Capítulo II

 

“One evening as I was ly ing flat on the deck of m y steam boat, I heard

voices approaching – and there were the nephew and the uncle strolling along the

bank. I laid m y head on m y arm again, and had nearly lost m y self in a doze,

when som ebody said in m y ear, as it were: ‘I am as harm less as a little child, but

I don’t like to be dictated to. Am I the m anager – or am I not? I was ordered to

send him there. It’s incredible.’ ... I becam e aware that the two were standing on

the shore alongside the forepart of the steam boat, j ust below m y head. I did not

m ove; it did not occur to m e to m ove: I was sleepy. ‘It is unpleasant,’ grunted the

uncle. ‘He has asked the Adm inistration to be sent there,’ said the other, ‘with the

idea of showing what he could do; and I was instructed accordingly. Look at the

influence that m an m ust have. Is it not frightful?’ They both agreed it was

frightful, then m ade several bizarre rem arks: ‘Make rain and fine weather – one

m an – the Council – by the nose’ – bits of absurd sentences that got the better of

m y drowsiness, so that I had pretty near the whole of m y wits about m e when the

uncle said, ‘The clim ate m ay do away with this difficulty for y ou. Is he alone

there?’ ‘Yes,’ answered the m anager; ‘he sent his assistant down the river with a

note to m e in these term s: “Clear this poor devil out of the country, and don’t

bother sending m ore of that sort. I had rather be alone than have the kind of m en

y ou can dispose of with m e.” It was m ore than a y ear ago. Can y ou im agine

such im pudence!’ ‘Any thing since then?’ asked the other, hoarsely. ‘Ivory,’ j erked

the nephew; ‘lots of it – prim e sort – lots – m ost annoy ing, from him .’ ‘And with

that?’ questioned the heavy rum ble. ‘Invoice,’ was the reply fired out, so to speak.

Then silence. They had been talking about Kurtz.

“I was broad awake by this tim e, but, ly ing perfectly at ease, rem ained

still, having no inducem ent to change m y position. ‘How did that ivory com e all

this way ?’ growled the elder m an, who seem ed very vexed. The other explained

that it had com e with a fleet of canoes in charge of an English half–caste clerk

Kurtz had with him ; that Kurtz had apparently intended to return him self, the

station being by that tim e bare of goods and stores, but after com ing three

hundred m iles, had suddenly decided to go back, which he started to do alone in a

sm all dug–out with four paddlers, leaving the half–caste to continue down the

river with the ivory. The two fellows there seem ed astounded at any body

attem pting such a thing. They were at a loss for an adequate m otive. As to m e, I

seem ed to see Kurtz for the first tim e. It was a distinct glim pse: the dug–out, four

paddling savages, and the lone white m an turning his back suddenly on the

headquarters, on relief, on thoughts of hom e – perhaps; setting his face towards

the depths of the wilderness, towards his em pty and desolate station. I did not

know the m otive. Perhaps he was j ust sim ply a fine fellow who stuck to his work

for its own sake. His nam e, y ou understand, had not been pronounced once. He

was ‘that m an.’ The half–caste, who, as far as I could see, had conducted a

difficult trip with great prudence and pluck, was invariably alluded to as ‘that

scoundrel.’ The ‘scoundrel’ had reported that the ‘m an’ had been very ill – had recovered im perfectly... The two below m e m oved away then a few paces, and

strolled back and forth at som e little distance. I heard: ‘Military post – doctor –

two hundred m iles – quite alone now – unavoidable delay s – nine m onths – no

news – strange rum ors.’ They approached again, j ust as the m anager was say ing,

‘No one, as far as I know, unless a species of wandering trader – a pestilential

fellow, snapping ivory from the natives.’ Who was it they were talking about now?

I gathered in snatches that this was som e m an supposed to be in Kurtz’s district,

and of whom the m anager did not approve. ‘We will not be free from unfair

com petition till one of these fellows is hanged for an exam ple,’ he said. ‘Certainly,’

grunted the other; ‘get him hanged! Why not? Any thing – any thing can be done in

this country. That’s what I say ; nobody here, y ou understand, here, can endanger

y our position. And why ? You stand the clim ate – y ou outlast them all. The danger

is in Europe; but there before I left I took care to – ‘ They m oved off and

whispered, then their voices rose again. ‘The extraordinary series of delay s is not

m y fault. I did m y possible.’ The fat m an sighed, ‘Very sad.’ ‘And the pestiferous

absurdity of his talk,’ continued the other; ‘he bothered m e enough when he was

here. “Each station should be like a beacon on the road towards better things, a

center for trade of course, but also for hum anizing, im proving, instructing.”

Conceive y ou – that ass! And he wants to be m anager! No, it’s – ‘ Here he got

choked by excessive indignation, and I lifted m y head the least bit. I was

surprised to see how near they were – right under m e. I could have spat upon

their hats. They were looking on the ground, absorbed in thought. The m anager

was switching his leg with a slender twig: his sagacious relative lifted his head.

‘You have been well since y ou cam e out this tim e?’ he asked. The other gave a

start. ‘Who? I? Oh! Like a charm – like a charm . But the rest – oh, m y goodness!

All sick. They die so quick, too, that I haven’t the tim e to send them out of the

country – it’s incredible!’ ‘H’m . Just so,’ grunted the uncle. ‘Ah! m y boy, trust to

this – I say, trust to this.’ I saw him extend his short flipper of an arm for a gesture

that took in the forest, the creek, the m ud, the river, – seem ed to beckon with a

dishonoring flourish before the sunlit face of the land a treacherous appeal to the

lurking death, to the hidden evil, to the profound darkness of its heart. It was so

startling that I leaped to m y feet and looked back at the edge of the forest, as

though I had expected an answer of som e sort to that black display of confidence.

You know the foolish notions that com e to one som etim es. The high stillness

confronted these two figures with its om inous patience, waiting for the passing

away of a fantastic invasion.

“They swore aloud together – out of sheer fright, I believe – then

pretending not to know any thing of m y existence, turned back to the station. The

sun was low; and leaning forward side by side, they seem ed to be tugging

painfully uphill their two ridiculous shadows of unequal length, that trailed behind

them slowly over the tall grass without bending a single blade.

“In a few day s the Eldorado Expedition went into the patient wilderness,

that closed upon it as the sea closes over a diver. Long afterwards the news cam e

that all the donkey s were dead. I know nothing as to the fate of the less valuable

anim als. They, no doubt, like the rest of us, found what they deserved. I did not inquire. I was then rather excited at the prospect of m eeting Kurtz very soon.

When I say very soon I m ean it com paratively. It was j ust two m onths from the

day we left the creek when we cam e to the bank below Kurtz’s station.

“Going up that river was like traveling back to the earliest beginnings of

the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An

em pty stream , a great silence, an im penetrable forest. The air was warm , thick,

heavy, sluggish. There was no j oy in the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches

of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadowed distances. On

silvery sandbanks hippos and alligators sunned them selves side by side. The

broadening waters flowed through a m ob of wooded islands; y ou lost y our way

on that river as y ou would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals,

try ing to find the channel, till y ou thought y ourself bewitched and cut off for ever

from every thing y ou had known once – som ewhere – far away – in another

existence perhaps. There were m om ents when one’s past cam e back to one, as it

will som etim es when y ou have not a m om ent to spare to y ourself; but it cam e in

the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream , rem em bered with wonder am ongst

the overwhelm ing realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence.

