The Project Gutenberg eBook of Heart of Darkness, by Joseph Conrad

Published：2026-07-31 08:05:14 Source: engineering kits for 11 year olds under 30 dollars Author: Piggy Banks

Produced by Judith Boss and calming toys for siblingsDavid Widger

[Note: See also etext #219 which is a different version of this eBook]

HEART OF DARKNESS

By Joseph Conrad

I

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

The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning ofan interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were weldedtogether without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sailsof the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in redclusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. Ahaze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness.The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemedcondensed 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 fouraffectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows looking toseaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half sonautical. He resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trustworthinesspersonified. It was difficult to realize his work was not out there inthe luminous estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom.

Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond ofthe sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods ofseparation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other'syarns—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 abox of dominoes, and was toying architecturally with the bones. Marlowsat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzen-mast. He hadsunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect,and, with his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled anidol. The Director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his wayaft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterwardsthere was silence on board the yacht. For some reason or other we didnot begin that game of dominoes. We felt meditative, and fit for nothingbut placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still andexquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without aspeck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on theEssex marshes was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the woodedrises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only thegloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more somberevery minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.

And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, andfrom 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 thatgloom brooding over a crowd of men.

Forthwith a change came over the waters, and the serenity became lessbrilliant but more profound. The old river in its broad reach restedunruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to therace that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of awaterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth. We looked at thevenerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes anddeparts for ever, but in the august light of abiding memories. Andindeed nothing is easier for a man who has, as the phrase goes,"followed the sea" with reverence and affection, than to evoke thegreat spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of the Thames. The tidalcurrent runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memoriesof men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battlesof the sea. It had known and served all the men of whom the nation isproud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin, knights all, titledand untitled—the great knights-errant of the sea. It had borne all theships whose names are like jewels flashing in the night of time, fromthe Golden Hind returning with her round flanks full of treasure, to bevisited by the Queen's Highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale,to the Erebus and Terror, bound on other conquests—and that neverreturned. It had known the ships and the men. They had sailed fromDeptford, from Greenwich, from Erith—the adventurers and the settlers;kings' ships and the ships of men on 'Change; captains, admirals, thedark "interlopers" of the Eastern trade, and the commissioned "generals"of East India fleets. Hunters for gold or pursuers of fame, they allhad gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often the torch,messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from thesacred fire. What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that riverinto the mystery of an unknown earth! . . . The dreams of men, the seedof commonwealths, the germs of empires.

The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appearalong the shore. The Chapman lighthouse, a three-legged thing erect on amud-flat, shone strongly. Lights of ships moved in the fairway—a greatstir of lights going up and going down. And farther west on the upperreaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously onthe sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars.

"And this also," said Marlow suddenly, "has been one of the dark placesof the earth."

He was the only man of us who still "followed the sea." The worst thatcould be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was aseaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one mayso express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-homeorder, and their home is always with them—the ship; and so is theircountry—the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea isalways the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreignshores, 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 spreeon shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent,and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing. The yarns of seamenhave a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within theshell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not typical (if his propensityto spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was notinside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought itout only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of thesemisty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illuminationof 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; andpresently 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 thisriver since—you say Knights? Yes; but it is like a running blaze ona plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in theflicker—may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! Butdarkness was here yesterday. Imagine the feelings of a commander ofa fine—what d'ye call 'em?—trireme in the Mediterranean, orderedsuddenly to the north; run overland across the Gauls in a hurry; put incharge of one of these craft the legionaries,—a wonderful lot of handymen 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—thevery end of the world, a sea the color of lead, a sky the color ofsmoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina—and going up thisriver with stores, or orders, or what you like. Sandbanks, marshes,forests, savages,—precious little to eat fit for a civilized man,nothing but Thames water to drink. No Falernian wine here, no goingashore. Here and there a military camp lost in a wilderness, like aneedle in a bundle of hay—cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, anddeath,—death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. They musthave been dying like flies here. Oh yes—he did it. Did it very well,too, no doubt, and without thinking much about it either, exceptafterwards to brag of what he had gone through in his time, perhaps.They were men enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he was cheeredby keeping his eye on a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravennaby-and-by, if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awfulclimate. Or think of a decent young citizen in a toga—perhaps toomuch dice, you know—coming out here in the train of some prefect, ortax-gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes. Land in a swamp,march through the woods, and in some inland post feel the savagery, theutter savagery, had closed round him,—all that mysterious life of thewilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts ofwild men. There's no initiation either into such mysteries. He has tolive in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable. Andit has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. The fascinationof the abomination—you know. Imagine the growing regrets, the longingto escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate."

He paused.

"Mind," he began again, lifting one arm from the elbow, the palm of thehand outwards, so that, with his legs folded before him, he had thepose of a Buddha preaching in European clothes and without alotus-flower—"Mind, none of us would feel exactly like this. What savesus is efficiency—the devotion to efficiency. But these chaps were notmuch account, really. They were no colonists; their administration wasmerely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect. They were conquerors, andfor that you want only brute force—nothing to boast of, when you haveit, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness ofothers. They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was tobe got. It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a greatscale, and men going at it blind—as is very proper for those who tacklea darkness. The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the takingit away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatternoses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it toomuch. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; nota sentimental pretense but an idea; and an unselfish belief in theidea—something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer asacrifice to. . . ."

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

"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 taleswho seem so often unaware of what their audience would best like tohear; "yet to understand the effect of it on me you ought to know how Igot out there, what I saw, how I went up that river to the place where Ifirst met the poor chap. It was the farthest point of navigation and theculminating point of my experience. It seemed somehow to throw a kind oflight on everything about me—and into my thoughts. It was somber enoughtoo—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 ofIndian Ocean, Pacific, China Seas—a regular dose of the East—six yearsor so, and I was loafing about, hindering you fellows in your work andinvading your homes, just as though I had got a heavenly mission tocivilize you. It was very fine for a time, but after a bit I did gettired of resting. Then I began to look for a ship—I should think thehardest work on earth. But the ships wouldn't even look at me. And I gottired of that game too.

"Now when I was a little chap I had a passion for maps. I would look forhours at South America, or Africa, or Australia, and lose myself in allthe glories of exploration. At that time there were many blank spaces onthe 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, 'WhenI grow up I will go there.' The North Pole was one of these places, Iremember. Well, I haven't been there yet, and shall not try now. Theglamour's off. Other places were scattered about the Equator, and inevery sort of latitude all over the two hemispheres. I have been in someof them, and . . . well, we won't talk about that. But there was oneyet—the biggest, the most blank, so to speak—that I had a hankeringafter.

"True, by this time it was not a blank space any more. It had got filledsince my boyhood with rivers and lakes and names. It had ceased to bea blank space of delightful mystery—a white patch for a boy to dreamgloriously over. It had become a place of darkness. But there was in itone river especially, a mighty big river, that you could see on the map,resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, itsbody at rest curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in thedepths 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 Iremembered 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 somekind of craft on that lot of fresh water—steamboats! Why shouldn't Itry to get charge of one? I went on along Fleet Street, but could notshake off the idea. The snake had charmed me.

"You understand it was a Continental concern, that Trading society; butI have a lot of relations living on the Continent, because it's cheapand not so nasty as it looks, they say.

"I am sorry to own I began to worry them. This was already a freshdeparture for me. I was not used to get things that way, you know. Ialways went my own road and on my own legs where I had a mind to go. Iwouldn't have believed it of myself; but, then—you see—I felt somehowI 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 triedthe 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 dearenthusiastic soul. She wrote: 'It will be delightful. I am ready to doanything, anything for you. It is a glorious idea. I know the wife of avery high personage in the Administration, and also a man who has lotsof influence with,' &c., &c. She was determined to make no end of fussto 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 appearsthe Company had received news that one of their captains had been killedin a scuffle with the natives. This was my chance, and it made me themore anxious to go. It was only months and months afterwards, when Imade the attempt to recover what was left of the body, that I heard theoriginal quarrel arose from a misunderstanding about some hens. Yes,two black hens. Fresleven—that was the fellow's name, a Dane—thoughthimself wronged somehow in the bargain, so he went ashore and started tohammer the chief of the village with a stick. Oh, it didn't surpriseme in the least to hear this, and at the same time to be told thatFresleven was the gentlest, quietest creature that ever walked on twolegs. No doubt he was; but he had been a couple of years already outthere engaged in the noble cause, you know, and he probably felt theneed at last of asserting his self-respect in some way. Therefore hewhacked the old nigger mercilessly, while a big crowd of his peoplewatched him, thunderstruck, till some man,—I was told the chief'sson,—in desperation at hearing the old chap yell, made a tentative jabwith a spear at the white man—and of course it went quite easy betweenthe 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 ofthe engineer, I believe. Afterwards nobody seemed to trouble muchabout Fresleven's remains, till I got out and stepped into his shoes. Icouldn't let it rest, though; but when an opportunity offered at last tomeet my predecessor, the grass growing through his ribs was tall enoughto hide his bones. They were all there. The supernatural being had notbeen touched after he fell. And the village was deserted, the huts gapedblack, rotting, all askew within the fallen enclosures. A calamityhad come to it, sure enough. The people had vanished. Mad terror hadscattered them, men, women, and children, through the bush, and they hadnever returned. What became of the hens I don't know either. I shouldthink the cause of progress got them, anyhow. However, through thisglorious affair I got my appointment, before I had fairly begun to hopefor it.

"I flew around like mad to get ready, and before forty-eight hours Iwas crossing the Channel to show myself to my employers, and sign thecontract. In a very few hours I arrived in a city that always makes methink of a whited sepulcher. Prejudice no doubt. I had no difficulty infinding 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-seaempire, and make no end of coin by trade.

"A narrow and deserted street in deep shadow, high houses, innumerablewindows with venetian blinds, a dead silence, grass sprouting betweenthe stones, imposing carriage archways right and left, immense doubledoors standing ponderously ajar. I slipped through one of these cracks,went up a swept and ungarnished staircase, as arid as a desert, andopened 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 upand walked straight at me—still knitting with downcast eyes—and onlyjust as I began to think of getting out of her way, as you would for asomnambulist, stood still, and looked up. Her dress was as plain as anumbrella-cover, and she turned round without a word and preceded meinto a waiting-room. I gave my name, and looked about. Deal table inthe middle, plain chairs all round the walls, on one end a large shiningmap, marked with all the colors of a rainbow. There was a vast amount ofred—good to see at any time, because one knows that some real workis done in there, a deuce of a lot of blue, a little green, smears oforange, and, on the East Coast, a purple patch, to show where the jollypioneers of progress drink the jolly lager-beer. However, I wasn't goinginto any of these. I was going into the yellow. Dead in the center. Andthe river was there—fascinating—deadly—like a snake. Ough! A dooropened, a white-haired secretarial head, but wearing a compassionateexpression, appeared, and a skinny forefinger beckoned me into thesanctuary. Its light was dim, and a heavy writing-desk squatted inthe middle. From behind that structure came out an impression of paleplumpness in a frock-coat. The great man himself. He was five feetsix, I should judge, and had his grip on the handle-end of ever so manymillions. He shook hands, I fancy, murmured vaguely, was satisfied withmy French. Bon voyage.

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

"I began to feel slightly uneasy. You know I am not used to suchceremonies, and there was something ominous in the atmosphere. Itwas just as though I had been let into some conspiracy—I don'tknow—something not quite right; and I was glad to get out. In the outerroom the two women knitted black wool feverishly. People were arriving,and the younger one was walking back and forth introducing them. Theold one sat on her chair. Her flat cloth slippers were propped up ona foot-warmer, and a cat reposed on her lap. She wore a starchedwhite affair on her head, had a wart on one cheek, and silver-rimmedspectacles hung on the tip of her nose. She glanced at me above theglasses. 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. Sheseemed to know all about them and about me too. An eerie feeling cameover me. She seemed uncanny and fateful. Often far away there I thoughtof these two, guarding the door of Darkness, knitting black wool as fora warm pall, one introducing, introducing continuously to the unknown,the other scrutinizing the cheery and foolish faces with unconcerned oldeyes. Ave! Old knitter of black wool. Morituri te salutant. Not many ofthose 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 methe secretary, with an air of taking an immense part in all my sorrows.Accordingly a young chap wearing his hat over the left eyebrow, someclerk I suppose,—there must have been clerks in the business, thoughthe house was as still as a house in a city of the dead,—came fromsomewhere up-stairs, and led me forth. He was shabby and careless, withink-stains on the sleeves of his jacket, and his cravat was large andbillowy, under a chin shaped like the toe of an old boot. It was alittle too early for the doctor, so I proposed a drink, and thereupon hedeveloped a vein of joviality. As we sat over our vermouths he glorifiedthe Company's business, and by-and-by I expressed casually my surpriseat him not going out there. He became very cool and collected all atonce. 'I am not such a fool as I look, quoth Plato to his disciples,'he said sententiously, emptied his glass with great resolution, and werose.

"The old doctor felt my pulse, evidently thinking of something elsethe while. 'Good, good for there,' he mumbled, and then with a certaineagerness asked me whether I would let him measure my head. Rathersurprised, I said Yes, when he produced a thing like calipers and gotthe dimensions back and front and every way, taking notes carefully. Hewas an unshaven little man in a threadbare coat like a gaberdine, withhis feet in slippers, and I thought him a harmless fool. 'I always askleave, in the interests of science, to measure the crania of those goingout there,' he said. 'And when they come back, too?' I asked. 'Oh, Inever see them,' he remarked; 'and, moreover, the changes take placeinside, you know.' He smiled, as if at some quiet joke. 'So you aregoing out there. Famous. Interesting too.' He gave me a searchingglance, and made another note. 'Ever any madness in your family?' heasked, in a matter-of-fact tone. I felt very annoyed. 'Is that questionin the interests of science too?' 'It would be,' he said, without takingnotice of my irritation, 'interesting for science to watch the mentalchanges of individuals, on the spot, but . . .' 'Are you an alienist?' Iinterrupted. 'Every doctor should be—a little,' answered that original,imperturbably. 'I have a little theory which you Messieurs who go outthere must help me to prove. This is my share in the advantages mycountry shall reap from the possession of such a magnificent dependency.The mere wealth I leave to others. Pardon my questions, but you arethe first Englishman coming under my observation. . . .' I hastenedto 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 ratherprofound, and probably erroneous,' he said, with a laugh. 'Avoidirritation more than exposure to the sun. Adieu. How do you Englishsay, eh? Good-by. Ah! Good-by. Adieu. In the tropics one must beforeeverything keep calm.' . . . He lifted a warning forefinger. . . . 'Ducalme, du calme. Adieu.'

"One thing more remained to do—say good-by to my excellent aunt. Ifound her triumphant. I had a cup of tea—the last decent cup of tea formany days—and in a room that most soothingly looked just as you wouldexpect a lady's drawing-room to look, we had a long quiet chat by thefireside. In the course of these confidences it became quite plain to meI had been represented to the wife of the high dignitary, and goodnessknows to how many more people besides, as an exceptional and giftedcreature—a piece of good fortune for the Company—a man you don't gethold of every day. Good heavens! and I was going to take charge of atwo-penny-halfpenny river-steamboat with a penny whistle attached! Itappeared, however, I was also one of the Workers, with a capital—youknow. Something like an emissary of light, something like a lower sortof apostle. There had been a lot of such rot let loose in print and talkjust about that time, and the excellent woman, living right in the rushof all that humbug, got carried off her feet. She talked about 'weaningthose ignorant millions from their horrid ways,' till, upon my word, shemade me quite uncomfortable. I ventured to hint that the Company was runfor profit.

"'You forget, dear Charlie, that the laborer is worthy of his hire,' shesaid, brightly. It's queer how out of touch with truth women are. Theylive in a world of their own, and there had never been anything like it,and never can be. It is too beautiful altogether, and if they were toset it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset. Some confoundedfact we men have been living contentedly with ever since the day ofcreation would start up and knock the whole thing over.

"After this I got embraced, told to wear flannel, be sure to writeoften, and so on—and I left. In the street—I don't know why—a queerfeeling came to me that I was an impostor. Odd thing that I, who used toclear out for any part of the world at twenty-four hours' notice, withless thought than most men give to the crossing of a street, had amoment—I won't say of hesitation, but of startled pause, before thiscommonplace affair. The best way I can explain it to you is by sayingthat, for a second or two, I felt as though, instead of going to thecenter of a continent, I were about to set off for the center of theearth.

