace. What were we who had strayed in here? Could we
handle that dumb thing, or would it handle us? I felt how big, how
confoundedly big, was that thing that couldn't talk, and perhaps was deaf
as well. What was in there? I could see a little ivory coming out from
there, and I had heard Mr. Kurtz was in there. I had heard enough about
it, too—God knows! Yet somehow it didn't bring any image with it—no
more than if I had been told an angel or a fiend was in there. I believed
it in the same way one of you might believe there are inhabitants in the
planet Mars. I knew once a Scotch sailmaker who was certain, dead sure,
there were people in Mars. If you asked him for some idea how they looked
and behaved, he would get shy and mutter something about 'walking on
all-fours.' If you as much as smiled, he would—though a man of sixty—offer
to fight you. I would not have gone so far as to fight for Kurtz, but I
went for him near enough to a lie. You know I hate, detest, and can't bear
a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because
it appalls me. There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies—which
is exactly what I hate and detest in the world—what I want to
forget. It makes me miserable and sick, like biting something rotten would
do. Temperament, I suppose. Well, I went near enough to it by letting the
young fool there believe anything he liked to imagine as to my influence
in Europe. I became in an instant as much of a pretence as the rest of the
bewitched pilgrims. This simply because I had a notion it somehow would be
of help to that Kurtz whom at the time I did not see—you understand.
He was just a word for me. I did not see the man in the name any more than
you do. Do you see him? Do you see the story? Do you see anything? It
seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream—making a vain attempt,
because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that
commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of
struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which
is of the very essence of dreams....”



He was silent for a while.



“... No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation
of any given epoch of one's existence—that which makes its truth,
its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We
live, as we dream—alone....”



He paused again as if reflecting, then added:



“Of course in this you fellows see more than I could then. You see me,
whom you know....”



It had become so pitch dark that we listeners could hardly see one
another. For a long time already he, sitting apart, had been no more to us
than a voice. There was not a word from anybody. The others might have
been asleep, but I was awake. I listened, I listened on the watch for the
sentence, for the word, that would give me the clue to the faint
uneasiness inspired by this narrative that seemed to shape itself without
human lips in the heavy night-air of the river.



“... Yes—I let him run on,” Marlow began again, “and think what he
pleased about the powers that were behind me. I did! And there was nothing
behind me! There was nothing but that wretched, old, mangled steamboat I
was leaning against, while he talked fluently about 'the necessity for
every man to get on.' 'And when one comes out here, you conceive, it is
not to gaze at the moon.' Mr. Kurtz was a 'universal genius,' but even a
genius would find it easier to work with 'adequate tools—intelligent
men.' He did not make bricks—why, there was a physical impossibility
in the way—as I was well aware; and if he did secretarial work for
the manager, it was because 'no sensible man rejects wantonly the
confidence of his superiors.' Did I see it? I saw it. What more did I
want? What I really wanted was rivets, by heaven! Rivets. To get on with
the work—to stop the hole. Rivets I wanted. There were cases of them
down at the coast—cases—piled up—burst—split! You
kicked a loose rivet at every second step in that station-yard on the
hillside. Rivets had rolled into the grove of death. You could fill your
pockets with rivets for the trouble of stooping down—and there
wasn't one rivet to be found where it was wanted. We had plates that would
do, but nothing to fasten them with. And every week the messenger, a long
negro, letter-bag on shoulder and staff in hand, left our station for the
coast. And several times a week a coast caravan came in with trade goods—ghastly
glazed calico that made you shudder only to look at it, glass beads value
about a penny a quart, confounded spotted cotton handkerchiefs. And no
rivets. Three carriers could have brought all that was wanted to set that
steamboat afloat.



“He was becoming confidential now, but I fancy my unresponsive attitude
must have exasperated him at last, for he judged it necessary to inform me
he feared neither God nor devil, let alone any mere man. I said I could
see that very well, but what I wanted was a certain quantity of rivets—and
rivets were what really Mr. Kurtz wanted, if he had only known it. Now
letters went to the coast every week.... 'My dear sir,' he cried, 'I write
from dictation.' I demanded rivets. There was a way—for an
intelligent man. He changed his manner; became very cold, and suddenly
began to talk about a hippopotamus; wondered whether sleeping on board the
steamer (I stuck to my salvage night and day) I wasn't disturbed. There
was an old hippo that had the bad habit of getting out on the bank and
roaming at night over the station grounds. The pilgrims used to turn out
in a body and empty every rifle they could lay hands on at him. Some even
had sat up o' nights for him. All this energy was wasted, though. 'That
animal has a charmed life,' he said; 'but you can say this only of brutes
in this country. No man—you apprehend me?—no man here bears a
charmed life.' He stood there for a moment in the moonlight with his
delicate hooked nose set a little askew, and his mica eyes glittering
without a wink, then, with a curt Good-night, he strode off. I could see
he was disturbed and considerably puzzled, which made me feel more hopeful
than I had been for days. It was a great comfort to turn from that chap to
my influential friend, the battered, twisted, ruined, tin-pot steamboat. I
clambered on board. She rang under my feet like an empty Huntley &
Palmer biscuit-tin kicked along a gutter; she was nothing so solid in
make, and rather less pretty in shape, but I had expended enough hard work
on her to make me love her. No influential friend would have served me
better. She had given me a chance to come out a bit—to find out what
I could do. No, I don't like work. I had rather laze about and think of
all the fine things that can be done. I don't like work—no man does—but
I like what is in the work—the chance to find yourself. Your own
reality—for yourself, not for others—what no other man can
ever know. They can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it
really means.



“I was not surprised to see somebody sitting aft, on the deck, with his
legs dangling over the mud. You see I rather chummed with the few
mechanics there were in that station, whom the other pilgrims naturally
despised—on account of their imperfect manners, I suppose. This was
the foreman—a boiler-maker by trade—a good worker. He was a
lank, bony, yellow-faced man, with big intense eyes. His aspect was
worried, and his head was as bald as the palm of my hand; but his hair in
falling seemed to have stuck to his chin, and had prospered in the new
locality, for his beard hung down to his waist. He was a widower with six
young children (he had left them in charge of a sister of his to come out
there), and the passion of his life was pigeon-flying. He was an
enthusiast and a connoisseur. He would rave about pigeons. After work
hours he used sometimes to come over from his hut for a talk about his
children and his pigeons; at work, when he had to crawl in the mud under
the bottom of the steamboat, he would tie up that beard of his in a kind
of white serviette he brought for the purpose. It had loops to go over his
ears. In the evening he could be seen squatted on the bank rinsing that
wrapper in the creek with great care, then spreading it solemnly on a bush
to dry.



“I slapped him on the back and shouted, 'We shall have rivets!' He
scrambled to his feet exclaiming, 'No! Rivets!' as though he couldn't
believe his ears. Then in a low voice, 'You... eh?' I don't know why we
behaved like lunatics. I put my finger to the side of my nose and nodded
mysteriously. 'Good for you!' he cried, snapped his fingers above his
head, lifting one foot. I tried a jig. We capered on the iron deck. A
frightful clatter came out of that hulk, and the virgin forest on the
other bank of the creek sent it back in a thundering roll upon the
sleeping station. It must have made some of the pilgrims sit up in their
hovels. A dark figure obscured the lighted doorway of the manager's hut,
vanished, then, a second or so after, the doorway itself vanished, too. We
stopped, and the silence driven away by the stamping of our feet flowed
back again from the recesses of the land. The great wall of vegetation, an
exuberant and entangled mass of trunks, branches, leaves, boughs,
festoons, motionless in the moonlight, was like a rioting invasion of
soundless life, a rolling wave of plants, piled up, crested, ready to
topple over the creek, to sweep every little man of us out of his little
existence. And it moved not. A deadened burst of mighty splashes and
snorts reached us from afar, as though an icthyosaurus had been taking a
bath of glitter in the great river. 'After all,' said the boiler-maker in
a reasonable tone, 'why shouldn't we get the rivets?' Why not, indeed! I
did not know of any reason why we shouldn't. 'They'll come in three
weeks,' I said confidently.



“But they didn't. Instead of rivets there came an invasion, an infliction,
a visitation. It came in sections during the next three weeks, each
section headed by a donkey carrying a white man in new clothes and tan
shoes, bowing from that elevation right and left to the impressed
pilgrims. A quarrelsome band of footsore sulky niggers trod on the heels
of the donkey; a lot of tents, camp-stools, tin boxes, white cases, brown
bales would be shot down in the courtyard, and the air of mystery would
deepen a little over the muddle of the station. Five such instalments
came, with their absurd air of disorderly flight with the loot of
innumerable outfit shops and provision stores, that, one would think, they
were lugging, after a raid, into the wilderness for equitable division. It
was an inextricable mess of things decent in themselves but that human
folly made look like the spoils of thieving.



“This devoted band called itself the Eldorado Exploring Expedition, and I
believe they were sworn to secrecy. Their talk, however, was the talk of
sordid buccaneers: it was reckless without hardihood, greedy without
audacity, and cruel without courage; there was not an atom of foresight or
of serious intention in the whole batch of them, and they did not seem
aware these things are wanted for the work of the world. To tear treasure
out of the bowels of the land was their desire, with no more moral purpose
at the back of it than there is in burglars breaking into a safe. Who paid
the expenses of the noble enterprise I don't know; but the uncle of our
manager was leader of that lot.



“In exterior he resembled a butcher in a poor neighbourhood, and his eyes
had a look of sleepy cunning. He carried his fat paunch with ostentation
on his short legs, and during the time his gang infested the station spoke
to no one but his nephew. You could see these two roaming about all day
long with their heads close together in an everlasting confab.



“I had given up worrying myself about the rivets. One's capacity for that
kind of folly is more limited than you would suppose. I said Hang!—and
let things slide. I had plenty of time for meditation, and now and then I
would give some thought to Kurtz. I wasn't very interested in him. No.
Still, I was curious to see whether this man, who had come out equipped
with moral ideas of some sort, would climb to the top after all and how he
would set about his work when there.”














II



“One evening as I was lying flat on the deck of my steamboat, I heard
voices approaching—and there were the nephew and the uncle strolling
along the bank. I laid my head on my arm again, and had nearly lost myself
in a doze, when somebody said in my ear, as it were: 'I am as harmless as
a little child, but I don't like to be dictated to. Am I the manager—or
am I not? I was ordered to send him there. It's incredible.' ... I became
aware that the two were standing on the shore alongside the forepart of
the steamboat, just below my head. I did not move; it did not occur to me
to move: I was sleepy. 'It is unpleasant,' grunted the uncle. 'He
has asked the Administration to be sent there,' said the other, 'with the
idea of showing what he could do; and I was instructed accordingly. Look
at the influence that man must have. Is it not frightful?' They both
agreed it was frightful, then made several bizarre remarks: 'Make rain and
fine weather—one man—the Council—by the nose'—bits
of absurd sentences that got the better of my drowsiness, so that I had
pretty near the whole of my wits about me when the uncle said, 'The
climate may do away with this difficulty for you. Is he alone there?'
'Yes,' answered the manager; 'he sent his assistant down the river with a
note to me in these terms: “Clear this poor devil out of the country, and
don't bother sending more of that sort. I had rather be alone than have
the kind of men you can dispose of with me.” It was more than a year ago.
Can you imagine such impudence!' 'Anything since then?' asked the other
hoarsely. 'Ivory,' jerked the nephew; 'lots of it—prime sort—lots—most
annoying, from him.' 'And with that?' questioned the heavy rumble.
'Invoice,' was the reply fired out, so to speak. Then silence. They had
been talking about Kurtz.



“I was broad awake by this time, but, lying perfectly at ease, remained
still, having no inducement to change my position. 'How did that ivory
come all this way?' growled the elder man, who seemed very vexed. The
other explained that it had come with a fleet of canoes in charge of an
English half-caste clerk Kurtz had with him; that Kurtz had apparently
intended to return himself, the station being by that time bare of goods
and stores, but after coming three hundred miles, had suddenly decided to
go back, which he started to do alone in a small dugout with four
paddlers, leaving the half-caste to continue down the river with the
ivory. The two fellows there seemed astounded at anybody attempting such a
thing. They were at a loss for an adequate motive. As to me, I seemed to
see Kurtz for the first time. It was a distinct glimpse: the dugout, four
paddling savages, and the lone white man turning his back suddenly on the
headquarters, on relief, on thoughts of home—perhaps; setting his
face towards the depths of the wilderness, towards his empty and desolate
station. I did not know the motive. Perhaps he was just simply a fine
fellow who stuck to his work for its own sake. His name, you understand,
had not been pronounced once. He was 'that man.' The half-caste, who, as
far as I could see, had conducted a difficult trip with great prudence and
pluck, was invariably alluded to as 'that scoundrel.' The 'scoundrel' had
reported that the 'man' had been very ill—had recovered
imperfectly.... The two below me moved away then a few paces, and strolled
back and forth at some little distance. I heard: 'Military post—doctor—two
hundred miles—quite alone now—unavoidable delays—nine
months—no news—strange rumours.' They approached again, just
as the manager was saying, 'No one, as far as I know, unless a species of
wandering trader—a pestilential fellow, snapping ivory from the
natives.' Who was it they were talking about now? I gathered in snatches
that this was some man supposed to be in Kurtz's district, and of whom the
manager did not approve. 'We will not be free from unfair competition till
one of these fellows is hanged for an example,' he said. 'Certainly,'
grunted the other; 'get him hanged! Why not? Anything—anything can
be done in this country. That's what I say; nobody here, you understand,
here, can endanger your position. And why? You stand the climate—you
outlast them all. The danger is in Europe; but there before I left I took
care to—' They moved off and whispered, then their voices rose
again. 'The extraordinary series of delays is not my fault. I did my
best.' The fat man sighed. 'Very sad.' 'And the pestiferous absurdity of
his talk,' continued the other; 'he bothered me enough when he was here.
“Each station should be like a beacon on the road towards better things, a
centre for trade of course, but also for humanizing, improving,
instructing.” Conceive you—that ass! And he wants to be manager! No,
it's—' Here he got choked by excessive indignation, and I lifted my
head the least bit. I was surprised to see how near they were—right
under me. I could have spat upon their hats. They were looking on the
ground, absorbed in thought. The manager was switching his leg with a
slender twig: his sagacious relative lifted his head. 'You have been well
since you came out this time?' he asked. The other gave a start. 'Who? I?
Oh! Like a charm—like a charm. But the rest—oh, my goodness!
All sick. They die so quick, too, that I haven't the time to send them out
of the country—it's incredible!' 'Hm'm. Just so,' grunted the uncle.
'Ah! my boy, trust to this—I say, trust to this.' I saw him extend
his short flipper of an arm for a gesture that took in the forest, the
creek, the mud, the river—seemed to beckon with a dishonouring
flourish before the sunlit face of the land a treacherous appeal to the
lurking death, to the hidden evil, to the profound darkness of its heart.
It was so startling that I leaped to my feet and looked back at the edge
of the forest, as though I had expected an answer of some sort to that
black display of confidence. You know the foolish notions that come to one
sometimes. The high stillness confronted these two figures with its
ominous patience, waiting for the passing away of a fantastic invasion.



