Capítulo III

 

“I looked at him , lost in astonishm ent. There he was before m e, in

m otley, as though he had absconded from a troupe of m im es, enthusiastic,

fabulous. His very existence was im probable, inexplicable, and altogether

bewildering. He was an insoluble problem . It was inconceivable how he had

existed, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had m anaged to rem ain –

why he did not instantly disappear. ‘I went a little farther,’ he said, ‘then still a little

farther – till I had gone so far that I don’t know how I’ll ever get back. Never

m ind. Plenty tim e. I can m anage. You take Kurtz away quick – quick – I tell y ou.’

The glam our of y outh enveloped his particolored rags, his destitution, his

loneliness, the essential desolation of his futile wanderings. For m onths – for y ears

– his life hadn’t been worth a day ’s purchase; and there he was gallantly,

thoughtlessly alive, to all appearance indestructible solely by the virtue of his few

y ears and of his unreflecting audacity. I was seduced into som ething like

adm iration – like envy. Glam our urged him on, glam our kept him unscathed. He

surely wanted nothing from the wilderness but space to breathe in and to push on

through. His need was to exist, and to m ove onwards at the greatest possible risk,

and with a m axim um of privation. If the absolutely pure, uncalculating,

unpractical spirit of adventure had ever ruled a hum an being, it ruled this be–

patched y outh. I alm ost envied him the possession of this m odest and clear flam e.

It seem ed to have consum ed all thought of self so com pletely, that, even while he

was talking to y ou, y ou forgot that it was he – the m an before y our ey es – who

had gone through these things. I did not envy him his devotion to Kurtz, though.

He had not m editated over it. It cam e to him , and he accepted it with a sort of

eager fatalism . I m ust say that to m e it appeared about the m ost dangerous thing

in every way he had com e upon so far.

“They had com e together unavoidably, like two ships becalm ed near

each other, and lay rubbing sides at last. I suppose Kurtz wanted an audience,

because on a certain occasion, when encam ped in the forest, they had talked all

night, or m ore probably Kurtz had talked. ‘We talked of every thing,’ he said, quite

transported at the recollection. ‘I forgot there was such a thing as sleep. The night

did not seem to last an hour. Every thing! Every thing! ... Of love too.’ ‘Ah, he

talked to y ou of love!’ I said, m uch am used. ‘It isn’t what y ou think,’ he cried,

alm ost passionately. ‘It was in general. He m ade m e see things – things.’

“He threw his arm s up. We were on deck at the tim e, and the headm an

of m y wood–cutters, lounging near by, turned upon him his heavy and glittering

ey es. I looked around, and I don’t know why, but I assure y ou that never, never

before, did this land, this river, this j ungle, the very arch of this blazing sky,

appear to m e so hopeless and so dark, so im penetrable to hum an thought, so

pitiless to hum an weakness. ‘And, ever since, y ou have been with him , of course?’

I said.

“On the contrary. It appears their intercourse had been very m uch broken by various causes. He had, as he inform ed m e proudly, m anaged to nurse

Kurtz through two illnesses (he alluded to it as y ou would to som e risky feat), but

as a rule Kurtz wandered alone, far in the depths of the forest. ‘Very often

com ing to this station, I had to wait day s and day s before he would turn up,’ he

said. ‘Ah, it was worth waiting for! – som etim es.’ ‘What was he doing? exploring

or what?’ I asked. ‘Oh y es, of course;’ he had discovered lots of villages, a lake too

– he did not know exactly in what direction; it was dangerous to inquire too m uch

– but m ostly his expeditions had been for ivory. ‘But he had no goods to trade with

by that tim e,’ I obj ected. ‘There’s a good lot of cartridges left even y et,’ he

answered, looking away. ‘To speak plainly, he raided the country,’ I said. He

nodded. ‘Not alone, surely !’ He m uttered som ething about the villages round that

lake. ‘Kurtz got the tribe to follow him , did he?’ I suggested. He fidgeted a little.

‘They adored him ,’ he said. The tone of these words was so extraordinary that I

looked at him searchingly. It was curious to see his m ingled eagerness and

reluctance to speak of Kurtz. The m an filled his life, occupied his thoughts,

sway ed his em otions. ‘What can y ou expect?’ he burst out; ‘he cam e to them with

thunder and lightning, y ou know – and they had never seen any thing like it – and

very terrible. He could be very terrible. You can’t j udge Mr. Kurtz as y ou would

an ordinary m an. No, no, no! Now – j ust to give y ou an idea – I don’t m ind telling

y ou, he wanted to shoot m e too one day – but I don’t j udge him .’ ‘Shoot y ou!’ I

cried. ‘What for?’ ‘Well, I had a sm all lot of ivory the chief of that village near

m y house gave m e. You see I used to shoot gam e for them . Well, he wanted it,

and wouldn’t hear reason. He declared he would shoot m e unless I gave him the

ivory and then cleared out of the country, because he could do so, and had a

fancy for it, and there was nothing on earth to prevent him killing whom he j olly

well pleased. And it was true too. I gave him the ivory. What did I care! But I

didn’t clear out. No, no. I couldn’t leave him . I had to be careful, of course, till we

got friendly again for a tim e. He had his second illness then. Afterwards I had to

keep out of the way ; but I didn’t m ind. He was living for the m ost part in those

villages on the lake. When he cam e down to the river, som etim es he would take to

m e, and som etim es it was better for m e to be careful. This m an suffered too

m uch. He hated all this, and som ehow he couldn’t get away. When I had a

chance I begged him to try and leave while there was tim e; I offered to go back

with him . And he would say y es, and then he would rem ain; go off on another

ivory hunt; disappear for weeks; forget him self am ongst these people – forget

him self – y ou know.’ ‘Why ! he’s m ad,’ I said. He protested indignantly. Mr. Kurtz

couldn’t be m ad. If I had heard him talk, only two day s ago, I wouldn’t dare hint

at such a thing... I had taken up m y binoculars while we talked and was looking at

the shore, sweeping the lim it of the forest at each side and at the back of the

house. The consciousness of there being people in that bush, so silent, so quiet – as

silent and quiet as the ruined house on the hill – m ade m e uneasy. There was no