"I left in a French steamer, and she called in every blamed port theyhave out there, for, as far as I could see, the sole purpose of landingsoldiers and custom-house officers. I watched the coast. Watching acoast as it slips by the ship is like thinking about an enigma. Thereit is before you—smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, orsavage, and always mute with an air of whispering, 'Come and find out.'This one was almost featureless, as if still in the making, withan aspect of monotonous grimness. The edge of a colossal jungle, sodark-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 wasblurred by a creeping mist. The sun was fierce, the land seemed toglisten and drip with steam. Here and there grayish-whitish specksshowed up, clustered inside the white surf, with a flag flying abovethem perhaps. Settlements some centuries old, and still no bigger thanpin-heads on the untouched expanse of their background. We poundedalong, stopped, landed soldiers; went on, landed custom-house clerks tolevy toll in what looked like a God-forsaken wilderness, with a tin shedand a flag-pole lost in it; landed more soldiers—to take care of thecustom-house clerks, presumably. Some, I heard, got drowned in the surf;but whether they did or not, nobody seemed particularly to care. Theywere just flung out there, and on we went. Every day the coastlooked the same, as though we had not moved; but we passed variousplaces—trading places—with names like Gran' Bassam Little Popo, namesthat seemed to belong to some sordid farce acted in front of a sinisterbackcloth. The idleness of a passenger, my isolation amongst all thesemen with whom I had no point of contact, the oily and languid sea, theuniform somberness of the coast, seemed to keep me away from the truthof things, within the toil of a mournful and senseless delusion. Thevoice of the surf heard now and then was a positive pleasure, like thespeech of a brother. It was something natural, that had its reason, thathad a meaning. Now and then a boat from the shore gave one a momentarycontact with reality. It was paddled by black fellows. You could seefrom afar the white of their eyeballs glistening. They shouted, sang;their bodies streamed with perspiration; they had faces like grotesquemasks—these chaps; but they had bone, muscle, a wild vitality, anintense energy of movement, that was as natural and true as the surfalong their coast. They wanted no excuse for being there. They were agreat comfort to look at. For a time I would feel I belonged still toa world of straightforward facts; but the feeling would not last long.Something would turn up to scare it away. Once, I remember, we came upona man-of-war anchored off the coast. There wasn't even a shed there, andshe was shelling the bush. It appears the French had one of their warsgoing on thereabouts. Her ensign dropped limp like a rag; the muzzlesof the long eight-inch guns stuck out all over the low hull; the greasy,slimy swell swung her up lazily and let her down, swaying her thinmasts. In the empty immensity of earth, sky, and water, there she was,incomprehensible, firing into a continent. Pop, would go one of theeight-inch guns; a small flame would dart and vanish, a littlewhite smoke would disappear, a tiny projectile would give a feeblescreech—and nothing happened. Nothing could happen. There was a touchof insanity in the proceeding, a sense of lugubrious drollery in thesight; and it was not dissipated by somebody on board assuring meearnestly there was a camp of natives—he called them enemies!—hiddenout of sight somewhere.

"We gave her her letters (I heard the men in that lonely ship were dyingof fever at the rate of three a day) and went on. We called at some moreplaces with farcical names, where the merry dance of death and tradegoes on in a still and earthy atmosphere as of an overheated catacomb;all along the formless coast bordered by dangerous surf, as if Natureherself had tried to ward off intruders; in and out of rivers, streamsof death in life, whose banks were rotting into mud, whose waters,thickened into slime, invaded the contorted mangroves, that seemed towrithe at us in the extremity of an impotent despair. Nowhere did westop long enough to get a particularized impression, but the generalsense of vague and oppressive wonder grew upon me. It was like a wearypilgrimage 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 begintill some two hundred miles farther on. So as soon as I could I made astart for a place thirty miles higher up.

"I had my passage on a little sea-going steamer. Her captain was aSwede, and knowing me for a seaman, invited me on the bridge. He was ayoung man, lean, fair, and morose, with lanky hair and a shuffling gait.As we left the miserable little wharf, he tossed his head contemptuouslyat the shore. 'Been living there?' he asked. I said, 'Yes.' 'Fine lotthese government chaps—are they not?' he went on, speaking Englishwith great precision and considerable bitterness. 'It is funny what somepeople will do for a few francs a month. I wonder what becomes of thatkind when it goes up country?' I said to him I expected to see thatsoon. 'So-o-o!' he exclaimed. He shuffled athwart, keeping one eye aheadvigilantly. 'Don't be too sure,' he continued. 'The other day I tookup 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 lookingout watchfully. 'Who knows? The sun too much for him, or the countryperhaps.'

"At last we opened a reach. A rocky cliff appeared, mounds of turned-upearth by the shore, houses on a hill, others, with iron roofs, amongst awaste of excavations, or hanging to the declivity. A continuous noise ofthe rapids above hovered over this scene of inhabited devastation. Alot of people, mostly black and naked, moved about like ants. A jettyprojected into the river. A blinding sunlight drowned all this at timesin a sudden recrudescence of glare. 'There's your Company's station,'said the Swede, pointing to three wooden barrack-like structures on therocky 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 pathleading up the hill. It turned aside for the bowlders, and also for anundersized railway-truck lying there on its back with its wheels inthe air. One was off. The thing looked as dead as the carcass of someanimal. I came upon more pieces of decaying machinery, a stack of rustyrails. To the left a clump of trees made a shady spot, where dark thingsseemed to stir feebly. I blinked, the path was steep. A horn tooted tothe right, and I saw the black people run. A heavy and dull detonationshook the ground, a puff of smoke came out of the cliff, and that wasall. No change appeared on the face of the rock. They were building arailway. The cliff was not in the way or anything; but this objectlessblasting was all the work going on.

"A slight clinking behind me made me turn my head. Six black menadvanced in a file, toiling up the path. They walked erect and slow,balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kepttime with their footsteps. Black rags were wound round their loins, andthe short ends behind wagged to and fro like tails. I could see everyrib, the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had aniron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with a chainwhose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking. Another reportfrom the cliff made me think suddenly of that ship of war I had seenfiring into a continent. It was the same kind of ominous voice; butthese men could by no stretch of imagination be called enemies. Theywere called criminals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells,had come to them, an insoluble mystery from over the sea. All theirmeager 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 unhappysavages. Behind this raw matter one of the reclaimed, the product ofthe new forces at work, strolled despondently, carrying a rifle by itsmiddle. He had a uniform jacket with one button off, and seeing a whiteman on the path, hoisted his weapon to his shoulder with alacrity. Thiswas simple prudence, white men being so much alike at a distance thathe could not tell who I might be. He was speedily reassured, and with alarge, white, rascally grin, and a glance at his charge, seemed to takeme into partnership in his exalted trust. After all, I also was a partof the great cause of these high and just proceedings.

"Instead of going up, I turned and descended to the left. My idea was tolet that chain-gang get out of sight before I climbed the hill. You knowI 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 ofresisting—without counting the exact cost, according to the demandsof such sort of life as I had blundered into. I've seen the devil ofviolence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, byall the stars! these were strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayedand drove men—men, I tell you. But as I stood on this hillside, Iforesaw that in the blinding sunshine of that land I would becomeacquainted with a flabby, pretending, weak-eyed devil of a rapacious andpitiless folly. How insidious he could be, too, I was only to find outseveral months later and a thousand miles farther. For a moment Istood 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 theslope, the purpose of which I found it impossible to divine. It wasn'ta quarry or a sandpit, anyhow. It was just a hole. It might havebeen connected with the philanthropic desire of giving the criminalssomething to do. I don't know. Then I nearly fell into a very narrowravine, almost no more than a scar in the hillside. I discovered thata lot of imported drainage-pipes for the settlement had been tumbled inthere. 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 shadefor a moment; but no sooner within than it seemed to me I had steppedinto a gloomy circle of some Inferno. The rapids were near, and anuninterrupted, uniform, headlong, rushing noise filled the mournfulstillness of the grove, where not a breath stirred, not a leaf moved,with a mysterious sound—as though the tearing pace of the launchedearth had suddenly become audible.

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

"They were dying slowly—it was very clear. They were not enemies, theywere not criminals, they were nothing earthly now,—nothing but blackshadows of disease and starvation, lying confusedly in the greenishgloom. Brought from all the recesses of the coast in all the legalityof time contracts, lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfamiliarfood, they sickened, became inefficient, and were then allowed to crawlaway and rest. These moribund shapes were free as air—and nearly asthin. I began to distinguish the gleam of eyes under the trees. Then,glancing down, I saw a face near my hand. The black bones reclined atfull length with one shoulder against the tree, and slowly the eyelidsrose and the sunken eyes looked up at me, enormous and vacant, a kind ofblind, 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 totell. I found nothing else to do but to offer him one of my good Swede'sship's biscuits I had in my pocket. The fingers closed slowly on it andheld—there was no other movement and no other glance. He had tied abit of white worsted round his neck—Why? Where did he get it? Was it abadge—an ornament—a charm—a propitiatory act? Was there any idea atall connected with it? It looked startling round his black neck, thisbit of white thread from beyond the seas.

"Near the same tree two more bundles of acute angles sat with their legsdrawn up. One, with his chin propped on his knees, stared at nothing,in an intolerable and appalling manner: his brother phantom rested itsforehead, as if overcome with a great weariness; and all about otherswere scattered in every pose of contorted collapse, as in some pictureof a massacre or a pestilence. While I stood horror-struck, one of thesecreatures rose to his hands and knees, and went off on all-fours towardsthe river to drink. He lapped out of his hand, then sat up in thesunlight, crossing his shins in front of him, and after a time let hiswoolly head fall on his breastbone.

"I didn't want any more loitering in the shade, and I made haste towardsthe station. When near the buildings I met a white man, in such anunexpected elegance of get-up that in the first moment I took him fora sort of vision. I saw a high starched collar, white cuffs, a lightalpaca jacket, snowy trousers, a clear necktie, and varnished boots. Nohat. Hair parted, brushed, oiled, under a green-lined parasol held in abig 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'schief accountant, and that all the bookkeeping 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 sedentarydesk-life. I wouldn't have mentioned the fellow to you at all, onlyit was from his lips that I first heard the name of the man who isso indissolubly connected with the memories of that time. Moreover, Irespected the fellow. Yes; I respected his collars, his vast cuffs,his brushed hair. His appearance was certainly that of a hairdresser'sdummy; but in the great demoralization of the land he kept uphis appearance. That's backbone. His starched collars and got-upshirt-fronts were achievements of character. He had been out nearlythree years; and, later on, I could not help asking him how he managedto sport such linen. He had just the faintest blush, and said modestly,'I've been teaching one of the native women about the station. Itwas difficult. She had a distaste for the work.' This man had verilyaccomplished something. And he was devoted to his books, which were inapple-pie order.

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

"I had to wait in the station for ten days—an eternity. I lived in ahut in the yard, but to be out of the chaos I would sometimes get intothe accountant's office. It was built of horizontal planks, and so badlyput together that, as he bent over his high desk, he was barred fromneck to heels with narrow strips of sunlight. There was no need toopen the big shutter to see. It was hot there too; big flies buzzedfiendishly, and did not sting, but stabbed. I sat generally on thefloor, while, of faultless appearance (and even slightly scented),perching on a high stool, he wrote, he wrote. Sometimes he stood up forexercise. When a truckle-bed with a sick man (some invalided agent fromup-country) was put in there, he exhibited a gentle annoyance. 'Thegroans of this sick person,' he said, 'distract my attention. And withoutthat it is extremely difficult to guard against clerical errors in thisclimate.'

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

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

"He turned to his work. The noise outside had ceased, and presentlyin going out I stopped at the door. In the steady buzz of flies thehomeward-bound agent was lying flushed and insensible; the other,bent over his books, was making correct entries of perfectly correcttransactions; and fifty feet below the doorstep I could see the stilltree-tops of the grove of death.

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

"No use telling you much about that. Paths, paths, everywhere; astamped-in network of paths spreading over the empty land, throughlong grass, through burnt grass, through thickets, down and up chillyravines, up and down stony hills ablaze with heat; and a solitude, asolitude, nobody, not a hut. The population had cleared out a longtime ago. Well, if a lot of mysterious niggers armed with all kinds offearful weapons suddenly took to traveling on the road between Deal andGravesend, catching the yokels right and left to carry heavy loads forthem, I fancy every farm and cottage thereabouts would get empty verysoon. Only here the dwellings were gone too. Still I passed throughseveral abandoned villages. There's something pathetically childish inthe ruins of grass walls. Day after day, with the stamp and shuffle ofsixty 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 andhis 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 bellsin a Christian country. Once a white man in an unbuttoned uniform,camping on the path with an armed escort of lank Zanzibaris, veryhospitable and festive—not to say drunk. Was looking after the upkeepof the road, he declared. Can't say I saw any road or any upkeep, unlessthe body of a middle-aged negro, with a bullet-hole in the forehead,upon which I absolutely stumbled three miles farther on, may beconsidered as a permanent improvement. I had a white companion too, nota bad chap, but rather too fleshy and with the exasperating habit offainting on the hot hillsides, miles away from the least bit of shadeand water. Annoying, you know, to hold your own coat like a parasol overa man's head while he is coming-to. I couldn't help asking him once whathe meant by coming there at all. 'To make money, of course. What do youthink?' he said, scornfully. Then he got fever, and had to be carried ina hammock slung under a pole. As he weighed sixteen stone I had no endof rows with the carriers. They jibbed, ran away, sneaked off with theirloads in the night—quite a mutiny. So, one evening, I made a speech inEnglish with gestures, not one of which was lost to the sixty pairs ofeyes before me, and the next morning I started the hammock off in frontall right. An hour afterwards I came upon the whole concern wrecked ina bush—man, hammock, groans, blankets, horrors. The heavy pole hadskinned 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 olddoctor,—'It would be interesting for science to watch the mentalchanges of individuals, on the spot.' I felt I was becomingscientifically interesting. However, all that is to no purpose. On thefifteenth day I came in sight of the big river again, and hobbled intothe Central Station. It was on a back water surrounded by scrub andforest, with a pretty border of smelly mud on one side, and on the threeothers inclosed by a crazy fence of rushes. A neglected gap was all thegate it had, and the first glance at the place was enough to let you seethe flabby devil was running that show. White men with long staves intheir hands appeared languidly from amongst the buildings, strolling upto take a look at me, and then retired out of sight somewhere. One ofthem, a stout, excitable chap with black mustaches, informed me withgreat 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!'—'youmust,' he said in agitation, 'go and see the general manager at once. Heis waiting!'

"I did not see the real significance of that wreck at once. I fancy Isee it now, but I am not sure—not at all. Certainly the affair was toostupid—when I think of it—to be altogether natural. Still. . . . Butat the moment it presented itself simply as a confounded nuisance. Thesteamer was sunk. They had started two days before in a sudden hurryup the river with the manager on board, in charge of some volunteerskipper, and before they had been out three hours they tore the bottomout of her on stones, and she sank near the south bank. I asked myselfwhat I was to do there, now my boat was lost. As a matter of fact, I hadplenty to do in fishing my command out of the river. I had to set aboutit the very next day. That, and the repairs when I brought the pieces tothe station, took some months.

"My first interview with the manager was curious. He did not ask me tosit down after my twenty-mile walk that morning. He was commonplace incomplexion, in features, in manners, and in voice. He was of middlesize and of ordinary build. His eyes, of the usual blue, were perhapsremarkably cold, and he certainly could make his glance fall on one astrenchant and heavy as an ax. But even at these times the rest of hisperson seemed to disclaim the intention. Otherwise there was onlyan indefinable, faint expression of his lips, something stealthy—asmile—not a smile—I remember it, but I can't explain. It wasunconscious, this smile was, though just after he had said something itgot intensified for an instant. It came at the end of his speeches likea seal applied on the words to make the meaning of the commonest phraseappear absolutely inscrutable. He was a common trader, from his youthup employed in these parts—nothing more. He was obeyed, yet he inspiredneither love nor fear, nor even respect. He inspired uneasiness. Thatwas it! Uneasiness. Not a definite mistrust—just uneasiness—nothingmore. You have no idea how effective such a . . . a . . . faculty canbe. 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 tohim—why? Perhaps because he was never ill . . . He had served threeterms of three years out there . . . Because triumphant health in thegeneral rout of constitutions is a kind of power in itself. When he wenthome on leave he rioted on a large scale—pompously. Jack ashore—witha difference—in externals only. This one could gather from his casualtalk. He originated nothing, he could keep the routine going—that'sall. But he was great. He was great by this little thing that it wasimpossible to tell what could control such a man. He never gave thatsecret away. Perhaps there was nothing within him. Such a suspicionmade one pause—for out there there were no external checks. Once whenvarious tropical diseases had laid low almost every 'agent' in thestation, he was heard to say, 'Men who come out here should have noentrails.' He sealed the utterance with that smile of his, as thoughit 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 atmeal-times by the constant quarrels of the white men about precedence,he ordered an immense round table to be made, for which a special househad to be built. This was the station's mess-room. Where he sat was thefirst place—the rest were nowhere. One felt this to be his unalterableconviction. He was neither civil nor uncivil. He was quiet. He allowedhis 'boy'—an overfed young negro from the coast—to treat the whitemen, under his very eyes, with provoking insolence.

"He began to speak as soon as he saw me. I had been very long on theroad. He could not wait. Had to start without me. The up-river stationshad to be relieved. There had been so many delays already that he didnot 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 witha stick of sealing-wax, repeated several times that the situationwas 'very grave, very grave.' There were rumors that a very importantstation was in jeopardy, and its chief, Mr. Kurtz, was ill. Hoped it wasnot 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 thecoast. '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, anexceptional man, of the greatest importance to the Company; thereforeI 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 dumbfounded by theaccident. Next thing he wanted to know 'how long it would take to' . . .I interrupted him again. Being hungry, you know, and kept on my feettoo, I was getting savage. 'How could I tell,' I said. 'I hadn't evenseen the wreck yet—some months, no doubt.' All this talk seemed to meso futile. 'Some months,' he said. 'Well, let us say three months beforewe can make a start. Yes. That ought to do the affair.' I flung outof his hut (he lived all alone in a clay hut with a sort of veranda)muttering to myself my opinion of him. He was a chattering idiot.Afterwards I took it back when it was borne in upon me startlinglywith 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 thatstation. In that way only it seemed to me I could keep my hold on theredeeming facts of life. Still, one must look about sometimes; and thenI saw this station, these men strolling aimlessly about in the sunshineof the yard. I asked myself sometimes what it all meant. They wanderedhere and there with their absurd long staves in their hands, like a lotof faithless pilgrims bewitched inside a rotten fence. The word 'ivory'rang in the air, was whispered, was sighed. You would think they werepraying to it. A taint of imbecile rapacity blew through it all, like awhiff from some corpse. By Jove! I've never seen anything so unreal inmy life. And outside, the silent wilderness surrounding this clearedspeck on the earth struck me as something great and invincible, likeevil or truth, waiting patiently for the passing away of this fantasticinvasion.

