Capítulo I

“Near the sam e tree two m ore bundles of acute angles sat with their legs

drawn up. One, with his chin propped on his knees, stared at nothing, in an intolerable and appalling m anner: his brother phantom rested its forehead, as if overcom e with a great weariness; and all about others were scattered in every pose of contorted collapse, as in som e picture of a m assacre or a pestilence. While I stood horror–struck, one of these creatures rose to his hands and knees, and went off on all–fours towards the river to drink. He lapped out of his hand, then sat up in the sunlight, crossing his shins in front of him , and after a tim e let his woolly head fall on his breastbone.

“I didn’t want any m ore loitering in the shade, and I m ade haste towards

the station. When near the buildings I m et a white m an, in such an unexpected elegance of get–up that in the first m om ent I took him for a sort of vision. I saw a high starched collar, white cuffs, a light alpaca j acket, snowy trousers, a clear necktie, and varnished boots. No hat. Hair parted, brushed, oiled, under a green– lined parasol held in a big white hand. He was am azing, and had a penholder behind his ear.

“I shook hands with this m iracle, and I learned he was the Com pany ’s

chief accountant, and that all the bookkeeping was done at this station. He had com e out for a m om ent, he said, ‘to get a breath of fresh air.’ The expression sounded wonderfully odd, with its suggestion of sedentary desk–life. I wouldn’t have m entioned the fellow to y ou at all, only it was from his lips that I first heard the nam e of the m an who is so indissolubly connected with the m em ories of that tim e. Moreover, I respected the fellow. Yes; I respected his collars, his vast cuffs, his brushed hair. His appearance was certainly that of a hairdresser’s dum m y ; but in the great dem oralization of the land he kept up his appearance. That’s backbone. His starched collars and got–up shirt–fronts were achievem ents of character. He had been out nearly three y ears; and, later on, I could not help asking him how he m anaged to sport such linen. He had j ust the faintest blush, and said m odestly, ‘I’ve been teaching one of the native wom en about the station. It was difficult. She had a distaste for the work.’ This m an had verily accom plished som ething. And he was devoted to his books, which were in apple–pie order.

“Every thing else in the station was in a m uddle, – heads, things,

buildings. Strings of dusty niggers with splay feet arrived and departed; a stream of m anufactured goods, rubbishy cottons, beads, and brass–wire set into the depths of darkness, and in return cam e a precious trickle of ivory.

“I had to wait in the station for ten day s – an eternity. I lived in a hut in

the y ard, but to be out of the chaos I would som etim es get into the accountant’s office. It was built of horizontal planks, and so badly put together that, as he bent over his high desk, he was barred from neck to heels with narrow strips of sunlight. There was no need to open the big shutter to see. It was hot there too; big flies buzzed fiendishly, and did not sting, but stabbed. I sat generally on the floor, while, of faultless appearance (and even slightly scented), perching on a high stool, he wrote, he wrote. Som etim es he stood up for exercise. When a truckle– bed with a sick m an (som e invalided agent from up–country ) was put in there, he exhibited a gentle annoy ance. ‘The groans of this sick person,’ he said, distract m y attention. And without that it is extrem ely difficult to guard against clerical errors in this clim ate.’

“One day he rem arked, without lifting his head, ‘In the interior y ou will

no doubt m eet Mr. Kurtz.’ On m y asking who Mr. Kurtz was, he said he was a first–class agent; and seeing m y disappointm ent at this inform ation, he added slowly, lay ing down his pen, ‘He is a very rem arkable person.’ Further questions elicited from him that Mr. Kurtz was at present in charge of a trading post, a very im portant one, in the true ivory –country, at ‘the very bottom of there. Sends in as m uch ivory as all the others put together...’ He began to write again. The sick m an was too ill to groan. The flies buzzed in a great peace.

“Suddenly there was a growing m urm ur of voices and a great tram ping

of feet. A caravan had com e in. A violent babble of uncouth sounds burst out on the other side of the planks. All the carriers were speaking together, and in the m idst of the uproar the lam entable voice of the chief agent was heard ‘giving it up’ tearfully for the twentieth tim e that day... He rose slowly. ‘What a frightful row,’ he said. He crossed the room gently to look at the sick m an, and returning, said to m e, ‘He does not hear.’ ‘What! Dead?’ I asked, startled. ‘No, not y et,’ he answered, with great com posure. Then, alluding with a toss of the head to the tum ult in the station–y ard, ‘When one has got to m ake correct entries, one com es to hate those savages – hate them to the death.’ He rem ained thoughtful for a m om ent. ‘When y ou see Mr. Kurtz,’ he went on, ‘tell him from m e that every thing here’ – he glanced at the desk – ‘is very satisfactory. I don’t like to write to him – with those m essengers of ours y ou never know who m ay get hold of y our letter – at that Central Station.’ He stared at m e for a m om ent with his m ild, bulging ey es. ‘Oh, he will go far, very far,’ he began again. ‘He will be a som ebody in the Adm inistration before long. They, above – the Council in Europe, y ou know – m ean him to be.’