“They swore aloud together—out of sheer fright, I believe—then
pretending not to know anything of my existence, turned back to the
station. The sun was low; and leaning forward side by side, they seemed to
be tugging painfully uphill their two ridiculous shadows of unequal
length, that trailed behind them slowly over the tall grass without
bending a single blade.



“In a few days the Eldorado Expedition went into the patient wilderness,
that closed upon it as the sea closes over a diver. Long afterwards the
news came that all the donkeys were dead. I know nothing as to the fate of
the less valuable animals. They, no doubt, like the rest of us, found what
they deserved. I did not inquire. I was then rather excited at the
prospect of meeting Kurtz very soon. When I say very soon I mean it
comparatively. It was just two months from the day we left the creek when
we came to the bank below Kurtz's station.



“Going up that river was like traveling back to the earliest beginnings of
the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were
kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air
was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of
sunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the
gloom of overshadowed distances. On silvery sand-banks hippos and
alligators sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters flowed
through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as you
would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find
the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from
everything you had known once—somewhere—far away—in
another existence perhaps. There were moments when one's past came back to
one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare for
yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream,
remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange
world of plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did
not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable
force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a
vengeful aspect. I got used to it afterwards; I did not see it any more; I
had no time. I had to keep guessing at the channel; I had to discern,
mostly by inspiration, the signs of hidden banks; I watched for sunken
stones; I was learning to clap my teeth smartly before my heart flew out,
when I shaved by a fluke some infernal sly old snag that would have ripped
the life out of the tin-pot steamboat and drowned all the pilgrims; I had
to keep a lookout for the signs of dead wood we could cut up in the night
for next day's steaming. When you have to attend to things of that sort,
to the mere incidents of the surface, the reality—the reality, I
tell you—fades. The inner truth is hidden—luckily, luckily.
But I felt it all the same; I felt often its mysterious stillness watching
me at my monkey tricks, just as it watches you fellows performing on your
respective tight-ropes for—what is it? half-a-crown a tumble—”



“Try to be civil, Marlow,” growled a voice, and I knew there was at least
one listener awake besides myself.



“I beg your pardon. I forgot the heartache which makes up the rest of the
price. And indeed what does the price matter, if the trick be well done?
You do your tricks very well. And I didn't do badly either, since I
managed not to sink that steamboat on my first trip. It's a wonder to me
yet. Imagine a blindfolded man set to drive a van over a bad road. I
sweated and shivered over that business considerably, I can tell you.
After all, for a seaman, to scrape the bottom of the thing that's supposed
to float all the time under his care is the unpardonable sin. No one may
know of it, but you never forget the thump—eh? A blow on the very
heart. You remember it, you dream of it, you wake up at night and think of
it—years after—and go hot and cold all over. I don't pretend
to say that steamboat floated all the time. More than once she had to wade
for a bit, with twenty cannibals splashing around and pushing. We had
enlisted some of these chaps on the way for a crew. Fine fellows—cannibals—in
their place. They were men one could work with, and I am grateful to them.
And, after all, they did not eat each other before my face: they had
brought along a provision of hippo-meat which went rotten, and made the
mystery of the wilderness stink in my nostrils. Phoo! I can sniff it now.
I had the manager on board and three or four pilgrims with their staves—all
complete. Sometimes we came upon a station close by the bank, clinging to
the skirts of the unknown, and the white men rushing out of a tumble-down
hovel, with great gestures of joy and surprise and welcome, seemed very
strange—had the appearance of being held there captive by a spell.
The word ivory would ring in the air for a while—and on we went
again into the silence, along empty reaches, round the still bends,
between the high walls of our winding way, reverberating in hollow claps
the ponderous beat of the stern-wheel. Trees, trees, millions of trees,
massive, immense, running up high; and at their foot, hugging the bank
against the stream, crept the little begrimed steamboat, like a sluggish
beetle crawling on the floor of a lofty portico. It made you feel very
small, very lost, and yet it was not altogether depressing, that feeling.
After all, if you were small, the grimy beetle crawled on—which was
just what you wanted it to do. Where the pilgrims imagined it crawled to I
don't know. To some place where they expected to get something. I bet! For
me it crawled towards Kurtz—exclusively; but when the steam-pipes
started leaking we crawled very slow. The reaches opened before us and
closed behind, as if the forest had stepped leisurely across the water to
bar the way for our return. We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart
of darkness. It was very quiet there. At night sometimes the roll of drums
behind the curtain of trees would run up the river and remain sustained
faintly, as if hovering in the air high over our heads, till the first
break of day. Whether it meant war, peace, or prayer we could not tell.
The dawns were heralded by the descent of a chill stillness; the
wood-cutters slept, their fires burned low; the snapping of a twig would
make you start. We were wanderers on a prehistoric earth, on an earth
that wore the aspect of an unknown planet. We could have fancied ourselves
the first of men taking possession of an accursed inheritance, to be
subdued at the cost of profound anguish and of excessive toil. But
suddenly, as we struggled round a bend, there would be a glimpse of rush
walls, of peaked grass-roofs, a burst of yells, a whirl of black limbs, a
mass of hands clapping of feet stamping, of bodies swaying, of eyes
rolling, under the droop of heavy and motionless foliage. The steamer
toiled along slowly on the edge of a black and incomprehensible frenzy.
The prehistoric man was cursing us, praying to us, welcoming us—who
could tell? We were cut off from the comprehension of our surroundings; we
glided past like phantoms, wondering and secretly appalled, as sane men
would be before an enthusiastic outbreak in a madhouse. We could not
understand because we were too far and could not remember because we were
travelling in the night of first ages, of those ages that are gone,
leaving hardly a sign—and no memories.



“The earth seemed unearthly. We are accustomed to look upon the shackled
form of a conquered monster, but there—there you could look at a
thing monstrous and free. It was unearthly, and the men were—No,
they were not inhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst of it—this
suspicion of their not being inhuman. It would come slowly to one. They
howled and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you
was just the thought of their humanity—like yours—the thought
of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it
was ugly enough; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself
that there was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the
terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning
in it which you—you so remote from the night of first ages—could
comprehend. And why not? The mind of man is capable of anything—because
everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future. What was
there after all? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valour, rage—who can
tell?—but truth—truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the
fool gape and shudder—the man knows, and can look on without a wink.
But he must at least be as much of a man as these on the shore. He must
meet that truth with his own true stuff—with his own inborn
strength. Principles won't do. Acquisitions, clothes, pretty rags—rags
that would fly off at the first good shake. No; you want a deliberate
belief. An appeal to me in this fiendish row—is there? Very well; I
hear; I admit, but I have a voice, too, and for good or evil mine is the
speech that cannot be silenced. Of course, a fool, what with sheer fright
and fine sentiments, is always safe. Who's that grunting? You wonder I
didn't go ashore for a howl and a dance? Well, no—I didn't. Fine
sentiments, you say? Fine sentiments, be hanged! I had no time. I had to
mess about with white-lead and strips of woolen blanket helping to put
bandages on those leaky steam-pipes—I tell you. I had to watch the
steering, and circumvent those snags, and get the tin-pot along by hook or
by crook. There was surface-truth enough in these things to save a wiser
man. And between whiles I had to look after the savage who was fireman. He
was an improved specimen; he could fire up a vertical boiler. He was there
below me, and, upon my word, to look at him was as edifying as seeing a
dog in a parody of breeches and a feather hat, walking on his hind-legs. A
few months of training had done for that really fine chap. He squinted at
the steam-gauge and at the water-gauge with an evident effort of
intrepidity—and he had filed teeth, too, the poor devil, and the
wool of his pate shaved into queer patterns, and three ornamental scars on
each of his cheeks. He ought to have been clapping his hands and stamping
his feet on the bank, instead of which he was hard at work, a thrall to
strange witchcraft, full of improving knowledge. He was useful because he
had been instructed; and what he knew was this—that should the water
in that transparent thing disappear, the evil spirit inside the boiler
would get angry through the greatness of his thirst, and take a terrible
vengeance. So he sweated and fired up and watched the glass fearfully
(with an impromptu charm, made of rags, tied to his arm, and a piece of
polished bone, as big as a watch, stuck flatways through his lower lip),
while the wooded banks slipped past us slowly, the short noise was left
behind, the interminable miles of silence—and we crept on, towards
Kurtz. But the snags were thick, the water was treacherous and shallow,
the boiler seemed indeed to have a sulky devil in it, and thus neither
that fireman nor I had any time to peer into our creepy thoughts.



“Some fifty miles below the Inner Station we came upon a hut of reeds, an
inclined and melancholy pole, with the unrecognizable tatters of what had
been a flag of some sort flying from it, and a neatly stacked wood-pile.
This was unexpected. We came to the bank, and on the stack of firewood
found a flat piece of board with some faded pencil-writing on it. When
deciphered it said: 'Wood for you. Hurry up. Approach cautiously.' There
was a signature, but it was illegible—not Kurtz—a much longer
word. 'Hurry up.' Where? Up the river? 'Approach cautiously.' We had not
done so. But the warning could not have been meant for the place where it
could be only found after approach. Something was wrong above. But what—and
how much? That was the question. We commented adversely upon the
imbecility of that telegraphic style. The bush around said nothing, and
would not let us look very far, either. A torn curtain of red twill hung
in the doorway of the hut, and flapped sadly in our faces. The dwelling
was dismantled; but we could see a white man had lived there not very long
ago. There remained a rude table—a plank on two posts; a heap of
rubbish reposed in a dark corner, and by the door I picked up a book. It
had lost its covers, and the pages had been thumbed into a state of
extremely dirty softness; but the back had been lovingly stitched afresh
with white cotton thread, which looked clean yet. It was an extraordinary
find. Its title was, An Inquiry into some Points of Seamanship, by
a man Towser, Towson—some such name—Master in his Majesty's
Navy. The matter looked dreary reading enough, with illustrative diagrams
and repulsive tables of figures, and the copy was sixty years old. I
handled this amazing antiquity with the greatest possible tenderness, lest
it should dissolve in my hands. Within, Towson or Towser was inquiring
earnestly into the breaking strain of ships' chains and tackle, and other
such matters. Not a very enthralling book; but at the first glance you
could see there a singleness of intention, an honest concern for the right
way of going to work, which made these humble pages, thought out so many
years ago, luminous with another than a professional light. The simple old
sailor, with his talk of chains and purchases, made me forget the jungle
and the pilgrims in a delicious sensation of having come upon something
unmistakably real. Such a book being there was wonderful enough; but still
more astounding were the notes pencilled in the margin, and plainly
referring to the text. I couldn't believe my eyes! They were in cipher!
Yes, it looked like cipher. Fancy a man lugging with him a book of that
description into this nowhere and studying it—and making notes—in
cipher at that! It was an extravagant mystery.



“I had been dimly aware for some time of a worrying noise, and when I
lifted my eyes I saw the wood-pile was gone, and the manager, aided by all
the pilgrims, was shouting at me from the riverside. I slipped the book
into my pocket. I assure you to leave off reading was like tearing myself
away from the shelter of an old and solid friendship.



“I started the lame engine ahead. 'It must be this miserable trader—this
intruder,' exclaimed the manager, looking back malevolently at the place
we had left. 'He must be English,' I said. 'It will not save him from
getting into trouble if he is not careful,' muttered the manager darkly. I
observed with assumed innocence that no man was safe from trouble in this
world.



“The current was more rapid now, the steamer seemed at her last gasp, the
stern-wheel flopped languidly, and I caught myself listening on tiptoe for
the next beat of the boat, for in sober truth I expected the wretched
thing to give up every moment. It was like watching the last flickers of a
life. But still we crawled. Sometimes I would pick out a tree a little way
ahead to measure our progress towards Kurtz by, but I lost it invariably
before we got abreast. To keep the eyes so long on one thing was too much
for human patience. The manager displayed a beautiful resignation. I
fretted and fumed and took to arguing with myself whether or no I would
talk openly with Kurtz; but before I could come to any conclusion it
occurred to me that my speech or my silence, indeed any action of mine,
would be a mere futility. What did it matter what any one knew or ignored?
What did it matter who was manager? One gets sometimes such a flash of
insight. The essentials of this affair lay deep under the surface, beyond
my reach, and beyond my power of meddling.



“Towards the evening of the second day we judged ourselves about eight
miles from Kurtz's station. I wanted to push on; but the manager looked
grave, and told me the navigation up there was so dangerous that it would
be advisable, the sun being very low already, to wait where we were till
next morning. Moreover, he pointed out that if the warning to approach
cautiously were to be followed, we must approach in daylight—not at
dusk or in the dark. This was sensible enough. Eight miles meant nearly
three hours' steaming for us, and I could also see suspicious ripples at
the upper end of the reach. Nevertheless, I was annoyed beyond expression
at the delay, and most unreasonably, too, since one night more could not
matter much after so many months. As we had plenty of wood, and caution
was the word, I brought up in the middle of the stream. The reach was
narrow, straight, with high sides like a railway cutting. The dusk came
gliding into it long before the sun had set. The current ran smooth and
swift, but a dumb immobility sat on the banks. The living trees, lashed
together by the creepers and every living bush of the undergrowth, might
have been changed into stone, even to the slenderest twig, to the lightest
leaf. It was not sleep—it seemed unnatural, like a state of trance.
Not the faintest sound of any kind could be heard. You looked on amazed,
and began to suspect yourself of being deaf—then the night came
suddenly, and struck you blind as well. About three in the morning some
large fish leaped, and the loud splash made me jump as though a gun had
been fired. When the sun rose there was a white fog, very warm and clammy,
and more blinding than the night. It did not shift or drive; it was just
there, standing all round you like something solid. At eight or nine,
perhaps, it lifted as a shutter lifts. We had a glimpse of the towering
multitude of trees, of the immense matted jungle, with the blazing little
ball of the sun hanging over it—all perfectly still—and then
the white shutter came down again, smoothly, as if sliding in greased
grooves. I ordered the chain, which we had begun to heave in, to be paid
out again. Before it stopped running with a muffled rattle, a cry, a very
loud cry, as of infinite desolation, soared slowly in the opaque air. It
ceased. A complaining clamour, modulated in savage discords, filled our
ears. The sheer unexpectedness of it made my hair stir under my cap. I
don't know how it struck the others: to me it seemed as though the mist
itself had screamed, so suddenly, and apparently from all sides at once,
did this tumultuous and mournful uproar arise. It culminated in a hurried
outbreak of almost intolerably excessive shrieking, which stopped short,
leaving us stiffened in a variety of silly attitudes, and obstinately
listening to the nearly as appalling and excessive silence. 'Good God!
What is the meaning—' stammered at my elbow one of the pilgrims—a
little fat man, with sandy hair and red whiskers, who wore sidespring
boots, and pink pyjamas tucked into his socks. Two others remained
open-mouthed a while minute, then dashed into the little cabin, to rush
out incontinently and stand darting scared glances, with Winchesters at
'ready' in their hands. What we could see was just the steamer we were on,
her outlines blurred as though she had been on the point of dissolving,
and a misty strip of water, perhaps two feet broad, around her—and
that was all. The rest of the world was nowhere, as far as our eyes and
ears were concerned. Just nowhere. Gone, disappeared; swept off without
leaving a whisper or a shadow behind.