And this stillness of life did not in the least resem ble a peace. It was the stillness of

an im placable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at y ou with a

vengeful aspect. I got used to it afterwards; I did not see it any m ore; I had no

tim e. I had to keep guessing at the channel; I had to discern, m ostly by inspiration,

the signs of hidden banks; I watched for sunken stones; I was learning to clap m y

teeth sm artly before m y heart flew out, when I shaved by a fluke som e infernal

sly old snag that would have ripped the life out of the tin–pot steam boat and

drowned all the pilgrim s; I had to keep a look–out for the signs of dead wood we

could cut up in the night for next day ’s steam ing. When y ou have to attend to

things of that sort, to the m ere incidents of the surface, the reality – the reality, I

tell y ou – fades. The inner truth is hidden – luckily, luckily. But I felt it all the

sam e; I felt often its m y sterious stillness watching m e at m y m onkey tricks, j ust

as it watches y ou fellows perform ing on y our respective tight–ropes for – what is

it? half–a–crown a tum ble – “

“Try to be civil, Marlow,” growled a voice, and I knew there was at least

one listener awake besides m y self.

“I beg y our pardon. I forgot the heartache which m akes up the rest of

the price. And indeed what does the price m atter, if the trick be well done? You do

y our tricks very well. And I didn’t do badly either, since I m anaged not to sink

that steam boat on m y first trip. It’s a wonder to m e y et. Im agine a blindfolded

m an set to drive a van over a bad road. I sweated and shivered over that business

considerably, I can tell y ou. After all, for a seam an, to scrape the bottom of the

thing that’s supposed to float all the tim e under his care is the unpardonable sin. No

one m ay know of it, but y ou never forget the thum p – eh? A blow on the very

heart. You rem em ber it, y ou dream of it, y ou wake up at night and think of it –

y ears after – and go hot and cold all over. I don’t pretend to say that steam boat

floated all the tim e. More than once she had to wade for a bit, with twenty cannibals splashing around and pushing. We had enlisted som e of these chaps on

the way for a crew. Fine fellows – cannibals – in their place. They were m en one

could work with, and I am grateful to them . And, after all, they did not eat each

other before m y face: they had brought along a provision of hippo–m eat which

went rotten, and m ade the m y stery of the wilderness stink in m y nostrils. Phoo! I

can sniff it now. I had the m anager on board and three or four pilgrim s with their

staves – all com plete. Som etim es we cam e upon a station close by the bank,

clinging to the skirts of the unknown, and the white m en rushing out of a tum ble–

down hovel, with great gestures of j oy and surprise and welcom e, seem ed very

strange, – had the appearance of being held there captive by a spell. The word

ivory would ring in the air for a while – and on we went again into the silence,

along em pty reaches, round the still bends, between the high walls of our winding

way, reverberating in hollow claps the ponderous beat of the stern–wheel. Trees,

trees, m illions of trees, m assive, im m ense, running up high; and at their foot,

hugging the bank against the stream , crept the little begrim ed steam boat, like a

sluggish beetle crawling on the floor of a lofty portico. It m ade y ou feel very

sm all, very lost, and y et it was not altogether depressing, that feeling. After all, if

y ou were sm all, the grim y beetle crawled on – which was j ust what y ou wanted

it to do. Where the pilgrim s im agined it crawled to I don’t know. To som e place

where they expected to get som ething, I bet! For m e it crawled toward Kurtz –

exclusively ; but when the steam –pipes started leaking we crawled very slow. The

reaches opened before us and closed behind, as if the forest had stepped leisurely

across the water to bar the way for our return. We penetrated deeper and deeper

into the heart of darkness. It was very quiet there. At night som etim es the roll of

drum s behind the curtain of trees would run up the river and rem ain sustained

faintly, as if hovering in the air high over our heads, till the first break of day.

Whether it m eant war, peace, or pray er we could not tell. The dawns were

heralded by the descent of a chill stillness; the woodcutters slept, their fires

burned low; the snapping of a twig would m ake y ou start. We were wanderers on

a prehistoric earth, on an earth that wore the aspect of an unknown planet. We

could have fancied ourselves the first of m en taking possession of an accursed

inheritance, to be subdued at the cost of profound anguish and of excessive toil.

But suddenly, as we struggled round a bend, there would be a glim pse of rush

walls, of peaked grass–roofs, a burst of y ells, a whirl of black lim bs, a m ass of

hands clapping, of feet stam ping, of bodies sway ing, of ey es rolling, under the

droop of heavy and m otionless foliage. The steam er toiled along slowly on the

edge of a black and incom prehensible frenzy. The prehistoric m an was cursing

us, pray ing to us, welcom ing us – who could tell? We were cut off from the

com prehension of our surroundings; we glided past like phantom s, wondering and

secretly appalled, as sane m en would be before an enthusiastic outbreak in a

m adhouse. We could not understand, because we were too far and could not

rem em ber, because we were traveling in the night of first ages, of those ages that

are gone, leaving hardly a sign – and no m em ories.

“The earth seem ed unearthly. We are accustom ed to look upon the

shackled form of a conquered m onster, but there – there y ou could look at a thing m onstrous and free. It was unearthly, and the m en were – No, they were not

inhum an. Well, y ou know, that was the worst of it – this suspicion of their not being

inhum an. It would com e slowly to one. They howled, and leaped, and spun, and

m ade horrid faces; but what thrilled y ou was j ust the thought of their hum anity –

like y ours – the thought of y our rem ote kinship with this wild and passionate

uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough; but if y ou were m an enough y ou would

adm it to y ourself that there was in y ou j ust the faintest trace of a response to the

terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a m eaning in it

which y ou – y ou so rem ote from the night of first ages – could com prehend. And

why not? The m ind of m an is capable of any thing – because every thing is in it,

all the past as well as all the future. What was there after all? Joy, fear, sorrow,

devotion, valor, rage – who can tell? – but truth – truth stripped of its cloak of tim e.

Let the fool gape and shudder – the m an knows, and can look on without a wink.

But he m ust at least be as m uch of a m an as these on the shore. He m ust m eet

that truth with his own true stuff – with his own inborn strength. Principles?

Principles won’t do. Acquisitions, clothes, pretty rags – rags that would fly off at

the first good shake. No; y ou want a deliberate belief. An appeal to m e in this

fiendish row – is there? Very well; I hear; I adm it, but I have a voice too, and for

good or evil m ine is the speech that cannot be silenced. Of course, a fool, what

with sheer fright and fine sentim ents, is alway s safe. Who’s that grunting? You

wonder I didn’t go ashore for a howl and a dance? Well, no – I didn’t. Fine

sentim ents, y ou say ? Fine sentim ents, be hanged! I had no tim e. I had to m ess

about with white–lead and strips of woolen blanket helping to put bandages on

those leaky steam –pipes – I tell y ou. I had to watch the steering, and circum vent

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 m an. And between whiles I had to look

after the savage who was firem an. He was an im proved specim en; he could fire

up a vertical boiler. He was there below m e, and, upon m y word, to look at him

was as edify ing as seeing a dog in a parody of breeches and a feather hat,

walking on his hind–legs. A few m onths of training had done for that really fine

chap. He squinted at the steam –gauge and at the water–gauge with an evident

effort of intrepidity – and he had filed teeth too, the poor devil, and the wool of his

pate shaved into queer patterns, and three ornam ental scars on each of his cheeks.

He ought to have been clapping his hands and stam ping his feet on the bank,

instead of which he was hard at work, a thrall to strange witchcraft, full of

im proving knowledge. He was useful because he had been instructed; and what

he knew was this – that should the water in that transparent thing disappear, the

evil spirit inside the boiler would get angry through the greatness of his thirst, and

take a terrible vengeance. So he sweated and fired up and watched the glass

fearfully (with an im prom ptu charm , m ade of rags, tied to his arm , and a piece

of polished bone, as big as a watch, stuck flatway s through his lower lip), while

the wooded banks slipped past us slowly, the short noise was left behind, the

interm inable m iles of silence – and we crept on, towards Kurtz. But the snags

were thick, the water was treacherous and shallow, the boiler seem ed indeed to

have a sulky devil in it, and thus neither that firem an nor I had any tim e to peer

into our creepy thoughts.