“He turned to his work. The noise outside had ceased, and presently in

going out I stopped at the door. In the steady buzz of flies the hom eward–bound agent was ly ing flushed and insensible; the other, bent over his books, was m aking correct entries of perfectly correct transactions; and fifty feet below the doorstep I could see the still tree–tops of the grove of death.

“Next day I left that station at last, with a caravan of sixty m en, for a

two–hundred–m ile tram p.

“No use telling y ou m uch about that. Paths, paths, every where; a

stam ped–in network of paths spreading over the em pty land, through long grass, through burnt grass, through thickets, down and up chilly ravines, up and down stony hills ablaze with heat; and a solitude, a solitude, nobody, not a hut. The population had cleared out a long tim e ago. Well, if a lot of m y sterious niggers arm ed with all kinds of fearful weapons suddenly took to traveling on the road between Deal and Gravesend, catching the y okels right and left to carry heavy loads for them , I fancy every farm and cottage thereabouts would get em pty very soon. Only here the dwellings were gone too. Still I passed through several abandoned villages. There’s som ething pathetically childish in the ruins of grass walls. Day after day, with the stam p and shuffle of sixty pair of bare feet behind m e, each pair under a 60–lb. load. Cam p, cook, sleep, strike cam p, m arch. Now and then a carrier dead in harness, at rest in the long grass near the path, with an em pty water–gourd and his long staff ly ing by his side. A great silence around and above. Perhaps on som e quiet night the trem or of far–off drum s, sinking, swelling, a trem or vast, faint; a sound weird, appealing, suggestive, and wild – and perhaps with as profound a m eaning as the sound of bells in a Christian country. Once a white m an in an unbuttoned uniform , cam ping on the path with an arm ed escort of lank Zanzibaris, very hospitable and festive – not to say drunk. Was looking after the upkeep of the road, he declared. Can’t say I saw any road or any upkeep, unless the body of a m iddle–aged negro, with a bullet–hole in the forehead, upon which I absolutely stum bled three m iles farther on, m ay be considered as a perm anent im provem ent. I had a white com panion too, not a bad chap, but rather too fleshy and with the exasperating habit of fainting on the hot hillsides, m iles away from the least bit of shade and water. Annoy ing, y ou know, to hold y our own coat like a parasol over a m an’s head while he is com ing–to. I couldn’t help asking him once what he m eant by com ing there at all. ‘To m ake m oney, of course. What do y ou think?’ he said, scornfully. Then he got fever, and had to be carried in a ham m ock slung under a pole. As he weighed sixteen stone I had no end of rows with the carriers. They j ibbed, ran away, sneaked off with their loads in the night – quite a m utiny. So, one evening, I m ade a speech in English with gestures, not one of which was lost to the sixty pairs of ey es before m e, and the next m orning I started the ham m ock off in front all right. An hour afterwards I cam e upon the whole concern wrecked in a bush – m an, ham m ock, groans, blankets, horrors. The heavy pole had skinned his poor nose. He was very anxious for m e to kill som ebody, but there wasn’t the shadow of a carrier near. I rem em bered the old doctor, – ‘It would be interesting for science to watch the m ental changes of individuals, on the spot.’ I felt I was becom ing scientifically interesting. However, all that is to no purpose. On the fifteenth day I cam e in sight of the big river again, and hobbled into the Central Station. It was on a back water surrounded by scrub and forest, with a pretty border of sm elly m ud on one side, and on the three others inclosed by a crazy fence of rushes. A neglected gap was all the gate it had, and the first glance at the place was enough to let y ou see the flabby devil was running that show. White m en with long staves in their hands appeared languidly from am ongst the buildings, strolling up to take a look at m e, and then retired out of sight som ewhere. One of them , a stout, excitable chap with black m ustaches, inform ed m e with great volubility and m any digressions, as soon as I told him who I was, that m y steam er was at the bottom of the river. I was thunderstruck. What, how, why ? Oh, it was ‘all right.’ The ‘m anager him self ’ was there. All quite correct. ‘Every body had behaved splendidly ! splendidly !’ – ‘y ou m ust,’ he said in agitation, ‘go and see the general m anager at once. He is waiting!’