"Oh, these months! Well, never mind. Various things happened. Oneevening a grass shed full of calico, cotton prints, beads, and I don'tknow what else, burst into a blaze so suddenly that you would havethought the earth had opened to let an avenging fire consume all thattrash. I was smoking my pipe quietly by my dismantled steamer, and sawthem all cutting capers in the light, with their arms lifted high, whenthe stout man with mustaches came tearing down to the river, a tinpail in his hand, assured me that everybody was 'behaving splendidly,splendidly,' dipped about a quart of water and tore back again. Inoticed there was a hole in the bottom of his pail.

"I strolled up. There was no hurry. You see the thing had gone off likea box of matches. It had been hopeless from the very first. The flamehad leaped high, driven everybody back, lighted up everything—andcollapsed. The shed was already a heap of embers glowing fiercely. Anigger was being beaten near by. They said he had caused the fire insome way; be that as it may, he was screeching most horribly. I saw him,later on, for several days, sitting in a bit of shade looking very sickand trying to recover himself: afterwards he arose and went out—andthe wilderness without a sound took him into its bosom again. As Iapproached 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, 'takeadvantage 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? itis incredible,' he said, and walked off. The other man remained. He wasa first-class agent, young, gentlemanly, a bit reserved, with a forkedlittle beard and a hooked nose. He was stand-offish with the otheragents, 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, andby-and-by we strolled away from the hissing ruins. Then he asked me tohis room, which was in the main building of the station. He strucka match, and I perceived that this young aristocrat had not only asilver-mounted dressing-case but also a whole candle all to himself.Just at that time the manager was the only man supposed to have anyright to candles. Native mats covered the clay walls; a collection ofspears, assegais, shields, knives was hung up in trophies. The businessintrusted to this fellow was the making of bricks—so I had beeninformed; but there wasn't a fragment of a brick anywhere in thestation, and he had been there more than a year—waiting. It seems hecould not make bricks without something, I don't know what—straw maybe.Anyways, it could not be found there, and as it was not likely to besent 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—allthe sixteen or twenty pilgrims of them—for something; and upon my wordit 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 Icould see. They beguiled the time by backbiting and intriguing againsteach other in a foolish kind of way. There was an air of plotting aboutthat station, but nothing came of it, of course. It was as unreal aseverything else—as the philanthropic pretense of the whole concern, astheir talk, as their government, as their show of work. The only realfeeling was a desire to get appointed to a trading-post where ivorywas to be had, so that they could earn percentages. They intriguedand slandered and hated each other only on that account,—but as toeffectually lifting a little finger—oh, no. By heavens! there issomething after all in the world allowing one man to steal a horse whileanother must not look at a halter. Steal a horse straight out. Verywell. He has done it. Perhaps he can ride. But there is a way of lookingat a halter that would provoke the most charitable of saints into akick.

"I had no idea why he wanted to be sociable, but as we chatted in thereit suddenly occurred to me the fellow was trying to get at something—infact, pumping me. He alluded constantly to Europe, to the people I wassupposed to know there—putting leading questions as to my acquaintancesin the sepulchral city, and so on. His little eyes glittered likemica discs—with curiosity,—though he tried to keep up a bit ofsuperciliousness. At first I was astonished, but very soon I becameawfully curious to see what he would find out from me. I couldn'tpossibly imagine what I had in me to make it worth his while. It wasvery pretty to see how he baffled himself, for in truth my body was fullof chills, and my head had nothing in it but that wretched steamboatbusiness. It was evident he took me for a perfectly shamelessprevaricator. At last he got angry, and to conceal a movement of furiousannoyance, he yawned. I rose. Then I noticed a small sketch in oils,on a panel, representing a woman, draped and blindfolded, carrying alighted torch. The background was somber—almost black. The movement ofthe woman was stately, and the effect of the torchlight on the face wassinister.

"It arrested me, and he stood by civilly, holding a half-pint champagnebottle (medical comforts) with the candle stuck in it. To my question hesaid Mr. Kurtz had painted this—in this very station more than a yearago—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, lookingaway. 'Much obliged,' I said, laughing. 'And you are the brickmaker ofthe Central Station. Everyone knows that.' He was silent for a while.'He is a prodigy,' he said at last. 'He is an emissary of pity, andscience, and progress, and devil knows what else. We want,' he beganto declaim suddenly, 'for the guidance of the cause intrusted to us byEurope, so to speak, higher intelligence, wide sympathies, a singlenessof purpose.' 'Who says that?' I asked. 'Lots of them,' he replied. 'Someeven write that; and so hecomes here, a special being, as you oughtto know.' 'Why ought I to know?' I interrupted, really surprised. Hepaid no attention. 'Yes. To-day he is chief of the best station, nextyear he will be assistant-manager, two years more and . . . but I daresay you know what he will be in two years' time. You are of the newgang—the gang of virtue. The same people who sent him specially alsorecommended you. Oh, don't say no. I've my own eyes to trust.' Lightdawned upon me. My dear aunt's influential acquaintances were producingan unexpected effect upon that young man. I nearly burst into a laugh.'Do you read the Company's confidential correspondence?' I asked. Hehadn't a word to say. It was great fun. 'When Mr. Kurtz,' I continuedseverely, 'is General Manager, you won't have the opportunity.'

"He blew the candle out suddenly, and we went outside. The moon hadrisen. Black figures strolled about listlessly, pouring water onthe glow, whence proceeded a sound of hissing; steam ascended in themoonlight, the beaten nigger groaned somewhere. 'What a row the brutemakes!' said the indefatigable man with the mustaches, appearingnear us. 'Serve him right. Transgression—punishment—bang! Pitiless,pitiless. That's the only way. This will prevent all conflagrationsfor the future. I was just telling the manager . . .' He noticed mycompanion, 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 river-side, andthe other followed me. I heard a scathing murmur at my ear, 'Heapof muffs—go to.' The pilgrims could be seen in knots gesticulating,discussing. Several had still their staves in their hands. I verilybelieve they took these sticks to bed with them. Beyond the fence theforest stood up spectrally in the moonlight, and through the dim stir,through the faint sounds of that lamentable courtyard, the silence ofthe land went home to one's very heart,—its mystery, its greatness,the amazing reality of its concealed life. The hurt nigger moaned feeblysomewhere near by, and then fetched a deep sigh that made me mend mypace 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, andespecially by you, who will see Mr. Kurtz long before I can have thatpleasure. I wouldn't like him to get a false idea of mydisposition. . . .'

"I let him run on, this papier-macheMephistopheles, and it seemed tome that if I tried I could poke my forefinger through him, and would findnothing inside but a little loose dirt, maybe. He, don't you see, hadbeen 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 alittle. He talked precipitately, and I did not try to stop him. I had myshoulders against the wreck of my steamer, hauled up on the slope like acarcass of some big river animal. The smell of mud, of primeval mud,by Jove! was in my nostrils, the high stillness of primeval forest wasbefore my eyes; there were shiny patches on the black creek. The moonhad spread over everything a thin layer of silver—over the rank grass,over the mud, upon the wall of matted vegetation standing higher thanthe wall of a temple, over the great river I could see through a sombergap glittering, glittering, as it flowed broadly by without a murmur.All this was great, expectant, mute, while the man jabbered abouthimself. I wondered whether the stillness on the face of the immensitylooking at us two were meant as an appeal or as a menace. What were wewho had strayed in here? Could we handle that dumb thing, or would ithandle us? I felt how big, how confoundedly big, was that thing thatcouldn't talk, and perhaps was deaf as well. What was in there? I couldsee a little ivory coming out from there, and I had heard Mr. Kurtz wasin there. I had heard enough about it too—God knows! Yet somehow itdidn't bring any image with it—no more than if I had been told an angelor a fiend was in there. I believed it in the same way one of you mightbelieve there are inhabitants in the planet Mars. I knew once a Scotchsailmaker who was certain, dead sure, there were people in Mars. If youasked him for some idea how they looked and behaved, he would get shyand mutter something about 'walking on all-fours.' If you as much assmiled, he would—though a man of sixty—offer to fight you. I would nothave gone so far as to fight for Kurtz, but I went for him near enoughto a lie. You know I hate, detest, and can't bear a lie, not becauseI am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it appalls me.There is a taint of death, a flavor of mortality in lies,—which isexactly 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 theyoung fool there believe anything he liked to imagine as to my influencein Europe. I became in an instant as much of a pretense as the rest ofthe bewitched pilgrims. This simply because I had a notion it somehowwould be of help to that Kurtz whom at the time I did not see—youunderstand. He was just a word for me. I did not see the man in the nameany more than you do. Do you see him? Do you see the story? Do you seeanything? It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream—making a vainattempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation,that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor ofstruggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible whichis of the very essence of dreams. . . ."

He was silent for a while.

". . . No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey thelife-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence,—that whichmakes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It isimpossible. We live, as we dream—alone. . . ."

He paused again as if reflecting, then added—"Of course in this youfellows see more than I could then. You see me, whom you know. . . ."

It had become so pitch dark that we listeners could hardly see oneanother. For a long time already he, sitting apart, had been no moreto us than a voice. There was not a word from anybody. The others mighthave been asleep, but I was awake. I listened, I listened on the watchfor the sentence, for the word, that would give me the clew to thefaint uneasiness inspired by this narrative that seemed to shape itselfwithout human lips in the heavy night-air of the river.

". . . Yes—I let him run on," Marlow began again, "and think whathe pleased about the powers that were behind me. I did! And there wasnothing behind me! There was nothing but that wretched, old, mangledsteamboat I was leaning against, while he talked fluently about 'thenecessity for every man to get on.' 'And when one comes out here, youconceive, it is not to gaze at the moon.' Mr. Kurtz was a 'universalgenius,' but even a genius would find it easier to work with 'adequatetools—intelligent men.' He did not make bricks—why, there was aphysical impossibility in the way—as I was well aware; and if hedid secretarial work for the manager, it was because 'no sensible manrejects wantonly the confidence of his superiors.' Did I see it? I sawit. 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 Iwanted. There were cases of them down at the coast—cases—piledup—burst—split! You kicked a loose rivet at every second step in thatstation yard on the hillside. Rivets had rolled into the grove of death.You could fill your pockets with rivets for the trouble of stoopingdown—and there wasn't one rivet to be found where it was wanted. We hadplates that would do, but nothing to fasten them with. And every weekthe messenger, a lone negro, letter-bag on shoulder and staff in hand,left our station for the coast. And several times a week a coast caravancame in with trade goods,—ghastly glazed calico that made you shudderonly to look at it, glass beads value about a penny a quart, confoundedspotted cotton handkerchiefs. And no rivets. Three carriers could havebrought all that was wanted to set that steamboat afloat.

"He was becoming confidential now, but I fancy my unresponsive attitudemust have exasperated him at last, for he judged it necessary to informme he feared neither God nor devil, let alone any mere man. I said Icould see that very well, but what I wanted was a certain quantity ofrivets—and rivets were what really Mr. Kurtz wanted, if he had onlyknown it. Now letters went to the coast every week. . . . 'My dearsir,' he cried, 'I write from dictation.' I demanded rivets. There wasa way—for an intelligent man. He changed his manner; became verycold, and suddenly began to talk about a hippopotamus; wondered whethersleeping 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 ofgetting 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 couldlay hands on at him. Some even had sat up o' nights for him. All thisenergy was wasted, though. 'That animal has a charmed life,' he said;'but you can say this only of brutes in this country. No man—youapprehend me?—no man here bears a charmed life.' He stood there fora moment in the moonlight with his delicate hooked nose set a littleaskew, and his mica eyes glittering without a wink, then, with a curtGood night, he strode off. I could see he was disturbed and considerablypuzzled, which made me feel more hopeful than I had been for days. Itwas a great comfort to turn from that chap to my influential friend, thebattered, twisted, ruined, tin-pot steamboat. I clambered on board. Sherang under my feet like an empty Huntley & Palmer biscuit-tin kickedalong a gutter; she was nothing so solid in make, and rather less prettyin shape, but I had expended enough hard work on her to make me loveher. No influential friend would have served me better. She had givenme a chance to come out a bit—to find out what I could do. No, I don'tlike work. I had rather laze about and think of all the fine things thatcan be done. I don't like work—no man does—but I like what is in thework,—the chance to find yourself. Your own reality—for yourself, notfor others—what no other man can ever know. They can only see the mereshow, and never can tell what it really means.

"I was not surprised to see somebody sitting aft, on the deck, withhis legs dangling over the mud. You see I rather chummed with the fewmechanics there were in that station, whom the other pilgrims naturallydespised—on account of their imperfect manners, I suppose. This was theforeman—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 hishead was as bald as the palm of my hand; but his hair in falling seemedto 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 youngchildren (he had left them in charge of a sister of his to come outthere), and the passion of his life was pigeon-flying. He was anenthusiast and a connoisseur. He would rave about pigeons. After workhours he used sometimes to come over from his hut for a talk about hischildren and his pigeons; at work, when he had to crawl in the mud underthe bottom of the steamboat, he would tie up that beard of his in a kindof white serviette he brought for the purpose. It had loops to go overhis ears. In the evening he could be seen squatted on the bank rinsingthat wrapper in the creek with great care, then spreading it solemnly ona bush to dry.

"I slapped him on the back and shouted, 'We shall have rivets!' Hescrambled to his feet exclaiming 'No! Rivets!' as though he couldn'tbelieve his ears. Then in a low voice, 'You . . . eh?' I don't know whywe behaved like lunatics. I put my finger to the side of my nose andnodded mysteriously. 'Good for you!' he cried, snapped his fingers abovehis 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 onthe other bank of the creek sent it back in a thundering roll upon thesleeping station. It must have made some of the pilgrims sit up in theirhovels. 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 feetflowed back again from the recesses of the land. The great wall ofvegetation, an exuberant and entangled mass of trunks, branches, leaves,boughs, festoons, motionless in the moonlight, was like a riotinginvasion of soundless life, a rolling wave of plants, piled up, crested,ready to topple over the creek, to sweep every little man of us outof his little existence. And it moved not. A deadened burst of mightysplashes and snorts reached us from afar, as though an ichthyosaurus hadbeen taking a bath of glitter in the great river. 'After all,' said theboiler-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'llcome in three weeks,' I said confidently.

"But they didn't. Instead of rivets there came an invasion, aninfliction, a visitation. It came in sections during the next threeweeks, each section headed by a donkey carrying a white man in newclothes and tan shoes, bowing from that elevation right and left to theimpressed pilgrims. A quarrelsome band of footsore sulky niggers trod onthe heels of the donkeys; a lot of tents, camp-stools, tin boxes, whitecases, brown bales would be shot down in the courtyard, and the air ofmystery would deepen a little over the muddle of the station. Five suchinstallments came, with their absurd air of disorderly flight with theloot of innumerable outfit shops and provision stores, that, onewould think, they were lugging, after a raid, into the wilderness forequitable division. It was an inextricable mess of things decent inthemselves but that human folly made look like the spoils of thieving.

"This devoted band called itself the Eldorado Exploring Expedition, andI believe they were sworn to secrecy. Their talk, however, was the talkof sordid buccaneers: it was reckless without hardihood, greedy withoutaudacity, and cruel without courage; there was not an atom of foresightor of serious intention in the whole batch of them, and they did notseem aware these things are wanted for the work of the world. To teartreasure out of the bowels of the land was their desire, with no moremoral purpose at the back of it than there is in burglars breaking intoa safe. Who paid the expenses of the noble enterprise I don't know; butthe uncle of our manager was leader of that lot.

"In exterior he resembled a butcher in a poor neighborhood, and his eyeshad a look of sleepy cunning. He carried his fat paunch with ostentationon his short legs, and during the time his gang infested the stationspoke to no one but his nephew. You could see these two roaming aboutall day long with their heads close together in an everlasting confab.

"I had given up worrying myself about the rivets. One's capacity forthat kind of folly is more limited than you would suppose. I saidHang!—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 veryinterested in him. No. Still, I was curious to see whether this man, whohad come out equipped with moral ideas of some sort, would climb to thetop 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 heardvoices approaching—and there were the nephew and the uncle strollingalong the bank. I laid my head on my arm again, and had nearly lostmyself in a doze, when somebody said in my ear, as it were: 'I am asharmless as a little child, but I don't like to be dictated to. Am I themanager—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 alongsidethe forepart of the steamboat, just below my head. I did not move; itdid not occur to me to move: I was sleepy. 'It isunpleasant,' gruntedthe uncle. 'He has asked the Administration to be sent there,' said theother, 'with the idea of showing what he could do; and I was instructedaccordingly. Look at the influence that man must have. Is it notfrightful?' They both agreed it was frightful, then made several bizarreremarks: 'Make rain and fine weather—one man—the Council—by thenose'—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 unclesaid, 'The climate may do away with this difficulty for you. Is he alonethere?' 'Yes,' answered the manager; 'he sent his assistant down theriver with a note to me in these terms: "Clear this poor devil out ofthe country, and don't bother sending more of that sort. I had rather bealone than have the kind of men you can dispose of with me." It was morethan a year ago. Can you imagine such impudence!' 'Anything sincethen?' asked the other, hoarsely. 'Ivory,' jerked the nephew; 'lotsof it—prime sort—lots—most annoying, from him.' 'And with that?'questioned the heavy rumble. 'Invoice,' was the reply fired out, so tospeak. Then silence. They had been talking about Kurtz.