sign on the face of nature of this am azing tale that was not so m uch told as

suggested to m e in desolate exclam ations, com pleted by shrugs, in interrupted

phrases, in hints ending in deep sighs. The woods were unm oved, like a m ask –

heavy, like the closed door of a prison – they looked with their air of hidden

knowledge, of patient expectation, of unapproachable silence. The Russian was explaining to m e that it was only lately that Mr. Kurtz had com e down to the river,

bringing along with him all the fighting m en of that lake tribe. He had been absent

for several m onths – getting him self adored, I suppose – and had com e down

unexpectedly, with the intention to all appearance of m aking a raid either across

the river or down stream . Evidently the appetite for m ore ivory had got the better

of the – what shall I say ? – less m aterial aspirations. However he had got m uch

worse suddenly. ‘I heard he was ly ing helpless, and so I cam e up – took m y

chance,’ said the Russian. ‘Oh, he is bad, very bad.’ I directed m y glass to the

house. There were no signs of life, but there was the ruined roof, the long m ud

wall peeping above the grass, with three little square window–holes, no two of the

sam e size; all this brought within reach of m y hand, as it were. And then I m ade a

brusque m ovem ent, and one of the rem aining posts of that vanished fence leaped

up in the field of m y glass. You rem em ber I told y ou I had been struck at the

distance by certain attem pts at ornam entation, rather rem arkable in the ruinous

aspect of the place. Now I had suddenly a nearer view, and its first result was to

m ake m e throw m y head back as if before a blow. Then I went carefully from

post to post with m y glass, and I saw m y m istake. These round knobs were not

ornam ental but sy m bolic; they were expressive and puzzling, striking and

disturbing – food for thought and also for the vultures if there had been any

looking down from the sky ; but at all events for such ants as were industrious

enough to ascend the pole. They would have been even m ore im pressive, those

heads on the stakes, if their faces had not been turned to the house. Only one, the

first I had m ade out, was facing m y way. I was not so shocked as y ou m ay think.

The start back I had given was really nothing but a m ovem ent of surprise. I had

expected to see a knob of wood there, y ou know. I returned deliberately to the

first I had seen – and there it was, black, dried, sunken, with closed ey elids, – a

head that seem ed to sleep at the top of that pole, and, with the shrunken dry lips

showing a narrow white line of the teeth, was sm iling too, sm iling continuously at

som e endless and j ocose dream of that eternal slum ber.

“I am not disclosing any trade secrets. In fact the m anager said

afterwards that Mr. Kurtz’s m ethods had ruined the district. I have no opinion on

that point, but I want y ou clearly to understand that there was nothing exactly

profitable in these heads being there. They only showed that Mr. Kurtz lacked

restraint in the gratification of his various lusts, that there was som ething wanting

in him – som e sm all m atter which, when the pressing need arose, could not be

found under his m agnificent eloquence. Whether he knew of this deficiency

him self I can’t say. I think the knowledge cam e to him at last – only at the very

last. But the wilderness had found him out early, and had taken on him a terrible

vengeance for the fantastic invasion. I think it had whispered to him things about

him self which he did not know, things of which he had no conception till he took

counsel with this great solitude – and the whisper had proved irresistibly

fascinating. It echoed loudly within him because he was hollow at the core... I put

down the glass, and the head that had appeared near enough to be spoken to

seem ed at once to have leaped away from m e into inaccessible distance.

“The adm irer of Mr. Kurtz was a bit crestfallen. In a hurried, indistinct voice he began to assure m e he had not dared to take these – say, sy m bols –

down. He was not afraid of the natives; they would not stir till Mr. Kurtz gave the

word. His ascendency was extraordinary. The cam ps of these people surrounded

the place, and the chiefs cam e every day to see him . They would crawl... ‘I don’t

want to know any thing of the cerem onies used when approaching Mr. Kurtz,’ I

shouted. Curious, this feeling that cam e over m e that such details would be m ore

intolerable than those heads dry ing on the stakes under Mr. Kurtz’s windows. After

all, that was only a savage sight, while I seem ed at one bound to have been

transported into som e lightless region of subtle horrors, where pure,

uncom plicated savagery was a positive relief, being som ething that had a right to

exist – obviously – in the sunshine. The y oung m an looked at m e with surprise. I

suppose it did not occur to him Mr. Kurtz was no idol of m ine. He forgot I hadn’t

heard any of these splendid m onologues on, what was it? on love, j ustice, conduct

of life – or what not. If it had com e to crawling before Mr. Kurtz, he crawled as

m uch as the veriest savage of them all. I had no idea of the conditions, he said:

these heads were the heads of rebels. I shocked him excessively by laughing.

Rebels! What would be the next definition I was to hear? There had been

enem ies, crim inals, workers – and these were rebels. Those rebellious heads

looked very subdued to m e on their sticks. ‘You don’t know how such a life tries a

m an like Kurtz,’ cried Kurtz’s last disciple. ‘Well, and y ou?’ I said. ‘I! I! I am a

sim ple m an. I have no great thoughts. I want nothing from any body. How can

y ou com pare m e to ...?’ His feelings were too m uch for speech, and suddenly he

broke down. ‘I don’t understand,’ he groaned. ‘I’ve been doing m y best to keep

him alive, and that’s enough. I had no hand in all this. I have no abilities. There

hasn’t been a drop of m edicine or a m outhful of invalid food for m onths here. He

was sham efully abandoned. A m an like this, with such ideas. Sham efully !

Sham efully ! I – I – haven’t slept for the last ten nights...’

“His voice lost itself in the calm of the evening. The long shadows of the

forest had slipped down hill while we talked, had gone far bey ond the ruined

hovel, bey ond the sy m bolic row of stakes. All this was in the gloom , while we

down there were y et in the sunshine, and the stretch of the river abreast of the

clearing glittered in a still and dazzling splendor, with a m urky and over–

shadowed bend above and below. Not a living soul was seen on the shore. The

bushes did not rustle.

“Suddenly round the corner of the house a group of m en appeared, as

though they had com e up from the ground. They waded waist–deep in the grass,

in a com pact body, bearing an im provised stretcher in their m idst. Instantly, in the

em ptiness of the landscape, a cry arose whose shrillness pierced the still air like a

sharp arrow fly ing straight to the very heart of the land; and, as if by

enchantm ent, stream s of hum an beings – of naked hum an beings – with spears in

their hands, with bows, with shields, with wild glances and savage m ovem ents,

were poured into the clearing by the dark–faced and pensive forest. The bushes

shook, the grass sway ed for a tim e, and then every thing stood still in attentive

im m obility.