“I did not see the real significance of that wreck at once. I fancy I see it

now, but I am not sure – not at all. Certainly the affair was too stupid – when I think of it – to be altogether natural. Still... But at the m om ent it presented itself sim ply as a confounded nuisance. The steam er was sunk. They had started two day s before in a sudden hurry up the river with the m anager on board, in charge of som e volunteer skipper, and before they had been out three hours they tore the bottom out of her on stones, and she sank near the south bank. I asked m y self what I was to do there, now m y boat was lost. As a m atter of fact, I had plenty to do in fishing m y com m and out of the river. I had to set about it the very next day. That, and the repairs when I brought the pieces to the station, took som e m onths.

“My first interview with the m anager was curious. He did not ask m e to

sit down after m y twenty –m ile walk that m orning. He was com m onplace in

com plexion, in features, in m anners, and in voice. He was of m iddle size and of

ordinary build. His ey es, of the usual blue, were perhaps rem arkably cold, and he

certainly could m ake his glance fall on one as trenchant and heavy as an ax. But

even at these tim es the rest of his person seem ed to disclaim the intention.

Otherwise there was only an indefinable, faint expression of his lips, som ething

stealthy – a sm ile – not a sm ile – I rem em ber it, but I can’t explain. It was

unconscious, this sm ile was, though j ust after he had said som ething it got

intensified for an instant. It cam e at the end of his speeches like a seal applied on

the words to m ake the m eaning of the com m onest phrase appear absolutely

inscrutable. He was a com m on trader, from his y outh up em ploy ed in these parts

– nothing m ore. He was obey ed, y et he inspired neither love nor fear, nor even

respect. He inspired uneasiness. That was it! Uneasiness. Not a definite m istrust –

j ust uneasiness – nothing m ore. You have no idea how effective such a… a…

faculty can be. He had no genius for organizing, for initiative, or for order even.

That was evident in such things as the deplorable state of the station. He had no

learning, and no intelligence. His position had com e to him – why ? Perhaps

because he was never ill… He had served three term s of three y ears out there...

Because trium phant health in the general rout of constitutions is a kind of power in

itself. When he went hom e on leave he rioted on a large scale – pom pously. Jack

ashore – with a difference – in externals only. This one could gather from his

casual talk. He originated nothing, he could keep the routine going – that’s all. But he was great. He was great by this little thing that it was im possible to tell what

could control such a m an. He never gave that secret away. Perhaps there was

nothing within him . Such a suspicion m ade one pause – for out there there were

no external checks. Once when various tropical diseases had laid low alm ost

every ‘agent’ in the station, he was heard to say, ‘Men who com e out here should

have no entrails.’ He sealed the utterance with that sm ile of his, as though it had

been a door opening into a darkness he had in his keeping. You fancied y ou had

seen things – but the seal was on. When annoy ed at m eal–tim es by the constant

quarrels of the white m en about precedence, he ordered an im m ense round table

to be m ade, for which a special house had to be built. This was the station’s m ess–

room . Where he sat was the first place – the rest were nowhere. One felt this to

be his unalterable conviction. He was neither civil nor uncivil. He was quiet. He

allowed his ‘boy ’ – an overfed y oung negro from the coast – to treat the white

m en, under his very ey es, with provoking insolence.

“He began to speak as soon as he saw m e. I had been very long on the

road. He could not wait. Had to start without m e. The up–river stations had to be

relieved. There had been so m any delay s already that he did not know who was

dead and who was alive, and how they got on – and so on, and so on. He paid no

attention to m y explanations, and, play ing with a stick of sealing–wax, repeated

several tim es that the situation was ‘very grave, very grave.’ There were rum ors

that a very im portant station was in j eopardy, and its chief, Mr. Kurtz, was ill.

Hoped it was not true. Mr. Kurtz was... I felt weary and irritable. Hang Kurtz, I

thought. I interrupted him by say ing I had heard of Mr. Kurtz on the coast. ‘Ah!