"I was broad awake by this time, but, lying perfectly at ease, remainedstill, having no inducement to change my position. 'How did that ivorycome all this way?' growled the elder man, who seemed very vexed. Theother explained that it had come with a fleet of canoes in charge of anEnglish half-caste clerk Kurtz had with him; that Kurtz had apparentlyintended to return himself, the station being by that time bare of goodsand stores, but after coming three hundred miles, had suddenly decidedto go back, which he started to do alone in a small dug-out with fourpaddlers, leaving the half-caste to continue down the river with theivory. The two fellows there seemed astounded at anybody attempting sucha thing. They were at a loss for an adequate motive. As to me, I seemedto see Kurtz for the first time. It was a distinct glimpse: the dug-out,four paddling savages, and the lone white man turning his back suddenlyon the headquarters, on relief, on thoughts of home—perhaps; settinghis face towards the depths of the wilderness, towards his empty anddesolate station. I did not know the motive. Perhaps he was just simplya fine fellow who stuck to his work for its own sake. His name, youunderstand, had not been pronounced once. He was 'that man.' Thehalf-caste, who, as far as I could see, had conducted a difficulttrip with great prudence and pluck, was invariably alluded to as 'thatscoundrel.' The 'scoundrel' had reported that the 'man' had been veryill—had recovered imperfectly. . . . The two below me moved away then afew paces, and strolled back and forth at some little distance. I heard:'Military post—doctor—two hundred miles—quite alone now—unavoidabledelays—nine months—no news—strange rumors.' They approached again,just as the manager was saying, 'No one, as far as I know, unless aspecies of wandering trader—a pestilential fellow, snapping ivory fromthe natives.' Who was it they were talking about now? I gathered insnatches that this was some man supposed to be in Kurtz's district, andof whom the manager did not approve. 'We will not be free from unfaircompetition 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. Andwhy? You stand the climate—you outlast them all. The danger is inEurope; but there before I left I took care to—' They moved off andwhispered, then their voices rose again. 'The extraordinary series ofdelays is not my fault. I did my possible.' The fat man sighed, 'Verysad.' 'And the pestiferous absurdity of his talk,' continued the other;'he bothered me enough when he was here. "Each station should be like abeacon on the road towards better things, a center for trade of course,but also for humanizing, improving, instructing." Conceive you—thatass! And he wants to be manager! No, it's—' Here he got choked byexcessive indignation, and I lifted my head the least bit. I wassurprised to see how near they were—right under me. I could have spatupon their hats. They were looking on the ground, absorbed in thought.The manager was switching his leg with a slender twig: his sagaciousrelative lifted his head. 'You have been well since you came out thistime?' he asked. The other gave a start. 'Who? I? Oh! Like a charm—likea 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'sincredible!' 'H'm. Just so,' grunted the uncle. 'Ah! my boy, trust tothis—I say, trust to this.' I saw him extend his short flipper ofan arm for a gesture that took in the forest, the creek, the mud, theriver,—seemed to beckon with a dishonoring flourish before the sunlitface of the land a treacherous appeal to the lurking death, to thehidden evil, to the profound darkness of its heart. It was so startlingthat I leaped to my feet and looked back at the edge of the forest, asthough I had expected an answer of some sort to that black display ofconfidence. You know the foolish notions that come to one sometimes. Thehigh 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—thenpretending not to know anything of my existence, turned back to thestation. The sun was low; and leaning forward side by side, they seemedto be tugging painfully uphill their two ridiculous shadows of unequallength, that trailed behind them slowly over the tall grass withoutbending 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 thenews came that all the donkeys were dead. I know nothing as to the fateof the less valuable animals. They, no doubt, like the rest of us, foundwhat they deserved. I did not inquire. I was then rather excited atthe prospect of meeting Kurtz very soon. When I say very soon I meanit comparatively. It was just two months from the day we left the creekwhen we came to the bank below Kurtz's station.

"Going up that river was like traveling back to the earliest beginningsof the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees werekings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The airwas warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance ofsunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, intothe gloom of overshadowed distances. On silvery sandbanks hippos andalligators sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters flowedthrough a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as youwould in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying tofind the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off forever from everything you had known once—somewhere—far away—in anotherexistence perhaps. There were moments when one's past came back to one,as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare to yourself;but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, rememberedwith wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world ofplants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not inthe least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable forcebrooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengefulaspect. I got used to it afterwards; I did not see it any more; I had notime. I had to keep guessing at the channel; I had to discern, mostly byinspiration, the signs of hidden banks; I watched for sunken stones; Iwas learning to clap my teeth smartly before my heart flew out, when Ishaved by a fluke some infernal sly old snag that would have ripped thelife out of the tin-pot steamboat and drowned all the pilgrims; I had tokeep a look-out for the signs of dead wood we could cut up in the nightfor 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 tellyou—fades. The inner truth is hidden—luckily, luckily. But I felt itall the same; I felt often its mysterious stillness watching me atmy monkey tricks, just as it watches you fellows performing on yourrespective tight-ropes for—what is it? half-a-crown a tumble—"

"Try to be civil, Marlow," growled a voice, and I knew there was atleast one listener awake besides myself.

"I beg your pardon. I forgot the heartache which makes up the rest ofthe price. And indeed what does the price matter, if the trick be welldone? You do your tricks very well. And I didn't do badly either, sinceI managed not to sink that steamboat on my first trip. It's a wonder tome yet. Imagine a blindfolded man set to drive a van over a bad road.I sweated and shivered over that business considerably, I can tellyou. After all, for a seaman, to scrape the bottom of the thing that'ssupposed 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 thevery heart. You remember it, you dream of it, you wake up at night andthink of it—years after—and go hot and cold all over. I don't pretendto say that steamboat floated all the time. More than once she had towade for a bit, with twenty cannibals splashing around and pushing.We had enlisted some of these chaps on the way for a crew. Finefellows—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 otherbefore my face: they had brought along a provision of hippo-meatwhich went rotten, and made the mystery of the wilderness stink in mynostrils. Phoo! I can sniff it now. I had the manager on board and threeor four pilgrims with their staves—all complete. Sometimes we came upona station close by the bank, clinging to the skirts of the unknown, andthe white men rushing out of a tumble-down hovel, with great gestures ofjoy and surprise and welcome, seemed very strange,—had the appearanceof being held there captive by a spell. The word ivory would ring inthe air for a while—and on we went again into the silence, along emptyreaches, round the still bends, between the high walls of ourwinding way, reverberating in hollow claps the ponderous beat of thestern-wheel. Trees, trees, millions of trees, massive, immense, runningup high; and at their foot, hugging the bank against the stream, creptthe little begrimed steamboat, like a sluggish beetle crawling on thefloor of a lofty portico. It made you feel very small, very lost, andyet it was not altogether depressing, that feeling. After all, if youwere small, the grimy beetle crawled on—which was just what you wantedit 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 itcrawled toward Kurtz—exclusively; but when the steam-pipes startedleaking we crawled very slow. The reaches opened before us and closedbehind, as if the forest had stepped leisurely across the water to barthe way for our return. We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heartof darkness. It was very quiet there. At night sometimes the roll ofdrums behind the curtain of trees would run up the river and remainsustained faintly, as if hovering in the air high over our heads, tillthe first break of day. Whether it meant war, peace, or prayer we couldnot tell. The dawns were heralded by the descent of a chill stillness;the woodcutters slept, their fires burned low; the snapping of a twigwould make you start. We were wanderers on a prehistoric earth, on anearth that wore the aspect of an unknown planet. We could have fanciedourselves the first of men taking possession of an accursed inheritance,to be subdued at the cost of profound anguish and of excessive toil. Butsuddenly, as we struggled round a bend, there would be a glimpse of rushwalls, 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 eyesrolling, under the droop of heavy and motionless foliage. The steamertoiled along slowly on the edge of a black and incomprehensible frenzy.The prehistoric man was cursing us, praying to us, welcoming us—whocould tell? We were cut off from the comprehension of our surroundings;we glided past like phantoms, wondering and secretly appalled, as sanemen would be before an enthusiastic outbreak in a madhouse. We could notunderstand, because we were too far and could not remember, because wewere traveling 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 shackledform of a conquered monster, but there—there you could look at a thingmonstrous and free. It was unearthly, and the men were—No, they werenot inhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst of it—this suspicion oftheir not being inhuman. It would come slowly to one. They howled, andleaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was justthe thought of their humanity—like yours—the thought of your remotekinship with this wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was uglyenough; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself thatthere was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the terriblefrankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in itwhich you—you so remote from the night of first ages—could comprehend.And why not? The mind of man is capable of anything—because everythingis in it, all the past as well as all the future. What was there afterall? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valor, rage—who can tell?—buttruth—truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the fool gape andshudder—the man knows, and can look on without a wink. But he must atleast be as much of a man as these on the shore. He must meet thattruth with his own true stuff—with his own inborn strength. Principles?Principles won't do. Acquisitions, clothes, pretty rags—rags that wouldfly off at the first good shake. No; you want a deliberate belief. Anappeal 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 thatcannot be silenced. Of course, a fool, what with sheer fright and finesentiments, is always safe. Who's that grunting? You wonder I didn't goashore for a howl and a dance? Well, no—I didn't. Fine sentiments, yousay? Fine sentiments, be hanged! I had no time. I had to mess about withwhite-lead and strips of woolen blanket helping to put bandages onthose leaky steam-pipes—I tell you. I had to watch the steering, andcircumvent 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. Andbetween whiles I had to look after the savage who was fireman. He wasan improved specimen; he could fire up a vertical boiler. He was therebelow me, and, upon my word, to look at him was as edifying as seeing adog 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 squintedat the steam-gauge and at the water-gauge with an evident effort ofintrepidity—and he had filed teeth too, the poor devil, and the wool ofhis pate shaved into queer patterns, and three ornamental scars on eachof his cheeks. He ought to have been clapping his hands and stampinghis feet on the bank, instead of which he was hard at work, a thrall tostrange witchcraft, full of improving knowledge. He was useful becausehe had been instructed; and what he knew was this—that should the waterin that transparent thing disappear, the evil spirit inside the boilerwould get angry through the greatness of his thirst, and take a terriblevengeance. 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 ofpolished bone, as big as a watch, stuck flatways through his lower lip),while the wooded banks slipped past us slowly, the short noise was leftbehind, the interminable miles of silence—and we crept on, towardsKurtz. But the snags were thick, the water was treacherous and shallow,the boiler seemed indeed to have a sulky devil in it, and thus neitherthat 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 ofwhat had been a flag of some sort flying from it, and a neatly stackedwoodpile. This was unexpected. We came to the bank, and on the stack offirewood found a flat piece of board with some faded pencil-writingon it. When deciphered it said: 'Wood for you. Hurry up. Approachcautiously.' There was a signature, but it was illegible—notKurtz—a much longer word. 'Hurry up.' Where? Up the river? 'Approachcautiously.' We had not done so. But the warning could not have beenmeant for the place where it could be only found after approach.Something was wrong above. But what—and how much? That was thequestion. We commented adversely upon the imbecility of that telegraphicstyle. 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, andflapped sadly in our faces. The dwelling was dismantled; but we couldsee a white man had lived there not very long ago. There remained a rudetable—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 thepages had been thumbed into a state of extremely dirty softness; but theback had been lovingly stitched afresh with white cotton thread, whichlooked clean yet. It was an extraordinary find. Its title was, 'AnInquiry into some Points of Seamanship,' by a man Tower, Towson—somesuch name—Master in his Majesty's Navy. The matter looked drearyreading enough, with illustrative diagrams and repulsive tables offigures, and the copy was sixty years old. I handled this amazingantiquity with the greatest possible tenderness, lest it should dissolvein my hands. Within, Towson or Towser was inquiring earnestly into thebreaking strain of ships' chains and tackle, and other such matters. Nota very enthralling book; but at the first glance you could see there asingleness of intention, an honest concern for the right way of goingto 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 andthe pilgrims in a delicious sensation of having come upon somethingunmistakably real. Such a book being there was wonderful enough; butstill more astounding were the notes penciled in the margin, and plainlyreferring 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 thatdescription into this nowhere and studying it—and making notes—incipher at that! It was an extravagant mystery.

"I had been dimly aware for some time of a worrying noise, and when Ilifted my eyes I saw the wood-pile was gone, and the manager, aided byall the pilgrims, was shouting at me from the river-side. I slipped thebook into my pocket. I assure you to leave off reading was like tearingmyself away from the shelter of an old and solid friendship.

"I started the lame engine ahead. 'It must be this miserabletrader—this intruder,' exclaimed the manager, looking back malevolentlyat the place we had left. 'He must be English,' I said. 'It will notsave him from getting into trouble if he is not careful,' muttered themanager darkly. I observed with assumed innocence that no man was safefrom 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 ontiptoe for the next beat of the boat, for in sober truth I expected thewretched thing to give up every moment. It was like watching the lastflickers of a life. But still we crawled. Sometimes I would pick out atree a little way ahead to measure our progress towards Kurtz by, butI lost it invariably before we got abreast. To keep the eyes so longon one thing was too much for human patience. The manager displayeda beautiful resignation. I fretted and fumed and took to arguing withmyself whether or no I would talk openly with Kurtz; but before I couldcome 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 matterwhat anyone knew or ignored? What did it matter who was manager? Onegets sometimes such a flash of insight. The essentials of this affairlay deep under the surface, beyond my reach, and beyond my power ofmeddling.

"Towards the evening of the second day we judged ourselves about eightmiles from Kurtz's station. I wanted to push on; but the manager lookedgrave, and told me the navigation up there was so dangerous that itwould be advisable, the sun being very low already, to wait where wewere till next morning. Moreover, he pointed out that if the warningto approach cautiously were to be followed, we must approach indaylight—not at dusk, or in the dark. This was sensible enough. Eightmiles meant nearly three hours' steaming for us, and I could also seesuspicious ripples at the upper end of the reach. Nevertheless, I wasannoyed beyond expression at the delay, and most unreasonably too, sinceone night more could not matter much after so many months. As we hadplenty of wood, and caution was the word, I brought up in the middleof the stream. The reach was narrow, straight, with high sides like arailway cutting. The dusk came gliding into it long before the sun hadset. The current ran smooth and swift, but a dumb immobility sat onthe banks. The living trees, lashed together by the creepers and everyliving bush of the undergrowth, might have been changed into stone,even to the slenderest twig, to the lightest leaf. It was not sleep—itseemed unnatural, like a state of trance. Not the faintest sound of anykind could be heard. You looked on amazed, and began to suspect yourselfof being deaf—then the night came suddenly, and struck you blind aswell. About three in the morning some large fish leaped, and the loudsplash made me jump as though a gun had been fired. When the sun rosethere was a white fog, very warm and clammy, and more blinding than thenight. It did not shift or drive; it was just there, standing all roundyou like something solid. At eight or nine, perhaps, it lifted as ashutter lifts. We had a glimpse of the towering multitude of trees,of the immense matted jungle, with the blazing little ball of the sunhanging over it—all perfectly still—and then the white shutter camedown again, smoothly, as if sliding in greased grooves. I ordered thechain, which we had begun to heave in, to be paid out again. Before itstopped running with a muffled rattle, a cry, a very loud cry, as ofinfinite desolation, soared slowly in the opaque air. It ceased. Acomplaining clamor, modulated in savage discords, filled our ears. Thesheer unexpectedness of it made my hair stir under my cap. I don't knowhow it struck the others: to me it seemed as though the mist itself hadscreamed, so suddenly, and apparently from all sides at once, didthis tumultuous and mournful uproar arise. It culminated in a hurriedoutbreak of almost intolerably excessive shrieking, which stopped short,leaving us stiffened in a variety of silly attitudes, and obstinatelylistening to the nearly as appalling and excessive silence. 'Good God!What is the meaning—?' stammered at my elbow one of the pilgrims,—alittle fat man, with sandy hair and red whiskers, who wore side-springboots, and pink pyjamas tucked into his socks. Two others remainedopen-mouthed a whole minute, then dashed into the little cabin, to rushout incontinently and stand darting scared glances, with Winchesters at'ready' in their hands. What we could see was just the steamer wewere on, her outlines blurred as though she had been on the point ofdissolving, and a misty strip of water, perhaps two feet broad, aroundher—and that was all. The rest of the world was nowhere, as far as oureyes and ears were concerned. Just nowhere. Gone, disappeared; swept offwithout leaving a whisper or a shadow behind.