“I went forward, and ordered the chain to be hauled in short, so as to be
ready to trip the anchor and move the steamboat at once if necessary.
'Will they attack?' whispered an awed voice. 'We will be all butchered in
this fog,' murmured another. The faces twitched with the strain, the hands
trembled slightly, the eyes forgot to wink. It was very curious to see the
contrast of expressions of the white men and of the black fellows of our
crew, who were as much strangers to that part of the river as we, though
their homes were only eight hundred miles away. The whites, of course
greatly discomposed, had besides a curious look of being painfully shocked
by such an outrageous row. The others had an alert, naturally interested
expression; but their faces were essentially quiet, even those of the one
or two who grinned as they hauled at the chain. Several exchanged short,
grunting phrases, which seemed to settle the matter to their satisfaction.
Their headman, a young, broad-chested black, severely draped in dark-blue
fringed cloths, with fierce nostrils and his hair all done up artfully in
oily ringlets, stood near me. 'Aha!' I said, just for good fellowship's
sake. 'Catch 'im,' he snapped, with a bloodshot widening of his eyes and a
flash of sharp teeth—'catch 'im. Give 'im to us.' 'To you, eh?' I
asked; 'what would you do with them?' 'Eat 'im!' he said curtly, and,
leaning his elbow on the rail, looked out into the fog in a dignified and
profoundly pensive attitude. I would no doubt have been properly
horrified, had it not occurred to me that he and his chaps must be very
hungry: that they must have been growing increasingly hungry for at least
this month past. They had been engaged for six months (I don't think a
single one of them had any clear idea of time, as we at the end of
countless ages have. They still belonged to the beginnings of time—had
no inherited experience to teach them as it were), and of course, as long
as there was a piece of paper written over in accordance with some
farcical law or other made down the river, it didn't enter anybody's head
to trouble how they would live. Certainly they had brought with them some
rotten hippo-meat, which couldn't have lasted very long, anyway, even if
the pilgrims hadn't, in the midst of a shocking hullabaloo, thrown a
considerable quantity of it overboard. It looked like a high-handed
proceeding; but it was really a case of legitimate self-defence. You can't
breathe dead hippo waking, sleeping, and eating, and at the same time keep
your precarious grip on existence. Besides that, they had given them every
week three pieces of brass wire, each about nine inches long; and the
theory was they were to buy their provisions with that currency in
riverside villages. You can see how that worked. There were either
no villages, or the people were hostile, or the director, who like the
rest of us fed out of tins, with an occasional old he-goat thrown in,
didn't want to stop the steamer for some more or less recondite reason.
So, unless they swallowed the wire itself, or made loops of it to snare
the fishes with, I don't see what good their extravagant salary could be
to them. I must say it was paid with a regularity worthy of a large and
honourable trading company. For the rest, the only thing to eat—though
it didn't look eatable in the least—I saw in their possession was a
few lumps of some stuff like half-cooked dough, of a dirty lavender
colour, they kept wrapped in leaves, and now and then swallowed a piece
of, but so small that it seemed done more for the looks of the thing than
for any serious purpose of sustenance. Why in the name of all the gnawing
devils of hunger they didn't go for us—they were thirty to five—and
have a good tuck-in for once, amazes me now when I think of it. They were
big powerful men, with not much capacity to weigh the consequences, with
courage, with strength, even yet, though their skins were no longer glossy
and their muscles no longer hard. And I saw that something restraining,
one of those human secrets that baffle probability, had come into play
there. I looked at them with a swift quickening of interest—not
because it occurred to me I might be eaten by them before very long,
though I own to you that just then I perceived—in a new light, as it
were—how unwholesome the pilgrims looked, and I hoped, yes, I
positively hoped, that my aspect was not so—what shall I say?—so—unappetizing:
a touch of fantastic vanity which fitted well with the dream-sensation
that pervaded all my days at that time. Perhaps I had a little fever, too.
One can't live with one's finger everlastingly on one's pulse. I had often
'a little fever,' or a little touch of other things—the playful
paw-strokes of the wilderness, the preliminary trifling before the more
serious onslaught which came in due course. Yes; I looked at them as you
would on any human being, with a curiosity of their impulses, motives,
capacities, weaknesses, when brought to the test of an inexorable physical
necessity. Restraint! What possible restraint? Was it superstition,
disgust, patience, fear—or some kind of primitive honour? No fear
can stand up to hunger, no patience can wear it out, disgust simply does
not exist where hunger is; and as to superstition, beliefs, and what you
may call principles, they are less than chaff in a breeze. Don't you know
the devilry of lingering starvation, its exasperating torment, its black
thoughts, its sombre and brooding ferocity? Well, I do. It takes a man all
his inborn strength to fight hunger properly. It's really easier to face
bereavement, dishonour, and the perdition of one's soul—than this
kind of prolonged hunger. Sad, but true. And these chaps, too, had no
earthly reason for any kind of scruple. Restraint! I would just as soon
have expected restraint from a hyena prowling amongst the corpses of a
battlefield. But there was the fact facing me—the fact dazzling, to
be seen, like the foam on the depths of the sea, like a ripple on an
unfathomable enigma, a mystery greater—when I thought of it—than
the curious, inexplicable note of desperate grief in this savage clamour
that had swept by us on the river-bank, behind the blind whiteness of the
fog.



“Two pilgrims were quarrelling in hurried whispers as to which bank.
'Left.' 'no, no; how can you? Right, right, of course.' 'It is very
serious,' said the manager's voice behind me; 'I would be desolated if
anything should happen to Mr. Kurtz before we came up.' I looked at him,
and had not the slightest doubt he was sincere. He was just the kind of
man who would wish to preserve appearances. That was his restraint. But
when he muttered something about going on at once, I did not even take the
trouble to answer him. I knew, and he knew, that it was impossible. Were
we to let go our hold of the bottom, we would be absolutely in the air—in
space. We wouldn't be able to tell where we were going to—whether up
or down stream, or across—till we fetched against one bank or the
other—and then we wouldn't know at first which it was. Of course I
made no move. I had no mind for a smash-up. You couldn't imagine a more
deadly place for a shipwreck. Whether we drowned at once or not, we were
sure to perish speedily in one way or another. 'I authorize you to take
all the risks,' he said, after a short silence. 'I refuse to take any,' I
said shortly; which was just the answer he expected, though its tone might
have surprised him. 'Well, I must defer to your judgment. You are
captain,' he said with marked civility. I turned my shoulder to him in
sign of my appreciation, and looked into the fog. How long would it last?
It was the most hopeless lookout. The approach to this Kurtz grubbing for
ivory in the wretched bush was beset by as many dangers as though he had
been an enchanted princess sleeping in a fabulous castle. 'Will they
attack, do you think?' asked the manager, in a confidential tone.



“I did not think they would attack, for several obvious reasons. The thick
fog was one. If they left the bank in their canoes they would get lost in
it, as we would be if we attempted to move. Still, I had also judged the
jungle of both banks quite impenetrable—and yet eyes were in it,
eyes that had seen us. The riverside bushes were certainly very thick; but
the undergrowth behind was evidently penetrable. However, during the short
lift I had seen no canoes anywhere in the reach—certainly not
abreast of the steamer. But what made the idea of attack inconceivable to
me was the nature of the noise—of the cries we had heard. They had
not the fierce character boding immediate hostile intention. Unexpected,
wild, and violent as they had been, they had given me an irresistible
impression of sorrow. The glimpse of the steamboat had for some reason
filled those savages with unrestrained grief. The danger, if any, I
expounded, was from our proximity to a great human passion let loose. Even
extreme grief may ultimately vent itself in violence—but more
generally takes the form of apathy....



“You should have seen the pilgrims stare! They had no heart to grin, or
even to revile me: but I believe they thought me gone mad—with
fright, maybe. I delivered a regular lecture. My dear boys, it was no good
bothering. Keep a lookout? Well, you may guess I watched the fog for the
signs of lifting as a cat watches a mouse; but for anything else our eyes
were of no more use to us than if we had been buried miles deep in a heap
of cotton-wool. It felt like it, too—choking, warm, stifling.
Besides, all I said, though it sounded extravagant, was absolutely true to
fact. What we afterwards alluded to as an attack was really an attempt at
repulse. The action was very far from being aggressive—it was not
even defensive, in the usual sense: it was undertaken under the stress of
desperation, and in its essence was purely protective.



“It developed itself, I should say, two hours after the fog lifted, and
its commencement was at a spot, roughly speaking, about a mile and a half
below Kurtz's station. We had just floundered and flopped round a bend,
when I saw an islet, a mere grassy hummock of bright green, in the middle
of the stream. It was the only thing of the kind; but as we opened the
reach more, I perceived it was the head of a long sand-bank, or rather of
a chain of shallow patches stretching down the middle of the river. They
were discoloured, just awash, and the whole lot was seen just under the
water, exactly as a man's backbone is seen running down the middle of his
back under the skin. Now, as far as I did see, I could go to the right or
to the left of this. I didn't know either channel, of course. The banks
looked pretty well alike, the depth appeared the same; but as I had been
informed the station was on the west side, I naturally headed for the
western passage.



“No sooner had we fairly entered it than I became aware it was much
narrower than I had supposed. To the left of us there was the long
uninterrupted shoal, and to the right a high, steep bank heavily overgrown
with bushes. Above the bush the trees stood in serried ranks. The twigs
overhung the current thickly, and from distance to distance a large limb
of some tree projected rigidly over the stream. It was then well on in the
afternoon, the face of the forest was gloomy, and a broad strip of shadow
had already fallen on the water. In this shadow we steamed up—very
slowly, as you may imagine. I sheered her well inshore—the water
being deepest near the bank, as the sounding-pole informed me.



“One of my hungry and forbearing friends was sounding in the bows just
below me. This steamboat was exactly like a decked scow. On the deck,
there were two little teakwood houses, with doors and windows. The boiler
was in the fore-end, and the machinery right astern. Over the whole there
was a light roof, supported on stanchions. The funnel projected through
that roof, and in front of the funnel a small cabin built of light planks
served for a pilot-house. It contained a couch, two camp-stools, a loaded
Martini-Henry leaning in one corner, a tiny table, and the steering-wheel.
It had a wide door in front and a broad shutter at each side. All these
were always thrown open, of course. I spent my days perched up there on
the extreme fore-end of that roof, before the door. At night I slept, or
tried to, on the couch. An athletic black belonging to some coast tribe
and educated by my poor predecessor, was the helmsman. He sported a pair
of brass earrings, wore a blue cloth wrapper from the waist to the ankles,
and thought all the world of himself. He was the most unstable kind of
fool I had ever seen. He steered with no end of a swagger while you were
by; but if he lost sight of you, he became instantly the prey of an abject
funk, and would let that cripple of a steamboat get the upper hand of him
in a minute.



“I was looking down at the sounding-pole, and feeling much annoyed to see
at each try a little more of it stick out of that river, when I saw my
poleman give up on the business suddenly, and stretch himself flat on the
deck, without even taking the trouble to haul his pole in. He kept hold on
it though, and it trailed in the water. At the same time the fireman, whom
I could also see below me, sat down abruptly before his furnace and ducked
his head. I was amazed. Then I had to look at the river mighty quick,
because there was a snag in the fairway. Sticks, little sticks, were
flying about—thick: they were whizzing before my nose, dropping
below me, striking behind me against my pilot-house. All this time the
river, the shore, the woods, were very quiet—perfectly quiet. I
could only hear the heavy splashing thump of the stern-wheel and the
patter of these things. We cleared the snag clumsily. Arrows, by Jove! We
were being shot at! I stepped in quickly to close the shutter on the
landside. That fool-helmsman, his hands on the spokes, was lifting his
knees high, stamping his feet, champing his mouth, like a reined-in horse.
Confound him! And we were staggering within ten feet of the bank. I had to
lean right out to swing the heavy shutter, and I saw a face amongst the
leaves on the level with my own, looking at me very fierce and steady; and
then suddenly, as though a veil had been removed from my eyes, I made out,
deep in the tangled gloom, naked breasts, arms, legs, glaring eyes—the
bush was swarming with human limbs in movement, glistening of bronze
colour. The twigs shook, swayed, and rustled, the arrows flew out of them,
and then the shutter came to. 'Steer her straight,' I said to the
helmsman. He held his head rigid, face forward; but his eyes rolled, he
kept on lifting and setting down his feet gently, his mouth foamed a
little. 'Keep quiet!' I said in a fury. I might just as well have ordered
a tree not to sway in the wind. I darted out. Below me there was a great
scuffle of feet on the iron deck; confused exclamations; a voice screamed,
'Can you turn back?' I caught sight of a V-shaped ripple on the water
ahead. What? Another snag! A fusillade burst out under my feet. The
pilgrims had opened with their Winchesters, and were simply squirting lead
into that bush. A deuce of a lot of smoke came up and drove slowly
forward. I swore at it. Now I couldn't see the ripple or the snag either.
I stood in the doorway, peering, and the arrows came in swarms. They might
have been poisoned, but they looked as though they wouldn't kill a cat.
The bush began to howl. Our wood-cutters raised a warlike whoop; the
report of a rifle just at my back deafened me. I glanced over my shoulder,
and the pilot-house was yet full of noise and smoke when I made a dash at
the wheel. The fool-nigger had dropped everything, to throw the shutter
open and let off that Martini-Henry. He stood before the wide opening,
glaring, and I yelled at him to come back, while I straightened the sudden
twist out of that steamboat. There was no room to turn even if I had
wanted to, the snag was somewhere very near ahead in that confounded
smoke, there was no time to lose, so I just crowded her into the bank—right
into the bank, where I knew the water was deep.