“’Now, if he does not say the right thing to them we are all done for,’ said

the Russian at m y elbow. The knot of m en with the stretcher had stopped too,

half–way to the steam er, as if petrified. I saw the m an on the stretcher sit up, lank

and with an uplifted arm , above the shoulders of the bearers. ‘Let us hope that the

m an who can talk so well of love in general will find som e particular reason to

spare us this tim e,’ I said. I resented bitterly the absurd danger of our situation, as

if to be at the m ercy of that atrocious phantom had been a dishonoring necessity.

I could not hear a sound, but through m y glasses I saw the thin arm extended

com m andingly, the lower j aw m oving, the ey es of that apparition shining darkly

far in its bony head that nodded with grotesque j erks. Kurtz – Kurtz – that m eans

short in Germ an – don’t it? Well, the nam e was as true as every thing else in his

life – and death. He looked at least seven feet long. His covering had fallen off,

and his body em erged from it pitiful and appalling as from a winding–sheet. I

could see the cage of his ribs all astir, the bones of his arm waving. It was as

though an anim ated im age of death carved out of old ivory had been shaking its

hand with m enaces at a m otionless crowd of m en m ade of dark and glittering

bronze. I saw him open his m outh wide – it gave him a weirdly voracious aspect,

as though he had wanted to swallow all the air, all the earth, all the m en before

him . A deep voice reached m e faintly. He m ust have been shouting. He fell back

suddenly. The stretcher shook as the bearers staggered forward again, and alm ost

at the sam e tim e I noticed that the crowd of savages was vanishing without any

perceptible m ovem ent of retreat, as if the forest that had ej ected these beings so

suddenly had drawn them in again as the breath is drawn in a long aspiration.

“Som e of the pilgrim s behind the stretcher carried his arm s – two shot–

guns, a heavy rifle, and a light revolver–carbine – the thunderbolts of that pitiful

Jupiter. The m anager bent over him m urm uring as he walked beside his head.

They laid him down in one of the little cabins – j ust a room for a bed–place and a

cam p–stool or two, y ou know. We had brought his belated correspondence, and a

lot of torn envelopes and open letters littered his bed. His hand roam ed feebly

am ongst these papers. I was struck by the fire of his ey es and the com posed

languor of his expression. It was not so m uch the exhaustion of disease. He did not

seem in pain. This shadow looked satiated and calm , as though for the m om ent it

had had its fill of all the em otions.

“He rustled one of the letters, and looking straight in m y face said, ‘I am

glad.’ Som ebody had been writing to him about m e. These special

recom m endations were turning up again. The volum e of tone he em itted without

effort, alm ost without the trouble of m oving his lips, am azed m e. A voice! a

voice! It was grave, profound, vibrating, while the m an did not seem capable of a

whisper. However, he had enough strength in him – factitious no doubt – to very

nearly m ake an end of us, as y ou shall hear directly.

“The m anager appeared silently in the doorway ; I stepped out at once

and he drew the curtain after m e. The Russian, ey ed curiously by the pilgrim s,

was staring at the shore. I followed the direction of his glance.

“Dark hum an shapes could be m ade out in the distance, flitting indistinctly against the gloom y border of the forest, and near the river two bronze

figures, leaning on tall spears, stood in the sunlight under fantastic headdresses of

spotted skins, warlike and still in statuesque repose. And from right to left along the

lighted shore m oved a wild and gorgeous apparition of a wom an.

“She walked with m easured steps, draped in striped and fringed cloths,

treading the earth proudly, with a slight j ingle and flash of barbarous ornam ents.

She carried her head high; her hair was done in the shape of a helm et; she had

brass leggings to the knee, brass wire gauntlets to the elbow, a crim son spot on her

tawny cheek, innum erable necklaces of glass beads on her neck; bizarre things,

charm s, gifts of witch–m en, that hung about her, glittered and trem bled at every

step. She m ust have had the value of several elephant tusks upon her. She was

savage and superb, wild–ey ed and m agnificent; there was som ething om inous

and stately in her deliberate progress. And in the hush that had fallen suddenly

upon the whole sorrowful land, the im m ense wilderness, the colossal body of the

fecund and m y sterious life seem ed to look at her, pensive, as though it had been

looking at the im age of its own tenebrous and passionate soul.

“She cam e abreast of the steam er, stood still, and faced us. Her long

shadow fell to the water’s edge. Her face had a tragic and fierce aspect of wild

sorrow and of dum b pain m ingled with the fear of som e struggling, half–shaped

resolve. She stood looking at us without a stir and like the wilderness itself, with an

air of brooding over an inscrutable purpose. A whole m inute passed, and then she

m ade a step forward. There was a low j ingle, a glint of y ellow m etal, a sway of

fringed draperies, and she stopped as if her heart had failed her. The y oung

fellow by m y side growled. The pilgrim s m urm ured at m y back. She looked at us

all as if her life had depended upon the unswerving steadiness of her glance.

Suddenly she opened her bared arm s and threw them up rigid above her head, as

though in an uncontrollable desire to touch the sky, and at the sam e tim e the swift

shadows darted out on the earth, swept around on the river, gathering the steam er

into a shadowy em brace. A form idable silence hung over the scene.

“She turned away slowly, walked on, following the bank, and passed into

the bushes to the left. Once only her ey es gleam ed back at us in the dusk of the

thickets before she disappeared.

“’If she had offered to com e aboard I really think I would have tried to

shoot her,’ said the m an of patches, nervously. ‘I had been risking m y life every

day for the last fortnight to keep her out of the house. She got in one day and

kicked up a row about those m iserable rags I picked up in the storeroom to m end

m y clothes with. I wasn’t decent. At least it m ust have been that, for she talked

like a fury to Kurtz for an hour, pointing at m e now and then. I don’t understand

the dialect of this tribe. Luckily for m e, I fancy Kurtz felt too ill that day to care,

or there would have been m ischief. I don’t understand... No – it’s too m uch for

m e. Ah, well, it’s all over now.’

“At this m om ent I heard Kurtz’s deep voice behind the curtain, ‘Save

m e! – save the ivory, y ou m ean. Don’t tell m e. Save me! Why, I’ve had to save

y ou. You are interrupting m y plans now. Sick! Sick! Not so sick as y ou would like to believe. Never m ind. I’ll carry m y ideas out y et – I will return. I’ll show y ou

what can be done. You with y our little peddling notions – y ou are interfering with

m e. I will return. I ...’