So they talk of him down there,’ he m urm ured to him self. Then he began again,

assuring m e Mr. Kurtz was the best agent he had, an exceptional m an, of the

greatest im portance to the Com pany ; therefore I could understand his anxiety. He

was, he said, ‘very, very uneasy.’ Certainly he fidgeted on his chair a good deal,

exclaim ed, ‘Ah, Mr. Kurtz!’ broke the stick of sealing–wax and seem ed

dum bfounded by the accident. Next thing he wanted to know ‘how long it would

take to’ ... I interrupted him again. Being hungry, y ou know, and kept on m y feet

too, I was getting savage. ‘How could I tell,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t even seen the wreck

y et – som e m onths, no doubt.’ All this talk seem ed to m e so futile. ‘Som e m onths,’

he said. ‘Well, let us say three m onths before we can m ake a start. Yes. That

ought to do the affair.’ I flung out of his hut (he lived all alone in a clay hut with a

sort of veranda) m uttering to m y self m y opinion of him . He was a chattering

idiot. Afterwards I took it back when it was borne in upon m e startlingly with what

extrem e nicety he had estim ated the tim e requisite for the ‘affair.’

“I went to work the next day, turning, so to speak, m y back on that station.

In that way only it seem ed to m e I could keep m y hold on the redeem ing facts of

life. Still, one m ust look about som etim es; and then I saw this station, these m en

strolling aim lessly about in the sunshine of the y ard. I asked m y self som etim es

what it all m eant. They wandered here and there with their absurd long staves in

their hands, like a lot of faithless pilgrim s bewitched inside a rotten fence. The

word ‘ivory ’ rang in the air, was whispered, was sighed. You would think they

were pray ing to it. A taint of im becile rapacity blew through it all, like a whiff from som e corpse. By Jove! I’ve never seen any thing so unreal in m y life. And

outside, the silent wilderness surrounding this cleared speck on the earth struck m e

as som ething great and invincible, like evil or truth, waiting patiently for the

passing away of this fantastic invasion.

“Oh, these m onths! Well, never m ind. Various things happened. One

evening a grass shed full of calico, cotton prints, beads, and I don’t know what

else, burst into a blaze so suddenly that y ou would have thought the earth had

opened to let an avenging fire consum e all that trash. I was sm oking m y pipe

quietly by m y dism antled steam er, and saw them all cutting capers in the light,

with their arm s lifted high, when the stout m an with m ustaches cam e tearing

down to the river, a tin pail in his hand, assured m e that every body was ‘behaving

splendidly, splendidly,’ dipped about a quart of water and tore back again. I

noticed there was a hole in the bottom of his pail.

“I strolled up. There was no hurry. You see the thing had gone off like a

box of m atches. It had been hopeless from the very first. The flam e had leaped

high, driven every body back, lighted up every thing – and collapsed. The shed

was already a heap of em bers glowing fiercely. A nigger was being beaten near

by. They said he had caused the fire in som e way ; be that as it m ay, he was

screeching m ost horribly. I saw him , later on, for several day s, sitting in a bit of

shade looking very sick and try ing to recover him self: afterwards he arose and

went out – and the wilderness without a sound took him into its bosom again. As I

approached the glow from the dark I found m y self at the back of two m en,

talking. I heard the nam e of Kurtz pronounced, then the words, ‘take advantage of

this unfortunate accident.’ One of the m en was the m anager. I wished him a good

evening. ‘Did y ou ever see any thing like it – eh? it is incredible,’ he said, and

walked off. The other m an rem ained. He was a first–class agent, y oung,

gentlem anly, a bit reserved, with a forked little beard and a hooked nose. He was

stand–offish with the other agents, and they on their side said he was the

m anager’s spy upon them . As to m e, I had hardly ever spoken to him before. We

got into talk, and by –and–by we strolled away from the hissing ruins. Then he

asked m e to his room , which was in the m ain building of the station. He struck a

m atch, and I perceived that this y oung aristocrat had not only a silver–m ounted

dressing–case but also a whole candle all to him self. Just at that tim e the m anager

was the only m an supposed to have any right to candles. Native m ats covered the

clay walls; a collection of spears, assegais, shields, knives was hung up in trophies.