"I went forward, and ordered the chain to be hauled in short, so as tobe ready to trip the anchor and move the steamboat at once if necessary.'Will they attack?' whispered an awed voice. 'We will all be butcheredin this fog,' murmured another. The faces twitched with the strain, thehands trembled slightly, the eyes forgot to wink. It was very curiousto see the contrast of expressions of the white men and of the blackfellows of our crew, who were as much strangers to that part of theriver as we, though their homes were only eight hundred miles away. Thewhites, of course greatly discomposed, had besides a curious look ofbeing painfully shocked by such an outrageous row. The others had analert, naturally interested expression; but their faces were essentiallyquiet, even those of the one or two who grinned as they hauled at thechain. Several exchanged short, grunting phrases, which seemed to settlethe matter to their satisfaction. Their headman, a young, broad-chestedblack, severely draped in dark-blue fringed cloths, with fierce nostrilsand 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 withthem?' '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 tome that he and his chaps must be very hungry: that they must have beengrowing increasingly hungry for at least this month past. They had beenengaged for six months (I don't think a single one of them had anyclear idea of time, as we at the end of countless ages have. They stillbelonged to the beginnings of time—had no inherited experience to teachthem as it were), and of course, as long as there was a piece of paperwritten over in accordance with some farcical law or other made down theriver, it didn't enter anybody's head to trouble how they would live.Certainly they had brought with them some rotten hippo-meat, whichcouldn't have lasted very long, anyway, even if the pilgrims hadn't, inthe midst of a shocking hullabaloo, thrown a considerable quantity of itoverboard. It looked like a high-handed proceeding; but it was reallya case of legitimate self-defense. You can't breathe dead hippo waking,sleeping, and eating, and at the same time keep your precarious grip onexistence. Besides that, they had given them every week three pieces ofbrass wire, each about nine inches long; and the theory was they were tobuy their provisions with that currency in river-side villages. You cansee how thatworked. There were either no villages, or the people werehostile, or the director, who like the rest of us fed out of tins, withan occasional old he-goat thrown in, didn't want to stop the steamer forsome more or less recondite reason. So, unless they swallowed the wireitself, or made loops of it to snare the fishes with, I don't see whatgood their extravagant salary could be to them. I must say it was paidwith a regularity worthy of a large and honorable trading company. Forthe rest, the only thing to eat—though it didn't look eatable in theleast—I saw in their possession was a few lumps of some stuff likehalf-cooked dough, of a dirty lavender color, they kept wrapped inleaves, and now and then swallowed a piece of, but so small that itseemed done more for the looks of the thing than for any serious purposeof sustenance. Why in the name of all the gnawing devils of hunger theydidn't go for us—they were thirty to five—and have a good tuck in foronce, amazes me now when I think of it. They were big powerful men,with not much capacity to weigh the consequences, with courage, withstrength, even yet, though their skins were no longer glossy and theirmuscles no longer hard. And I saw that something restraining, one ofthose human secrets that baffle probability, had come into play there.I looked at them with a swift quickening of interest—not because itoccurred to me I might be eaten by them before very long, though Iown to you that just then I perceived—in a new light, as it were—howunwholesome the pilgrims looked, and I hoped, yes, I positively hoped,that my aspect was not so—what shall I say?—so—unappetizing: a touchof fantastic vanity which fitted well with the dream-sensation thatpervaded all my days at that time. Perhaps I had a little fever too. Onecan't live with one's finger everlastingly on one's pulse. I hadoften 'a little fever,' or a little touch of other things—the playfulpaw-strokes of the wilderness, the preliminary trifling before the moreserious onslaught which came in due course. Yes; I looked at them as youwould on any human being, with a curiosity of their impulses, motives,capacities, weaknesses, when brought to the test of an inexorablephysical necessity. Restraint! What possible restraint? Was itsuperstition, disgust, patience, fear—or some kind of primitive honor?No fear can stand up to hunger, no patience can wear it out, disgustsimply 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 exasperatingtorment, its black thoughts, its somber 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, dishonor, and the perdition ofone's soul—than this kind of prolonged hunger. Sad, but true. And thesechaps too had no earthly reason for any kind of scruple. Restraint! Iwould just as soon have expected restraint from a hyena prowling amongstthe corpses of a battlefield. But there was the fact facing me—the factdazzling, to be seen, like the foam on the depths of the sea, like aripple on an unfathomable enigma, a mystery greater—when I thoughtof it—than the curious, inexplicable note of desperate grief in thissavage clamor that had swept by us on the river-bank, behind the blindwhiteness of the fog.

"Two pilgrims were quarreling in hurried whispers as to which bank.'Left.' 'No, no; how can you? Right, right, of course.' 'It is veryserious,' said the manager's voice behind me; 'I would be desolated ifanything 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 ofman who would wish to preserve appearances. That was his restraint. Butwhen he muttered something about going on at once, I did not even takethe 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 inthe air—in space. We wouldn't be able to tell where we were goingto—whether up or down stream, or across—till we fetched against onebank 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'timagine a more deadly place for a shipwreck. Whether drowned at once ornot, we were sure to perish speedily in one way or another. 'I authorizeyou to take all the risks,' he said, after a short silence. 'I refuse totake any,' I said shortly; which was just the answer he expected, thoughits tone might have surprised him. 'Well, I must defer to your judgment.You are captain,' he said, with marked civility. I turned my shoulder tohim in sign of my appreciation, and looked into the fog. How long wouldit last? It was the most hopeless look-out. The approach to this Kurtzgrubbing for ivory in the wretched bush was beset by as many dangers asthough he had been an enchanted princess sleeping in a fabulous castle.'Will they attack, do you think?' asked the manager, in a confidentialtone.

"I did not think they would attack, for several obvious reasons. Thethick fog was one. If they left the bank in their canoes they would getlost in it, as we would be if we attempted to move. Still, I had alsojudged the jungle of both banks quite impenetrable—and yet eyes werein it, eyes that had seen us. The river-side bushes were certainly verythick; but the undergrowth behind was evidently penetrable.However, during the short lift I had seen no canoes anywhere in thereach—certainly not abreast of the steamer. But what made the idea ofattack inconceivable to me was the nature of the noise—of the cries wehad heard. They had not the fierce character boding of immediate hostileintention. Unexpected, wild, and violent as they had been, they hadgiven me an irresistible impression of sorrow. The glimpse of thesteamboat had for some reason filled those savages with unrestrainedgrief. The danger, if any, I expounded, was from our proximity to agreat human passion let loose. Even extreme grief may ultimately ventitself in violence—but more generally takes the form of apathy. . . .

"You should have seen the pilgrims stare! They had no heart to grin, oreven 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 goodbothering. Keep a look-out? Well, you may guess I watched the fog forthe signs of lifting as a cat watches a mouse; but for anything else oureyes were of no more use to us than if we had been buried miles deepin a heap of cotton-wool. It felt like it too—choking, warm, stifling.Besides, all I said, though it sounded extravagant, was absolutelytrue to fact. What we afterwards alluded to as an attack was really anattempt at repulse. The action was very far from being aggressive—itwas not even defensive, in the usual sense: it was undertaken under thestress of desperation, and in its essence was purely protective.

"It developed itself, I should say, two hours after the fog lifted, andits commencement was at a spot, roughly speaking, about a mile and ahalf below Kurtz's station. We had just floundered and flopped round abend, when I saw an islet, a mere grassy hummock of bright green, inthe middle of the stream. It was the only thing of the kind; but as weopened the reach more, I perceived it was the head of a long sandbank,or rather of a chain of shallow patches stretching down the middle ofthe river. They were discolored, just awash, and the whole lot was seenjust under the water, exactly as a man's backbone is seen running downthe middle of his back under the skin. Now, as far as I did see, I couldgo to the right or to the left of this. I didn't know either channel, ofcourse. 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 naturallyheaded for the western passage.

"No sooner had we fairly entered it than I became aware it was muchnarrower than I had supposed. To the left of us there was the longuninterrupted shoal, and to the right a high, steep bank heavilyovergrown with bushes. Above the bush the trees stood in serried ranks.The twigs overhung the current thickly, and from distance to distance alarge limb of some tree projected rigidly over the stream. It was thenwell on in the afternoon, the face of the forest was gloomy, and abroad strip of shadow had already fallen on the water. In this shadowwe steamed up—very slowly, as you may imagine. I sheered her wellinshore—the water being deepest near the bank, as the sounding-poleinformed me.

"One of my hungry and forbearing friends was sounding in the bows justbelow me. This steamboat was exactly like a decked scow. On the deckthere were two little teak-wood houses, with doors and windows. Theboiler was in the fore-end, and the machinery right astern. Over thewhole there was a light roof, supported on stanchions. The funnelprojected through that roof, and in front of the funnel a small cabinbuilt of light planks served for a pilot-house. It contained a couch,two camp-stools, a loaded Martini-Henry leaning in one corner, a tinytable, and the steering-wheel. It had a wide door in front and a broadshutter at each side. All these were always thrown open, of course. Ispent 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. Anathletic black belonging to some coast tribe, and educated by my poorpredecessor, was the helmsman. He sported a pair of brass earrings, worea blue cloth wrapper from the waist to the ankles, and thought all theworld 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 lostsight of you, he became instantly the prey of an abject funk, and wouldlet 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 tosee at each try a little more of it stick out of that river, when I sawmy poleman give up the business suddenly, and stretch himself flat onthe deck, without even taking the trouble to haul his pole in. He kepthold on it though, and it trailed in the water. At the same time thefireman, whom I could also see below me, sat down abruptly before hisfurnace and ducked his head. I was amazed. Then I had to look at theriver mighty quick, because there was a snag in the fairway. Sticks,little sticks, were flying about—thick: they were whizzing before mynose, dropping below me, striking behind me against my pilot-house. Allthis time the river, the shore, the woods, were very quiet—perfectlyquiet. I could only hear the heavy splashing thump of the stern-wheeland the patter of these things. We cleared the snag clumsily. Arrows, byJove! We were being shot at! I stepped in quickly to close the shutteron the land side. That fool-helmsman, his hands on the spokes, waslifting his knees high, stamping his feet, champing his mouth, like areined-in horse. Confound him! And we were staggering within ten feet ofthe bank. I had to lean right out to swing the heavy shutter, and I sawa face amongst the leaves on the level with my own, looking at me veryfierce and steady; and then suddenly, as though a veil had been removedfrom my eyes, I made out, deep in the tangled gloom, naked breasts,arms, legs, glaring eyes,—the bush was swarming with human limbs inmovement, glistening, of bronze color. The twigs shook, swayed, andrustled, 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 downhis feet gently, his mouth foamed a little. 'Keep quiet!' I said in afury. 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 irondeck; confused exclamations; a voice screamed, 'Can you turn back?'I caught shape of a V-shaped ripple on the water ahead. What? Anothersnag! A fusillade burst out under my feet. The pilgrims had opened withtheir Winchesters, and were simply squirting lead into that bush. Adeuce of a lot of smoke came up and drove slowly forward. I swore atit. Now I couldn't see the ripple or the snag either. I stood in thedoorway, peering, and the arrows came in swarms. They might have beenpoisoned, but they looked as though they wouldn't kill a cat. The bushbegan to howl. Our wood-cutters raised a warlike whoop; the report of arifle just at my back deafened me. I glanced over my shoulder, and thepilot-house was yet full of noise and smoke when I made a dash at thewheel. The fool-nigger had dropped everything, to throw the shutteropen and let off that Martini-Henry. He stood before the wide opening,glaring, and I yelled at him to come back, while I straightened thesudden twist out of that steamboat. There was no room to turn even if Ihad wanted to, the snag was somewhere very near ahead in that confoundedsmoke, there was no time to lose, so I just crowded her into thebank—right into the bank, where I knew the water was deep.

"We tore slowly along the overhanging bushes in a whirl of broken twigsand flying leaves. The fusillade below stopped short, as I had foreseenit would when the squirts got empty. I threw my head back to a glintingwhizz that traversed the pilot-house, in at one shutter-hole and outat the other. Looking past that mad helmsman, who was shaking the emptyrifle and yelling at the shore, I saw vague forms of men running bentdouble, leaping, gliding, distinct, incomplete, evanescent. Somethingbig appeared in the air before the shutter, the rifle went overboard,and the man stepped back swiftly, looked at me over his shoulder in anextraordinary, profound, familiar manner, and fell upon my feet. Theside of his head hit the wheel twice, and the end of what appeareda long cane clattered round and knocked over a little camp-stool. Itlooked as though after wrenching that thing from somebody ashore he hadlost his balance in the effort. The thin smoke had blown away, we wereclear of the snag, and looking ahead I could see that in another hundredyards or so I would be free to sheer off, away from the bank; but myfeet felt so very warm and wet that I had to look down. The man hadrolled on his back and stared straight up at me; both his hands clutchedthat cane. It was the shaft of a spear that, either thrown or lungedthrough the opening, had caught him in the side just below the ribs; theblade had gone in out of sight, after making a frightful gash; my shoeswere full; a pool of blood lay very still, gleaming dark-red under thewheel; his eyes shone with an amazing luster. The fusillade burst outagain. He looked at me anxiously, gripping the spear like somethingprecious, with an air of being afraid I would try to take it away fromhim. I had to make an effort to free my eyes from his gaze and attendto the steering. With one hand I felt above my head for the line ofthe steam-whistle, and jerked out screech after screech hurriedly. Thetumult of angry and warlike yells was checked instantly, and then fromthe depths of the woods went out such a tremulous and prolonged wail ofmournful fear and utter despair as may be imagined to follow the flightof the last hope from the earth. There was a great commotion in thebush; the shower of arrows stopped, a few dropping shots rang outsharply—then silence, in which the languid beat of the stern-wheel cameplainly to my ears. I put the helm hard a-starboard at the moment whenthe pilgrim in pink pyjamas, very hot and agitated, appeared in thedoorway. 'The manager sends me—' he began in an official tone, andstopped short. 'Good God!' he said, glaring at the wounded man.

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

"For the moment that was the dominant thought. There was a sense ofextreme disappointment, as though I had found out I had been strivingafter something altogether without a substance. I couldn't have beenmore disgusted if I had traveled all this way for the sole purpose oftalking with Mr. Kurtz. Talking with. . . . I flung one shoe overboard,and became aware that that was exactly what I had been looking forwardto—a talk with Kurtz. I made the strange discovery that I had neverimagined him as doing, you know, but as discoursing. I didn't say tomyself, 'Now I will never see him,' or 'Now I will never shake him bythe hand,' but, 'Now I will never hear him.' The man presented himselfas a voice. Not of course that I did not connect him with some sort ofaction. Hadn't I been told in all the tones of jealousy and admirationthat he had collected, bartered, swindled, or stolen more ivory than allthe other agents together? That was not the point. The point was in hisbeing a gifted creature, and that of all his gifts the one that stoodout pre-eminently, that carried with it a sense of real presence, washis ability to talk, his words—the gift of expression, the bewildering,the illuminating, the most exalted and the most contemptible, thepulsating stream of light, or the deceitful flow from the heart of animpenetrable 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 hasvanished, by means of some spear, arrow, or club. I will never hear thatchap speak after all,'—and my sorrow had a startling extravaganceof emotion, even such as I had noticed in the howling sorrow of thesesavages in the bush. I couldn't have felt more of lonely desolationsomehow, had I been robbed of a belief or had missed my destiny inlife. . . . 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, andMarlow's lean face appeared, worn, hollow, with downward folds anddropped eyelids, with an aspect of concentrated attention; and as hetook vigorous draws at his pipe, it seemed to retreat and advance out ofthe night in the regular flicker of the tiny flame. The match went out.