“Som e fifty m iles below the Inner Station we cam e upon a hut of reeds,

an inclined and m elancholy pole, with the unrecognizable tatters of what had

been a flag of som e sort fly ing from it, and a neatly stacked woodpile. This was

unexpected. We cam e to the bank, and on the stack of firewood found a flat piece

of board with som e faded pencil–writing on it. When deciphered it said: ‘Wood

for y ou. Hurry up. Approach cautiously.’ There was a signature, but it was

illegible – not Kurtz – a m uch longer word. ‘Hurry up.’ Where? Up the river?

‘Approach cautiously.’ We had not done so. But the warning could not have been

m eant for the place where it could be only found after approach. Som ething was

wrong above. But what – and how m uch? That was the question. We com m ented

adversely upon the im becility of that telegraphic sty le. The bush around said

nothing, and would not let us look very far, either. A torn curtain of red twill hung

in the doorway of the hut, and flapped sadly in our faces. The dwelling was

dism antled; but we could see a white m an had lived there not very long ago.

There rem ained a rude table – a plank on two posts; a heap of rubbish reposed in

a dark corner, and by the door I picked up a book. It had lost its covers, and the

pages had been thum bed into a state of extrem ely dirty softness; but the back had

been lovingly stitched afresh with white cotton thread, which looked clean y et. It

was an extraordinary find. Its title was, ‘An Inquiry into som e Points of

Seam anship,’ by a m an Tower, Towson – som e such nam e – Master in his

Maj esty ’s Navy. The m atter looked dreary reading enough, with illustrative

diagram s and repulsive tables of figures, and the copy was sixty y ears old. I

handled this am azing antiquity with the greatest possible tenderness, lest it should

dissolve in m y hands. Within, Towson or Towser was inquiring earnestly into the

breaking strain of ships’ chains and tackle, and other such m atters. Not a very

enthralling book; but at the first glance y ou could see there a singleness of

intention, an honest concern for the right way of going to work, which m ade these

hum ble pages, thought out so m any y ears ago, lum inous with another than a

professional light. The sim ple old sailor, with his talk of chains and purchases,

m ade m e forget the j ungle and the pilgrim s in a delicious sensation of having

com e upon som ething unm istakably real. Such a book being there was wonderful

enough; but still m ore astounding were the notes penciled in the m argin, and

plainly referring to the text. I couldn’t believe m y ey es! They were in cipher!

Yes, it looked like cipher. Fancy a m an lugging with him a book of that description

into this nowhere and study ing it – and m aking notes – in cipher at that! It was an

extravagant m y stery.

“I had been dim ly aware for som e tim e of a worry ing noise, and when I

lifted m y ey es I saw the wood–pile was gone, and the m anager, aided by all the

pilgrim s, was shouting at m e from the river–side. I slipped the book into m y

pocket. I assure y ou to leave off reading was like tearing m y self away from the

shelter of an old and solid friendship.

“I started the lam e engine ahead. ‘It m ust be this m iserable trader – this

intruder,’ exclaim ed the m anager, looking back m alevolently at the place we had

left. ‘He m ust be English,’ I said. ‘It will not save him from getting into trouble if

he is not careful,’ m uttered the m anager darkly. I observed with assum ed innocence that no m an was safe from trouble in this world.

“The current was m ore rapid now, the steam er seem ed at her last gasp,

the stern–wheel flopped languidly, and I caught m y self listening on tiptoe for the

next beat of the boat, for in sober truth I expected the wretched thing to give up

every m om ent. It was like watching the last flickers of a life. But still we crawled.

Som etim es I would pick out a tree a little way ahead to m easure our progress

towards Kurtz by, but I lost it invariably before we got abreast. To keep the ey es

so long on one thing was too m uch for hum an patience. The m anager display ed a

beautiful resignation. I fretted and fum ed and took to arguing with m y self

whether or no I would talk openly with Kurtz; but before I could com e to any

conclusion it occurred to m e that m y speech or m y silence, indeed any action of

m ine, would be a m ere futility. What did it m atter what any one knew or ignored?

What did it m atter who was m anager? One gets som etim es such a flash of insight.

The essentials of this affair lay deep under the surface, bey ond m y reach, and

bey ond m y power of m eddling.

“Towards the evening of the second day we j udged ourselves about eight

m iles from Kurtz’s station. I wanted to push on; but the m anager looked grave, and

told m e the navigation up there was so dangerous that it would be advisable, the

sun being very low already, to wait where we were till next m orning. Moreover,

he pointed out that if the warning to approach cautiously were to be followed, we

m ust approach in day light – not at dusk, or in the dark. This was sensible enough.

Eight m iles m eant nearly three hours’ steam ing for us, and I could also see

suspicious ripples at the upper end of the reach. Nevertheless, I was annoy ed

bey ond expression at the delay, and m ost unreasonably too, since one night m ore

could not m atter m uch after so m any m onths. As we had plenty of wood, and

caution was the word, I brought up in the m iddle of the stream . The reach was

narrow, straight, with high sides like a railway cutting. The dusk cam e gliding into

it long before the sun had set. The current ran sm ooth and swift, but a dum b

im m obility sat on the banks. The living trees, lashed together by the creepers and

every living bush of the undergrowth, m ight have been changed into stone, even

to the slenderest twig, to the lightest leaf. It was not sleep – it seem ed unnatural,

like a state of trance. Not the faintest sound of any kind could be heard. You

looked on am azed, and began to suspect y ourself of being deaf – then the night

cam e suddenly, and struck y ou blind as well. About three in the m orning som e

large fish leaped, and the loud splash m ade m e j um p as though a gun had been

fired. When the sun rose there was a white fog, very warm and clam m y, and

m ore blinding than the night. It did not shift or drive; it was j ust there, standing all

round y ou like som ething solid. At eight or nine, perhaps, it lifted as a shutter lifts.

We had a glim pse of the towering m ultitude of trees, of the im m ense m atted

j ungle, with the blazing little ball of the sun hanging over it – all perfectly still –

and then the white shutter cam e down again, sm oothly, as if sliding in greased

grooves. I ordered the chain, which we had begun to heave in, to be paid out

again. Before it stopped running with a m uffled rattle, a cry, a very loud cry, as

of infinite desolation, soared slowly in the opaque air. It ceased. A com plaining

clam or, m odulated in savage discords, filled our ears. The sheer unexpectedness of it m ade m y hair stir under m y cap. I don’t know how it struck the others: to m e

it seem ed as though the m ist itself had scream ed, so suddenly, and apparently

from all sides at once, did this tum ultuous and m ournful uproar arise. It

culm inated in a hurried outbreak of alm ost intolerably excessive shrieking, which

stopped short, leaving us stiffened in a variety of silly attitudes, and obstinately

listening to the nearly as appalling and excessive silence. ‘Good God! What is the

m eaning – ?’ stam m ered at m y elbow one of the pilgrim s, – a little fat m an, with

sandy hair and red whiskers, who wore side–spring boots, and pink py j am as

tucked into his socks. Two others rem ained open–m outhed a whole m inute, then

dashed into the little cabin, to rush out incontinently and stand darting scared

glances, with Winchesters at ‘ready ’ in their hands. What we could see was j ust

the steam er we were on, her outlines blurred as though she had been on the point

of dissolving, and a m isty strip of water, perhaps two feet broad, around her – and

that was all. The rest of the world was nowhere, as far as our ey es and ears were

concerned. Just nowhere. Gone, disappeared; swept off without leaving a whisper

or a shadow behind.