The business intrusted to this fellow was the m aking of bricks – so I had been

inform ed; but there wasn’t a fragm ent of a brick any where in the station, and he

had been there m ore than a y ear – waiting. It seem s he could not m ake bricks

without som ething, I don’t know what – straw m ay be. Any way s, it could not be

found there, and as it was not likely to be sent from Europe, it did not appear clear

to m e what he was waiting for. An act of special creation perhaps. However, they

were all waiting – all the sixteen or twenty pilgrim s of them – for som ething; and

upon m y word it did not seem an uncongenial occupation, from the way they

took it, though the only thing that ever cam e to them was disease – as far as I

could see. They beguiled the tim e by backbiting and intriguing against each other in a foolish kind of way. There was an air of plotting about that station, but nothing

cam e of it, of course. It was as unreal as every thing else – as the philanthropic

pretense of the whole concern, as their talk, as their governm ent, as their show of

work. The only real feeling was a desire to get appointed to a trading–post where

ivory was to be had, so that they could earn percentages. They intrigued and

slandered and hated each other only on that account, – but as to effectually lifting

a little finger – oh, no. By heavens! there is som ething after all in the world

allowing one m an to steal a horse while another m ust not look at a halter. Steal a

horse straight out. Very well. He has done it. Perhaps he can ride. But there is a

way of looking at a halter that would provoke the m ost charitable of saints into a

kick.

“I had no idea why he wanted to be sociable, but as we chatted in there it

suddenly occurred to m e the fellow was try ing to get at som ething – in fact,

pum ping m e. He alluded constantly to Europe, to the people I was supposed to

know there – putting leading questions as to m y acquaintances in the sepulchral

city, and so on. His little ey es glittered like m ica discs – with curiosity, – though he

tried to keep up a bit of superciliousness. At first I was astonished, but very soon I

becam e awfully curious to see what he would find out from m e. I couldn’t

possibly im agine what I had in m e to m ake it worth his while. It was very pretty

to see how he baffled him self, for in truth m y body was full of chills, and m y

head had nothing in it but that wretched steam boat business. It was evident he took

m e for a perfectly sham eless prevaricator. At last he got angry, and to conceal a

m ovem ent of furious annoy ance, he y awned. I rose. Then I noticed a sm all

sketch in oils, on a panel, representing a wom an, draped and blindfolded, carry ing

a lighted torch. The background was som ber – alm ost black. The m ovem ent of

the wom an was stately, and the effect of the torchlight on the face was sinister.

“It arrested m e, and he stood by civilly, holding a half–pint cham pagne

bottle (m edical com forts) with the candle stuck in it. To m y question he said Mr.

Kurtz had painted this – in this very station m ore than a y ear ago – while waiting

for m eans to go to his trading–post. ‘Tell m e, pray,’ said I, ‘who is this Mr. Kurtz?’

“’The chief of the Inner Station,’ he answered in a short tone, looking

away. ‘Much obliged,’ I said, laughing. ‘And y ou are the brickm aker of the Central

Station. Every one knows that.’ He was silent for a while. ‘He is a prodigy,’ he said

at last. ‘He is an em issary of pity, and science, and progress, and devil knows

what else. We want,’ he began to declaim suddenly, ‘for the guidance of the cause

intrusted to us by Europe, so to speak, higher intelligence, wide sy m pathies, a

singleness of purpose.’ ‘Who say s that?’ I asked. ‘Lots of them ,’ he replied. ‘Som e

even write that; and so he com es here, a special being, as y ou ought to know.’

‘Why ought I to know?’ I interrupted, really surprised. He paid no attention. ‘Yes.

To–day he is chief of the best station, next y ear he will be assistant–m anager, two

y ears m ore and ... but I dare say y ou know what he will be in two y ears’ tim e.

You are of the new gang – the gang of virtue. The sam e people who sent him

specially also recom m ended y ou. Oh, don’t say no. I’ve m y own ey es to trust.’

Light dawned upon m e. My dear aunt’s influential acquaintances were producing an unexpected effect upon that y oung m an. I nearly burst into a laugh. ‘Do y ou

read the Com pany ’s confidential correspondence?’ I asked. He hadn’t a word to

say. It was great fun. ‘When Mr. Kurtz,’ I continued severely, ‘is General

Manager, y ou won’t have the opportunity.’