“We tore slowly along the overhanging bushes in a whirl of broken twigs
and flying leaves. The fusillade below stopped short, as I had foreseen it
would when the squirts got empty. I threw my head back to a glinting whizz
that traversed the pilot-house, in at one shutter-hole and out at the
other. Looking past that mad helmsman, who was shaking the empty rifle and
yelling at the shore, I saw vague forms of men running bent double,
leaping, gliding, distinct, incomplete, evanescent. Something big appeared
in the air before the shutter, the rifle went overboard, and the man
stepped back swiftly, looked at me over his shoulder in an extraordinary,
profound, familiar manner, and fell upon my feet. The side of his head hit
the wheel twice, and the end of what appeared a long cane clattered round
and knocked over a little camp-stool. It looked as though after wrenching
that thing from somebody ashore he had lost his balance in the effort. The
thin smoke had blown away, we were clear of the snag, and looking ahead I
could see that in another hundred yards or so I would be free to sheer
off, away from the bank; but my feet felt so very warm and wet that I had
to look down. The man had rolled on his back and stared straight up at me;
both his hands clutched that cane. It was the shaft of a spear that,
either thrown or lunged through the opening, had caught him in the side,
just below the ribs; the blade had gone in out of sight, after making a
frightful gash; my shoes were full; a pool of blood lay very still,
gleaming dark-red under the wheel; his eyes shone with an amazing lustre.
The fusillade burst out again. He looked at me anxiously, gripping the
spear like something precious, with an air of being afraid I would try to
take it away from him. I had to make an effort to free my eyes from his
gaze and attend to the steering. With one hand I felt above my head for
the line of the steam whistle, and jerked out screech after screech
hurriedly. The tumult of angry and warlike yells was checked instantly,
and then from the depths of the woods went out such a tremulous and
prolonged wail of mournful fear and utter despair as may be imagined to
follow the flight of the last hope from the earth. There was a great
commotion in the bush; the shower of arrows stopped, a few dropping shots
rang out sharply—then silence, in which the languid beat of the
stern-wheel came plainly to my ears. I put the helm hard a-starboard at
the moment when the pilgrim in pink pyjamas, very hot and agitated,
appeared in the doorway. 'The manager sends me—' he began in an
official tone, and stopped short. 'Good God!' he said, glaring at the
wounded man.



“We two whites stood over him, and his lustrous and inquiring glance
enveloped us both. I declare it looked as though he would presently put to
us some questions in an understandable language; but he died without
uttering a sound, without moving a limb, without twitching a muscle. Only
in the very last moment, as though in response to some sign we could not
see, to some whisper we could not hear, he frowned heavily, and that frown
gave to his black death-mask an inconceivably sombre, brooding, and
menacing expression. The lustre of inquiring glance faded swiftly into
vacant glassiness. 'Can you steer?' I asked the agent eagerly. He looked
very dubious; but I made a grab at his arm, and he understood at once I
meant him to steer whether or no. To tell you the truth, I was morbidly
anxious to change my shoes and socks. 'He is dead,' murmured the fellow,
immensely impressed. 'No doubt about it,' said I, tugging like mad at the
shoe-laces. 'And by the way, I suppose Mr. Kurtz is dead as well by this
time.'



“For the moment that was the dominant thought. There was a sense of
extreme disappointment, as though I had found out I had been striving
after something altogether without a substance. I couldn't have been more
disgusted if I had travelled all this way for the sole purpose of talking
with Mr. Kurtz. Talking with... I flung one shoe overboard, and became
aware that that was exactly what I had been looking forward to—a
talk with Kurtz. I made the strange discovery that I had never imagined
him as doing, you know, but as discoursing. I didn't say to myself, 'Now I
will never see him,' or 'Now I will never shake him by the hand,' but,
'Now I will never hear him.' The man presented himself as a voice. Not of
course that I did not connect him with some sort of action. Hadn't I been
told in all the tones of jealousy and admiration that he had collected,
bartered, swindled, or stolen more ivory than all the other agents
together? That was not the point. The point was in his being a gifted
creature, and that of all his gifts the one that stood out preeminently,
that carried with it a sense of real presence, was his ability to talk,
his words—the gift of expression, the bewildering, the illuminating,
the most exalted and the most contemptible, the pulsating stream of light,
or the deceitful flow from the heart of an impenetrable darkness.



“The other shoe went flying unto the devil-god of that river. I thought,
'By Jove! it's all over. We are too late; he has vanished—the gift
has vanished, by means of some spear, arrow, or club. I will never hear
that chap speak after all'—and my sorrow had a startling
extravagance of emotion, even such as I had noticed in the howling sorrow
of these savages in the bush. I couldn't have felt more of lonely
desolation somehow, had I been robbed of a belief or had missed my destiny
in life.... Why do you sigh in this beastly way, somebody? Absurd? Well,
absurd. Good Lord! mustn't a man ever—Here, give me some
tobacco.”...



There was a pause of profound stillness, then a match flared, and Marlow's
lean face appeared, worn, hollow, with downward folds and dropped eyelids,
with an aspect of concentrated attention; and as he took vigorous draws at
his pipe, it seemed to retreat and advance out of the night in the regular
flicker of tiny flame. The match went out.



“Absurd!” he cried. “This is the worst of trying to tell.... Here you all
are, each moored with two good addresses, like a hulk with two anchors, a
butcher round one corner, a policeman round another, excellent appetites,
and temperature normal—you hear—normal from year's end to
year's end. And you say, Absurd! Absurd be—exploded! Absurd! My dear
boys, what can you expect from a man who out of sheer nervousness had just
flung overboard a pair of new shoes! Now I think of it, it is amazing I
did not shed tears. I am, upon the whole, proud of my fortitude. I was cut
to the quick at the idea of having lost the inestimable privilege of
listening to the gifted Kurtz. Of course I was wrong. The privilege was
waiting for me. Oh, yes, I heard more than enough. And I was right, too. A
voice. He was very little more than a voice. And I heard—him—it—this
voice—other voices—all of them were so little more than voices—and
the memory of that time itself lingers around me, impalpable, like a dying
vibration of one immense jabber, silly, atrocious, sordid, savage, or
simply mean, without any kind of sense. Voices, voices—even the girl
herself—now—”



He was silent for a long time.



“I laid the ghost of his gifts at last with a lie,” he began, suddenly.
“Girl! What? Did I mention a girl? Oh, she is out of it—completely.
They—the women, I mean—are out of it—should be out of
it. We must help them to stay in that beautiful world of their own, lest
ours gets worse. Oh, she had to be out of it. You should have heard the
disinterred body of Mr. Kurtz saying, 'My Intended.' You would have
perceived directly then how completely she was out of it. And the lofty
frontal bone of Mr. Kurtz! They say the hair goes on growing sometimes,
but this—ah—specimen, was impressively bald. The wilderness
had patted him on the head, and, behold, it was like a ball—an ivory
ball; it had caressed him, and—lo!—he had withered; it had
taken him, loved him, embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his
flesh, and sealed his soul to its own by the inconceivable ceremonies of
some devilish initiation. He was its spoiled and pampered favourite.
Ivory? I should think so. Heaps of it, stacks of it. The old mud shanty
was bursting with it. You would think there was not a single tusk left
either above or below the ground in the whole country. 'Mostly fossil,'
the manager had remarked, disparagingly. It was no more fossil than I am;
but they call it fossil when it is dug up. It appears these niggers do
bury the tusks sometimes—but evidently they couldn't bury this
parcel deep enough to save the gifted Mr. Kurtz from his fate. We filled
the steamboat with it, and had to pile a lot on the deck. Thus he could
see and enjoy as long as he could see, because the appreciation of this
favour had remained with him to the last. You should have heard him say,
'My ivory.' Oh, yes, I heard him. 'My Intended, my ivory, my station, my
river, my—' everything belonged to him. It made me hold my breath in
expectation of hearing the wilderness burst into a prodigious peal of
laughter that would shake the fixed stars in their places. Everything
belonged to him—but that was a trifle. The thing was to know what he
belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own. That
was the reflection that made you creepy all over. It was impossible—it
was not good for one either—trying to imagine. He had taken a high
seat amongst the devils of the land—I mean literally. You can't
understand. How could you?—with solid pavement under your feet,
surrounded by kind neighbours ready to cheer you or to fall on you,
stepping delicately between the butcher and the policeman, in the holy
terror of scandal and gallows and lunatic asylums—how can you
imagine what particular region of the first ages a man's untrammelled feet
may take him into by the way of solitude—utter solitude without a
policeman—by the way of silence—utter silence, where no
warning voice of a kind neighbour can be heard whispering of public
opinion? These little things make all the great difference. When they are
gone you must fall back upon your own innate strength, upon your own
capacity for faithfulness. Of course you may be too much of a fool to go
wrong—too dull even to know you are being assaulted by the powers of
darkness. I take it, no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the
devil; the fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil—I
don't know which. Or you may be such a thunderingly exalted creature as to
be altogether deaf and blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds.
Then the earth for you is only a standing place—and whether to be
like this is your loss or your gain I won't pretend to say. But most of us
are neither one nor the other. The earth for us is a place to live in,
where we must put up with sights, with sounds, with smells, too, by Jove!—breathe
dead hippo, so to speak, and not be contaminated. And there, don't you
see? Your strength comes in, the faith in your ability for the digging of
unostentatious holes to bury the stuff in—your power of devotion,
not to yourself, but to an obscure, back-breaking business. And that's
difficult enough. Mind, I am not trying to excuse or even explain—I
am trying to account to myself for—for—Mr. Kurtz—for the
shade of Mr. Kurtz. This initiated wraith from the back of Nowhere
honoured me with its amazing confidence before it vanished altogether.
This was because it could speak English to me. The original Kurtz had been
educated partly in England, and—as he was good enough to say himself—his
sympathies were in the right place. His mother was half-English, his
father was half-French. All Europe contributed to the making of Kurtz; and
by and by I learned that, most appropriately, the International Society
for the Suppression of Savage Customs had intrusted him with the making of
a report, for its future guidance. And he had written it, too. I've seen
it. I've read it. It was eloquent, vibrating with eloquence, but too
high-strung, I think. Seventeen pages of close writing he had found time
for! But this must have been before his—let us say—nerves,
went wrong, and caused him to preside at certain midnight dances ending
with unspeakable rites, which—as far as I reluctantly gathered from
what I heard at various times—were offered up to him—do you
understand?—to Mr. Kurtz himself. But it was a beautiful piece of
writing. The opening paragraph, however, in the light of later
information, strikes me now as ominous. He began with the argument that we
whites, from the point of development we had arrived at, 'must necessarily
appear to them [savages] in the nature of supernatural beings—we
approach them with the might of a deity,' and so on, and so on. 'By the
simple exercise of our will we can exert a power for good practically
unbounded,' etc., etc. From that point he soared and took me with him. The
peroration was magnificent, though difficult to remember, you know. It
gave me the notion of an exotic Immensity ruled by an august Benevolence.
It made me tingle with enthusiasm. This was the unbounded power of
eloquence—of words—of burning noble words. There were no
practical hints to interrupt the magic current of phrases, unless a kind
of note at the foot of the last page, scrawled evidently much later, in an
unsteady hand, may be regarded as the exposition of a method. It was very
simple, and at the end of that moving appeal to every altruistic sentiment
it blazed at you, luminous and terrifying, like a flash of lightning in a
serene sky: 'Exterminate all the brutes!' The curious part was that he had
apparently forgotten all about that valuable postscriptum, because, later
on, when he in a sense came to himself, he repeatedly entreated me to take
good care of 'my pamphlet' (he called it), as it was sure to have in the
future a good influence upon his career. I had full information about all
these things, and, besides, as it turned out, I was to have the care of
his memory. I've done enough for it to give me the indisputable right to
lay it, if I choose, for an everlasting rest in the dust-bin of progress,
amongst all the sweepings and, figuratively speaking, all the dead cats of
civilization. But then, you see, I can't choose. He won't be forgotten.
Whatever he was, he was not common. He had the power to charm or frighten
rudimentary souls into an aggravated witch-dance in his honour; he could
also fill the small souls of the pilgrims with bitter misgivings: he had
one devoted friend at least, and he had conquered one soul in the world
that was neither rudimentary nor tainted with self-seeking. No; I can't
forget him, though I am not prepared to affirm the fellow was exactly
worth the life we lost in getting to him. I missed my late helmsman
awfully—I missed him even while his body was still lying in the
pilot-house. Perhaps you will think it passing strange this regret for a
savage who was no more account than a grain of sand in a black Sahara.
Well, don't you see, he had done something, he had steered; for months I
had him at my back—a help—an instrument. It was a kind of
partnership. He steered for me—I had to look after him, I worried
about his deficiencies, and thus a subtle bond had been created, of which
I only became aware when it was suddenly broken. And the intimate
profundity of that look he gave me when he received his hurt remains to
this day in my memory—like a claim of distant kinship affirmed in a
supreme moment.



“Poor fool! If he had only left that shutter alone. He had no restraint,
no restraint—just like Kurtz—a tree swayed by the wind. As
soon as I had put on a dry pair of slippers, I dragged him out, after
first jerking the spear out of his side, which operation I confess I
performed with my eyes shut tight. His heels leaped together over the
little doorstep; his shoulders were pressed to my breast; I hugged him
from behind desperately. Oh! he was heavy, heavy; heavier than any man on
earth, I should imagine. Then without more ado I tipped him overboard. The
current snatched him as though he had been a wisp of grass, and I saw the
body roll over twice before I lost sight of it for ever. All the pilgrims
and the manager were then congregated on the awning-deck about the
pilot-house, chattering at each other like a flock of excited magpies, and
there was a scandalized murmur at my heartless promptitude. What they
wanted to keep that body hanging about for I can't guess. Embalm it,
maybe. But I had also heard another, and a very ominous, murmur on the
deck below. My friends the wood-cutters were likewise scandalized, and
with a better show of reason—though I admit that the reason itself
was quite inadmissible. Oh, quite! I had made up my mind that if my late
helmsman was to be eaten, the fishes alone should have him. He had been a
very second-rate helmsman while alive, but now he was dead he might have
become a first-class temptation, and possibly cause some startling
trouble. Besides, I was anxious to take the wheel, the man in pink pyjamas
showing himself a hopeless duffer at the business.



“This I did directly the simple funeral was over. We were going
half-speed, keeping right in the middle of the stream, and I listened to
the talk about me. They had given up Kurtz, they had given up the station;
Kurtz was dead, and the station had been burnt—and so on—and
so on. The red-haired pilgrim was beside himself with the thought that at
least this poor Kurtz had been properly avenged. 'Say! We must have made a
glorious slaughter of them in the bush. Eh? What do you think? Say?' He
positively danced, the bloodthirsty little gingery beggar. And he had
nearly fainted when he saw the wounded man! I could not help saying, 'You
made a glorious lot of smoke, anyhow.' I had seen, from the way the tops
of the bushes rustled and flew, that almost all the shots had gone too
high. You can't hit anything unless you take aim and fire from the
shoulder; but these chaps fired from the hip with their eyes shut. The
retreat, I maintained—and I was right—was caused by the
screeching of the steam whistle. Upon this they forgot Kurtz, and began to
howl at me with indignant protests.



“The manager stood by the wheel murmuring confidentially about the
necessity of getting well away down the river before dark at all events,
when I saw in the distance a clearing on the riverside and the outlines of
some sort of building. 'What's this?' I asked. He clapped his hands in
wonder. 'The station!' he cried. I edged in at once, still going
half-speed.