“I went forward, and ordered the chain to be hauled in short, so as to be

ready to trip the anchor and m ove the steam boat at once if necessary. ‘Will they

attack?’ whispered an awed voice. ‘We will all be butchered in this fog,’ m urm ured

another. The faces twitched with the strain, the hands trem bled slightly, the ey es

forgot to wink. It was very curious to see the contrast of expressions of the white

m en and of the black fellows of our crew, who were as m uch strangers to that

part of the river as we, though their hom es were only eight hundred m iles away.

The whites, of course greatly discom posed, had besides a curious look of being

painfully shocked by such an outrageous row. The others had an alert, naturally

interested expression; but their faces were essentially quiet, even those of the one

or two who grinned as they hauled at the chain. Several exchanged short, grunting

phrases, which seem ed to settle the m atter to their satisfaction. Their headm an, a

y oung, broad–chested black, severely draped in dark–blue fringed cloths, with

fierce nostrils and his hair all done up artfully in oily ringlets, stood near m e.

‘Aha!’ I said, j ust for good fellowship’s sake. ‘Catch ‘im ,’ he snapped, with a

bloodshot widening of his ey es and a flash of sharp teeth – ‘catch ‘im . Give ‘im to

us.’ ‘To y ou, eh?’ I asked; ‘what would y ou do with them ?’ ‘Eat ‘im !’ he said curtly,

and, leaning his elbow on the rail, looked out into the fog in a dignified and

profoundly pensive attitude. I would no doubt have been properly horrified, had it

not occurred to m e that he and his chaps m ust be very hungry : that they m ust

have been growing increasingly hungry for at least this m onth past. They had

been engaged for six m onths (I don’t think a single one of them had any clear

idea of tim e, as we at the end of countless ages have. They still belonged to the

beginnings of tim e – had no inherited experience to teach them as it were), and of

course, as long as there was a piece of paper written over in accordance with

som e farcical law or other m ade down the river, it didn’t enter any body ’s head to

trouble how they would live. Certainly they had brought with them som e rotten

hippo–m eat, which couldn’t have lasted very long, any way, even if the pilgrim s

hadn’t, in the m idst of a shocking hullabaloo, thrown a considerable quantity of it overboard. It looked like a high–handed proceeding; but it was really a case of

legitim ate self–defense. You can’t breathe dead hippo waking, sleeping, and

eating, and at the sam e tim e keep y our precarious grip on existence. Besides that,

they had given them every week three pieces of brass wire, each about nine

inches long; and the theory was they were to buy their provisions with that

currency in river–side villages. You can see how that worked. There were either

no villages, or the people were hostile, or the director, who like the rest of us fed

out of tins, with an occasional old he–goat thrown in, didn’t want to stop the

steam er for som e m ore or less recondite reason. So, unless they swallowed the

wire itself, or m ade loops of it to snare the fishes with, I don’t see what good their

extravagant salary could be to them . I m ust say it was paid with a regularity

worthy of a large and honorable trading com pany. For the rest, the only thing to

eat – though it didn’t look eatable in the least – I saw in their possession was a few

lum ps of som e stuff like half–cooked dough, of a dirty lavender color, they kept

wrapped in leaves, and now and then swallowed a piece of, but so sm all that it

seem ed done m ore for the looks of the thing than for any serious purpose of

sustenance. Why in the nam e of all the gnawing devils of hunger they didn’t go

for us – they were thirty to five – and have a good tuck in for once, am azes m e

now when I think of it. They were big powerful m en, with not m uch capacity to

weigh the consequences, with courage, with strength, even y et, though their skins

were no longer glossy and their m uscles no longer hard. And I saw that

som ething restraining, one of those hum an secrets that baffle probability, had

com e into play there. I looked at them with a swift quickening of interest – not

because it occurred to m e I m ight be eaten by them before very long, though I

own to y ou that j ust then I perceived – in a new light, as it were – how

unwholesom e the pilgrim s looked, and I hoped, y es, I positively hoped, that m y

aspect was not so – what shall I say ? – so – unappetizing: a touch of fantastic

vanity which fitted well with the dream –sensation that pervaded all m y day s at

that tim e. Perhaps I had a little fever too. One can’t live with one’s finger

everlastingly on one’s pulse. I had often ‘a little fever,’ or a little touch of other

things – the play ful paw–strokes of the wilderness, the prelim inary trifling before

the m ore serious onslaught which cam e in due course. Yes; I looked at them as

y ou would on any hum an being, with a curiosity of their im pulses, m otives,

capacities, weaknesses, when brought to the test of an inexorable phy sical

necessity. Restraint! What possible restraint? Was it superstition, disgust, patience,

fear – or som e kind of prim itive honor? No fear can stand up to hunger, no

patience can wear it out, disgust sim ply does not exist where hunger is; and as to

superstition, beliefs, and what y ou m ay call principles, they are less than chaff in

a breeze. Don’t y ou know the devilry of lingering starvation, its exasperating

torm ent, its black thoughts, its som ber and brooding ferocity ? Well, I do. It takes a

m an all his inborn strength to fight hunger properly. It’s really easier to face

bereavem ent, dishonor, and the perdition of one’s soul – than this kind of

prolonged hunger. Sad, but true. And these chaps too had no earthly reason for

any kind of scruple. Restraint! I would j ust as soon have expected restraint from a

hy ena prowling am ongst the corpses of a battlefield. But there was the fact facing

m e – the fact dazzling, to be seen, like the foam on the depths of the sea, like a ripple on an unfathom able enigm a, a m y stery greater – when I thought of it –

than the curious, inexplicable note of desperate grief in this savage clam or that

had swept by us on the river–bank, behind the blind whiteness of the fog.

“Two pilgrim s were quarreling in hurried whispers as to which bank.

‘Left.’ ‘No, no; how can y ou? Right, right, of course.’ ‘It is very serious,’ said the

m anager’s voice behind m e; ‘I would be desolated if any thing should happen to

Mr. Kurtz before we cam e up.’ I looked at him , and had not the slightest doubt he

was sincere. He was j ust the kind of m an who would wish to preserve

appearances. That was his restraint. But when he m uttered som ething about going

on at once, I did not even take the trouble to answer him . I knew, and he knew, that

it was im possible. Were we to let go our hold of the bottom , we would be

absolutely in the air – in space. We wouldn’t be able to tell where we were going

to – whether up or down stream , or across – till we fetched against one bank or

the other, – and then we wouldn’t know at first which it was. Of course I m ade no

m ove. I had no m ind for a sm ash–up. You couldn’t im agine a m ore deadly place

for a shipwreck. Whether drowned at once or not, we were sure to perish

speedily in one way or another. ‘I authorize y ou to take all the risks,’ he said, after

a short silence. ‘I refuse to take any,’ I said shortly ; which was j ust the answer he

expected, though its tone m ight have surprised him . ‘Well, I m ust defer to y our

j udgm ent. You are captain,’ he said, with m arked civility. I turned m y shoulder to

him in sign of m y appreciation, and looked into the fog. How long would it last? It

was the m ost hopeless look–out. The approach to this Kurtz grubbing for ivory in

the wretched bush was beset by as m any dangers as though he had been an

enchanted princess sleeping in a fabulous castle. ‘Will they attack, do y ou think?’

asked the m anager, in a confidential tone.