“He blew the candle out suddenly, and we went outside. The m oon had

risen. Black figures strolled about listlessly, pouring water on the glow, whence

proceeded a sound of hissing; steam ascended in the m oonlight, the beaten nigger

groaned som ewhere. ‘What a row the brute m akes!’ said the indefatigable m an

with the m ustaches, appearing near us. ‘Serve him right. Transgression –

punishm ent – bang! Pitiless, pitiless. That’s the only way. This will prevent all

conflagrations for the future. I was j ust telling the m anager...’ He noticed m y

com panion, and becam e crestfallen all at once. ‘Not in bed y et,’ he said, with a

kind of servile heartiness; ‘it’s so natural. Ha! Danger – agitation.’ He vanished. I

went on to the river–side, and the other followed m e. I heard a scathing m urm ur

at m y ear, ‘Heap of m uffs – go to.’ The pilgrim s could be seen in knots

gesticulating, discussing. Several had still their staves in their hands. I verily

believe they took these sticks to bed with them . Bey ond the fence the forest stood

up spectrally in the m oonlight, and through the dim stir, through the faint sounds

of that lam entable courty ard, the silence of the land went hom e to one’s very

heart, – its m y stery, its greatness, the am azing reality of its concealed life. The

hurt nigger m oaned feebly som ewhere near by, and then fetched a deep sigh that

m ade m e m end m y pace away from there. I felt a hand introducing itself under

m y arm . ‘My dear sir,’ said the fellow, ‘I don’t want to be m isunderstood, and

especially by y ou, who will see Mr. Kurtz long before I can have that pleasure. I

wouldn’t like him to get a false idea of m y disposition...’

“I let him run on, this papier–mache Mephistopheles, and it seem ed to

m e that if I tried I could poke m y forefinger through him , and would find nothing

inside but a little loose dirt, m ay be. He, don’t y ou see, had been planning to be

assistant–m anager by –and–by under the present m an, and I could see that the

com ing of that Kurtz had upset them both not a little. He talked precipitately, and I

did not try to stop him . I had m y shoulders against the wreck of m y steam er,

hauled up on the slope like a carcass of som e big river anim al. The sm ell of m ud,

of prim eval m ud, by Jove! was in m y nostrils, the high stillness of prim eval forest

was before m y ey es; there were shiny patches on the black creek. The m oon had

spread over every thing a thin lay er of silver – over the rank grass, over the m ud,

upon the wall of m atted vegetation standing higher than the wall of a tem ple, over

the great river I could see through a som ber gap glittering, glittering, as it flowed

broadly by without a m urm ur. All this was great, expectant, m ute, while the m an

j abbered about him self. I wondered whether the stillness on the face of the

im m ensity looking at us two were m eant as an appeal or as a m enace. What

were we who had stray ed in here? Could we handle that dum b thing, or would it

handle us? I felt how big, how confoundedly big, was that thing that couldn’t talk,

and perhaps was deaf as well. What was in there? I could see a little ivory

com ing out from there, and I had heard Mr. Kurtz was in there. I had heard

enough about it too – God knows! Yet som ehow it didn’t bring any im age with it – no m ore than if I had been told an angel or a fiend was in there. I believed it in

the sam e way one of y ou m ight believe there are inhabitants in the planet Mars. I

knew once a Scotch sailm aker who was certain, dead sure, there were people in

Mars. If y ou asked him for som e idea how they looked and behaved, he would

get shy and m utter som ething about ‘walking on all–fours.’ If y ou as m uch as

sm iled, he would – though a m an of sixty – offer to fight y ou. I would not have

gone so far as to fight for Kurtz, but I went for him near enough to a lie. You know

I hate, detest, and can’t bear a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us,

but sim ply because it appalls m e. There is a taint of death, a flavor of m ortality in

lies, – which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world – what I want to forget.

It m akes m e m iserable and sick, like biting som ething rotten would do.

Tem peram ent, I suppose. Well, I went near enough to it by letting the y oung fool

there believe any thing he liked to im agine as to m y influence in Europe. I

becam e in an instant as m uch of a pretense as the rest of the bewitched pilgrim s.

This sim ply because I had a notion it som ehow would be of help to that Kurtz

whom at the tim e I did not see – y ou understand. He was j ust a word for m e. I

did not see the m an in the nam e any m ore than y ou do. Do y ou see him ? Do y ou

see the story ? Do y ou see any thing? It seem s to m e I am try ing to tell y ou a

dream – m aking a vain attem pt, because no relation of a dream can convey the

dream –sensation, that com m ingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderm ent in a

trem or of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which

is of the very essence of dream s...”

He was silent for a while.

“...No, it is im possible; it is im possible to convey the life–sensation of

any given epoch of one’s existence, – that which m akes its truth, its m eaning – its

subtle and penetrating essence. It is im possible. We live, as we dream – alone...”

He paused again as if reflecting, then added – “Of course in this y ou

fellows see m ore than I could then. You see m e, whom y ou know...”