“The m anager cam e out. He did m e the honor to take m e under the arm

and lead m e aside. ‘He is very low, very low,’ he said. He considered it necessary

to sigh, but neglected to be consistently sorrowful. ‘We have done all we could for

him – haven’t we? But there is no disguising the fact, Mr. Kurtz has done m ore

harm than good to the Com pany. He did not see the tim e was not ripe for vigorous

action. Cautiously, cautiously – that’s m y principle. We m ust be cautious y et. The

district is closed to us for a tim e. Deplorable! Upon the whole, the trade will

suffer. I don’t deny there is a rem arkable quantity of ivory – m ostly fossil. We

m ust save it, at all events – but look how precarious the position is – and why ?

Because the m ethod is unsound.’ ‘Do y ou,’ said I, looking at the shore, ‘call it

“unsound m ethod”?’ ‘Without doubt,’ he exclaim ed, hotly. ‘Don’t y ou?’ ... ‘No

m ethod at all,’ I m urm ured after a while. ‘Exactly,’ he exulted. ‘I anticipated this.

Shows a com plete want of j udgm ent. It is m y duty to point it out in the proper

quarter.’ ‘Oh,’ said I, ‘that fellow – what’s his nam e? – the brickm aker, will m ake a

readable report for y ou.’ He appeared confounded for a m om ent. It seem ed to

m e I had never breathed an atm osphere so vile, and I turned m entally to Kurtz

for relief – positively for relief. ‘Nevertheless I think Mr. Kurtz is a rem arkable

m an,’ I said with em phasis. He started, dropped on m e a cold heavy glance, said

very quietly, ‘He was,’ and turned his back on m e. My hour of favor was over; I

found m y self lum ped along with Kurtz as a partisan of m ethods for which the

tim e was not ripe: I was unsound! Ah! but it was som ething to have at least a

choice of nightm ares.

“I had turned to the wilderness really, not to Mr. Kurtz, who, I was ready

to adm it, was as good as buried. And for a m om ent it seem ed to m e as if I also

were buried in a vast grave full of unspeakable secrets. I felt an intolerable weight

oppressing m y breast, the sm ell of the dam p earth, the unseen presence of

victorious corruption, the darkness of an im penetrable night... The Russian tapped

m e on the shoulder. I heard him m um bling and stam m ering som ething about

‘brother seam an – couldn’t conceal – knowledge of m atters that would affect Mr.

Kurtz’s reputation.’ I waited. For him evidently Mr. Kurtz was not in his grave; I

suspect that for him Mr. Kurtz was one of the im m ortals. ‘Well!’ said I at last,

‘speak out. As it happens, I am Mr. Kurtz’s friend – in a way.’

“He stated with a good deal of form ality that had we not been ‘of the

sam e profession,’ he would have kept the m atter to him self without regard to

consequences. ‘He suspected there was an active ill–will towards him on the part

of these white m en that – ‘ ‘You are right,’ I said, rem em bering a certain

conversation I had overheard. ‘The m anager thinks y ou ought to be hanged.’ He

showed a concern at this intelligence which am used m e at first. ‘I had better get

out of the way quietly,’ he said, earnestly. ‘I can do no m ore for Kurtz now, and

they would soon find som e excuse. What’s to stop them ? There’s a m ilitary post

three hundred m iles from here.’ ‘Well, upon m y word,’ said I, ‘perhaps y ou had better go if y ou have any friends am ongst the savages near by.’ ‘Plenty,’ he said.

‘They are sim ple people – and I want nothing, y ou know.’ He stood biting his lips,

then: ‘I don’t want any harm to happen to these whites here, but of course I was

thinking of Mr. Kurtz’s reputation – but y ou are a brother seam an and – ‘ ‘All right,’

said I, after a tim e. ‘Mr. Kurtz’s reputation is safe with m e.’ I did not know how

truly I spoke.

“He inform ed m e, lowering his voice, that it was Kurtz who had ordered

the attack to be m ade on the steam er. ‘He hated som etim es the idea of being taken

away – and then again... But I don’t understand these m atters. I am a sim ple m an.

He thought it would scare y ou away – that y ou would give it up, thinking him

dead. I could not stop him . Oh, I had an awful tim e of it this last m onth.’ ‘Very

well,’ I said. ‘He is all right now.’ ‘Ye–e–es,’ he m uttered, not very convinced

apparently. ‘Thanks,’ said I; ‘I shall keep m y ey es open.’ ‘But quiet – eh?’ he urged,

anxiously. ‘It would be awful for his reputation if any body here – ‘ I prom ised a

com plete discretion with great gravity. ‘I have a canoe and three black fellows

waiting not very far. I am off. Could y ou give m e a few Martini–Henry

cartridges?’ I could, and did, with proper secrecy. He helped him self, with a wink

at m e, to a handful of m y tobacco. ‘Between sailors – y ou know – good English

tobacco.’ At the door of the pilot–house he turned round – ‘ I say, haven’t y ou a

pair of shoes y ou could spare?’ He raised one leg. ‘Look.’ The soles were tied with

knotted strings sandal–wise under his bare feet. I rooted out an old pair, at which

he looked with adm iration before tucking it under his left arm . One of his pockets

(bright red) was bulging with cartridges, from the other (dark blue) peeped

‘Towson’s Inquiry,’ & c., & c. He seem ed to think him self excellently well

equipped for a renewed encounter with the wilderness. ‘Ah! I’ll never, never

m eet such a m an again. You ought to have heard him recite poetry – his own too

it was, he told m e. Poetry !’ He rolled his ey es at the recollection of these delights.

‘Oh, he enlarged m y m ind!’ ‘Goodby,’ said I. He shook hands and vanished in the

night. Som etim es I ask m y self whether I had ever really seen him – whether it

was possible to m eet such a phenom enon! ...