“I did not think they would attack, for several obvious reasons. The thick

fog was one. If they left the bank in their canoes they would get lost in it, as we

would be if we attem pted to m ove. Still, I had also j udged the j ungle of both banks

quite im penetrable – and y et ey es were in it, ey es that had seen us. The river–

side bushes were certainly very thick; but the undergrowth behind was evidently

penetrable. However, during the short lift I had seen no canoes any where in the

reach – certainly not abreast of the steam er. But what m ade the idea of attack

inconceivable to m e was the nature of the noise – of the cries we had heard.

They had not the fierce character boding of im m ediate hostile intention.

Unexpected, wild, and violent as they had been, they had given m e an irresistible

im pression of sorrow. The glim pse of the steam boat had for som e reason filled

those savages with unrestrained grief. The danger, if any, I expounded, was from

our proxim ity to a great hum an passion let loose. Even extrem e grief m ay

ultim ately vent itself in violence – but m ore generally takes the form of apathy...

“You should have seen the pilgrim s stare! They had no heart to grin, or

even to revile m e; but I believe they thought m e gone m ad – with fright, m ay be.

I delivered a regular lecture. My dear boy s, it was no good bothering. Keep a

look–out? Well, y ou m ay guess I watched the fog for the signs of lifting as a cat

watches a m ouse; but for any thing else our ey es were of no m ore use to us than if we had been buried m iles deep in a heap of cotton–wool. It felt like it too –

choking, warm , stifling. Besides, all I said, though it sounded extravagant, was

absolutely true to fact. What we afterwards alluded to as an attack was really an

attem pt at repulse. The action was very far from being aggressive – it was not

even defensive, in the usual sense: it was undertaken under the stress of

desperation, and in its essence was purely protective.

“It developed itself, I should say, two hours after the fog lifted, and its

com m encem ent was at a spot, roughly speaking, about a m ile and a half below

Kurtz’s station. We had j ust floundered and flopped round a bend, when I saw an

islet, a m ere grassy hum m ock of bright green, in the m iddle of the stream . It was

the only thing of the kind; but as we opened the reach m ore, I perceived it was the

head of a long sandbank, or rather of a chain of shallow patches stretching down

the m iddle of the river. They were discolored, j ust awash, and the whole lot was

seen j ust under the water, exactly as a m an’s backbone is seen running down the

m iddle of his back under the skin. Now, as far as I did see, I could go to the right

or to the left of this. I didn’t know either channel, of course. The banks looked

pretty well alike, the depth appeared the sam e; but as I had been inform ed the

station was on the west side, I naturally headed for the western passage.

“No sooner had we fairly entered it than I becam e aware it was m uch

narrower than I had supposed. To the left of us there was the long uninterrupted

shoal, and to the right a high, steep bank heavily overgrown with bushes. Above

the bush the trees stood in serried ranks. The twigs overhung the current thickly,

and from distance to distance a large lim b of som e tree proj ected rigidly over the

stream . It was then well on in the afternoon, the face of the forest was gloom y,

and a broad strip of shadow had already fallen on the water. In this shadow we

steam ed up – very slowly, as y ou m ay im agine. I sheered her well inshore – the

water being deepest near the bank, as the sounding–pole inform ed m e.

“One of m y hungry and forbearing friends was sounding in the bows

j ust below m e. This steam boat was exactly like a decked scow. On the deck there

were two little teak–wood houses, with doors and windows. The boiler was in the

fore–end, and the m achinery right astern. Over the whole there was a light roof,

supported on stanchions. The funnel proj ected through that roof, and in front of

the funnel a sm all cabin built of light planks served for a pilot–house. It contained

a couch, two cam p–stools, a loaded Martini–Henry leaning in one corner, a tiny

table, and the steering–wheel. It had a wide door in front and a broad shutter at

each side. All these were alway s thrown open, of course. I spent m y day s

perched up there on the extrem e fore–end of that roof, before the door. At night I

slept, or tried to, on the couch. An athletic black belonging to som e coast tribe, and

educated by m y poor predecessor, was the helm sm an. He sported a pair of brass

earrings, wore a blue cloth wrapper from the waist to the ankles, and thought all

the world of him self. He was the m ost unstable kind of fool I had ever seen. He

steered with no end of a swagger while y ou were by ; but if he lost sight of y ou,

he becam e instantly the prey of an abj ect funk, and would let that cripple of a

steam boat get the upper hand of him in a m inute.

“I was looking down at the sounding–pole, and feeling m uch annoy ed to

see at each try a little m ore of it stick out of that river, when I saw m y polem an

give up the business suddenly, and stretch him self flat on the deck, without even

taking the trouble to haul his pole in. He kept hold on it though, and it trailed in the

water. At the sam e tim e the firem an, whom I could also see below m e, sat down

abruptly before his furnace and ducked his head. I was am azed. Then I had to

look at the river m ighty quick, because there was a snag in the fairway. Sticks,

little sticks, were fly ing about – thick: they were whizzing before m y nose,

dropping below m e, striking behind m e against m y pilot–house. All this tim e the

river, the shore, the woods, were very quiet – perfectly quiet. I could only hear

the heavy splashing thum p of the stern–wheel and the patter of these things. We

cleared the snag clum sily. Arrows, by Jove! We were being shot at! I stepped in

quickly to close the shutter on the land side. That fool–helm sm an, his hands on the

spokes, was lifting his knees high, stam ping his feet, cham ping his m outh, like a

reined–in horse. Confound him ! And we were staggering within ten feet of the

bank. I had to lean right out to swing the heavy shutter, and I saw a face am ongst

the leaves on the level with m y own, looking at m e very fierce and steady ; and

then suddenly, as though a veil had been rem oved from m y ey es, I m ade out,

deep in the tangled gloom , naked breasts, arm s, legs, glaring ey es, – the bush was

swarm ing with hum an lim bs in m ovem ent, glistening, of bronze color. The twigs

shook, sway ed, and rustled, the arrows flew out of them , and then the shutter

cam e to. ‘Steer her straight,’ I said to the helm sm an. He held his head rigid, face

forward; but his ey es rolled, he kept on lifting and setting down his feet gently, his

m outh foam ed a little. ‘Keep quiet!’ I said in a fury. I m ight j ust as well have

ordered a tree not to sway in the wind. I darted out. Below m e there was a great

scuffle of feet on the iron deck; confused exclam ations; a voice scream ed, ‘Can

y ou turn back?’ I caught shape of a V–shaped ripple on the water ahead. What?

Another snag! A fusillade burst out under m y feet. The pilgrim s had opened with

their Winchesters, and were sim ply squirting lead into that bush. A deuce of a lot

of sm oke cam e up and drove slowly forward. I swore at it. Now I couldn’t see the

ripple or the snag either. I stood in the doorway, peering, and the arrows cam e in

swarm s. They m ight have been poisoned, but they looked as though they wouldn’t

kill a cat. The bush began to howl. Our wood–cutters raised a warlike whoop; the

report of a rifle j ust at m y back deafened m e. I glanced over m y shoulder, and

the pilot–house was y et full of noise and sm oke when I m ade a dash at the wheel.

The fool–nigger had dropped every thing, to throw the shutter open and let off that

Martini–Henry. He stood before the wide opening, glaring, and I y elled at him to

com e back, while I straightened the sudden twist out of that steam boat. There was

no room to turn even if I had wanted to, the snag was som ewhere very near

ahead in that confounded sm oke, there was no tim e to lose, so I j ust crowded her

into the bank – right into the bank, where I knew the water was deep.