"Absurd!" he cried. "This is the worst of trying to tell. . . . Hereyou all are, each moored with two good addresses, like a hulk withtwo anchors, a butcher round one corner, a policeman round another,excellent appetites, and temperature normal—you hear—normal fromyear'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 sheernervousness had just flung overboard a pair of new shoes. Now I think ofit, it is amazing I did not shed tears. I am, upon the whole, proudof my fortitude. I was cut to the quick at the idea of having lost theinestimable privilege of listening to the gifted Kurtz. Of course Iwas wrong. The privilege was waiting for me. Oh yes, I heard more thanenough. And I was right, too. A voice. He was very little more than avoice. And I heard—him—it—this voice—other voices—all of them wereso little more than voices—and the memory of that time itself lingersaround me, impalpable, like a dying vibration of one immense jabber,silly, atrocious, sordid, savage, or simply mean, without any kind ofsense. 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 musthelp them to stay in that beautiful world of their own, lest oursgets worse. Oh, she had to be out of it. You should have heard thedisinterred body of Mr. Kurtz saying, 'My Intended.' You would haveperceived directly then how completely she was out of it. And the loftyfrontal bone of Mr. Kurtz! They say the hair goes on growing sometimes,but this—ah specimen, was impressively bald. The wilderness had pattedhim on the head, and, behold, it was like a ball—an ivory ball; it hadcaressed him, and—lo!—he had withered; it had taken him, loved him,embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his flesh, and sealedhis soul to its own by the inconceivable ceremonies of some devilishinitiation. He was its spoiled and pampered favorite. Ivory? I shouldthink so. Heaps of it, stacks of it. The old mud shanty was burstingwith it. You would think there was not a single tusk left either aboveor below the ground in the whole country. 'Mostly fossil,' the managerhad remarked disparagingly. It was no more fossil than I am; but theycall it fossil when it is dug up. It appears these niggers do burythe tusks sometimes—but evidently they couldn't bury this parceldeep enough to save the gifted Mr. Kurtz from his fate. We filled thesteamboat with it, and had to pile a lot on the deck. Thus he couldsee and enjoy as long as he could see, because the appreciation of thisfavor 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, myriver, my—' everything belonged to him. It made me hold my breath inexpectation of hearing the wilderness burst into a prodigious peal oflaughter that would shake the fixed stars in their places. Everythingbelonged to him—but that was a trifle. The thing was to know what hebelonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own. Thatwas the reflection that made you creepy all over. It was impossible—itwas not good for one either—trying to imagine. He had taken a high seatamongst the devils of the land—I mean literally. You can't understand.How could you?—with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by kindneighbors ready to cheer you or to fall on you, stepping delicatelybetween the butcher and the policeman, in the holy terror of scandal andgallows and lunatic asylums—how can you imagine what particular regionof the first ages a man's untrammeled feet may take him into by the wayof solitude—utter solitude without a policeman—by the way of silence,utter silence, where no warning voice of a kind neighbor can be heardwhispering of public opinion? These little things make all the greatdifference. When they are gone you must fall back upon your own innatestrength, upon your own capacity for faithfulness. Of course you maybe too much of a fool to go wrong—too dull even to know you are beingassaulted by the powers of darkness. I take it, no fool ever made abargain for his soul with the devil: the fool is too much of a fool, orthe devil too much of a devil—I don't know which. Or you may be sucha thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind toanything but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth for you is onlya standing place—and whether to be like this is your loss or your gainI 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 withsights, 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 ofunostentatious holes to bury the stuff in—your power of devotion,not to yourself, but to an obscure, back-breaking business. And that'sdifficult enough. Mind, I am not trying to excuse or even explain—I amtrying to account to myself for—for—Mr. Kurtz—for the shade of Mr.Kurtz. This initiated wraith from the back of Nowhere honored me withits amazing confidence before it vanished altogether. This was becauseit could speak English to me. The original Kurtz had been educatedpartly in England, and—as he was good enough to say himself—hissympathies were in the right place. His mother was half-English, hisfather was half-French. All Europe contributed to the making of Kurtz;and by-and-by I learned that, most appropriately, the InternationalSociety for the Suppression of Savage Customs had intrusted him with themaking 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 hadfound time for! But this must have been before his—let us say—nerves,went wrong, and caused him to preside at certain midnight dances endingwith unspeakable rites, which—as far as I reluctantly gatheredfrom what I heard at various times—were offered up to him—do youunderstand?—to Mr. Kurtz himself. But it was a beautiful pieceof writing. The opening paragraph, however, in the light of laterinformation, strikes me now as ominous. He began with the argumentthat we whites, from the point of development we had arrived at, 'mustnecessarily appear to them [savages] in the nature of supernaturalbeings—we approach them with the might as of a deity,' and so on, andso on. 'By the simple exercise of our will we can exert a power for goodpractically unbounded,' &c., &c. From that point he soared and took mewith him. The peroration was magnificent, though difficult to remember,you know. It gave me the notion of an exotic Immensity ruled by anaugust Benevolence. It made me tingle with enthusiasm. This was theunbounded power of eloquence—of words—of burning noble words. Therewere no practical hints to interrupt the magic current of phrases,unless a kind of note at the foot of the last page, scrawled evidentlymuch later, in an unsteady hand, may be regarded as the exposition ofa method. It was very simple, and at the end of that moving appeal toevery 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 thatvaluable postscriptum, because, later on, when he in a sense came tohimself, 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 influenceupon 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'vedone enough for it to give me the indisputable right to lay it, if Ichoose, for an everlasting rest in the dust-bin of progress, amongstall the sweepings and, figuratively speaking, all the dead cats ofcivilization. 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 orfrighten rudimentary souls into an aggravated witch-dance in hishonor; he could also fill the small souls of the pilgrims with bittermisgivings: he had one devoted friend at least, and he had conqueredone soul in the world that was neither rudimentary nor tainted withself-seeking. No; I can't forget him, though I am not prepared to affirmthe fellow was exactly worth the life we lost in getting to him. Imissed my late helmsman awfully,—I missed him even while his bodywas still lying in the pilot-house. Perhaps you will think it passingstrange this regret for a savage who was no more account than a grain ofsand in a black Sahara. Well, don't you see, he had done something, hehad steered; for months I had him at my back—a help—an instrument. Itwas a kind of partnership. He steered for me—I had to look after him, Iworried about his deficiencies, and thus a subtle bond had been created,of which I only became aware when it was suddenly broken. And theintimate profundity of that look he gave me when he received his hurtremains to this day in my memory—like a claim of distant kinshipaffirmed 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 asI had put on a dry pair of slippers, I dragged him out, after firstjerking the spear out of his side, which operation I confess I performedwith my eyes shut tight. His heels leaped together over the littledoor-step; his shoulders were pressed to my breast; I hugged him frombehind desperately. Oh! he was heavy, heavy; heavier than any man onearth, 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 Isaw the body roll over twice before I lost sight of it for ever. All thepilgrims and the manager were then congregated on the awning-deckabout the pilot-house, chattering at each other like a flock of excitedmagpies, 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 likewisescandalized, and with a better show of reason—though I admit that thereason itself was quite inadmissible. Oh, quite! I had made up my mindthat if my late helmsman was to be eaten, the fishes alone should havehim. He had been a very second-rate helmsman while alive, but now he wasdead he might have become a first-class temptation, and possibly causesome startling trouble. Besides, I was anxious to take the wheel, theman in pink pyjamas showing himself a hopeless duffer at the business.

"This I did directly the simple funeral was over. We were goinghalf-speed, keeping right in the middle of the stream, and I listenedto the talk about me. They had given up Kurtz, they had given up thestation; Kurtz was dead, and the station had been burnt—and so on—andso on. The red-haired pilgrim was beside himself with the thought thatat least this poor Kurtz had been properly revenged. 'Say! We must havemade 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 helpsaying, 'You made a glorious lot of smoke, anyhow.' I had seen, from theway the tops of the bushes rustled and flew, that almost all the shotshad gone too high. You can't hit anything unless you take aim and firefrom the shoulder; but these chaps fired from the hip with their eyesshut. The retreat, I maintained—and I was right—was caused by thescreeching of the steam-whistle. Upon this they forgot Kurtz, and beganto howl at me with indignant protests.

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

"Through my glasses I saw the slope of a hill interspersed with raretrees and perfectly free from undergrowth. A long decaying building onthe summit was half buried in the high grass; the large holes in thepeaked roof gaped black from afar; the jungle and the woods made abackground. There was no inclosure or fence of any kind; but there hadbeen one apparently, for near the house half-a-dozen slim posts remainedin a row, roughly trimmed, and with their upper ends ornamented withround carved balls. The rails, or whatever there had been between, haddisappeared. Of course the forest surrounded all that. The river-bankwas clear, and on the water-side I saw a white man under a hat like acart-wheel beckoning persistently with his whole arm. Examining theedge of the forest above and below, I was almost certain I could seemovements—human forms gliding here and there. I steamed past prudently,then stopped the engines and let her drift down. The man on the shorebegan to shout, urging us to land. 'We have been attacked,' screamedthe manager. 'I know—I know. It's all right,' yelled back the other, ascheerful as you please. 'Come along. It's all right. I am glad.'

"His aspect reminded me of something I had seen—something funny I hadseen somewhere. As I maneuvered to get alongside, I was asking myself,'What does this fellow look like?' Suddenly I got it. He looked likea harlequin. His clothes had been made of some stuff that was brownholland probably, but it was covered with patches all over, with brightpatches, blue, red, and yellow,—patches on the back, patches on front,patches on elbows, on knees; colored binding round his jacket, scarletedging at the bottom of his trousers; and the sunshine made him lookextremely gay and wonderfully neat withal, because you could see howbeautifully 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 likesunshine and shadow on a windswept plain. 'Look out, captain!' hecried; 'there's a snag lodged in here last night.' What! Another snag? Iconfess I swore shamefully. I had nearly holed my cripple, to finish offthat charming trip. The harlequin on the bank turned his little pug noseup to me. 'You English?' he asked, all smiles. 'Are you?' I shouted fromthe wheel. The smiles vanished, and he shook his head as if sorry formy disappointment. Then he brightened up. 'Never mind!' he criedencouragingly. '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 asudden. His face was like the autumn sky, overcast one moment and brightthe next.

"When the manager, escorted by the pilgrims, all of them armed to theteeth, had gone to the house, this chap came on board. 'I say, Idon't like this. These natives are in the bush,' I said. He assured meearnestly 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 yousaid it was all right,' I cried. 'Oh, they meant no harm,' he said; andas I stared he corrected himself, 'Not exactly.' Then vivaciously, 'Myfaith, your pilot-house wants a clean up!' In the next breath he advisedme to keep enough steam on the boiler to blow the whistle in case of anytrouble. 'One good screech will do more for you than all your rifles.They are simple people,' he repeated. He rattled away at such a ratehe quite overwhelmed me. He seemed to be trying to make up for lots ofsilence, and actually hinted, laughing, that such was the case. 'Don'tyou talk with Mr. Kurtz?' I said. 'You don't talk with that man—youlisten to him,' he exclaimed with severe exaltation. 'But now—' Hewaved his arm, and in the twinkling of an eye was in the uttermostdepths of despondency. In a moment he came up again with a jump,possessed himself of both my hands, shook them continuously, while hegabbled: 'Brother sailor . . . honor . . . pleasure . . . delight . . .introduce myself . . . Russian . . . son of an arch-priest . . .Government of Tambov . . . What? Tobacco! English tobacco; the excellentEnglish tobacco! Now, that's brotherly. Smoke? Where's a sailor thatdoes not smoke?'

"The pipe soothed him, and gradually I made out he had run away fromschool, had gone to sea in a Russian ship; ran away again; served sometime in English ships; was now reconciled with the arch-priest. He madea point of that. 'But when one is young one must see things, gatherexperience, ideas; enlarge the mind.' 'Here!' I interrupted. 'You cannever tell! Here I have met Mr. Kurtz,' he said, youthfully solemn andreproachful. I held my tongue after that. It appears he had persuaded aDutch 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 ofwhat would happen to him than a baby. He had been wandering about thatriver 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 oldVan Shuyten would tell me to go to the devil,' he narrated with keenenjoyment; 'but I stuck to him, and talked and talked, till at last hegot afraid I would talk the hind-leg off his favorite dog, so he gaveme some cheap things and a few guns, and told me he hoped he would neversee my face again. Good old Dutchman, Van Shuyten. I've sent him onesmall lot of ivory a year ago, so that he can't call me a little thiefwhen I get back. I hope he got it. And for the rest I don't care. I hadsome 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, butrestrained himself. 'The only book I had left, and I thought I had lostit,' he said, looking at it ecstatically. 'So many accidents happen toa man going about alone, you know. Canoes get upset sometimes—andsometimes 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 becameserious. 'I had lots of trouble to keep these people off,' he said. 'Didthey want to kill you?' I asked. 'Oh no!' he cried, and checkedhimself. 'Why did they attack us?' I pursued. He hesitated, thensaid 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,' hecried, 'this man has enlarged my mind.' He opened his arms wide, staringat me with his little blue eyes that were perfectly round."

III

"I looked at him, lost in astonishment. There he was before me, inmotley, as though he had absconded from a troupe of mimes, enthusiastic,fabulous. His very existence was improbable, inexplicable, andaltogether bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It wasinconceivable how he had existed, how he had succeeded in getting sofar, how he had managed to remain—why he did not instantly disappear.'I went a little farther,' he said, 'then still a little farther—tillI 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 tellyou.' The glamour of youth enveloped his particolored rags, hisdestitution, his loneliness, the essential desolation of his futilewanderings. For months—for years—his life hadn't been worth a day'spurchase; and there he was gallantly, thoughtlessly alive, to allappearance indestructible solely by the virtue of his few years andof his unreflecting audacity. I was seduced into something likeadmiration—like envy. Glamour urged him on, glamour kept him unscathed.He surely wanted nothing from the wilderness but space to breathe in andto push on through. His need was to exist, and to move onwards atthe greatest possible risk, and with a maximum of privation. If theabsolutely pure, uncalculating, unpractical spirit of adventure had everruled a human being, it ruled this be-patched youth. I almost enviedhim the possession of this modest and clear flame. It seemed to haveconsumed all thought of self so completely, that, even while he wastalking to you, you forgot that it was he—the man before your eyes—whohad 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 itwith a sort of eager fatalism. I must say that to me it appeared aboutthe most dangerous thing in every way he had come upon so far.

"They had come together unavoidably, like two ships becalmed neareach other, and lay rubbing sides at last. I suppose Kurtz wanted anaudience, because on a certain occasion, when encamped in the forest,they had talked all night, or more probably Kurtz had talked. 'We talkedof everything,' he said, quite transported at the recollection. 'Iforgot there was such a thing as sleep. The night did not seem to lastan hour. Everything! Everything! . . . Of love too.' 'Ah, he talked toyou 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 headmanof my wood-cutters, lounging near by, turned upon him his heavy andglittering eyes. I looked around, and I don't know why, but I assure youthat never, never before, did this land, this river, this jungle, thevery arch of this blazing sky, appear to me so hopeless and so dark, soimpenetrable to human thought, so pitiless to human weakness. 'And, eversince, you have been with him, of course?' I said.

"On the contrary. It appears their intercourse had been very much brokenby various causes. He had, as he informed me proudly, managed to nurseKurtz through two illnesses (he alluded to it as you would to some riskyfeat), but as a rule Kurtz wandered alone, far in the depths of theforest. 'Very often coming to this station, I had to wait days anddays before he would turn up,' he said. 'Ah, it was worth waitingfor!—sometimes.' 'What was he doing? exploring or what?' I asked. 'Ohyes, of course;' he had discovered lots of villages, a lake too—hedid not know exactly in what direction; it was dangerous to inquiretoo much—but mostly his expeditions had been for ivory. 'But he had nogoods to trade with by that time,' I objected. 'There's a good lot ofcartridges left even yet,' he answered, looking away. 'To speak plainly,he raided the country,' I said. He nodded. 'Not alone, surely!' Hemuttered something about the villages round that lake. 'Kurtz got thetribe to follow him, did he?' I suggested. He fidgeted a little. 'Theyadored him,' he said. The tone of these words was so extraordinary thatI looked at him searchingly. It was curious to see his mingled eagernessand reluctance to speak of Kurtz. The man filled his life, occupied histhoughts, swayed his emotions. 'What can you expect?' he burst out; 'hecame to them with thunder and lightning, you know—and they had neverseen 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 toshoot 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 villagenear 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 meunless I gave him the ivory and then cleared out of the country, becausehe could do so, and had a fancy for it, and there was nothing on earthto 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. Icouldn't leave him. I had to be careful, of course, till we got friendlyagain for a time. He had his second illness then. Afterwards I had tokeep out of the way; but I didn't mind. He was living for the most partin those villages on the lake. When he came down to the river, sometimeshe 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'tget away. When I had a chance I begged him to try and leave while therewas time; I offered to go back with him. And he would say yes, and thenhe 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 atsuch a thing. . . . I had taken up my binoculars while we talked and waslooking at the shore, sweeping the limit of the forest at each side andat the back of the house. The consciousness of there being people inthat bush, so silent, so quiet—as silent and quiet as the ruined houseon the hill—made me uneasy. There was no sign on the face of natureof this amazing tale that was not so much told as suggested to me indesolate exclamations, completed by shrugs, in interrupted phrases, inhints 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 hiddenknowledge, of patient expectation, of unapproachable silence. TheRussian was explaining to me that it was only lately that Mr. Kurtz hadcome down to the river, bringing along with him all the fighting men ofthat lake tribe. He had been absent for several months—getting himselfadored, I suppose—and had come down unexpectedly, with the intention toall appearance of making a raid either across the river or down stream.Evidently the appetite for more ivory had got the better of the—whatshall I say?—less material aspirations. However he had got much worsesuddenly. 'I heard he was lying helpless, and so I came up—took mychance,' said the Russian. 'Oh, he is bad, very bad.' I directed myglass to the house. There were no signs of life, but there was theruined roof, the long mud wall peeping above the grass, with threelittle square window-holes, no two of the same size; all this broughtwithin 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 thefield of my glass. You remember I told you I had been struck at thedistance by certain attempts at ornamentation, rather remarkable in theruinous aspect of the place. Now I had suddenly a nearer view, and itsfirst result was to make me throw my head back as if before a blow. ThenI went carefully from post to post with my glass, and I saw my mistake.These round knobs were not ornamental but symbolic; they were expressiveand puzzling, striking and disturbing—food for thought and also forthe vultures if there had been any looking down from the sky; but at allevents for such ants as were industrious enough to ascend the pole.They would have been even more impressive, those heads on the stakes, iftheir faces had not been turned to the house. Only one, the first I hadmade out, was facing my way. I was not so shocked as you may think. Thestart 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 returneddeliberately 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 ofthat pole, and, with the shrunken dry lips showing a narrow white lineof the teeth, was smiling too, smiling continuously at some endless andjocose dream of that eternal slumber.

"I am not disclosing any trade secrets. In fact the manager saidafterwards that Mr. Kurtz's methods had ruined the district. I have noopinion on that point, but I want you clearly to understand that therewas nothing exactly profitable in these heads being there. They onlyshowed that Mr. Kurtz lacked restraint in the gratification of hisvarious lusts, that there was something wanting in him—some smallmatter which, when the pressing need arose, could not be found underhis magnificent eloquence. Whether he knew of this deficiency himself Ican't say. I think the knowledge came to him at last—only at the verylast. But the wilderness had found him out early, and had taken on him aterrible vengeance for the fantastic invasion. I think it had whisperedto him things about himself which he did not know, things of which hehad no conception till he took counsel with this great solitude—and thewhisper had proved irresistibly fascinating. It echoed loudly within himbecause he was hollow at the core. . . . I put down the glass, and thehead that had appeared near enough to be spoken to seemed at once tohave 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 takethese—say, symbols—down. He was not afraid of the natives; they wouldnot stir till Mr. Kurtz gave the word. His ascendency was extraordinary.The camps of these people surrounded the place, and the chiefs cameevery day to see him. They would crawl. . . . 'I don't want to knowanything of the ceremonies used when approaching Mr. Kurtz,' I shouted.Curious, this feeling that came over me that such details would be moreintolerable than those heads drying on the stakes under Mr. Kurtz'swindows. After all, that was only a savage sight, while I seemed atone bound to have been transported into some lightless region of subtlehorrors, where pure, uncomplicated savagery was a positive relief, beingsomething that had a right to exist—obviously—in the sunshine. Theyoung man looked at me with surprise. I suppose it did not occur to himMr. Kurtz was no idol of mine. He forgot I hadn't heard any of thesesplendid monologues on, what was it? on love, justice, conduct oflife—or what not. If it had come to crawling before Mr. Kurtz, hecrawled as much as the veriest savage of them all. I had no idea of theconditions, he said: these heads were the heads of rebels. I shocked himexcessively by laughing. Rebels! What would be the next definition Iwas to hear? There had been enemies, criminals, workers—and thesewere rebels. Those rebellious heads looked very subdued to me on theirsticks. 'You don't know how such a life tries a man like Kurtz,' criedKurtz's last disciple. 'Well, and you?' I said. 'I! I! I am a simpleman. I have no great thoughts. I want nothing from anybody. How canyou compare me to . . .?' His feelings were too much for speech, andsuddenly he broke down. 'I don't understand,' he groaned. 'I've beendoing my best to keep him alive, and that's enough. I had no hand inall this. I have no abilities. There hasn't been a drop of medicine or amouthful of invalid food for months here. He was shamefully abandoned.A man like this, with such ideas. Shamefully! Shamefully! I—I—haven'tslept for the last ten nights. . . .'