“When I woke up shortly after m idnight his warning cam e to m y m ind

with its hint of danger that seem ed, in the starred darkness, real enough to m ake

m e get up for the purpose of having a look round. On the hill a big fire burned,

illum inating fitfully a crooked corner of the station–house. One of the agents with

a picket of a few of our blacks, arm ed for the purpose, was keeping guard over

the ivory ; but deep within the forest, red gleam s that wavered, that seem ed to sink

and rise from the ground am ongst confused colum nar shapes of intense

blackness, showed the exact position of the cam p where Mr. Kurtz’s adorers were

keeping their uneasy vigil. The m onotonous beating of a big drum filled the air

with m uffled shocks and a lingering vibration. A steady droning sound of m any

m en chanting each to him self som e weird incantation cam e out from the black,

flat wall of the woods as the hum m ing of bees com es out of a hive, and had a

strange narcotic effect upon m y half–awake senses. I believe I dozed off leaning

over the rail, till an abrupt burst of y ells, an overwhelm ing outbreak of a pent–up

and m y sterious frenzy, woke m e up in a bewildered wonder. It was cut short all at once, and the low droning went on with an effect of audible and soothing silence.

I glanced casually into the little cabin. A light was burning within, but Mr. Kurtz

was not there.

“I think I would have raised an outcry if I had believed m y ey es. But I

didn’t believe them at first – the thing seem ed so im possible. The fact is I was

com pletely unnerved by a sheer blank fright, pure abstract terror, unconnected

with any distinct shape of phy sical danger. What m ade this em otion so

overpowering was – how shall I define it? – the m oral shock I received, as if

som ething altogether m onstrous, intolerable to thought and odious to the soul, had

been thrust upon m e unexpectedly. This lasted of course the m erest fraction of a

second, and then the usual sense of com m onplace, deadly danger, the possibility

of a sudden onslaught and m assacre, or som ething of the kind, which I saw

im pending, was positively welcom e and com posing. It pacified m e, in fact, so

m uch, that I did not raise an alarm .

“There was an agent buttoned up inside an ulster and sleeping on a chair

on deck within three feet of m e. The y ells had not awakened him ; he snored very

slightly ; I left him to his slum bers and leaped ashore. I did not betray Mr. Kurtz –

it was ordered I should never betray him – it was written I should be loy al to the

nightm are of m y choice. I was anxious to deal with this shadow by m y self alone,

– and to this day I don’t know why I was so j ealous of sharing with any one the

peculiar blackness of that experience.

“As soon as I got on the bank I saw a trail – a broad trail through the

grass. I rem em ber the exultation with which I said to m y self, ‘He can’t walk – he

is crawling on all–fours – I’ve got him .’ The grass was wet with dew. I strode

rapidly with clenched fists. I fancy I had som e vague notion of falling upon him

and giving him a drubbing. I don’t know. I had som e im becile thoughts. The

knitting old wom an with the cat obtruded herself upon m y m em ory as a m ost

im proper person to be sitting at the other end of such an affair. I saw a row of

pilgrim s squirting lead in the air out of Winchesters held to the hip. I thought I

would never get back to the steam er, and im agined m y self living alone and

unarm ed in the woods to an advanced age. Such silly things – y ou know. And I

rem em ber I confounded the beat of the drum with the beating of m y heart, and

was pleased at its calm regularity.

“I kept to the track though – then stopped to listen. The night was very

clear: a dark blue space, sparkling with dew and starlight, in which black things

stood very still. I thought I could see a kind of m otion ahead of m e. I was

strangely cocksure of every thing that night. I actually left the track and ran in a

wide sem icircle (I verily believe chuckling to m y self) so as to get in front of that

stir, of that m otion I had seen – if indeed I had seen any thing. I was

circum venting Kurtz as though it had been a boy ish gam e.

“I cam e upon him , and, if he had not heard m e com ing, I would have

fallen over him too, but he got up in tim e. He rose, unsteady, long, pale, indistinct,

like a vapor exhaled by the earth, and sway ed slightly, m isty and silent before

m e; while at m y back the fires loom ed between the trees, and the m urm ur of m any voices issued from the forest. I had cut him off cleverly ; but when actually

confronting him I seem ed to com e to m y senses, I saw the danger in its right

proportion. It was by no m eans over y et. Suppose he began to shout? Though he

could hardly stand, there was still plenty of vigor in his voice. ‘Go away – hide

y ourself,’ he said, in that profound tone. It was very awful. I glanced back. We

were within thirty y ards from the nearest fire. A black figure stood up, strode on

long black legs, waving long black arm s, across the glow. It had horns – antelope

horns, I think – on its head. Som e sorcerer, som e witch–m an, no doubt: it looked

fiend–like enough. ‘Do y ou know what y ou are doing?’ I whispered. ‘Perfectly,’ he

answered, raising his voice for that single word: it sounded to m e far off and y et

loud, like a hail through a speaking–trum pet. ‘If he m akes a row we are lost,’ I

thought to m y self. This clearly was not a case for fisticuffs, even apart from the

very natural aversion I had to beat that Shadow – this wandering and torm ented

thing. ‘You will be lost,’ I said – ‘utterly lost.’ One gets som etim es such a flash of

inspiration, y ou know. I did say the right thing, though indeed he could not have

been m ore irretrievably lost than he was at this very m om ent, when the

foundations of our intim acy were being laid – to endure – to endure – even to the

end – even bey ond.

“’I had im m ense plans,’ he m uttered irresolutely. ‘Yes,’ said I; ‘but if y ou

try to shout I’ll sm ash y our head with – ‘ There was not a stick or a stone near. ‘I

will throttle y ou for good,’ I corrected m y self. ‘I was on the threshold of great

things,’ he pleaded, in a voice of longing, with a wistfulness of tone that m ade m y

blood run cold. ‘And now for this stupid scoundrel – ‘ ‘Your success in Europe is

assured in any case,’ I affirm ed, steadily. I did not want to have the throttling of

him , y ou understand – and indeed it would have been very little use for any

practical purpose. I tried to break the spell – the heavy, m ute spell of the

wilderness – that seem ed to draw him to its pitiless breast by the awakening of

forgotten and brutal instincts, by the m em ory of gratified and m onstrous passions.