“Through my glasses I saw the slope of a hill interspersed with rare trees
and perfectly free from undergrowth. A long decaying building on the
summit was half buried in the high grass; the large holes in the peaked
roof gaped black from afar; the jungle and the woods made a background.
There was no enclosure or fence of any kind; but there had been one
apparently, for near the house half-a-dozen slim posts remained in a row,
roughly trimmed, and with their upper ends ornamented with round carved
balls. The rails, or whatever there had been between, had disappeared. Of
course the forest surrounded all that. The river-bank was clear, and on
the waterside I saw a white man under a hat like a cart-wheel beckoning
persistently with his whole arm. Examining the edge of the forest above
and below, I was almost certain I could see movements—human forms
gliding here and there. I steamed past prudently, then stopped the engines
and let her drift down. The man on the shore began to shout, urging us to
land. 'We have been attacked,' screamed the manager. 'I know—I know.
It's all right,' yelled back the other, as cheerful as you please. 'Come
along. It's all right. I am glad.'



“His aspect reminded me of something I had seen—something funny I
had seen somewhere. As I manoeuvred to get alongside, I was asking myself,
'What does this fellow look like?' Suddenly I got it. He looked like a
harlequin. His clothes had been made of some stuff that was brown holland
probably, but it was covered with patches all over, with bright patches,
blue, red, and yellow—patches on the back, patches on the front,
patches on elbows, on knees; coloured binding around his jacket, scarlet
edging at the bottom of his trousers; and the sunshine made him look
extremely gay and wonderfully neat withal, because you could see how
beautifully all this patching had been done. A beardless, boyish face,
very fair, no features to speak of, nose peeling, little blue eyes, smiles
and frowns chasing each other over that open countenance like sunshine and
shadow on a wind-swept plain. 'Look out, captain!' he cried; 'there's a
snag lodged in here last night.' What! Another snag? I confess I swore
shamefully. I had nearly holed my cripple, to finish off that charming
trip. The harlequin on the bank turned his little pug-nose up to me. 'You
English?' he asked, all smiles. 'Are you?' I shouted from the wheel. The
smiles vanished, and he shook his head as if sorry for my disappointment.
Then he brightened up. 'Never mind!' he cried encouragingly. 'Are we in
time?' I asked. 'He is up there,' he replied, with a toss of the head up
the hill, and becoming gloomy all of a sudden. His face was like the
autumn sky, overcast one moment and bright the next.



“When the manager, escorted by the pilgrims, all of them armed to the
teeth, had gone to the house this chap came on board. 'I say, I don't like
this. These natives are in the bush,' I said. He assured me earnestly it
was all right. 'They are simple people,' he added; 'well, I am glad you
came. It took me all my time to keep them off.' 'But you said it was all
right,' I cried. 'Oh, they meant no harm,' he said; and as I stared he
corrected himself, 'Not exactly.' Then vivaciously, 'My faith, your
pilot-house wants a clean-up!' In the next breath he advised me to keep
enough steam on the boiler to blow the whistle in case of any trouble.
'One good screech will do more for you than all your rifles. They are
simple people,' he repeated. He rattled away at such a rate he quite
overwhelmed me. He seemed to be trying to make up for lots of silence, and
actually hinted, laughing, that such was the case. 'Don't you talk with
Mr. Kurtz?' I said. 'You don't talk with that man—you listen to
him,' he exclaimed with severe exaltation. 'But now—' He waved his
arm, and in the twinkling of an eye was in the uttermost depths of
despondency. In a moment he came up again with a jump, possessed himself
of both my hands, shook them continuously, while he gabbled: 'Brother
sailor... honour... pleasure... delight... introduce myself... Russian...
son of an arch-priest... Government of Tambov... What? Tobacco! English
tobacco; the excellent English tobacco! Now, that's brotherly. Smoke?
Where's a sailor that does not smoke?”



“The pipe soothed him, and gradually I made out he had run away from
school, had gone to sea in a Russian ship; ran away again; served some
time in English ships; was now reconciled with the arch-priest. He made a
point of that. 'But when one is young one must see things, gather
experience, ideas; enlarge the mind.' 'Here!' I interrupted. 'You can
never tell! Here I met Mr. Kurtz,' he said, youthfully solemn and
reproachful. I held my tongue after that. It appears he had persuaded a
Dutch trading-house on the coast to fit him out with stores and goods, and
had started for the interior with a light heart and no more idea of what
would happen to him than a baby. He had been wandering about that river
for nearly two years alone, cut off from everybody and everything. 'I am
not so young as I look. I am twenty-five,' he said. 'At first old Van
Shuyten would tell me to go to the devil,' he narrated with keen
enjoyment; 'but I stuck to him, and talked and talked, till at last he got
afraid I would talk the hind-leg off his favourite dog, so he gave me some
cheap things and a few guns, and told me he hoped he would never see my
face again. Good old Dutchman, Van Shuyten. I've sent him one small lot of
ivory a year ago, so that he can't call me a little thief when I get back.
I hope he got it. And for the rest I don't care. I had some wood stacked
for you. That was my old house. Did you see?'



“I gave him Towson's book. He made as though he would kiss me, but
restrained himself. 'The only book I had left, and I thought I had lost
it,' he said, looking at it ecstatically. 'So many accidents happen to a
man going about alone, you know. Canoes get upset sometimes—and
sometimes you've got to clear out so quick when the people get angry.' He
thumbed the pages. 'You made notes in Russian?' I asked. He nodded. 'I
thought they were written in cipher,' I said. He laughed, then became
serious. 'I had lots of trouble to keep these people off,' he said. 'Did
they want to kill you?' I asked. 'Oh, no!' he cried, and checked himself.
'Why did they attack us?' I pursued. He hesitated, then said shamefacedly,
'They don't want him to go.' 'Don't they?' I said curiously. He nodded a
nod full of mystery and wisdom. 'I tell you,' he cried, 'this man has
enlarged my mind.' He opened his arms wide, staring at me with his little
blue eyes that were perfectly round.”














III



“I looked at him, lost in astonishment. There he was before me, in motley,
as though he had absconded from a troupe of mimes, enthusiastic, fabulous.
His very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and altogether
bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It was inconceivable how he had
existed, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had managed to
remain—why he did not instantly disappear. 'I went a little
farther,' he said, 'then still a little farther—till I had gone so
far that I don't know how I'll ever get back. Never mind. Plenty time. I
can manage. You take Kurtz away quick—quick—I tell you.' The
glamour of youth enveloped his parti-coloured rags, his destitution, his
loneliness, the essential desolation of his futile wanderings. For months—for
years—his life hadn't been worth a day's purchase; and there he was
gallantly, thoughtlessly alive, to all appearances indestructible solely
by the virtue of his few years and of his unreflecting audacity. I was
seduced into something like admiration—like envy. Glamour urged him
on, glamour kept him unscathed. He surely wanted nothing from the
wilderness but space to breathe in and to push on through. His need was to
exist, and to move onwards at the greatest possible risk, and with a
maximum of privation. If the absolutely pure, uncalculating, unpractical
spirit of adventure had ever ruled a human being, it ruled this bepatched
youth. I almost envied him the possession of this modest and clear flame.
It seemed to have consumed all thought of self so completely, that even
while he was talking to you, you forgot that it was he—the man
before your eyes—who had gone through these things. I did not envy
him his devotion to Kurtz, though. He had not meditated over it. It came
to him, and he accepted it with a sort of eager fatalism. I must say that
to me it appeared about the most dangerous thing in every way he had come
upon so far.



“They had come together unavoidably, like two ships becalmed near each
other, and lay rubbing sides at last. I suppose Kurtz wanted an audience,
because on a certain occasion, when encamped in the forest, they had
talked all night, or more probably Kurtz had talked. 'We talked of
everything,' he said, quite transported at the recollection. 'I forgot
there was such a thing as sleep. The night did not seem to last an hour.
Everything! Everything!... Of love, too.' 'Ah, he talked to you of love!'
I said, much amused. 'It isn't what you think,' he cried, almost
passionately. 'It was in general. He made me see things—things.'



“He threw his arms up. We were on deck at the time, and the headman of my
wood-cutters, lounging near by, turned upon him his heavy and glittering
eyes. I looked around, and I don't know why, but I assure you that never,
never before, did this land, this river, this jungle, the very arch of
this blazing sky, appear to me so hopeless and so dark, so impenetrable to
human thought, so pitiless to human weakness. 'And, ever since, you have
been with him, of course?' I said.



“On the contrary. It appears their intercourse had been very much broken
by various causes. He had, as he informed me proudly, managed to nurse
Kurtz through two illnesses (he alluded to it as you would to some risky
feat), but as a rule Kurtz wandered alone, far in the depths of the
forest. 'Very often coming to this station, I had to wait days and days
before he would turn up,' he said. 'Ah, it was worth waiting for!—sometimes.'
'What was he doing? exploring or what?' I asked. 'Oh, yes, of course'; he
had discovered lots of villages, a lake, too—he did not know exactly
in what direction; it was dangerous to inquire too much—but mostly
his expeditions had been for ivory. 'But he had no goods to trade with by
that time,' I objected. 'There's a good lot of cartridges left even yet,'
he answered, looking away. 'To speak plainly, he raided the country,' I
said. He nodded. 'Not alone, surely!' He muttered something about the
villages round that lake. 'Kurtz got the tribe to follow him, did he?' I
suggested. He fidgeted a little. 'They adored him,' he said. The tone of
these words was so extraordinary that I looked at him searchingly. It was
curious to see his mingled eagerness and reluctance to speak of Kurtz. The
man filled his life, occupied his thoughts, swayed his emotions. 'What can
you expect?' he burst out; 'he came to them with thunder and lightning,
you know—and they had never seen anything like it—and very
terrible. He could be very terrible. You can't judge Mr. Kurtz as you
would an ordinary man. No, no, no! Now—just to give you an idea—I
don't mind telling you, he wanted to shoot me, too, one day—but I
don't judge him.' 'Shoot you!' I cried 'What for?' 'Well, I had a small
lot of ivory the chief of that village near my house gave me. You see I
used to shoot game for them. Well, he wanted it, and wouldn't hear reason.
He declared he would shoot me unless I gave him the ivory and then cleared
out of the country, because he could do so, and had a fancy for it, and
there was nothing on earth to prevent him killing whom he jolly well
pleased. And it was true, too. I gave him the ivory. What did I care! But
I didn't clear out. No, no. I couldn't leave him. I had to be careful, of
course, till we got friendly again for a time. He had his second illness
then. Afterwards I had to keep out of the way; but I didn't mind. He was
living for the most part in those villages on the lake. When he came down
to the river, sometimes he would take to me, and sometimes it was better
for me to be careful. This man suffered too much. He hated all this, and
somehow he couldn't get away. When I had a chance I begged him to try and
leave while there was time; I offered to go back with him. And he would
say yes, and then he would remain; go off on another ivory hunt; disappear
for weeks; forget himself amongst these people—forget himself—you
know.' 'Why! he's mad,' I said. He protested indignantly. Mr. Kurtz
couldn't be mad. If I had heard him talk, only two days ago, I wouldn't
dare hint at such a thing.... I had taken up my binoculars while we
talked, and was looking at the shore, sweeping the limit of the forest at
each side and at the back of the house. The consciousness of there being
people in that bush, so silent, so quiet—as silent and quiet as the
ruined house on the hill—made me uneasy. There was no sign on the
face of nature of this amazing tale that was not so much told as suggested
to me in desolate exclamations, completed by shrugs, in interrupted
phrases, in hints ending in deep sighs. The woods were unmoved, like a
mask—heavy, like the closed door of a prison—they looked with
their air of hidden knowledge, of patient expectation, of unapproachable
silence. The Russian was explaining to me that it was only lately that Mr.
Kurtz had come down to the river, bringing along with him all the fighting
men of that lake tribe. He had been absent for several months—getting
himself adored, I suppose—and had come down unexpectedly, with the
intention to all appearance of making a raid either across the river or
down stream. Evidently the appetite for more ivory had got the better of
the—what shall I say?—less material aspirations. However he
had got much worse suddenly. 'I heard he was lying helpless, and so I came
up—took my chance,' said the Russian. 'Oh, he is bad, very bad.' I
directed my glass to the house. There were no signs of life, but there was
the ruined roof, the long mud wall peeping above the grass, with three
little square window-holes, no two of the same size; all this brought
within reach of my hand, as it were. And then I made a brusque movement,
and one of the remaining posts of that vanished fence leaped up in the
field of my glass. You remember I told you I had been struck at the
distance by certain attempts at ornamentation, rather remarkable in the
ruinous aspect of the place. Now I had suddenly a nearer view, and its
first result was to make me throw my head back as if before a blow. Then I
went carefully from post to post with my glass, and I saw my mistake.
These round knobs were not ornamental but symbolic; they were expressive
and puzzling, striking and disturbing—food for thought and also for
vultures if there had been any looking down from the sky; but at all
events for such ants as were industrious enough to ascend the pole. They
would have been even more impressive, those heads on the stakes, if their
faces had not been turned to the house. Only one, the first I had made
out, was facing my way. I was not so shocked as you may think. The start
back I had given was really nothing but a movement of surprise. I had
expected to see a knob of wood there, you know. I returned deliberately to
the first I had seen—and there it was, black, dried, sunken, with
closed eyelids—a head that seemed to sleep at the top of that pole,
and, with the shrunken dry lips showing a narrow white line of the teeth,
was smiling, too, smiling continuously at some endless and jocose dream of
that eternal slumber.



“I am not disclosing any trade secrets. In fact, the manager said
afterwards that Mr. Kurtz's methods had ruined the district. I have no
opinion on that point, but I want you clearly to understand that there was
nothing exactly profitable in these heads being there. They only showed
that Mr. Kurtz lacked restraint in the gratification of his various lusts,
that there was something wanting in him—some small matter which,
when the pressing need arose, could not be found under his magnificent
eloquence. Whether he knew of this deficiency himself I can't say. I think
the knowledge came to him at last—only at the very last. But the
wilderness had found him out early, and had taken on him a terrible
vengeance for the fantastic invasion. I think it had whispered to him
things about himself which he did not know, things of which he had no
conception till he took counsel with this great solitude—and the
whisper had proved irresistibly fascinating. It echoed loudly within him
because he was hollow at the core.... I put down the glass, and the head
that had appeared near enough to be spoken to seemed at once to have
leaped away from me into inaccessible distance.