“We tore slowly along the overhanging bushes in a whirl of broken twigs

and fly ing leaves. The fusillade below stopped short, as I had foreseen it would

when the squirts got em pty. I threw m y head back to a glinting whizz that

traversed the pilot–house, in at one shutter–hole and out at the other. Looking past that m ad helm sm an, who was shaking the em pty rifle and y elling at the shore, I

saw vague form s of m en running bent double, leaping, gliding, distinct,

incom plete, evanescent. Som ething big appeared in the air before the shutter, the

rifle went overboard, and the m an stepped back swiftly, looked at m e over his

shoulder in an extraordinary, profound, fam iliar m anner, and fell upon m y feet.

The side of his head hit the wheel twice, and the end of what appeared a long

cane clattered round and knocked over a little cam p–stool. It looked as though

after wrenching that thing from som ebody ashore he had lost his balance in the

effort. The thin sm oke had blown away, we were clear of the snag, and looking

ahead I could see that in another hundred y ards or so I would be free to sheer off,

away from the bank; but m y feet felt so very warm and wet that I had to look

down. The m an had rolled on his back and stared straight up at m e; both his hands

clutched that cane. It was the shaft of a spear that, either thrown or lunged

through the opening, had caught him in the side j ust below the ribs; the blade had

gone in out of sight, after m aking a frightful gash; m y shoes were full; a pool of

blood lay very still, gleam ing dark–red under the wheel; his ey es shone with an

am azing luster. The fusillade burst out again. He looked at m e anxiously, gripping

the spear like som ething precious, with an air of being afraid I would try to take it

away from him . I had to m ake an effort to free m y ey es from his gaze and

attend to the steering. With one hand I felt above m y head for the line of the

steam –whistle, and j erked out screech after screech hurriedly. The tum ult of

angry and warlike y ells was checked instantly, and then from the depths of the

woods went out such a trem ulous and prolonged wail of m ournful fear and utter

despair as m ay be im agined to follow the flight of the last hope from the earth.

There was a great com m otion in the bush; the shower of arrows stopped, a few

dropping shots rang out sharply – then silence, in which the languid beat of the

stern–wheel cam e plainly to m y ears. I put the helm hard a–starboard at the

m om ent when the pilgrim in pink py j am as, very hot and agitated, appeared in the

doorway. ‘The m anager sends m e – ‘ he began in an official tone, and stopped

short. ‘Good God!’ he said, glaring at the wounded m an.

“We two whites stood over him , and his lustrous and inquiring glance

enveloped us both. I declare it looked as though he would presently put to us som e question in an understandable language; but he died without uttering a sound, without m oving a lim b, without twitching a m uscle. Only in the very last m om ent, as though in response to som e sign we could not see, to som e whisper we could not hear, he frowned heavily, and that frown gave to his black death–m ask an inconceivably som ber, brooding, and m enacing expression. The luster of inquiring glance faded swiftly into vacant glassiness. ‘Can y ou steer?’ I asked the agent eagerly. He looked very dubious; but I m ade a grab at his arm , and he understood at once I m eant him to steer whether or no. To tell y ou the truth, I was m orbidly anxious to change m y shoes and socks. ‘He is dead,’ m urm ured the fellow, im m ensely im pressed. ‘No doubt about it,’ said I, tugging like m ad at the shoe–laces. ‘And, by the way, I suppose Mr. Kurtz is dead as well by this tim e.’

“For the m om ent that was the dom inant thought. There was a sense of

extrem e disappointm ent, as though I had found out I had been striving after som ething altogether without a substance. I couldn’t have been m ore disgusted if I had traveled all this way for the sole purpose of talking with Mr. Kurtz. Talking with... I flung one shoe overboard, and becam e aware that that was exactly what I had been looking forward to – a talk with Kurtz. I m ade the strange discovery that I had never im agined him as doing, y ou know, but as discoursing. I didn’t say to m y self, ‘Now I will never see him ,’ or ‘Now I will never shake him by the hand,’ but, ‘Now I will never hear him .’ The m an presented him self as a voice. Not of course that I did not connect him with som e sort of action. Hadn’t I been told in all the tones of j ealousy and adm iration that he had collected, bartered, swindled, or stolen m ore ivory than all the other agents together? That was not the point. The point was in his being a gifted creature, and that of all his gifts the one that stood out pre–em inently, that carried with it a sense of real presence, was his ability to talk, his words – the gift of expression, the bewildering, the illum inating, the m ost exalted and the m ost contem ptible, the pulsating stream of light, or the deceitful flow from the heart of an im penetrable darkness.

“The other shoe went fly ing unto the devil–god of that river. I thought,

‘By Jove! it’s all over. We are too late; he has vanished – the gift has vanished, by m eans of som e spear, arrow, or club. I will never hear that chap speak after all,’ – and m y sorrow had a startling extravagance of em otion, even such as I had noticed in the howling sorrow of these savages in the bush. I couldn’t have felt m ore of lonely desolation som ehow, had I been robbed of a belief or had m issed m y destiny in life... Why do y ou sigh in this beastly way, som ebody ? Absurd? Well, absurd. Good Lord! m ustn’t a m an ever – Here, give m e som e tobacco”...

There was a pause of profound stillness, then a m atch flared, and

Marlow’s lean face appeared, worn, hollow, with downward folds and dropped ey elids, with an aspect of concentrated attention; and as he took vigorous draws at his pipe, it seem ed to retreat and advance out of the night in the regular flicker of the tiny flam e. The m atch went out.

“Absurd!” he cried. “This is the worst of try ing to tell... Here y ou all are,

each m oored with two good addresses, like a hulk with two anchors, a butcher round one corner, a policem an round another, excellent appetites, and tem perature norm al – y ou hear – norm al from y ear’s end to y ear’s end. And y ou say, Absurd! Absurd be – exploded! Absurd! My dear boy s, what can y ou expect from a m an who out of sheer nervousness had j ust flung overboard a pair of new shoes. Now I think of it, it is am azing I did not shed tears. I am , upon the whole, proud of m y fortitude. I was cut to the quick at the idea of having lost the inestim able privilege of listening to the gifted Kurtz. Of course I was wrong. The privilege was waiting for m e. Oh y es, I heard m ore than enough. And I was right, too. A voice. He was very little m ore than a voice. And I heard – him – it – this voice – other voices – all of them were so little m ore than voices – and the m em ory of that tim e itself lingers around m e, im palpable, like a dy ing vibration of one im m ense j abber, silly, atrocious, sordid, savage, or sim ply m ean, without any kind of sense. Voices, voices – even the girl herself – now – “

He was silent for a long tim e.

“I laid the ghost of his gifts at last with a lie,” he began suddenly. “Girl!