This alone, I was convinced, had driven him out to the edge of the forest, to the

bush, towards the gleam of fires, the throb of drum s, the drone of weird

incantations; this alone had beguiled his unlawful soul bey ond the bounds of

perm itted aspirations. And, don’t y ou see, the terror of the position was not in

being knocked on the head – though I had a very lively sense of that danger too –

but in this, that I had to deal with a being to whom I could not appeal in the nam e

of any thing high or low. I had, even like the niggers, to invoke him – him self his

own exalted and incredible degradation. There was nothing either above or below

him , and I knew it. He had kicked him self loose of the earth. Confound the m an!

he had kicked the very earth to pieces. He was alone, and I before him did not

know whether I stood on the ground or floated in the air. I’ve been telling y ou

what we said – repeating the phrases we pronounced, – but what’s the good? They

were com m on every day words, – the fam iliar, vague sounds exchanged on

every waking day of life. But what of that? They had behind them , to m y m ind,

the terrific suggestiveness of words heard in dream s, of phrases spoken in

nightm ares. Soul! If any body had ever struggled with a soul, I am the m an. And I

wasn’t arguing with a lunatic either. Believe m e or not, his intelligence was perfectly clear – concentrated, it is true, upon him self with horrible intensity, y et

clear; and therein was m y only chance – barring, of course, the killing him there

and then, which wasn’t so good, on account of unavoidable noise. But his soul was

m ad. Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself, and, by heavens! I

tell y ou, it had gone m ad. I had – for m y sins, I suppose – to go through the ordeal

of looking into it m y self. No eloquence could have been so withering to one’s

belief in m ankind as his final burst of sincerity. He struggled with him self, too. I

saw it, – I heard it. I saw the inconceivable m y stery of a soul that knew no

restraint, no faith, and no fear, y et struggling blindly with itself. I kept m y head

pretty well; but when I had him at last stretched on the couch, I wiped m y

forehead, while m y legs shook under m e as though I had carried half a ton on m y

back down that hill. And y et I had only supported him , his bony arm clasped

round m y neck – and he was not m uch heavier than a child.

“When next day we left at noon, the crowd, of whose presence behind

the curtain of trees I had been acutely conscious all the tim e, flowed out of the

woods again, filled the clearing, covered the slope with a m ass of naked,

breathing, quivering, bronze bodies. I steam ed up a bit, then swung down–stream ,

and two thousand ey es followed the evolutions of the splashing, thum ping, fierce

river–dem on beating the water with its terrible tail and breathing black sm oke into

the air. In front of the first rank, along the river, three m en, plastered with bright

red earth from head to foot, strutted to and fro restlessly. When we cam e abreast

again, they faced the river, stam ped their feet, nodded their horned heads,

sway ed their scarlet bodies; they shook towards the fierce river–dem on a bunch

of black feathers, a m angy skin with a pendent tail – som ething that looked like a

dried gourd; they shouted periodically together strings of am azing words that

resem bled no sounds of hum an language; and the deep m urm urs of the crowd,

interrupted suddenly, were like the response of som e satanic litany.

“We had carried Kurtz into the pilot–house: there was m ore air there.

Ly ing on the couch, he stared through the open shutter. There was an eddy in the

m ass of hum an bodies, and the wom an with helm eted head and tawny cheeks

rushed out to the very brink of the stream . She put out her hands, shouted

som ething, and all that wild m ob took up the shout in a roaring chorus of

articulated, rapid, breathless utterance.

“’Do y ou understand this?’ I asked.

“He kept on looking out past m e with fiery, longing ey es, with a m ingled

expression of wistfulness and hate. He m ade no answer, but I saw a sm ile, a

sm ile of indefinable m eaning, appear on his colorless lips that a m om ent after

twitched convulsively. ‘Do I not?’ he said slowly, gasping, as if the words had been

torn out of him by a supernatural power.

“I pulled the string of the whistle, and I did this because I saw the

pilgrim s on deck getting out their rifles with an air of anticipating a j olly lark. At

the sudden screech there was a m ovem ent of abj ect terror through that wedged

m ass of bodies. ‘Don’t! Don’t y ou frighten them away,’ cried som eone on deck

disconsolately. I pulled the string tim e after tim e. They broke and ran, they leaped, they crouched, they swerved, they dodged the fly ing terror of the sound.

The three red chaps had fallen flat, face down on the shore, as though they had

been shot dead. Only the barbarous and superb wom an did not so m uch as flinch,

and stretched tragically her bare arm s after us over the som ber and glittering

river.

“And then that im becile crowd down on the deck started their little fun,

and I could see nothing m ore for sm oke.

“The brown current ran swiftly out of the heart of darkness, bearing us

down towards the sea with twice the speed of our upward progress; and Kurtz’s

life was running swiftly too, ebbing, ebbing out of his heart into the sea of

inexorable tim e. The m anager was very placid, he had no vital anxieties now, he

took us both in with a com prehensive and satisfied glance: the ‘affair’ had com e

off as well as could be wished. I saw the tim e approaching when I would be left

alone of the party of ‘unsound m ethod.’ The pilgrim s looked upon m e with

disfavor. I was, so to speak, num bered with the dead. It is strange how I accepted

this unforeseen partnership, this choice of nightm ares forced upon m e in the

tenebrous land invaded by these m ean and greedy phantom s.

“Kurtz discoursed. A voice! a voice! It rang deep to the very last. It

survived his strength to hide in the m agnificent folds of eloquence the barren

darkness of his heart. Oh, he struggled! he struggled! The wastes of his weary

brain were haunted by shadowy im ages now – im ages of wealth and fam e

revolving obsequiously round his unextinguishable gift of noble and lofty

expression. My Intended, m y station, m y career, m y ideas – these were the

subj ects for the occasional utterances of elevated sentim ents. The shade of the

original Kurtz frequented the bedside of the hollow sham , whose fate it was to be

buried presently in the m old of prim eval earth. But both the diabolic love and the

unearthly hate of the m y steries it had penetrated fought for the possession of that

soul satiated with prim itive em otions, avid of ly ing fam e, of sham distinction, of

all the appearances of success and power.

“Som etim es he was contem ptibly childish. He desired to have kings

m eet him at railway –stations on his return from som e ghastly Nowhere, where

he intended to accom plish great things. ‘You show them y ou have in y ou

som ething that is really profitable, and then there will be no lim its to the

recognition of y our ability,’ he would say. ‘Of course y ou m ust take care of the

m otives – right m otives – alway s.’ The long reaches that were like one and the

sam e reach, m onotonous bends that were exactly alike, slipped past the steam er

with their m ultitude of secular trees looking patiently after this grim y fragm ent of

another world, the forerunner of change, of conquest, of trade, of m assacres, of

blessings. I looked ahead – piloting. ‘Close the shutter,’ said Kurtz suddenly one

day ; ‘I can’t bear to look at this.’ I did so. There was a silence. ‘Oh, but I will wring

y our heart y et!’ he cried at the invisible wilderness.