“The admirer of Mr. Kurtz was a bit crestfallen. In a hurried, indistinct
voice he began to assure me he had not dared to take these—say,
symbols—down. He was not afraid of the natives; they would not stir
till Mr. Kurtz gave the word. His ascendancy was extraordinary. The camps
of these people surrounded the place, and the chiefs came every day to see
him. They would crawl.... 'I don't want to know anything of the ceremonies
used when approaching Mr. Kurtz,' I shouted. Curious, this feeling that
came over me that such details would be more intolerable than those heads
drying on the stakes under Mr. Kurtz's windows. After all, that was only a
savage sight, while I seemed at one bound to have been transported into
some lightless region of subtle horrors, where pure, uncomplicated
savagery was a positive relief, being something that had a right to exist—obviously—in
the sunshine. The young man looked at me with surprise. I suppose it did
not occur to him that Mr. Kurtz was no idol of mine. He forgot I hadn't
heard any of these splendid monologues on, what was it? on love, justice,
conduct of life—or what not. If it had come to crawling before Mr.
Kurtz, he crawled as much as the veriest savage of them all. I had no idea
of the conditions, he said: these heads were the heads of rebels. I
shocked him excessively by laughing. Rebels! What would be the next
definition I was to hear? There had been enemies, criminals, workers—and
these were rebels. Those rebellious heads looked very subdued to me on
their sticks. 'You don't know how such a life tries a man like Kurtz,'
cried Kurtz's last disciple. 'Well, and you?' I said. 'I! I! I am a simple
man. I have no great thoughts. I want nothing from anybody. How can you
compare me to...?' His feelings were too much for speech, and suddenly he
broke down. 'I don't understand,' he groaned. 'I've been doing my best to
keep him alive, and that's enough. I had no hand in all this. I have no
abilities. There hasn't been a drop of medicine or a mouthful of invalid
food for months here. He was shamefully abandoned. A man like this, with
such ideas. Shamefully! Shamefully! I—I—haven't slept for the
last ten nights...'



“His voice lost itself in the calm of the evening. The long shadows of the
forest had slipped downhill while we talked, had gone far beyond the
ruined hovel, beyond the symbolic row of stakes. All this was in the
gloom, while we down there were yet in the sunshine, and the stretch of
the river abreast of the clearing glittered in a still and dazzling
splendour, with a murky and overshadowed bend above and below. Not a
living soul was seen on the shore. The bushes did not rustle.



“Suddenly round the corner of the house a group of men appeared, as though
they had come up from the ground. They waded waist-deep in the grass, in a
compact body, bearing an improvised stretcher in their midst. Instantly,
in the emptiness of the landscape, a cry arose whose shrillness pierced
the still air like a sharp arrow flying straight to the very heart of the
land; and, as if by enchantment, streams of human beings—of naked
human beings—with spears in their hands, with bows, with shields,
with wild glances and savage movements, were poured into the clearing by
the dark-faced and pensive forest. The bushes shook, the grass swayed for
a time, and then everything stood still in attentive immobility.



“'Now, if he does not say the right thing to them we are all done for,'
said the Russian at my elbow. The knot of men with the stretcher had
stopped, too, halfway to the steamer, as if petrified. I saw the man on
the stretcher sit up, lank and with an uplifted arm, above the shoulders
of the bearers. 'Let us hope that the man who can talk so well of love in
general will find some particular reason to spare us this time,' I said. I
resented bitterly the absurd danger of our situation, as if to be at the
mercy of that atrocious phantom had been a dishonouring necessity. I could
not hear a sound, but through my glasses I saw the thin arm extended
commandingly, the lower jaw moving, the eyes of that apparition shining
darkly far in its bony head that nodded with grotesque jerks. Kurtz—Kurtz—that
means short in German—don't it? Well, the name was as true as
everything else in his life—and death. He looked at least seven feet
long. His covering had fallen off, and his body emerged from it pitiful
and appalling as from a winding-sheet. I could see the cage of his ribs
all astir, the bones of his arm waving. It was as though an animated image
of death carved out of old ivory had been shaking its hand with menaces at
a motionless crowd of men made of dark and glittering bronze. I saw him
open his mouth wide—it gave him a weirdly voracious aspect, as
though he had wanted to swallow all the air, all the earth, all the men
before him. A deep voice reached me faintly. He must have been shouting.
He fell back suddenly. The stretcher shook as the bearers staggered
forward again, and almost at the same time I noticed that the crowd of
savages was vanishing without any perceptible movement of retreat, as if
the forest that had ejected these beings so suddenly had drawn them in
again as the breath is drawn in a long aspiration.



“Some of the pilgrims behind the stretcher carried his arms—two
shot-guns, a heavy rifle, and a light revolver-carbine—the
thunderbolts of that pitiful Jupiter. The manager bent over him murmuring
as he walked beside his head. They laid him down in one of the little
cabins—just a room for a bed place and a camp-stool or two, you
know. We had brought his belated correspondence, and a lot of torn
envelopes and open letters littered his bed. His hand roamed feebly
amongst these papers. I was struck by the fire of his eyes and the
composed languor of his expression. It was not so much the exhaustion of
disease. He did not seem in pain. This shadow looked satiated and calm, as
though for the moment it had had its fill of all the emotions.



“He rustled one of the letters, and looking straight in my face said, 'I
am glad.' Somebody had been writing to him about me. These special
recommendations were turning up again. The volume of tone he emitted
without effort, almost without the trouble of moving his lips, amazed me.
A voice! a voice! It was grave, profound, vibrating, while the man did not
seem capable of a whisper. However, he had enough strength in him—factitious
no doubt—to very nearly make an end of us, as you shall hear
directly.



“The manager appeared silently in the doorway; I stepped out at once and
he drew the curtain after me. The Russian, eyed curiously by the pilgrims,
was staring at the shore. I followed the direction of his glance.



“Dark human shapes could be made out in the distance, flitting
indistinctly against the gloomy border of the forest, and near the river
two bronze figures, leaning on tall spears, stood in the sunlight under
fantastic head-dresses of spotted skins, warlike and still in statuesque
repose. And from right to left along the lighted shore moved a wild and
gorgeous apparition of a woman.



“She walked with measured steps, draped in striped and fringed cloths,
treading the earth proudly, with a slight jingle and flash of barbarous
ornaments. She carried her head high; her hair was done in the shape of a
helmet; she had brass leggings to the knee, brass wire gauntlets to the
elbow, a crimson spot on her tawny cheek, innumerable necklaces of glass
beads on her neck; bizarre things, charms, gifts of witch-men, that hung
about her, glittered and trembled at every step. She must have had the
value of several elephant tusks upon her. She was savage and superb,
wild-eyed and magnificent; there was something ominous and stately in her
deliberate progress. And in the hush that had fallen suddenly upon the
whole sorrowful land, the immense wilderness, the colossal body of the
fecund and mysterious life seemed to look at her, pensive, as though it
had been looking at the image of its own tenebrous and passionate soul.



“She came abreast of the steamer, stood still, and faced us. Her long
shadow fell to the water's edge. Her face had a tragic and fierce aspect
of wild sorrow and of dumb pain mingled with the fear of some struggling,
half-shaped resolve. She stood looking at us without a stir, and like the
wilderness itself, with an air of brooding over an inscrutable purpose. A
whole minute passed, and then she made a step forward. There was a low
jingle, a glint of yellow metal, a sway of fringed draperies, and she
stopped as if her heart had failed her. The young fellow by my side
growled. The pilgrims murmured at my back. She looked at us all as if her
life had depended upon the unswerving steadiness of her glance. Suddenly
she opened her bared arms and threw them up rigid above her head, as
though in an uncontrollable desire to touch the sky, and at the same time
the swift shadows darted out on the earth, swept around on the river,
gathering the steamer into a shadowy embrace. A formidable silence hung
over the scene.



“She turned away slowly, walked on, following the bank, and passed into
the bushes to the left. Once only her eyes gleamed back at us in the dusk
of the thickets before she disappeared.



“'If she had offered to come aboard I really think I would have tried to
shoot her,' said the man of patches, nervously. 'I have been risking my
life every day for the last fortnight to keep her out of the house. She
got in one day and kicked up a row about those miserable rags I picked up
in the storeroom to mend my clothes with. I wasn't decent. At least it
must have been that, for she talked like a fury to Kurtz for an hour,
pointing at me now and then. I don't understand the dialect of this tribe.
Luckily for me, I fancy Kurtz felt too ill that day to care, or there
would have been mischief. I don't understand.... No—it's too much
for me. Ah, well, it's all over now.'



“At this moment I heard Kurtz's deep voice behind the curtain: 'Save me!—save
the ivory, you mean. Don't tell me. Save me! Why, I've had to save
you. You are interrupting my plans now. Sick! Sick! Not so sick as you
would like to believe. Never mind. I'll carry my ideas out yet—I
will return. I'll show you what can be done. You with your little peddling
notions—you are interfering with me. I will return. I....'



“The manager came out. He did me the honour to take me under the arm and
lead me aside. 'He is very low, very low,' he said. He considered it
necessary to sigh, but neglected to be consistently sorrowful. 'We have
done all we could for him—haven't we? But there is no disguising the
fact, Mr. Kurtz has done more harm than good to the Company. He did not
see the time was not ripe for vigorous action. Cautiously, cautiously—that's
my principle. We must be cautious yet. The district is closed to us for a
time. Deplorable! Upon the whole, the trade will suffer. I don't deny
there is a remarkable quantity of ivory—mostly fossil. We must save
it, at all events—but look how precarious the position is—and
why? Because the method is unsound.' 'Do you,' said I, looking at the
shore, 'call it “unsound method?”' 'Without doubt,' he exclaimed hotly.
'Don't you?'... 'No method at all,' I murmured after a while. 'Exactly,'
he exulted. 'I anticipated this. Shows a complete want of judgment. It is
my duty to point it out in the proper quarter.' 'Oh,' said I, 'that fellow—what's
his name?—the brickmaker, will make a readable report for you.' He
appeared confounded for a moment. It seemed to me I had never breathed an
atmosphere so vile, and I turned mentally to Kurtz for relief—positively
for relief. 'Nevertheless I think Mr. Kurtz is a remarkable man,' I said
with emphasis. He started, dropped on me a heavy glance, said very
quietly, 'he was,' and turned his back on me. My hour of favour was
over; I found myself lumped along with Kurtz as a partisan of methods for
which the time was not ripe: I was unsound! Ah! but it was something to
have at least a choice of nightmares.



“I had turned to the wilderness really, not to Mr. Kurtz, who, I was ready
to admit, was as good as buried. And for a moment it seemed to me as if I
also were buried in a vast grave full of unspeakable secrets. I felt an
intolerable weight oppressing my breast, the smell of the damp earth, the
unseen presence of victorious corruption, the darkness of an impenetrable
night.... The Russian tapped me on the shoulder. I heard him mumbling and
stammering something about 'brother seaman—couldn't conceal—knowledge
of matters that would affect Mr. Kurtz's reputation.' I waited. For him
evidently Mr. Kurtz was not in his grave; I suspect that for him Mr. Kurtz
was one of the immortals. 'Well!' said I at last, 'speak out. As it
happens, I am Mr. Kurtz's friend—in a way.'



“He stated with a good deal of formality that had we not been 'of the same
profession,' he would have kept the matter to himself without regard to
consequences. 'He suspected there was an active ill-will towards him on
the part of these white men that—' 'You are right,' I said,
remembering a certain conversation I had overheard. 'The manager thinks
you ought to be hanged.' He showed a concern at this intelligence which
amused me at first. 'I had better get out of the way quietly,' he said
earnestly. 'I can do no more for Kurtz now, and they would soon find some
excuse. What's to stop them? There's a military post three hundred miles
from here.' 'Well, upon my word,' said I, 'perhaps you had better go if
you have any friends amongst the savages near by.' 'Plenty,' he said.
'They are simple people—and I want nothing, you know.' He stood
biting his lip, then: 'I don't want any harm to happen to these whites
here, but of course I was thinking of Mr. Kurtz's reputation—but you
are a brother seaman and—' 'All right,' said I, after a time. 'Mr.
Kurtz's reputation is safe with me.' I did not know how truly I spoke.



“He informed me, lowering his voice, that it was Kurtz who had ordered the
attack to be made on the steamer. 'He hated sometimes the idea of being
taken away—and then again.... But I don't understand these matters.
I am a simple man. He thought it would scare you away—that you would
give it up, thinking him dead. I could not stop him. Oh, I had an awful
time of it this last month.' 'Very well,' I said. 'He is all right now.'
'Ye-e-es,' he muttered, not very convinced apparently. 'Thanks,' said I;
'I shall keep my eyes open.' 'But quiet-eh?' he urged anxiously. 'It would
be awful for his reputation if anybody here—' I promised a complete
discretion with great gravity. 'I have a canoe and three black fellows
waiting not very far. I am off. Could you give me a few Martini-Henry
cartridges?' I could, and did, with proper secrecy. He helped himself,
with a wink at me, to a handful of my tobacco. 'Between sailors—you
know—good English tobacco.' At the door of the pilot-house he turned
round—'I say, haven't you a pair of shoes you could spare?' He
raised one leg. 'Look.' The soles were tied with knotted strings
sandalwise under his bare feet. I rooted out an old pair, at which he
looked with admiration before tucking it under his left arm. One of his
pockets (bright red) was bulging with cartridges, from the other (dark
blue) peeped 'Towson's Inquiry,' etc., etc. He seemed to think himself
excellently well equipped for a renewed encounter with the wilderness.
'Ah! I'll never, never meet such a man again. You ought to have heard him
recite poetry—his own, too, it was, he told me. Poetry!' He rolled
his eyes at the recollection of these delights. 'Oh, he enlarged my mind!'
'Good-bye,' said I. He shook hands and vanished in the night. Sometimes I
ask myself whether I had ever really seen him—whether it was
possible to meet such a phenomenon!...



“When I woke up shortly after midnight his warning came to my mind with
its hint of danger that seemed, in the starred darkness, real enough to
make me get up for the purpose of having a look round. On the hill a big
fire burned, illuminating fitfully a crooked corner of the station-house.
One of the agents with a picket of a few of our blacks, armed for the
purpose, was keeping guard over the ivory; but deep within the forest, red
gleams that wavered, that seemed to sink and rise from the ground amongst
confused columnar shapes of intense blackness, showed the exact position
of the camp where Mr. Kurtz's adorers were keeping their uneasy vigil. The
monotonous beating of a big drum filled the air with muffled shocks and a
lingering vibration. A steady droning sound of many men chanting each to
himself some weird incantation came out from the black, flat wall of the
woods as the humming of bees comes out of a hive, and had a strange
narcotic effect upon my half-awake senses. I believe I dozed off leaning
over the rail, till an abrupt burst of yells, an overwhelming outbreak of
a pent-up and mysterious frenzy, woke me up in a bewildered wonder. It was
cut short all at once, and the low droning went on with an effect of
audible and soothing silence. I glanced casually into the little cabin. A
light was burning within, but Mr. Kurtz was not there.



“I think I would have raised an outcry if I had believed my eyes. But I
didn't believe them at first—the thing seemed so impossible. The
fact is I was completely unnerved by a sheer blank fright, pure abstract
terror, unconnected with any distinct shape of physical danger. What made
this emotion so overpowering was—how shall I define it?—the
moral shock I received, as if something altogether monstrous, intolerable
to thought and odious to the soul, had been thrust upon me unexpectedly.
This lasted of course the merest fraction of a second, and then the usual
sense of commonplace, deadly danger, the possibility of a sudden onslaught
and massacre, or something of the kind, which I saw impending, was
positively welcome and composing. It pacified me, in fact, so much that I
did not raise an alarm.