What? Did I m ention a girl? Oh, she is out of it – com pletely. They – the wom en, I m ean – are out of it – should be out of it. We m ust help them to stay in that beautiful world of their own, lest ours gets worse. Oh, she had to be out of it. You should have heard the disinterred body of Mr. Kurtz say ing, ‘My Intended.’ You would have perceived directly then how com pletely she was out of it. And the lofty frontal bone of Mr. Kurtz! They say the hair goes on growing som etim es, but this – ah specim en, was im pressively bald. The wilderness had patted him on the head, and, behold, it was like a ball – an ivory ball; it had caressed him , and – lo! – he had withered; it had taken him , loved him , em braced him , got into his veins, consum ed his flesh, and sealed his soul to its own by the inconceivable cerem onies of som e devilish initiation. He was its spoiled and pam pered favorite. Ivory ? I should think so. Heaps of it, stacks of it. The old m ud shanty was bursting with it. You would think there was not a single tusk left either above or below the ground in the whole country. ‘Mostly fossil,’ the m anager had rem arked disparagingly. It was no m ore fossil than I am ; but they call it fossil when it is dug up. It appears these niggers do bury the tusks som etim es – but evidently they couldn’t bury this parcel deep enough to save the gifted Mr. Kurtz from his fate. We filled the steam boat with it, and had to pile a lot on the deck. Thus he could see and enj oy as long as he could see, because the appreciation of this favor had rem ained with him to the last. You should have heard him say, ‘My ivory.’ Oh y es, I heard him . ‘My Intended, m y ivory, m y station, m y river, m y – ‘ every thing belonged to him . It m ade m e hold m y breath in expectation of hearing the wilderness burst into a prodigious peal of laughter that would shake the fixed stars in their places. Every thing belonged to him – but that was a trifle. The thing was to know what he belonged to, how m any powers of darkness claim ed him for their own. That was the reflection that m ade y ou creepy all over. It was im possible – it was not good for one either – try ing to im agine. He had taken a high seat am ongst the devils of the land – I m ean literally. You can’t understand. How could y ou? – with solid pavem ent under y our feet, surrounded by kind neighbors ready to cheer y ou or to fall on y ou, stepping delicately between the butcher and the policem an, in the holy terror of scandal and gallows and lunatic asy lum s – how can y ou im agine what particular region of the first ages a m an’s untram m eled feet m ay take him into by the way of solitude – utter solitude without a policem an – by the way of silence, utter silence, where no warning voice of a kind neighbor can be heard whispering of public opinion? These little things m ake all the great difference. When they are gone y ou m ust fall back upon y our own innate strength, upon y our own capacity for faithfulness. Of course y ou m ay be too m uch of a fool to go wrong – too dull even to know y ou are being assaulted by the powers of darkness. I take it, no fool ever m ade a bargain for his soul with the devil: the fool is too m uch of a fool, or the devil too m uch of a devil – I don’t know which. Or y ou m ay be such a thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind to any thing but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth for y ou is only a standing place – and whether to be like this is y our loss or y our gain I won’t pretend to say. But m ost of us are neither one nor the other. The earth for us is a place to live in, where we m ust put up with sights, with sounds, with sm ells too, by Jove! – breathe dead hippo, so to speak, and not be contam inated. And there, don’t y ou see? Your strength com es in, the faith in y our ability for the digging of unostentatious holes to bury the stuff in – y our power of devotion, not to y ourself, but to an obscure, back–breaking business. And that’s difficult enough. Mind, I am not try ing to excuse or even explain – I am try ing to account to m y self for – for – Mr. Kurtz – for the shade of Mr. Kurtz. This initiated wraith from the back of Nowhere honored m e with its am azing confidence before it vanished altogether. This was because it could speak English to m e. The original Kurtz had been educated partly in England, and – as he was good enough to say him self – his sy m pathies were in the right place. His m other was half– English, his father was half–French. All Europe contributed to the m aking of Kurtz; and by –and–by I learned that, m ost appropriately, the International Society for the Suppression of Savage Custom s had intrusted him with the m aking of a report, for its future guidance. And he had written it too. I’ve seen it. I’ve read it. It was eloquent, vibrating with eloquence, but too high–strung, I think. Seventeen pages of close writing he had found tim e for! But this m ust have been before his – let us say – nerves, went wrong, and caused him to preside at certain m idnight dances ending with unspeakable rites, which – as far as I reluctantly gathered from what I heard at various tim es – were offered up to him – do y ou understand? – to Mr. Kurtz him self. But it was a beautiful piece of writing. The opening paragraph, however, in the light of later inform ation, strikes m e now as om inous. He began with the argum ent that we whites, from the point of developm ent we had arrived at, ‘m ust necessarily appear to them [savages] in the nature of supernatural beings – we approach them with the m ight as of a deity,’ and so on, and so on. ‘By the sim ple exercise of our will we can exert a power for good practically unbounded,’ & c., & c. From that point he soared and took m e with him . The peroration was m agnificent, though difficult to rem em ber, y ou know. It gave m e the notion of an exotic Im m ensity ruled by an august Benevolence. It m ade m e tingle with enthusiasm . This was the unbounded power of eloquence – of words – of burning noble words. There were no practical hints to interrupt the m agic current of phrases, unless a kind of note at the foot of the last page, scrawled evidently m uch later, in an unsteady hand, m ay be regarded as the exposition of a m ethod. It was very sim ple, and at the end of that m oving appeal to every altruistic sentim ent it blazed at y ou, lum inous and terrify ing, like a flash of lightning in a serene sky : ‘Exterm inate all the brutes!’ The curious part was that he had apparently forgotten all about that valuable postscriptum , because, later on, when he in a sense cam e to him self, he repeatedly entreated m e to take good care of ‘m y pam phlet’ (he called it), as it was sure to have in the future a good influence upon his career. I had full inform ation about all these things, and, besides, as it turned out, I was to have the care of his m em ory. I’ve done enough for it to give m e the indisputable right to lay it, if I choose, for an everlasting rest in the dust–bin of progress, am ongst all the sweepings and, figuratively speaking, all the dead cats of civilization. But then, y ou see, I can’t choose. He won’t be forgotten. Whatever he was, he was not com m on. He had the power to charm or frighten rudim entary souls into an aggravated witch– dance in his honor; he could also fill the sm all souls of the pilgrim s with bitter m isgivings: he had one devoted friend at least, and he had conquered one soul in the world that was neither rudim entary nor tainted with self–seeking. No; I can’t forget him , though I am not prepared to affirm the fellow was exactly worth the life we lost in getting to him . I m issed m y late helm sm an awfully, – I m issed him even while his body was still ly ing in the pilot–house. Perhaps y ou will think it passing strange this regret for a savage who was no m ore account than a grain of sand in a black Sahara. Well, don’t y ou see, he had done som ething, he had steered; for m onths I had him at m y back – a help – an instrum ent. It was a kind of partnership. He steered for m e – I had to look after him , I worried about his deficiencies, and thus a subtle bond had been created, of which I only becam e aware when it was suddenly broken. And the intim ate profundity of that look he gave m e when he received his hurt rem ains to this day in m y m em ory – like a claim of distant kinship affirm ed in a suprem e m om ent.

“Poor fool! If he had only left that shutter alone. He had no restraint, no

restraint – j ust like Kurtz – a tree sway ed by the wind. As soon as I had put on a dry pair of slippers, I dragged him out, after first j erking the spear out of his side, which operation I confess I perform ed with m y ey es shut tight. His heels leaped together over the little door–step; his shoulders were pressed to m y breast; I hugged him from behind desperately. Oh! he was heavy, heavy ; heavier than any m an on earth, I should im agine. Then without m ore ado I tipped him overboard. The current snatched him as though he had been a wisp of grass, and I saw the body roll over twice before I lost sight of it for ever. All the pilgrim s and the m anager were then congregated on the awning–deck about the pilot–house, chattering at each other like a flock of excited m agpies, and there was a scandalized m urm ur at m y heartless prom ptitude. What they wanted to keep that body hanging about for I can’t guess. Em balm it, m ay be. But I had also heard another, and a very om inous, m urm ur on the deck below. My friends the wood– cutters were likewise scandalized, and with a better show of reason – though I adm it that the reason itself was quite inadm issible. Oh, quite! I had m ade up m y m ind that if m y late helm sm an was to be eaten, the fishes alone should have him . He had been a very second–rate helm sm an while alive, but now he was dead he m ight have becom e a first–class tem ptation, and possibly cause som e startling trouble. Besides, I was anxious to take the wheel, the m an in pink py j am as showing him self a hopeless duffer at the business.