“We broke down – as I had expected – and had to lie up for repairs at the

head of an island. This delay was the first thing that shook Kurtz’s confidence. One

m orning he gave m e a packet of papers and a photograph, – the lot tied together with a shoe–string. ‘Keep this for m e,’ he said. ‘This noxious fool’ (m eaning the

m anager) ‘is capable of pry ing into m y boxes when I am not looking.’ In the

afternoon I saw him . He was ly ing on his back with closed ey es, and I withdrew

quietly, but I heard him m utter, ‘Live rightly, die, die ...’ I listened. There was

nothing m ore. Was he rehearsing som e speech in his sleep, or was it a fragm ent

of a phrase from som e newspaper article? He had been writing for the papers

and m eant to do so again, ‘for the furthering of m y ideas. It’s a duty.’

“His was an im penetrable darkness. I looked at him as y ou peer down at

a m an who is ly ing at the bottom of a precipice where the sun never shines. But I

had not m uch tim e to give him , because I was helping the engine–driver to take to

pieces the leaky cy linders, to straighten a bent connecting–rod, and in other such

m atters. I lived in an infernal m ess of rust, filings, nuts, bolts, spanners, ham m ers,

ratchet–drills – things I abom inate, because I don’t get on with them . I tended the

little forge we fortunately had aboard; I toiled wearily in a wretched scrap–heap

– unless I had the shakes too bad to stand.

“One evening com ing in with a candle I was startled to hear him say a

little trem ulously, ‘I am ly ing here in the dark waiting for death.’ The light was

within a foot of his ey es. I forced m y self to m urm ur, ‘Oh, nonsense!’ and stood

over him as if transfixed.

“Any thing approaching the change that cam e over his features I have

never seen before, and hope never to see again. Oh, I wasn’t touched. I was

fascinated. It was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that ivory face the

expression of som ber pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror – of an intense

and hopeless despair. Did he live his life again in every detail of desire,

tem ptation, and surrender during that suprem e m om ent of com plete knowledge?

He cried in a whisper at som e im age, at som e vision, – he cried out twice, a cry

that was no m ore than a breath –

“’The horror! The horror!’

“I blew the candle out and left the cabin. The pilgrim s were dining in the

m ess–room , and I took m y place opposite the m anager, who lifted his ey es to

give m e a questioning glance, which I successfully ignored. He leaned back,

serene, with that peculiar sm ile of his sealing the unexpressed depths of his

m eanness. A continuous shower of sm all flies stream ed upon the lam p, upon the

cloth, upon our hands and faces. Suddenly the m anager’s boy put his insolent

black head in the doorway, and said in a tone of scathing contem pt –

“’Mistah Kurtz – he dead.’

“All the pilgrim s rushed out to see. I rem ained, and went on with m y

dinner. I believe I was considered brutally callous. However, I did not eat m uch.

There was a lam p in there – light, don’t y ou know – and outside it was so beastly,

beastly dark. I went no m ore near the rem arkable m an who had pronounced a

j udgm ent upon the adventures of his soul on this earth. The voice was gone. What

else had been there? But I am of course aware that next day the pilgrim s buried

som ething in a m uddy hole.

“And then they very nearly buried m e.

“However, as y ou see, I did not go to j oin Kurtz there and then. I did not.

I rem ained to dream the nightm are out to the end, and to show m y loy alty to

Kurtz once m ore. Destiny. My destiny ! Droll thing life is – that m y sterious

arrangem ent of m erciless logic for a futile purpose. The m ost y ou can hope from

it is som e knowledge of y ourself – that com es too late – a crop of

unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with death. It is the m ost unexciting

contest y ou can im agine. It takes place in an im palpable gray ness, with nothing

underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clam or, without glory,

without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly

atm osphere of tepid skepticism , without m uch belief in y our own right, and still

less in that of y our adversary. If such is the form of ultim ate wisdom , then life is

a greater riddle than som e of us think it to be. I was within a hair’s–breadth of the

last opportunity for pronouncem ent, and I found with hum iliation that probably I

would have nothing to say. This is the reason why I affirm that Kurtz was a

rem arkable m an. He had som ething to say. He said it. Since I had peeped over

the edge m y self, I understand better the m eaning of his stare, that could not see

the flam e of the candle, but was wide enough to em brace the whole universe,

piercing enough to penetrate all the hearts that beat in the darkness. He had

sum m ed up – he had j udged. ‘The horror!’ He was a rem arkable m an. After all,

this was the expression of som e sort of belief; it had candor, it had conviction, it

had a vibrating note of revolt in its whisper, it had the appalling face of a glim psed

truth – the strange com m ingling of desire and hate. And it is not m y own

extrem ity I rem em ber best – a vision of gray ness without form filled with

phy sical pain, and a careless contem pt for the evanescence of all things – even of

this pain itself. No! It is his extrem ity that I seem to have lived through. True, he

had m ade that last stride, he had stepped over the edge, while I had been

perm itted to draw back m y hesitating foot. And perhaps in this is the whole

difference; perhaps all the wisdom , and all truth, and all sincerity, are j ust

com pressed into that inappreciable m om ent of tim e in which we step over the

threshold of the invisible. Perhaps! I like to think m y sum m ing–up would not have

been a word of careless contem pt. Better his cry – m uch better. It was an

affirm ation, a m oral victory paid for by innum erable defeats, by abom inable

terrors, by abom inable satisfactions. But it was a victory ! That is why I have

rem ained loy al to Kurtz to the last, and even bey ond, when a long tim e after I

heard once m ore, not his own voice, but the echo of his m agnificent eloquence

thrown to m e from a soul as translucently pure as a cliff of cry stal.