“There was an agent buttoned up inside an ulster and sleeping on a chair
on deck within three feet of me. The yells had not awakened him; he snored
very slightly; I left him to his slumbers and leaped ashore. I did not
betray Mr. Kurtz—it was ordered I should never betray him—it
was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice. I was anxious
to deal with this shadow by myself alone—and to this day I don't
know why I was so jealous of sharing with any one the peculiar blackness
of that experience.



“As soon as I got on the bank I saw a trail—a broad trail through
the grass. I remember the exultation with which I said to myself, 'He
can't walk—he is crawling on all-fours—I've got him.' The
grass was wet with dew. I strode rapidly with clenched fists. I fancy I
had some vague notion of falling upon him and giving him a drubbing. I
don't know. I had some imbecile thoughts. The knitting old woman with the
cat obtruded herself upon my memory as a most improper person to be
sitting at the other end of such an affair. I saw a row of pilgrims
squirting lead in the air out of Winchesters held to the hip. I thought I
would never get back to the steamer, and imagined myself living alone and
unarmed in the woods to an advanced age. Such silly things—you know.
And I remember I confounded the beat of the drum with the beating of my
heart, and was pleased at its calm regularity.



“I kept to the track though—then stopped to listen. The night was
very clear; a dark blue space, sparkling with dew and starlight, in which
black things stood very still. I thought I could see a kind of motion
ahead of me. I was strangely cocksure of everything that night. I actually
left the track and ran in a wide semicircle (I verily believe chuckling to
myself) so as to get in front of that stir, of that motion I had seen—if
indeed I had seen anything. I was circumventing Kurtz as though it had
been a boyish game.



“I came upon him, and, if he had not heard me coming, I would have fallen
over him, too, but he got up in time. He rose, unsteady, long, pale,
indistinct, like a vapour exhaled by the earth, and swayed slightly, misty
and silent before me; while at my back the fires loomed between the trees,
and the murmur of many voices issued from the forest. I had cut him off
cleverly; but when actually confronting him I seemed to come to my senses,
I saw the danger in its right proportion. It was by no means over yet.
Suppose he began to shout? Though he could hardly stand, there was still
plenty of vigour in his voice. 'Go away—hide yourself,' he said, in
that profound tone. It was very awful. I glanced back. We were within
thirty yards from the nearest fire. A black figure stood up, strode on
long black legs, waving long black arms, across the glow. It had horns—antelope
horns, I think—on its head. Some sorcerer, some witch-man, no doubt:
it looked fiendlike enough. 'Do you know what you are doing?' I whispered.
'Perfectly,' he answered, raising his voice for that single word: it
sounded to me far off and yet loud, like a hail through a
speaking-trumpet. 'If he makes a row we are lost,' I thought to myself.
This clearly was not a case for fisticuffs, even apart from the very
natural aversion I had to beat that Shadow—this wandering and
tormented thing. 'You will be lost,' I said—'utterly lost.' One gets
sometimes such a flash of inspiration, you know. I did say the right
thing, though indeed he could not have been more irretrievably lost than
he was at this very moment, when the foundations of our intimacy were
being laid—to endure—to endure—even to the end—even
beyond.



“'I had immense plans,' he muttered irresolutely. 'Yes,' said I; 'but if
you try to shout I'll smash your head with—' There was not a stick
or a stone near. 'I will throttle you for good,' I corrected myself. 'I
was on the threshold of great things,' he pleaded, in a voice of longing,
with a wistfulness of tone that made my blood run cold. 'And now for this
stupid scoundrel—' 'Your success in Europe is assured in any case,'
I affirmed steadily. I did not want to have the throttling of him, you
understand—and indeed it would have been very little use for any
practical purpose. I tried to break the spell—the heavy, mute spell
of the wilderness—that seemed to draw him to its pitiless breast by
the awakening of forgotten and brutal instincts, by the memory of
gratified and monstrous passions. This alone, I was convinced, had driven
him out to the edge of the forest, to the bush, towards the gleam of
fires, the throb of drums, the drone of weird incantations; this alone had
beguiled his unlawful soul beyond the bounds of permitted aspirations.
And, don't you see, the terror of the position was not in being knocked on
the head—though I had a very lively sense of that danger, too—but
in this, that I had to deal with a being to whom I could not appeal in the
name of anything high or low. I had, even like the niggers, to invoke him—himself—his
own exalted and incredible degradation. There was nothing either above or
below him, and I knew it. He had kicked himself loose of the earth.
Confound the man! he had kicked the very earth to pieces. He was alone,
and I before him did not know whether I stood on the ground or floated in
the air. I've been telling you what we said—repeating the phrases we
pronounced—but what's the good? They were common everyday words—the
familiar, vague sounds exchanged on every waking day of life. But what of
that? They had behind them, to my mind, the terrific suggestiveness of
words heard in dreams, of phrases spoken in nightmares. Soul! If anybody
ever struggled with a soul, I am the man. And I wasn't arguing with a
lunatic either. Believe me or not, his intelligence was perfectly clear—concentrated,
it is true, upon himself with horrible intensity, yet clear; and therein
was my only chance—barring, of course, the killing him there and
then, which wasn't so good, on account of unavoidable noise. But his soul
was mad. Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself, and,
by heavens! I tell you, it had gone mad. I had—for my sins, I
suppose—to go through the ordeal of looking into it myself. No
eloquence could have been so withering to one's belief in mankind as his
final burst of sincerity. He struggled with himself, too. I saw it—I
heard it. I saw the inconceivable mystery of a soul that knew no
restraint, no faith, and no fear, yet struggling blindly with itself. I
kept my head pretty well; but when I had him at last stretched on the
couch, I wiped my forehead, while my legs shook under me as though I had
carried half a ton on my back down that hill. And yet I had only supported
him, his bony arm clasped round my neck—and he was not much heavier
than a child.



“When next day we left at noon, the crowd, of whose presence behind the
curtain of trees I had been acutely conscious all the time, flowed out of
the woods again, filled the clearing, covered the slope with a mass of
naked, breathing, quivering, bronze bodies. I steamed up a bit, then swung
down stream, and two thousand eyes followed the evolutions of the
splashing, thumping, fierce river-demon beating the water with its
terrible tail and breathing black smoke into the air. In front of the
first rank, along the river, three men, plastered with bright red earth
from head to foot, strutted to and fro restlessly. When we came abreast
again, they faced the river, stamped their feet, nodded their horned
heads, swayed their scarlet bodies; they shook towards the fierce
river-demon a bunch of black feathers, a mangy skin with a pendent tail—something
that looked a dried gourd; they shouted periodically together strings of
amazing words that resembled no sounds of human language; and the deep
murmurs of the crowd, interrupted suddenly, were like the responses of
some satanic litany.



“We had carried Kurtz into the pilot-house: there was more air there.
Lying on the couch, he stared through the open shutter. There was an eddy
in the mass of human bodies, and the woman with helmeted head and tawny
cheeks rushed out to the very brink of the stream. She put out her hands,
shouted something, and all that wild mob took up the shout in a roaring
chorus of articulated, rapid, breathless utterance.



“'Do you understand this?' I asked.



“He kept on looking out past me with fiery, longing eyes, with a mingled
expression of wistfulness and hate. He made no answer, but I saw a smile,
a smile of indefinable meaning, appear on his colourless lips that a
moment after twitched convulsively. 'Do I not?' he said slowly, gasping,
as if the words had been torn out of him by a supernatural power.



“I pulled the string of the whistle, and I did this because I saw the
pilgrims on deck getting out their rifles with an air of anticipating a
jolly lark. At the sudden screech there was a movement of abject terror
through that wedged mass of bodies. 'Don't! don't you frighten them away,'
cried some one on deck disconsolately. I pulled the string time after
time. They broke and ran, they leaped, they crouched, they swerved, they
dodged the flying terror of the sound. The three red chaps had fallen
flat, face down on the shore, as though they had been shot dead. Only the
barbarous and superb woman did not so much as flinch, and stretched
tragically her bare arms after us over the sombre and glittering river.



“And then that imbecile crowd down on the deck started their little fun,
and I could see nothing more for smoke.



“The brown current ran swiftly out of the heart of darkness, bearing us
down towards the sea with twice the speed of our upward progress; and
Kurtz's life was running swiftly, too, ebbing, ebbing out of his heart
into the sea of inexorable time. The manager was very placid, he had no
vital anxieties now, he took us both in with a comprehensive and satisfied
glance: the 'affair' had come off as well as could be wished. I saw the
time approaching when I would be left alone of the party of 'unsound
method.' The pilgrims looked upon me with disfavour. I was, so to speak,
numbered with the dead. It is strange how I accepted this unforeseen
partnership, this choice of nightmares forced upon me in the tenebrous
land invaded by these mean and greedy phantoms.



“Kurtz discoursed. A voice! a voice! It rang deep to the very last. It
survived his strength to hide in the magnificent folds of eloquence the
barren darkness of his heart. Oh, he struggled! he struggled! The wastes
of his weary brain were haunted by shadowy images now—images of
wealth and fame revolving obsequiously round his unextinguishable gift of
noble and lofty expression. My Intended, my station, my career, my ideas—these
were the subjects for the occasional utterances of elevated sentiments.
The shade of the original Kurtz frequented the bedside of the hollow sham,
whose fate it was to be buried presently in the mould of primeval earth.
But both the diabolic love and the unearthly hate of the mysteries it had
penetrated fought for the possession of that soul satiated with primitive
emotions, avid of lying fame, of sham distinction, of all the appearances
of success and power.



“Sometimes he was contemptibly childish. He desired to have kings meet him
at railway-stations on his return from some ghastly Nowhere, where he
intended to accomplish great things. 'You show them you have in you
something that is really profitable, and then there will be no limits to
the recognition of your ability,' he would say. 'Of course you must take
care of the motives—right motives—always.' The long reaches
that were like one and the same reach, monotonous bends that were exactly
alike, slipped past the steamer with their multitude of secular trees
looking patiently after this grimy fragment of another world, the
forerunner of change, of conquest, of trade, of massacres, of blessings. I
looked ahead—piloting. 'Close the shutter,' said Kurtz suddenly one
day; 'I can't bear to look at this.' I did so. There was a silence. 'Oh,
but I will wring your heart yet!' he cried at the invisible wilderness.



“We broke down—as I had expected—and had to lie up for repairs
at the head of an island. This delay was the first thing that shook
Kurtz's confidence. One morning he gave me a packet of papers and a
photograph—the lot tied together with a shoe-string. 'Keep this for
me,' he said. 'This noxious fool' (meaning the manager) 'is capable of
prying into my boxes when I am not looking.' In the afternoon I saw him.
He was lying on his back with closed eyes, and I withdrew quietly, but I
heard him mutter, 'Live rightly, die, die...' I listened. There was
nothing more. Was he rehearsing some speech in his sleep, or was it a
fragment of a phrase from some newspaper article? He had been writing for
the papers and meant to do so again, 'for the furthering of my ideas. It's
a duty.'



“His was an impenetrable darkness. I looked at him as you peer down at a
man who is lying at the bottom of a precipice where the sun never shines.
But I had not much time to give him, because I was helping the
engine-driver to take to pieces the leaky cylinders, to straighten a bent
connecting-rod, and in other such matters. I lived in an infernal mess of
rust, filings, nuts, bolts, spanners, hammers, ratchet-drills—things
I abominate, because I don't get on with them. I tended the little forge
we fortunately had aboard; I toiled wearily in a wretched scrap-heap—unless
I had the shakes too bad to stand.



“One evening coming in with a candle I was startled to hear him say a
little tremulously, 'I am lying here in the dark waiting for death.' The
light was within a foot of his eyes. I forced myself to murmur, 'Oh,
nonsense!' and stood over him as if transfixed.



“Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never
seen before, and hope never to see again. Oh, I wasn't touched. I was
fascinated. It was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that ivory
face the expression of sombre pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror—of
an intense and hopeless despair. Did he live his life again in every
detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of
complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision—he
cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath:



“'The horror! The horror!'



“I blew the candle out and left the cabin. The pilgrims were dining in the
mess-room, and I took my place opposite the manager, who lifted his eyes
to give me a questioning glance, which I successfully ignored. He leaned
back, serene, with that peculiar smile of his sealing the unexpressed
depths of his meanness. A continuous shower of small flies streamed upon
the lamp, upon the cloth, upon our hands and faces. Suddenly the manager's
boy put his insolent black head in the doorway, and said in a tone of
scathing contempt:



“'Mistah Kurtz—he dead.'



“All the pilgrims rushed out to see. I remained, and went on with my
dinner. I believe I was considered brutally callous. However, I did not
eat much. There was a lamp in there—light, don't you know—and
outside it was so beastly, beastly dark. I went no more near the
remarkable man who had pronounced a judgment upon the adventures of his
soul on this earth. The voice was gone. What else had been there? But I am
of course aware that next day the pilgrims buried something in a muddy
hole.



“And then they very nearly buried me.



“However, as you see, I did not go to join Kurtz there and then. I did
not. I remained to dream the nightmare out to the end, and to show my
loyalty to Kurtz once more. Destiny. My destiny! Droll thing life is—that
mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most
you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself—that comes too
late—a crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with death.
It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an
impalpable greyness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without
spectators, without clamour, without glory, without the great desire of
victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid
scepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that
of your adversary. If such is the form of ultimate wisdom, then life is a
greater riddle than some of us think it to be. I was within a hair's
breadth of the last opportunity for pronouncement, and I found with
humiliation that probably I would have nothing to say. This is the reason
why I affirm that Kurtz was a remarkable man. He had something to say. He
said it. Since I had peeped over the edge myself, I understand better the
meaning of his stare, that could not see the flame of the candle, but was
wide enough to embrace the whole universe, piercing enough to penetrate
all the hearts that beat in the darkness. He had summed up—he had
judged. 'The horror!' He was a remarkable man. After all, this was the
expression of some sort of belief; it had candour, it had conviction, it
had a vibrating note of revolt in its whisper, it had the appalling face
of a glimpsed truth—the strange commingling of desire and hate. And
it is not my own extremity I remember best—a vision of greyness
without form filled with physical pain, and a careless contempt for the
evanescence of all things—even of this pain itself. No! It is his
extremity that I seem to have lived through. True, he had made that last
stride, he had stepped over the edge, while I had been permitted to draw
back my hesitating foot. And perhaps in this is the whole difference;
perhaps all the wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just
compressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which we step over
the threshold of the invisible. Perhaps! I like to think my summing-up
would not have been a word of careless contempt. Better his cry—much
better. It was an affirmation, a moral victory paid for by innumerable
defeats, by abominable terrors, by abominable satisfactions. But it was a
victory! That is why I have remained loyal to Kurtz to the last, and even
beyond, when a long time after I heard once more, not his own voice, but
the echo of his magnificent eloquence thrown to me from a soul as
translucently pure as a cliff of crystal.