“This I did directly the sim ple funeral was over. We were going half–

speed, keeping right in the m iddle of the stream , and I listened to the talk about m e. They had given up Kurtz, they had given up the station; Kurtz was dead, and the station had been burnt – and so on – and so on. The red–haired pilgrim was beside him self with the thought that at least this poor Kurtz had been properly revenged. ‘Say ! We m ust have m ade a glorious slaughter of them in the bush. Eh? What do y ou think? Say ?’ He positively danced, the bloodthirsty little gingery beggar. And he had nearly fainted when he saw the wounded m an! I could not help say ing, ‘You m ade a glorious lot of sm oke, any how.’ I had seen, from the way the tops of the bushes rustled and flew, that alm ost all the shots had gone too high. You can’t hit any thing unless y ou take aim and fire from the shoulder; but these chaps fired from the hip with their ey es shut. The retreat, I m aintained – and I was right – was caused by the screeching of the steam –whistle. Upon this they forgot Kurtz, and began to howl at m e with indignant protests.

“The m anager stood by the wheel m urm uring confidentially about the

necessity of getting well away down the river before dark at all events, when I saw in the distance a clearing on the river–side and the outlines of som e sort of building. ‘What’s this?’ I asked. He clapped his hands in wonder. ‘The station!’ he cried. I edged in at once, still going half–speed.

“Through m y glasses I saw the slope of a hill interspersed with rare trees

and perfectly free from undergrowth. A long decay ing building on the sum m it was half buried in the high grass; the large holes in the peaked roof gaped black from afar; the j ungle and the woods m ade a background. There was no inclosure or fence of any kind; but there had been one apparently, for near the house half– a–dozen slim posts rem ained in a row, roughly trim m ed, and with their upper ends ornam ented with round carved balls. The rails, or whatever there had been between, had disappeared. Of course the forest surrounded all that. The river– bank was clear, and on the water–side I saw a white m an under a hat like a cart– wheel beckoning persistently with his whole arm . Exam ining the edge of the forest above and below, I was alm ost certain I could see m ovem ents – hum an form s gliding here and there. I steam ed past prudently, then stopped the engines and let her drift down. The m an on the shore began to shout, urging us to land. ‘We have been attacked,’ scream ed the m anager. ‘I know – I know. It’s all right,’ y elled back the other, as cheerful as y ou please. ‘Com e along. It’s all right. I am glad.’

“His aspect rem inded m e of som ething I had seen – som ething funny I

had seen som ewhere. As I m aneuvered to get alongside, I was asking m y self, ‘What does this fellow look like?’ Suddenly I got it. He looked like a harlequin. His clothes had been m ade of som e stuff that was brown holland probably, but it was covered with patches all over, with bright patches, blue, red, and y ellow, – patches on the back, patches on front, patches on elbows, on knees; colored binding round his j acket, scarlet edging at the bottom of his trousers; and the sunshine m ade him look extrem ely gay and wonderfully neat withal, because y ou could see how beautifully all this patching had been done. A beardless, boy ish face, very fair, no features to speak of, nose peeling, little blue ey es, sm iles and frowns chasing each other over that open countenance like sunshine and shadow on a windswept plain. ‘Look out, captain!’ he cried; ‘there’s a snag lodged in here last night.’ What! Another snag? I confess I swore sham efully. I had nearly holed m y cripple, to finish off that charm ing trip. The harlequin on the bank turned his little pug nose up to m e. ‘You English?’ he asked, all sm iles. ‘Are y ou?’ I shouted from the wheel. The sm iles vanished, and he shook his head as if sorry for m y disappointm ent. Then he brightened up. ‘Never m ind!’ he cried encouragingly. ‘Are we in tim e?’ I asked. ‘He is up there,’ he replied, with a toss of the head up the hill, and becom ing gloom y all of a sudden. His face was like the autum n sky, overcast one m om ent and bright the next.

“When the m anager, escorted by the pilgrim s, all of them arm ed to the

teeth, had gone to the house, this chap cam e on board. ‘I say, I don’t like this. These natives are in the bush,’ I said. He assured m e earnestly it was all right. ‘They are sim ple people,’ he added; ‘well, I am glad y ou cam e. It took m e all m y tim e to keep them off.’ ‘But y ou said it was all right,’ I cried. ‘Oh, they m eant no harm ,’ he said; and as I stared he corrected him self, ‘Not exactly.’ Then vivaciously, ‘My faith, y our pilot–house wants a clean up!’ In the next breath he advised m e to keep enough steam on the boiler to blow the whistle in case of any trouble. ‘One good screech will do m ore for y ou than all y our rifles. They are sim ple people,’ he repeated. He rattled away at such a rate he quite overwhelm ed m e. He seem ed to be try ing to m ake up for lots of silence, and actually hinted, laughing, that such was the case. ‘Don’t y ou talk with Mr. Kurtz?’ I said. ‘You don’t talk with that m an – y ou listen to him ,’ he exclaim ed with severe exaltation. ‘But now – ‘ He waved his arm , and in the twinkling of an ey e was in the utterm ost depths of despondency. In a m om ent he cam e up again with a j um p, possessed him self of both m y hands, shook them continuously, while he gabbled: ‘Brother sailor ... honor ... pleasure ... delight ... introduce m y self ... Russian ... son of an arch–priest ... Governm ent of Tam bov ... What? Tobacco! English tobacco; the excellent English tobacco! Now, that’s brotherly. Sm oke? Where’s a sailor that does not sm oke?’

“The pipe soothed him , and gradually I m ade out he had run away from

school, had gone to sea in a Russian ship; ran away again; served som e tim e in English ships; was now reconciled with the arch–priest. He m ade a point of that. ‘But when one is y oung one m ust see things, gather experience, ideas; enlarge the m ind.’ ‘Here!’ I interrupted. ‘You can never tell! Here I have m et Mr. Kurtz,’ he said, y outhfully solem n and reproachful. I held m y tongue after that. It appears he had persuaded a Dutch trading–house on the coast to fit him out with stores and goods, and had started for the interior with a light heart, and no m ore idea of what would happen to him than a baby. He had been wandering about that river for nearly two y ears alone, cut off from every body and every thing. ‘I am not so y oung as I look. I am twenty –five,’ he said. ‘At first old Van Shuy ten would tell m e to go to the devil,’ he narrated with keen enj oy m ent; ‘but I stuck to him , and talked and talked, till at last he got afraid I would talk the hind–leg off his favorite dog, so he gave m e som e cheap things and a few guns, and told m e he hoped he would never see m y face again. Good old Dutchm an, Van Shuy ten. I’ve sent him one sm all lot of ivory a y ear ago, so that he can’t call m e a little thief when I get back. I hope he got it. And for the rest I don’t care. I had som e wood stacked for y ou. That was m y old house. Did y ou see?’

“I gave him Towson’s book. He m ade as though he would kiss m e, but

restrained him self. ‘The only book I had left, and I thought I had lost it,’ he said, looking at it ecstatically. ‘So m any accidents happen to a m an going about alone, y ou know. Canoes get upset som etim es – and som etim es y ou’ve got to clear out so quick when the people get angry.’ He thum bed the pages. ‘You m ade notes in Russian?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘I thought they were written in cipher,’ I said. He laughed, then becam e serious. ‘I had lots of trouble to keep these people off,’ he said. ‘Did they want to kill y ou?’ I asked. ‘Oh no!’ he cried, and checked him self. ‘Why did they attack us?’ I pursued. He hesitated, then said sham efacedly, ‘They don’t want him to go.’ ‘Don’t they ?’ I said, curiously. He nodded a nod full of m y stery and wisdom . ‘I tell y ou,’ he cried, ‘this m an has enlarged m y m ind.’ He opened his arm s wide, staring at m e with his little blue ey es that were perfectly round.”