It had becom e so pitch dark that we listeners could hardly see one

another. For a long tim e already he, sitting apart, had been no m ore to us than a

voice. There was not a word from any body. The others m ight have been asleep,

but I was awake. I listened, I listened on the watch for the sentence, for the word,

that would give m e the clew to the faint uneasiness inspired by this narrative that

seem ed to shape itself without hum an lips in the heavy night–air of the river.

“...Yes – I let him run on,” Marlow began again, “and think what he

pleased about the powers that were behind m e. I did! And there was nothing

behind m e! There was nothing but that wretched, old, m angled steam boat I was

leaning against, while he talked fluently about ‘the necessity for every m an to get

on.’ ‘And when one com es out here, y ou conceive, it is not to gaze at the m oon.’

Mr. Kurtz was a ‘universal genius,’ but even a genius would find it easier to work

with ‘adequate tools – intelligent m en.’ He did not m ake bricks – why, there was a

phy sical im possibility in the way – as I was well aware; and if he did secretarial

work for the m anager, it was because ‘no sensible m an rej ects wantonly the

confidence of his superiors.’ Did I see it? I saw it. What m ore did I want? What I really wanted was rivets, by heaven! Rivets. To get on with the work – to stop the

hole. Rivets I wanted. There were cases of them down at the coast – cases – piled

up – burst – split! You kicked a loose rivet at every second step in that station y ard

on the hillside. Rivets had rolled into the grove of death. You could fill y our

pockets with rivets for the trouble of stooping down – and there wasn’t one rivet to

be found where it was wanted. We had plates that would do, but nothing to fasten

them with. And every week the m essenger, a lone negro, letter–bag on shoulder

and staff in hand, left our station for the coast. And several tim es a week a coast

caravan cam e in with trade goods, – ghastly glazed calico that m ade y ou shudder

only to look at it, glass beads value about a penny a quart, confounded spotted

cotton handkerchiefs. And no rivets. Three carriers could have brought all that

was wanted to set that steam boat afloat.

“He was becom ing confidential now, but I fancy m y unresponsive

attitude m ust have exasperated him at last, for he j udged it necessary to inform

m e he feared neither God nor devil, let alone any m ere m an. I said I could see

that very well, but what I wanted was a certain quantity of rivets – and rivets

were what really Mr. Kurtz wanted, if he had only known it. Now letters went to

the coast every week... ‘My dear sir,’ he cried, ‘I write from dictation.’ I

dem anded rivets. There was a way – for an intelligent m an. He changed his

m anner; becam e very cold, and suddenly began to talk about a hippopotam us;

wondered whether sleeping on board the steam er (I stuck to m y salvage night and

day ) I wasn’t disturbed. There was an old hippo that had the bad habit of getting

out on the bank and roam ing at night over the station grounds. The pilgrim s used to

turn out in a body and em pty every rifle they could lay hands on at him . Som e

even had sat up o’ nights for him . All this energy was wasted, though. ‘That

anim al has a charm ed life,’ he said; ‘but y ou can say this only of brutes in this

country. No m an – y ou apprehend m e? – no m an here bears a charm ed life.’ He

stood there for a m om ent in the m oonlight with his delicate hooked nose set a little

askew, and his m ica ey es glittering without a wink, then, with a curt Good night, he

strode off. I could see he was disturbed and considerably puzzled, which m ade

m e feel m ore hopeful than I had been for day s. It was a great com fort to turn

from that chap to m y influential friend, the battered, twisted, ruined, tin–pot

steam boat. I clam bered on board. She rang under m y feet like an em pty Huntley

& Palm er biscuit–tin kicked along a gutter; she was nothing so solid in m ake, and

rather less pretty in shape, but I had expended enough hard work on her to m ake

m e love her. No influential friend would have served m e better. She had given m e

a chance to com e out a bit – to find out what I could do. No, I don’t like work. I

had rather laze about and think of all the fine things that can be done. I don’t like

work – no m an does – but I like what is in the work, – the chance to find y ourself.

Your own reality – for y ourself, not for others – what no other m an can ever

know. They can only see the m ere show, and never can tell what it really m eans.