“No, they did not bury me, though there is a period of time which I
remember mistily, with a shuddering wonder, like a passage through some
inconceivable world that had no hope in it and no desire. I found myself
back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through
the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their
infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their
insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. They
were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretence,
because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew.
Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals
going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was
offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a
danger it is unable to comprehend. I had no particular desire to enlighten
them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in
their faces so full of stupid importance. I daresay I was not very well at
that time. I tottered about the streets—there were various affairs
to settle—grinning bitterly at perfectly respectable persons. I
admit my behaviour was inexcusable, but then my temperature was seldom
normal in these days. My dear aunt's endeavours to 'nurse up my strength'
seemed altogether beside the mark. It was not my strength that wanted
nursing, it was my imagination that wanted soothing. I kept the bundle of
papers given me by Kurtz, not knowing exactly what to do with it. His
mother had died lately, watched over, as I was told, by his Intended. A
clean-shaved man, with an official manner and wearing gold-rimmed
spectacles, called on me one day and made inquiries, at first circuitous,
afterwards suavely pressing, about what he was pleased to denominate
certain 'documents.' I was not surprised, because I had had two rows with
the manager on the subject out there. I had refused to give up the
smallest scrap out of that package, and I took the same attitude with the
spectacled man. He became darkly menacing at last, and with much heat
argued that the Company had the right to every bit of information about
its 'territories.' And said he, 'Mr. Kurtz's knowledge of unexplored
regions must have been necessarily extensive and peculiar—owing to
his great abilities and to the deplorable circumstances in which he had
been placed: therefore—' I assured him Mr. Kurtz's knowledge,
however extensive, did not bear upon the problems of commerce or
administration. He invoked then the name of science. 'It would be an
incalculable loss if,' etc., etc. I offered him the report on the
'Suppression of Savage Customs,' with the postscriptum torn off. He took
it up eagerly, but ended by sniffing at it with an air of contempt. 'This
is not what we had a right to expect,' he remarked. 'Expect nothing else,'
I said. 'There are only private letters.' He withdrew upon some threat of
legal proceedings, and I saw him no more; but another fellow, calling
himself Kurtz's cousin, appeared two days later, and was anxious to hear
all the details about his dear relative's last moments. Incidentally he
gave me to understand that Kurtz had been essentially a great musician.
'There was the making of an immense success,' said the man, who was an
organist, I believe, with lank grey hair flowing over a greasy
coat-collar. I had no reason to doubt his statement; and to this day I am
unable to say what was Kurtz's profession, whether he ever had any—which
was the greatest of his talents. I had taken him for a painter who wrote
for the papers, or else for a journalist who could paint—but even
the cousin (who took snuff during the interview) could not tell me what he
had been—exactly. He was a universal genius—on that point I
agreed with the old chap, who thereupon blew his nose noisily into a large
cotton handkerchief and withdrew in senile agitation, bearing off some
family letters and memoranda without importance. Ultimately a journalist
anxious to know something of the fate of his 'dear colleague' turned up.
This visitor informed me Kurtz's proper sphere ought to have been politics
'on the popular side.' He had furry straight eyebrows, bristly hair
cropped short, an eyeglass on a broad ribbon, and, becoming expansive,
confessed his opinion that Kurtz really couldn't write a bit—'but
heavens! how that man could talk. He electrified large meetings. He had
faith—don't you see?—he had the faith. He could get himself to
believe anything—anything. He would have been a splendid leader of
an extreme party.' 'What party?' I asked. 'Any party,' answered the other.
'He was an—an—extremist.' Did I not think so? I assented. Did
I know, he asked, with a sudden flash of curiosity, 'what it was that had
induced him to go out there?' 'Yes,' said I, and forthwith handed him the
famous Report for publication, if he thought fit. He glanced through it
hurriedly, mumbling all the time, judged 'it would do,' and took himself
off with this plunder.



“Thus I was left at last with a slim packet of letters and the girl's
portrait. She struck me as beautiful—I mean she had a beautiful
expression. I know that the sunlight can be made to lie, too, yet one felt
that no manipulation of light and pose could have conveyed the delicate
shade of truthfulness upon those features. She seemed ready to listen
without mental reservation, without suspicion, without a thought for
herself. I concluded I would go and give her back her portrait and those
letters myself. Curiosity? Yes; and also some other feeling perhaps. All
that had been Kurtz's had passed out of my hands: his soul, his body, his
station, his plans, his ivory, his career. There remained only his memory
and his Intended—and I wanted to give that up, too, to the past, in
a way—to surrender personally all that remained of him with me to
that oblivion which is the last word of our common fate. I don't defend
myself. I had no clear perception of what it was I really wanted. Perhaps
it was an impulse of unconscious loyalty, or the fulfilment of one of
those ironic necessities that lurk in the facts of human existence. I
don't know. I can't tell. But I went.



“I thought his memory was like the other memories of the dead that
accumulate in every man's life—a vague impress on the brain of
shadows that had fallen on it in their swift and final passage; but before
the high and ponderous door, between the tall houses of a street as still
and decorous as a well-kept alley in a cemetery, I had a vision of him on
the stretcher, opening his mouth voraciously, as if to devour all the
earth with all its mankind. He lived then before me; he lived as much as
he had ever lived—a shadow insatiable of splendid appearances, of
frightful realities; a shadow darker than the shadow of the night, and
draped nobly in the folds of a gorgeous eloquence. The vision seemed to
enter the house with me—the stretcher, the phantom-bearers, the wild
crowd of obedient worshippers, the gloom of the forests, the glitter of
the reach between the murky bends, the beat of the drum, regular and
muffled like the beating of a heart—the heart of a conquering
darkness. It was a moment of triumph for the wilderness, an invading and
vengeful rush which, it seemed to me, I would have to keep back alone for
the salvation of another soul. And the memory of what I had heard him say
afar there, with the horned shapes stirring at my back, in the glow of
fires, within the patient woods, those broken phrases came back to me,
were heard again in their ominous and terrifying simplicity. I remembered
his abject pleading, his abject threats, the colossal scale of his vile
desires, the meanness, the torment, the tempestuous anguish of his soul.
And later on I seemed to see his collected languid manner, when he said
one day, 'This lot of ivory now is really mine. The Company did not pay
for it. I collected it myself at a very great personal risk. I am afraid
they will try to claim it as theirs though. H'm. It is a difficult case.
What do you think I ought to do—resist? Eh? I want no more than
justice.'... He wanted no more than justice—no more than justice. I
rang the bell before a mahogany door on the first floor, and while I
waited he seemed to stare at me out of the glassy panel—stare with
that wide and immense stare embracing, condemning, loathing all the
universe. I seemed to hear the whispered cry, “The horror! The horror!”



“The dusk was falling. I had to wait in a lofty drawing-room with three
long windows from floor to ceiling that were like three luminous and
bedraped columns. The bent gilt legs and backs of the furniture shone in
indistinct curves. The tall marble fireplace had a cold and monumental
whiteness. A grand piano stood massively in a corner; with dark gleams on
the flat surfaces like a sombre and polished sarcophagus. A high door
opened—closed. I rose.



“She came forward, all in black, with a pale head, floating towards me in
the dusk. She was in mourning. It was more than a year since his death,
more than a year since the news came; she seemed as though she would
remember and mourn forever. She took both my hands in hers and murmured,
'I had heard you were coming.' I noticed she was not very young—I
mean not girlish. She had a mature capacity for fidelity, for belief, for
suffering. The room seemed to have grown darker, as if all the sad light
of the cloudy evening had taken refuge on her forehead. This fair hair,
this pale visage, this pure brow, seemed surrounded by an ashy halo from
which the dark eyes looked out at me. Their glance was guileless,
profound, confident, and trustful. She carried her sorrowful head as
though she were proud of that sorrow, as though she would say, 'I—I
alone know how to mourn for him as he deserves.' But while we were still
shaking hands, such a look of awful desolation came upon her face that I
perceived she was one of those creatures that are not the playthings of
Time. For her he had died only yesterday. And, by Jove! the impression was
so powerful that for me, too, he seemed to have died only yesterday—nay,
this very minute. I saw her and him in the same instant of time—his
death and her sorrow—I saw her sorrow in the very moment of his
death. Do you understand? I saw them together—I heard them together.
She had said, with a deep catch of the breath, 'I have survived' while my
strained ears seemed to hear distinctly, mingled with her tone of
despairing regret, the summing up whisper of his eternal condemnation. I
asked myself what I was doing there, with a sensation of panic in my heart
as though I had blundered into a place of cruel and absurd mysteries not
fit for a human being to behold. She motioned me to a chair. We sat down.
I laid the packet gently on the little table, and she put her hand over
it.... 'You knew him well,' she murmured, after a moment of mourning
silence.



“'Intimacy grows quickly out there,' I said. 'I knew him as well as it is
possible for one man to know another.'



“'And you admired him,' she said. 'It was impossible to know him and not
to admire him. Was it?'



“'He was a remarkable man,' I said, unsteadily. Then before the appealing
fixity of her gaze, that seemed to watch for more words on my lips, I went
on, 'It was impossible not to—'



“'Love him,' she finished eagerly, silencing me into an appalled dumbness.
'How true! how true! But when you think that no one knew him so well as I!
I had all his noble confidence. I knew him best.'



“'You knew him best,' I repeated. And perhaps she did. But with every word
spoken the room was growing darker, and only her forehead, smooth and
white, remained illumined by the inextinguishable light of belief and
love.



“'You were his friend,' she went on. 'His friend,' she repeated, a little
louder. 'You must have been, if he had given you this, and sent you to me.
I feel I can speak to you—and oh! I must speak. I want you—you
who have heard his last words—to know I have been worthy of him....
It is not pride.... Yes! I am proud to know I understood him better than
any one on earth—he told me so himself. And since his mother died I
have had no one—no one—to—to—'



“I listened. The darkness deepened. I was not even sure whether he had
given me the right bundle. I rather suspect he wanted me to take care of
another batch of his papers which, after his death, I saw the manager
examining under the lamp. And the girl talked, easing her pain in the
certitude of my sympathy; she talked as thirsty men drink. I had heard
that her engagement with Kurtz had been disapproved by her people. He
wasn't rich enough or something. And indeed I don't know whether he had
not been a pauper all his life. He had given me some reason to infer that
it was his impatience of comparative poverty that drove him out there.



“'... Who was not his friend who had heard him speak once?' she was
saying. 'He drew men towards him by what was best in them.' She looked at
me with intensity. 'It is the gift of the great,' she went on, and the
sound of her low voice seemed to have the accompaniment of all the other
sounds, full of mystery, desolation, and sorrow, I had ever heard—the
ripple of the river, the soughing of the trees swayed by the wind, the
murmurs of the crowds, the faint ring of incomprehensible words cried from
afar, the whisper of a voice speaking from beyond the threshold of an
eternal darkness. 'But you have heard him! You know!' she cried.



“'Yes, I know,' I said with something like despair in my heart, but bowing
my head before the faith that was in her, before that great and saving
illusion that shone with an unearthly glow in the darkness, in the
triumphant darkness from which I could not have defended her—from
which I could not even defend myself.



“'What a loss to me—to us!'—she corrected herself with
beautiful generosity; then added in a murmur, 'To the world.' By the last
gleams of twilight I could see the glitter of her eyes, full of tears—of
tears that would not fall.



“'I have been very happy—very fortunate—very proud,' she went
on. 'Too fortunate. Too happy for a little while. And now I am unhappy for—for
life.'



“She stood up; her fair hair seemed to catch all the remaining light in a
glimmer of gold. I rose, too.



“'And of all this,' she went on mournfully, 'of all his promise, and of
all his greatness, of his generous mind, of his noble heart, nothing
remains—nothing but a memory. You and I—'



“'We shall always remember him,' I said hastily.



“'No!' she cried. 'It is impossible that all this should be lost—that
such a life should be sacrificed to leave nothing—but sorrow. You
know what vast plans he had. I knew of them, too—I could not perhaps
understand—but others knew of them. Something must remain. His
words, at least, have not died.'



“'His words will remain,' I said.



“'And his example,' she whispered to herself. 'Men looked up to him—his
goodness shone in every act. His example—'



“'True,' I said; 'his example, too. Yes, his example. I forgot that.'



“'But I do not. I cannot—I cannot believe—not yet. I cannot
believe that I shall never see him again, that nobody will see him again,
never, never, never.'



“She put out her arms as if after a retreating figure, stretching them
back and with clasped pale hands across the fading and narrow sheen of the
window. Never see him! I saw him clearly enough then. I shall see this
eloquent phantom as long as I live, and I shall see her, too, a tragic and
familiar Shade, resembling in this gesture another one, tragic also, and
bedecked with powerless charms, stretching bare brown arms over the
glitter of the infernal stream, the stream of darkness. She said suddenly
very low, 'He died as he lived.'



“'His end,' said I, with dull anger stirring in me, 'was in every way
worthy of his life.'



“'And I was not with him,' she murmured. My anger subsided before a
feeling of infinite pity.



“'Everything that could be done—' I mumbled.



“'Ah, but I believed in him more than any one on earth—more than his
own mother, more than—himself. He needed me! Me! I would have
treasured every sigh, every word, every sign, every glance.'



“I felt like a chill grip on my chest. 'Don't,' I said, in a muffled
voice.



“'Forgive me. I—I have mourned so long in silence—in
silence.... You were with him—to the last? I think of his
loneliness. Nobody near to understand him as I would have understood.
Perhaps no one to hear....'



“'To the very end,' I said, shakily. 'I heard his very last words....' I
stopped in a fright.



“'Repeat them,' she murmured in a heart-broken tone. 'I want—I want—something—something—to—to
live with.'



“I was on the point of crying at her, 'Don't you hear them?' The dusk was
repeating them in a persistent whisper all around us, in a whisper that
seemed to swell menacingly like the first whisper of a rising wind. 'The
horror! The horror!'



“'His last word—to live with,' she insisted. 'Don't you understand I
loved him—I loved him—I loved him!'



“I pulled myself together and spoke slowly.



“'The last word he pronounced was—your name.'



“I heard a light sigh and then my heart stood still, stopped dead short by
an exulting and terrible cry, by the cry of inconceivable triumph and of
unspeakable pain. 'I knew it—I was sure!'... She knew. She was sure.
I heard her weeping; she had hidden her face in her hands. It seemed to me
that the house would collapse before I could escape, that the heavens
would fall upon my head. But nothing happened. The heavens do not fall for
such a trifle. Would they have fallen, I wonder, if I had rendered Kurtz
that justice which was his due? Hadn't he said he wanted only justice? But
I couldn't. I could not tell her. It would have been too dark—too
dark altogether....”



Marlow ceased, and sat apart, indistinct and silent, in the pose of a
meditating Buddha. Nobody moved for a time. “We have lost the first of the
ebb,” said the Director suddenly. I raised my head. The offing was barred
by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the
uttermost ends of the earth flowed sombre under an overcast sky—seemed
to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.

Click or select a word or words to search the definition