"His voice lost itself in the calm of the evening. The long shadows ofthe forest had slipped down hill while we talked, had gone far beyondthe ruined hovel, beyond the symbolic row of stakes. All this was in thegloom, while we down there were yet in the sunshine, and the stretchof the river abreast of the clearing glittered in a still and dazzlingsplendor, with a murky and over-shadowed bend above and below. Not aliving soul was seen on the shore. The bushes did not rustle.

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

"'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 hadstopped too, half-way to the steamer, as if petrified. I saw the man onthe stretcher sit up, lank and with an uplifted arm, above the shouldersof the bearers. 'Let us hope that the man who can talk so well of lovein general will find some particular reason to spare us this time,' Isaid. I resented bitterly the absurd danger of our situation, as ifto be at the mercy of that atrocious phantom had been a dishonoringnecessity. I could not hear a sound, but through my glasses I saw thethin arm extended commandingly, the lower jaw moving, the eyes ofthat apparition shining darkly far in its bony head that nodded withgrotesque 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 hisbody emerged from it pitiful and appalling as from a winding-sheet. Icould 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 hadbeen shaking its hand with menaces at a motionless crowd of men made ofdark and glittering bronze. I saw him open his mouth wide—it gave hima weirdly voracious aspect, as though he had wanted to swallow all theair, all the earth, all the men before him. A deep voice reachedme faintly. He must have been shouting. He fell back suddenly. Thestretcher shook as the bearers staggered forward again, and almost atthe same time I noticed that the crowd of savages was vanishing withoutany perceptible movement of retreat, as if the forest that had ejectedthese beings so suddenly had drawn them in again as the breath is drawnin a long aspiration.

"Some of the pilgrims behind the stretcher carried his arms—twoshot-guns, a heavy rifle, and a light revolver-carbine—the thunderboltsof that pitiful Jupiter. The manager bent over him murmuring ashe walked beside his head. They laid him down in one of the littlecabins—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 envelopesand open letters littered his bed. His hand roamed feebly amongst thesepapers. I was struck by the fire of his eyes and the composed languor ofhis expression. It was not so much the exhaustion of disease. He did notseem in pain. This shadow looked satiated and calm, as though for themoment 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 specialrecommendations were turning up again. The volume of tone he emittedwithout effort, almost without the trouble of moving his lips, amazedme. A voice! a voice! It was grave, profound, vibrating, while the mandid not seem capable of a whisper. However, he had enough strength inhim—factitious no doubt—to very nearly make an end of us, as you shallhear directly.

"The manager appeared silently in the doorway; I stepped out at onceand he drew the curtain after me. The Russian, eyed curiously by thepilgrims, was staring at the shore. I followed the direction of hisglance.

"Dark human shapes could be made out in the distance, flittingindistinctly against the gloomy border of the forest, and near the rivertwo bronze figures, leaning on tall spears, stood in the sunlight underfantastic headdresses of spotted skins, warlike and still in statuesquerepose. And from right to left along the lighted shore moved a wild andgorgeous 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 barbarousornaments. She carried her head high; her hair was done in the shape ofa helmet; she had brass leggings to the knee, brass wire gauntlets tothe elbow, a crimson spot on her tawny cheek, innumerable necklaces ofglass beads on her neck; bizarre things, charms, gifts of witch-men,that hung about her, glittered and trembled at every step. She must havehad the value of several elephant tusks upon her. She was savage andsuperb, wild-eyed and magnificent; there was something ominous andstately in her deliberate progress. And in the hush that had fallensuddenly upon the whole sorrowful land, the immense wilderness, thecolossal 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 tenebrousand passionate soul.

"She came abreast of the steamer, stood still, and faced us. Her longshadow fell to the water's edge. Her face had a tragic and fierceaspect of wild sorrow and of dumb pain mingled with the fear of somestruggling, half-shaped resolve. She stood looking at us without astir and like the wilderness itself, with an air of brooding over aninscrutable purpose. A whole minute passed, and then she made a stepforward. There was a low jingle, a glint of yellow metal, a sway offringed draperies, and she stopped as if her heart had failed her. Theyoung fellow by my side growled. The pilgrims murmured at my back.She looked at us all as if her life had depended upon the unswervingsteadiness of her glance. Suddenly she opened her bared arms and threwthem up rigid above her head, as though in an uncontrollable desire totouch the sky, and at the same time the swift shadows darted out on theearth, swept around on the river, gathering the steamer into a shadowyembrace. A formidable silence hung over the scene.

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

"'If she had offered to come aboard I really think I would have tried toshoot her,' said the man of patches, nervously. 'I had been risking mylife every day for the last fortnight to keep her out of the house. Shegot in one day and kicked up a row about those miserable rags I pickedup in the storeroom to mend my clothes with. I wasn't decent. At leastit 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 thistribe. Luckily for me, I fancy Kurtz felt too ill that day to care, orthere would have been mischief. I don't understand. . . . No—it's toomuch for me. Ah, well, it's all over now.'

"At this moment I heard Kurtz's deep voice behind the curtain, 'Saveme!—save the ivory, you mean. Don't tell me. Save me!Why, I've hadto save you. You are interrupting my plans now. Sick! Sick! Not so sickas you would like to believe. Never mind. I'll carry my ideas outyet—I will return. I'll show you what can be done. You with your littlepeddling notions—you are interfering with me. I will return. I . . .'

"The manager came out. He did me the honor to take me under the arm andlead me aside. 'He is very low, very low,' he said. He considered itnecessary to sigh, but neglected to be consistently sorrowful. 'We havedone all we could for him—haven't we? But there is no disguising thefact, Mr. Kurtz has done more harm than good to the Company. He didnot see the time was not ripe for vigorous action. Cautiously,cautiously—that's my principle. We must be cautious yet. The districtis closed to us for a time. Deplorable! Upon the whole, the trade willsuffer. I don't deny there is a remarkable quantity of ivory—mostlyfossil. We must save it, at all events—but look how precarious theposition is—and why? Because the method is unsound.' 'Do you,' said I,looking at the shore, 'call it "unsound method"?' 'Without doubt,' heexclaimed, hotly. 'Don't you?' . . . 'No method at all,' I murmuredafter a while. 'Exactly,' he exulted. 'I anticipated this. Shows acomplete want of judgment. It is my duty to point it out in the properquarter.' 'Oh,' said I, 'that fellow—what's his name?—the brickmaker,will make a readable report for you.' He appeared confounded for amoment. 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 withemphasis. He started, dropped on me a cold heavy glance, said veryquietly, 'He was,' and turned his back on me. My hour of favor wasover; I found myself lumped along with Kurtz as a partisan of methodsfor which the time was not ripe: I was unsound! Ah! but it was somethingto have at least a choice of nightmares.

"I had turned to the wilderness really, not to Mr. Kurtz, who, I wasready to admit, was as good as buried. And for a moment it seemed to meas if I also were buried in a vast grave full of unspeakable secrets. Ifelt an intolerable weight oppressing my breast, the smell of the dampearth, the unseen presence of victorious corruption, the darkness of animpenetrable night. . . . The Russian tapped me on the shoulder. I heardhim mumbling and stammering something about 'brother seaman—couldn'tconceal—knowledge of matters that would affect Mr. Kurtz's reputation.'I waited. For him evidently Mr. Kurtz was not in his grave; I suspectthat 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 thesame profession,' he would have kept the matter to himself withoutregard to consequences. 'He suspected there was an active ill-willtowards him on the part of these white men that—' 'You are right,' Isaid, remembering a certain conversation I had overheard. 'The managerthinks you ought to be hanged.' He showed a concern at this intelligencewhich amused me at first. 'I had better get out of the way quietly,' hesaid, earnestly. 'I can do no more for Kurtz now, and they would soonfind some excuse. What's to stop them? There's a military post threehundred miles from here.' 'Well, upon my word,' said I, 'perhaps youhad better go if you have any friends amongst the savages near by.''Plenty,' he said. 'They are simple people—and I want nothing, youknow.' He stood biting his lips, then: 'I don't want any harm to happento these whites here, but of course I was thinking of Mr. Kurtz'sreputation—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 knowhow truly I spoke.

"He informed me, lowering his voice, that it was Kurtz who had orderedthe attack to be made on the steamer. 'He hated sometimes the idea ofbeing taken away—and then again. . . . But I don't understand thesematters. I am a simple man. He thought it would scare you away—that youwould give it up, thinking him dead. I could not stop him. Oh, I had anawful time of it this last month.' 'Very well,' I said. 'He is all rightnow.' '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—' Ipromised a complete discretion with great gravity. 'I have a canoe andthree black fellows waiting not very far. I am off. Could you give me afew Martini-Henry cartridges?' I could, and did, with proper secrecy. Hehelped himself, with a wink at me, to a handful of my tobacco. 'Betweensailors—you know—good English tobacco.' At the door of the pilot-househe 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 stringssandal-wise under his bare feet. I rooted out an old pair, at which helooked with admiration before tucking it under his left arm. One of hispockets (bright red) was bulging with cartridges, from the other (darkblue) peeped 'Towson's Inquiry,' &c., &c. He seemed to think himselfexcellently well equipped for a renewed encounter with the wilderness.'Ah! I'll never, never meet such a man again. You ought to have heardhim recite poetry—his own too it was, he told me. Poetry!' He rolledhis eyes at the recollection of these delights. 'Oh, he enlarged mymind!' 'Goodby,' said I. He shook hands and vanished in the night.Sometimes I ask myself whether I had ever really seen him—whether itwas possible to meet such a phenomenon! . . .

"When I woke up shortly after midnight his warning came to my mind withits hint of danger that seemed, in the starred darkness, real enough tomake me get up for the purpose of having a look round. On the hill abig fire burned, illuminating fitfully a crooked corner of thestation-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 withinthe forest, red gleams that wavered, that seemed to sink and rise fromthe ground amongst confused columnar shapes of intense blackness, showedthe exact position of the camp where Mr. Kurtz's adorers were keepingtheir uneasy vigil. The monotonous beating of a big drum filled the airwith muffled shocks and a lingering vibration. A steady droning sound ofmany men chanting each to himself some weird incantation came out fromthe black, flat wall of the woods as the humming of bees comes out ofa 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 ofyells, an overwhelming outbreak of a pent-up and mysterious frenzy, wokeme up in a bewildered wonder. It was cut short all at once, and thelow droning went on with an effect of audible and soothing silence. Iglanced casually into the little cabin. A light was burning within, butMr. Kurtz was not there.

"I think I would have raised an outcry if I had believed my eyes. But Ididn't believe them at first—the thing seemed so impossible. The factis I was completely unnerved by a sheer blank fright, pure abstractterror, unconnected with any distinct shape of physical danger. Whatmade this emotion so overpowering was—how shall I define it?—the moralshock I received, as if something altogether monstrous, intolerable tothought and odious to the soul, had been thrust upon me unexpectedly.This lasted of course the merest fraction of a second, and then theusual sense of commonplace, deadly danger, the possibility of a suddenonslaught 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 chairon deck within three feet of me. The yells had not awakened him; hesnored very slightly; I left him to his slumbers and leaped ashore. Idid not betray Mr. Kurtz—it was ordered I should never betray him—itwas written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice. I wasanxious to deal with this shadow by myself alone,—and to this day Idon't know why I was so jealous of sharing with anyone the peculiarblackness of that experience.

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

"I kept to the track though—then stopped to listen. The night was veryclear: a dark blue space, sparkling with dew and starlight, in whichblack things stood very still. I thought I could see a kind of motionahead of me. I was strangely cocksure of everything that night. Iactually left the track and ran in a wide semicircle (I verily believechuckling to myself) so as to get in front of that stir, of that motionI had seen—if indeed I had seen anything. I was circumventing Kurtz asthough it had been a boyish game.

"I came upon him, and, if he had not heard me coming, I would havefallen over him too, but he got up in time. He rose, unsteady, long,pale, indistinct, like a vapor exhaled by the earth, and swayedslightly, misty and silent before me; while at my back the fires loomedbetween the trees, and the murmur of many voices issued from the forest.I had cut him off cleverly; but when actually confronting him I seemedto come to my senses, I saw the danger in its right proportion. It wasby no means over yet. Suppose he began to shout? Though he could hardlystand, there was still plenty of vigor in his voice. 'Go away—hideyourself,' he said, in that profound tone. It was very awful. I glancedback. We were within thirty yards from the nearest fire. A black figurestood up, strode on long black legs, waving long black arms, across theglow. It had horns—antelope horns, I think—on its head. Some sorcerer,some witch-man, no doubt: it looked fiend-like enough. 'Do you know whatyou are doing?' I whispered. 'Perfectly,' he answered, raising his voicefor that single word: it sounded to me far off and yet loud, like a hailthrough a speaking-trumpet. 'If he makes a row we are lost,' I thoughtto myself. This clearly was not a case for fisticuffs, even apart fromthe very natural aversion I had to beat that Shadow—this wandering andtormented thing. 'You will be lost,' I said—'utterly lost.' One getssometimes such a flash of inspiration, you know. I did say the rightthing, though indeed he could not have been more irretrievably lost thanhe was at this very moment, when the foundations of our intimacy werebeing laid—to endure—to endure—even to the end—even beyond.

"'I had immense plans,' he muttered irresolutely. 'Yes,' said I; 'but ifyou try to shout I'll smash your head with—' There was not a stick ora stone near. 'I will throttle you for good,' I corrected myself. 'I wason 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 forthis stupid scoundrel—' 'Your success in Europe is assured in anycase,' I affirmed, steadily. I did not want to have the throttling ofhim, you understand—and indeed it would have been very little use forany practical purpose. I tried to break the spell—the heavy, mute spellof the wilderness—that seemed to draw him to its pitiless breast by theawakening of forgotten and brutal instincts, by the memory of gratifiedand monstrous passions. This alone, I was convinced, had driven him outto the edge of the forest, to the bush, towards the gleam of fires, thethrob of drums, the drone of weird incantations; this alone had beguiledhis unlawful soul beyond the bounds of permitted aspirations. And, don'tyou see, the terror of the position was not in being knocked on thehead—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 thename of anything high or low. I had, even like the niggers, to invokehim—himself his own exalted and incredible degradation. There wasnothing either above or below him, and I knew it. He had kicked himselfloose of the earth. Confound the man! he had kicked the very earth topieces. He was alone, and I before him did not know whether I stoodon the ground or floated in the air. I've been telling you what wesaid—repeating the phrases we pronounced,—but what's the good? Theywere common everyday words,—the familiar, vague sounds exchanged onevery waking day of life. But what of that? They had behind them, to mymind, the terrific suggestiveness of words heard in dreams, of phrasesspoken in nightmares. Soul! If anybody had ever struggled with a soul,I am the man. And I wasn't arguing with a lunatic either. Believe meor not, his intelligence was perfectly clear—concentrated, it is true,upon himself with horrible intensity, yet clear; and therein was my onlychance—barring, of course, the killing him there and then, which wasn'tso good, on account of unavoidable noise. But his soul was mad. Beingalone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself, and, by heavens! Itell you, it had gone mad. I had—for my sins, I suppose—to go throughthe ordeal of looking into it myself. No eloquence could have been sowithering 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 theinconceivable mystery of a soul that knew no restraint, no faith, andno 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 myback down that hill. And yet I had only supported him, his bony armclasped 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 thecurtain of trees I had been acutely conscious all the time, flowed outof the woods again, filled the clearing, covered the slope with a massof naked, breathing, quivering, bronze bodies. I steamed up a bit, thenswung down-stream, and two thousand eyes followed the evolutions ofthe splashing, thumping, fierce river-demon beating the water with itsterrible tail and breathing black smoke into the air. In front of thefirst rank, along the river, three men, plastered with bright red earthfrom head to foot, strutted to and fro restlessly. When we came abreastagain, they faced the river, stamped their feet, nodded their hornedheads, swayed their scarlet bodies; they shook towards the fierceriver-demon a bunch of black feathers, a mangy skin with a pendenttail—something that looked like a dried gourd; they shoutedperiodically together strings of amazing words that resembled no soundsof human language; and the deep murmurs of the crowd, interruptedsuddenly, were like the response 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 aneddy in the mass of human bodies, and the woman with helmeted head andtawny cheeks rushed out to the very brink of the stream. She put out herhands, shouted something, and all that wild mob took up the shout in aroaring 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 mingledexpression of wistfulness and hate. He made no answer, but I saw asmile, a smile of indefinable meaning, appear on his colorless lipsthat a moment after twitched convulsively. 'Do I not?' he said slowly,gasping, as if the words had been torn out of him by a supernaturalpower.