“I was not surprised to see som ebody sitting aft, on the deck, with his legs

dangling over the m ud. You see I rather chum m ed with the few m echanics there

were in that station, whom the other pilgrim s naturally despised – on account of

their im perfect m anners, I suppose. This was the forem an – a boiler–m aker by trade – a good worker. He was a lank, bony, y ellow–faced m an, with big intense

ey es. His aspect was worried, and his head was as bald as the palm of m y hand;

but his hair in falling seem ed to have stuck to his chin, and had prospered in the

new locality, for his beard hung down to his waist. He was a widower with six

y oung children (he had left them in charge of a sister of his to com e out there),

and the passion of his life was pigeon–fly ing. He was an enthusiast and a

connoisseur. He would rave about pigeons. After work hours he used som etim es

to com e over from his hut for a talk about his children and his pigeons; at work,

when he had to crawl in the m ud under the bottom of the steam boat, he would tie

up that beard of his in a kind of white serviette he brought for the purpose. It had

loops to go over his ears. In the evening he could be seen squatted on the bank

rinsing that wrapper in the creek with great care, then spreading it solem nly on a

bush to dry.

“I slapped him on the back and shouted, ‘We shall have rivets!’ He

scram bled to his feet exclaim ing ‘No! Rivets!’ as though he couldn’t believe his

ears. Then in a low voice, ‘You... eh?’ I don’t know why we behaved like lunatics. I

put m y finger to the side of m y nose and nodded m y steriously. ‘Good for y ou!’

he cried, snapped his fingers above his head, lifting one foot. I tried a j ig. We

capered on the iron deck. A frightful clatter cam e out of that hulk, and the virgin

forest on the other bank of the creek sent it back in a thundering roll upon the

sleeping station. It m ust have m ade som e of the pilgrim s sit up in their hovels. A

dark figure obscured the lighted doorway of the m anager’s hut, vanished, then, a

second or so after, the doorway itself vanished too. We stopped, and the silence

driven away by the stam ping of our feet flowed back again from the recesses of

the land. The great wall of vegetation, an exuberant and entangled m ass of trunks,

branches, leaves, boughs, festoons, m otionless in the m oonlight, was like a rioting

invasion of soundless life, a rolling wave of plants, piled up, crested, ready to

topple over the creek, to sweep every little m an of us out of his little existence.

And it m oved not. A deadened burst of m ighty splashes and snorts reached us

from afar, as though an ichthy osaurus had been taking a bath of glitter in the great

river. ‘After all,’ said the boiler–m aker in a reasonable tone, ‘why shouldn’t we get

the rivets?’ Why not, indeed! I did not know of any reason why we shouldn’t.

‘They ’ll com e in three weeks,’ I said confidently.

“But they didn’t. Instead of rivets there cam e an invasion, an infliction, a

visitation. It cam e in sections during the next three weeks, each section headed by

a donkey carry ing a white m an in new clothes and tan shoes, bowing from that

elevation right and left to the im pressed pilgrim s. A quarrelsom e band of footsore

sulky niggers trod on the heels of the donkey s; a lot of tents, cam p–stools, tin

boxes, white cases, brown bales would be shot down in the courty ard, and the air

of m y stery would deepen a little over the m uddle of the station. Five such

installm ents cam e, with their absurd air of disorderly flight with the loot of

innum erable outfit shops and provision stores, that, one would think, they were

lugging, after a raid, into the wilderness for equitable division. It was an

inextricable m ess of things decent in them selves but that hum an folly m ade look

like the spoils of thieving.

“This devoted band called itself the Eldorado Exploring Expedition, and I

believe they were sworn to secrecy. Their talk, however, was the talk of sordid

buccaneers: it was reckless without hardihood, greedy without audacity, and cruel

without courage; there was not an atom of foresight or of serious intention in the

whole batch of them , and they did not seem aware these things are wanted for

the work of the world. To tear treasure out of the bowels of the land was their

desire, with no m ore m oral purpose at the back of it than there is in burglars

breaking into a safe. Who paid the expenses of the noble enterprise I don’t know;

but the uncle of our m anager was leader of that lot.

“In exterior he resem bled a butcher in a poor neighborhood, and his

ey es had a look of sleepy cunning. He carried his fat paunch with ostentation on

his short legs, and during the tim e his gang infested the station spoke to no one but

his nephew. You could see these two roam ing about all day long with their heads

close together in an everlasting confab.

“I had given up worry ing m y self about the rivets. One’s capacity for that

kind of folly is m ore lim ited than y ou would suppose. I said Hang! – and let things

slide. I had plenty of tim e for m editation, and now and then I would give som e

thought to Kurtz. I wasn’t very interested in him . No. Still, I was curious to see

whether this m an, who had com e out equipped with m oral ideas of som e sort,

would clim b to the top after all, and how he would set about his work when there.”