"I pulled the string of the whistle, and I did this because I saw thepilgrims on deck getting out their rifles with an air of anticipating ajolly lark. At the sudden screech there was a movement of abject terrorthrough that wedged mass of bodies. 'Don't! Don't you frighten themaway,' cried someone on deck disconsolately. I pulled the stringtime after time. They broke and ran, they leaped, they crouched, theyswerved, they dodged the flying terror of the sound. The three red chapshad fallen flat, face down on the shore, as though they had been shotdead. Only the barbarous and superb woman did not so much as flinch,and stretched tragically her bare arms after us over the somber andglittering 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 usdown towards the sea with twice the speed of our upward progress; andKurtz's life was running swiftly too, ebbing, ebbing out of his heartinto the sea of inexorable time. The manager was very placid, he hadno vital anxieties now, he took us both in with a comprehensive andsatisfied 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 disfavor. I was,so to speak, numbered with the dead. It is strange how I accepted thisunforeseen partnership, this choice of nightmares forced upon me in thetenebrous land invaded by these mean and greedy phantoms.

"Kurtz discoursed. A voice! a voice! It rang deep to the very last. Itsurvived his strength to hide in the magnificent folds of eloquence thebarren darkness of his heart. Oh, he struggled! he struggled! The wastesof his weary brain were haunted by shadowy images now—images of wealthand fame revolving obsequiously round his unextinguishable gift ofnoble and lofty expression. My Intended, my station, my career, myideas—these were the subjects for the occasional utterances of elevatedsentiments. The shade of the original Kurtz frequented the bedside ofthe hollow sham, whose fate it was to be buried presently in the mold ofprimeval earth. But both the diabolic love and the unearthly hate ofthe mysteries it had penetrated fought for the possession of thatsoul satiated with primitive emotions, avid of lying fame, of shamdistinction, of all the appearances of success and power.

"Sometimes he was contemptibly childish. He desired to have kings meethim at railway-stations on his return from some ghastly Nowhere, wherehe intended to accomplish great things. 'You show them you have in yousomething that is really profitable, and then there will be no limits tothe recognition of your ability,' he would say. 'Of course you must takecare of the motives—right motives—always.' The long reaches that werelike one and the same reach, monotonous bends that were exactly alike,slipped past the steamer with their multitude of secular trees lookingpatiently after this grimy fragment of another world, the forerunnerof change, of conquest, of trade, of massacres, of blessings. I lookedahead—piloting. 'Close the shutter,' said Kurtz suddenly one day; 'Ican't bear to look at this.' I did so. There was a silence. 'Oh, but Iwill 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 thehead of an island. This delay was the first thing that shookKurtz's confidence. One morning he gave me a packet of papers and aphotograph,—the lot tied together with a shoe-string. 'Keep this forme,' he said. 'This noxious fool' (meaning the manager) 'is capable ofprying 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, butI heard him mutter, 'Live rightly, die, die . . .' I listened. There wasnothing more. Was he rehearsing some speech in his sleep, or was it afragment of a phrase from some newspaper article? He had been writingfor the papers and meant to do so again, 'for the furthering of myideas. It's a duty.'

"His was an impenetrable darkness. I looked at him as you peer down ata man who is lying at the bottom of a precipice where the sun nevershines. But I had not much time to give him, because I was helping theengine-driver to take to pieces the leaky cylinders, to straighten abent connecting-rod, and in other such matters. I lived in aninfernal mess of rust, filings, nuts, bolts, spanners, hammers,ratchet-drills—things I abominate, because I don't get on with them. Itended the little forge we fortunately had aboard; I toiled wearily in awretched 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 alittle 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 havenever 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 thativory face the expression of somber pride, of ruthless power, of craventerror—of an intense and hopeless despair. Did he live his life againin every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that suprememoment of complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, atsome 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 inthe mess-room, and I took my place opposite the manager, who lifted hiseyes to give me a questioning glance, which I successfully ignored.He leaned back, serene, with that peculiar smile of his sealing theunexpressed depths of his meanness. A continuous shower of small fliesstreamed 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 mydinner. I believe I was considered brutally callous. However, I did noteat much. There was a lamp in there—light, don't you know—and outsideit was so beastly, beastly dark. I went no more near the remarkable manwho had pronounced a judgment upon the adventures of his soul on thisearth. The voice was gone. What else had been there? But I am of courseaware 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 didnot. I remained to dream the nightmare out to the end, and to showmy loyalty to Kurtz once more. Destiny. My destiny! Droll thing lifeis—that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose.The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself—that comestoo late—a crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled withdeath. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes placein an impalpable grayness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around,without spectators, without clamor, without glory, without the greatdesire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sicklyatmosphere of tepid skepticism, without much belief in your own right,and still less in that of your adversary. If such is the form ofultimate wisdom, then life is a greater riddle than some of us thinkit to be. I was within a hair's-breadth of the last opportunity forpronouncement, and I found with humiliation that probably I wouldhave nothing to say. This is the reason why I affirm that Kurtz was aremarkable man. He had something to say. He said it. Since I had peepedover the edge myself, I understand better the meaning of his stare, thatcould not see the flame of the candle, but was wide enough to embracethe whole universe, piercing enough to penetrate all the hearts thatbeat in the darkness. He had summed up—he had judged. 'The horror!' Hewas a remarkable man. After all, this was the expression of some sortof belief; it had candor, it had conviction, it had a vibrating noteof revolt in its whisper, it had the appalling face of a glimpsedtruth—the strange commingling of desire and hate. And it is not my ownextremity I remember best—a vision of grayness without form filledwith physical pain, and a careless contempt for the evanescence of allthings—even of this pain itself. No! It is his extremity that I seem tohave lived through. True, he had made that last stride, he had steppedover the edge, while I had been permitted to draw back my hesitatingfoot. And perhaps in this is the whole difference; perhaps all thewisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just compressed into thatinappreciable moment of time in which we step over the threshold of theinvisible. Perhaps! I like to think my summing-up would not have beena word of careless contempt. Better his cry—much better. It wasan affirmation, a moral victory paid for by innumerable defeats, byabominable 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, butthe echo of his magnificent eloquence thrown to me from a soul astranslucently pure as a cliff of crystal.

"No, they did not bury me, though there is a period of time which Iremember mistily, with a shuddering wonder, like a passage through someinconceivable world that had no hope in it and no desire. I found myselfback in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurryingthrough the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devourtheir infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream theirinsignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. Theywere intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretense,because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew.Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individualsgoing about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, wasoffensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face ofa danger it is unable to comprehend. I had no particular desire toenlighten them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself fromlaughing in their faces, so full of stupid importance. I dare say I wasnot very well at that time. I tottered about the streets—there werevarious affairs to settle—grinning bitterly at perfectly respectablepersons. I admit my behavior was inexcusable, but then my temperaturewas seldom normal in these days. My dear aunt's endeavors to 'nurse upmy strength' seemed altogether beside the mark. It was not my strengththat wanted nursing, it was my imagination that wanted soothing. I keptthe bundle of papers given me by Kurtz, not knowing exactly what to dowith it. His mother had died lately, watched over, as I was told, byhis Intended. A clean-shaved man, with an official manner and wearinggold-rimmed spectacles, called on me one day and made inquiries, atfirst circuitous, afterwards suavely pressing, about what he was pleasedto denominate certain 'documents.' I was not surprised, because I hadhad two rows with the manager on the subject out there. I had refusedto give up the smallest scrap out of that package, and I took the sameattitude with the spectacled man. He became darkly menacing at last,and with much heat argued that the Company had the right to every bitof information about its 'territories.' And, said he, 'Mr. Kurtz'sknowledge of unexplored regions must have been necessarily extensiveand peculiar—owing to his great abilities and to the deplorablecircumstances in which he had been placed: therefore'—I assured him Mr.Kurtz's knowledge, however extensive, did not bear upon the problemsof commerce or administration. He invoked then the name of science. 'Itwould be an incalculable loss if,' &c., &c. I offered him the report onthe 'Suppression of Savage Customs,' with the postscriptum torn off. Hetook 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. 'Expectnothing else,' I said. 'There are only private letters.' He withdrewupon some threat of legal proceedings, and I saw him no more; butanother fellow, calling himself Kurtz's cousin, appeared two days later,and was anxious to hear all the details about his dear relative's lastmoments. Incidentally he gave me to understand that Kurtz had beenessentially a great musician. 'There was the making of an immensesuccess,' said the man, who was an organist, I believe, with lank grayhair flowing over a greasy coat-collar. I had no reason to doubthis statement; and to this day I am unable to say what was Kurtz'sprofession, whether he ever had any—which was the greatest of histalents. I had taken him for a painter who wrote for the papers, or elsefor a journalist who could paint—but even the cousin (who took snuffduring the interview) could not tell me what he had been—exactly. Hewas a universal genius—on that point I agreed with the old chap, whothereupon blew his nose noisily into a large cotton handkerchief andwithdrew in senile agitation, bearing off some family letters andmemoranda without importance. Ultimately a journalist anxious to knowsomething of the fate of his 'dear colleague' turned up. This visitorinformed me Kurtz's proper sphere ought to have been politics 'on thepopular side.' He had furry straight eyebrows, bristly hair croppedshort, an eye-glass on a broad ribbon, and, becoming expansive,confessed his opinion that Kurtz really couldn't write a bit—'butheavens! how that man could talk! He electrified large meetings. He hadfaith—don't you see?—he had the faith. He could get himself to believeanything—anything. He would have been a splendid leader of an extremeparty.' 'What party?' I asked. 'Any party,' answered the other. 'Hewas an—an—extremist.' Did I not think so? I assented. Did I know, heasked, with a sudden flash of curiosity, 'what it was that had inducedhim to go out there?' 'Yes,' said I, and forthwith handed him thefamous Report for publication, if he thought fit. He glanced through ithurriedly, mumbling all the time, judged 'it would do,' and took himselfoff with this plunder.

"Thus I was left at last with a slim packet of letters and the girl'sportrait. She struck me as beautiful—I mean she had a beautifulexpression. I know that the sunlight can be made to lie too, yet onefelt that no manipulation of light and pose could have conveyed thedelicate shade of truthfulness upon those features. She seemed ready tolisten without mental reservation, without suspicion, without a thoughtfor herself. I concluded I would go and give her back her portraitand those letters myself. Curiosity? Yes; and also some other feelingperhaps. 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 remainedonly his memory and his Intended—and I wanted to give that up too tothe past, in a way,—to surrender personally all that remained of himwith me to that oblivion which is the last word of our common fate. Idon't defend myself. I had no clear perception of what it was I reallywanted. Perhaps it was an impulse of unconscious loyalty, or thefulfillment of one of these ironic necessities that lurk in the facts ofhuman existence. I don't know. I can't tell. But I went.

"I thought his memory was like the other memories of the dead thataccumulate in every man's life,—a vague impress on the brain of shadowsthat had fallen on it in their swift and final passage; but before thehigh and ponderous door, between the tall houses of a street as stilland decorous as a well-kept alley in a cemetery, I had a vision of himon the stretcher, opening his mouth voraciously, as if to devour all theearth with all its mankind. He lived then before me; he lived as muchas he had ever lived—a shadow insatiable of splendid appearances, offrightful realities; a shadow darker than the shadow of the night, anddraped nobly in the folds of a gorgeous eloquence. The vision seemed toenter the house with me—the stretcher, the phantom-bearers, the wildcrowd of obedient worshipers, the gloom of the forests, the glitter ofthe reach between the murky bends, the beat of the drum, regular andmuffled like the beating of a heart—the heart of a conquering darkness.It was a moment of triumph for the wilderness, an invading and vengefulrush which, it seemed to me, I would have to keep back alone for thesalvation of another soul. And the memory of what I had heard him sayafar there, with the horned shapes stirring at my back, in the glow offires, within the patient woods, those broken phrases came back tome, were heard again in their ominous and terrifying simplicity. Iremembered his abject pleading, his abject threats, the colossal scaleof his vile desires, the meanness, the torment, the tempestuous anguishof 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 Companydid 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 adifficult case. What do you think I ought to do—resist? Eh? I want nomore than justice.' . . . He wanted no more than justice—no more thanjustice. I rang the bell before a mahogany door on the first floor, andwhile I waited he seemed to stare at me out of the glassy panel—starewith that wide and immense stare embracing, condemning, loathing all theuniverse. 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 threelong windows from floor to ceiling that were like three luminous andbedraped columns. The bent gilt legs and backs of the furniture shone inindistinct curves. The tall marble fireplace had a cold and monumentalwhiteness. A grand piano stood massively in a corner, with dark gleamson the flat surfaces like a somber and polished sarcophagus. A high dooropened—closed. I rose.

"She came forward, all in black, with a pale head, floating towardsme in the dusk. She was in mourning. It was more than a year since hisdeath, more than a year since the news came; she seemed as though shewould remember and mourn for ever. She took both my hands in hers andmurmured, 'I had heard you were coming.' I noticed she was not veryyoung—I mean not girlish. She had a mature capacity for fidelity, forbelief, for suffering. The room seemed to have grown darker, as if allthe sad light of the cloudy evening had taken refuge on her forehead.This fair hair, this pale visage, this pure brow, seemed surrounded byan ashy halo from which the dark eyes looked out at me. Their glance wasguileless, profound, confident, and trustful. She carried her sorrowfulhead 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 werestill shaking hands, such a look of awful desolation came upon herface that I perceived she was one of those creatures that are not theplaythings 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 diedonly yesterday—nay, this very minute. I saw her and him in the sameinstant of time—his death and her sorrow—I saw her sorrow in the verymoment of his death. Do you understand? I saw them together—I heardthem together. She had said, with a deep catch of the breath, 'I havesurvived;' while my strained ears seemed to hear distinctly, mingledwith her tone of despairing regret, the summing-up whisper of hiseternal condemnation. I asked myself what I was doing there, with asensation of panic in my heart as though I had blundered into a placeof cruel and absurd mysteries not fit for a human being to behold. Shemotioned me to a chair. We sat down. I laid the packet gently on thelittle table, and she put her hand over it. . . . 'You knew him well,'she murmured, after a moment of mourning silence.

"'Intimacy grows quick out there,' I said. 'I knew him as well as it ispossible for one man to know another.'

"'And you admired him,' she said. 'It was impossible to know him and notto admire him. Was it?'

"'He was a remarkable man,' I said, unsteadily. Then before theappealing fixity of her gaze, that seemed to watch for more words on mylips, I went on, 'It was impossible not to—'

"'Love him,' she finished eagerly, silencing me into an appalleddumbness. 'How true! how true! But when you think that no one knew himso 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 everyword spoken the room was growing darker, and only her forehead, smoothand white, remained illumined by the unextinguishable light of beliefand love.

"'You were his friend,' she went on. 'His friend,' she repeated, alittle louder. 'You must have been, if he had given you this, and sentyou to me. I feel I can speak to you—and oh! I must speak. I wantyou—you who have heard his last words—to know I have been worthy ofhim. . . . It is not pride. . . . Yes! I am proud to know I understoodhim better than anyone on earth—he told me so himself. And since hismother died I have had no one—no one—to—to—'

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

"'. . . Who was not his friend who had heard him speak once?' she wassaying. 'He drew men towards him by what was best in them.' She lookedat me with intensity. 'It is the gift of the great,' she went on, andthe sound of her low voice seemed to have the accompaniment of allthe other sounds, full of mystery, desolation, and sorrow, I had everheard—the ripple of the river, the soughing of the trees swayed by thewind, the murmurs of wild crowds, the faint ring of incomprehensiblewords cried from afar, the whisper of a voice speaking from beyond thethreshold 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, butbowing my head before the faith that was in her, before that great andsaving illusion that shone with an unearthly glow in the darkness, inthe triumphant darkness from which I could not have defended her—fromwhich I could not even defend myself.

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

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

"She stood up; her fair hair seemed to catch all the remaining light ina glimmer of gold. I rose too.

"'And of all this,' she went on, mournfully, 'of all his promise, andof all his greatness, of his generous mind, of his noble heart, nothingremains—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—thatsuch a life should be sacrificed to leave nothing—but sorrow. Youknow what vast plans he had. I knew of them too—I could not perhapsunderstand,—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 tohim,—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 believethat 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 themblack and with clasped pale hands across the fading and narrow sheen ofthe window. Never see him! I saw him clearly enough then. I shall seethis eloquent phantom as long as I live, and I shall see her too, atragic and familiar Shade, resembling in this gesture another one,tragic also, and bedecked with powerless charms, stretching bare brownarms 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 wayworthy of his life.'

"'And I was not with him,' she murmured. My anger subsided before afeeling of infinite pity.

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

"'Ah, but I believed in him more than anyone on earth—more than hisown mother, more than—himself. He needed me! Me! I would have treasuredevery sigh, every word, every sign, every glance.'

"I felt like a chill grip on my chest. 'Don't,' I said, in a muffledvoice.

"'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 nearto understand him as I would have understood. Perhaps no one tohear. . . .'

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

"'Repeat them,' she said in a heart-broken tone. 'I want—Iwant—something—something—to—to live with.'

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

"'His last word—to live with,' she murmured. 'Don't you understand Iloved 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 shortby an exulting and terrible cry, by the cry of inconceivable triumph andof unspeakable pain. 'I knew it—I was sure!' . . . She knew. She wassure. I heard her weeping; she had hidden her face in her hands. Itseemed to me that the house would collapse before I could escape, thatthe heavens would fall upon my head. But nothing happened. The heavensdo not fall for such a trifle. Would they have fallen, I wonder, if Ihad rendered Kurtz that justice which was his due? Hadn't he said hewanted only justice? But I couldn't. I could not tell her. It would havebeen too dark—too dark altogether. . . ."

Marlow ceased, and sat apart, indistinct and silent, in the pose of ameditating Buddha. Nobody moved for a time. "We have lost the first ofthe ebb," said the Director, suddenly. I raised my head. The offing wasbarred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leadingto the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcastsky—seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.

Related articles