“No, they did not bury m e, though there is a period of tim e which I

rem em ber m istily, with a shuddering wonder, like a passage through som e

inconceivable world that had no hope in it and no desire. I found m y self back in

the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurry ing through the streets to

filch a little m oney from each other, to devour their infam ous cookery, to gulp

their unwholesom e beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dream s. They

trespassed upon m y thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was

to m e an irritating pretense, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which was sim ply the bearing of com m onplace

individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was

offensive to m e like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is

unable to com prehend. I had no particular desire to enlighten them , but I had

som e difficulty in restraining m y self from laughing in their faces, so full of stupid

im portance. I dare say I was not very well at that tim e. I tottered about the streets

– there were various affairs to settle – grinning bitterly at perfectly respectable

persons. I adm it m y behavior was inexcusable, but then m y tem perature was

seldom norm al in these day s. My dear aunt’s endeavors to ‘nurse up m y strength’

seem ed altogether beside the m ark. It was not m y strength that wanted nursing, it

was m y im agination that wanted soothing. I kept the bundle of papers given m e

by Kurtz, not knowing exactly what to do with it. His m other had died lately,

watched over, as I was told, by his Intended. A clean–shaved m an, with an

official m anner and wearing gold–rim m ed spectacles, called on m e one day and

m ade inquiries, at first circuitous, afterwards suavely pressing, about what he was

pleased to denom inate certain ‘docum ents.’ I was not surprised, because I had had

two rows with the m anager on the subj ect out there. I had refused to give up the

sm allest scrap out of that package, and I took the sam e attitude with the spectacled

m an. He becam e darkly m enacing at last, and with m uch heat argued that the

Com pany had the right to every bit of inform ation about its ‘territories.’ And, said

he, ‘Mr. Kurtz’s knowledge of unexplored regions m ust have been necessarily

extensive and peculiar – owing to his great abilities and to the deplorable

circum stances in which he had been placed: therefore’ – I assured him Mr. Kurtz’s

knowledge, however extensive, did not bear upon the problem s of com m erce or

adm inistration. He invoked then the nam e of science. ‘It would be an incalculable

loss if,’ & c., & c. I offered him the report on the ‘Suppression of Savage Custom s,’

with the postscriptum torn off. He took it up eagerly, but ended by sniffing at it

with an air of contem pt. ‘This is not what we had a right to expect,’ he rem arked.

‘Expect nothing else,’ I said. ‘There are only private letters.’ He withdrew upon

som e threat of legal proceedings, and I saw him no m ore; but another fellow,

calling him self Kurtz’s cousin, appeared two day s later, and was anxious to hear

all the details about his dear relative’s last m om ents. Incidentally he gave m e to

understand that Kurtz had been essentially a great m usician. ‘There was the

m aking of an im m ense success,’ said the m an, who was an organist, I believe,

with lank gray hair flowing over a greasy coat–collar. I had no reason to doubt his

statem ent; and to this day I am unable to say what was Kurtz’s profession,

whether he ever had any – which was the greatest of his talents. I had taken him

for a painter who wrote for the papers, or else for a j ournalist who could paint –

but even the cousin (who took snuff during the interview) could not tell m e what

he had been – exactly. He was a universal genius – on that point I agreed with the

old chap, who thereupon blew his nose noisily into a large cotton handkerchief

and withdrew in senile agitation, bearing off som e fam ily letters and m em oranda

without im portance. Ultim ately a j ournalist anxious to know som ething of the fate

of his ‘dear colleague’ turned up. This visitor inform ed m e Kurtz’s proper sphere

ought to have been politics ‘on the popular side.’ He had furry straight ey ebrows,

bristly hair cropped short, an ey e–glass on a broad ribbon, and, becom ing expansive, confessed his opinion that Kurtz really couldn’t write a bit – ‘but

heavens! how that m an could talk! He electrified large m eetings. He had faith –

don’t y ou see? – he had the faith. He could get him self to believe any thing –

any thing. He would have been a splendid leader of an extrem e party.’ ‘What

party ?’ I asked. ‘Any party,’ answered the other. ‘He was an – an – extrem ist.’ Did

I not think so? I assented. Did I know, he asked, with a sudden flash of curiosity,

‘what it was that had induced him to go out there?’ ‘Yes,’ said I, and forthwith

handed him the fam ous Report for publication, if he thought fit. He glanced

through it hurriedly, m um bling all the tim e, j udged ‘it would do,’ and took him self

off with this plunder.

“Thus I was left at last with a slim packet of letters and the girl’s portrait.

She struck m e as beautiful – I m ean she had a beautiful expression. I know that the sunlight can be m ade to lie too, y et one felt that no m anipulation of light and pose could have convey ed the delicate shade of truthfulness upon those features. She seem ed ready to listen without m ental reservation, without suspicion, without a thought for herself. I concluded I would go and give her back her portrait and those letters m y self. Curiosity ? Yes; and also som e other feeling perhaps. All that had been Kurtz’s had passed out of m y hands: his soul, his body, his station, his plans, his ivory, his career. There rem ained only his m em ory and his Intended – and I wanted to give that up too to the past, in a way, – to surrender personally all that rem ained of him with m e to that oblivion which is the last word of our com m on fate. I don’t defend m y self. I had no clear perception of what it was I really wanted. Perhaps it was an im pulse of unconscious loy alty, or the fulfillm ent of one of these ironic necessities that lurk in the facts of hum an existence. I don’t know. I can’t tell. But I went.

“I thought his m em ory was like the other m em ories of the dead that

accum ulate in every m an’s life, – a vague im press on the brain of shadows that had fallen on it in their swift and final passage; but before the high and ponderous door, between the tall houses of a street as still and decorous as a well–kept alley in a cem etery, I had a vision of him on the stretcher, opening his m outh voraciously, as if to devour all the earth with all its m ankind. He lived then before m e; he lived as m uch as he had ever lived – a shadow insatiable of splendid appearances, of frightful realities; a shadow darker than the shadow of the night, and draped nobly in the folds of a gorgeous eloquence. The vision seem ed to enter the house with m e – the stretcher, the phantom –bearers, the wild crowd of obedient worshipers, the gloom of the forests, the glitter of the reach between the m urky bends, the beat of the drum , regular and m uffled like the beating of a heart – the heart of a conquering darkness. It was a m om ent of trium ph for the wilderness, an invading and vengeful rush which, it seem ed to m e, I would have to keep back alone for the salvation of another soul. And the m em ory of what I had heard him say afar there, with the horned shapes stirring at m y back, in the glow of fires, within the patient woods, those broken phrases cam e back to m e, were heard again in their om inous and terrify ing sim plicity. I rem em bered his abj ect pleading, his abj ect threats, the colossal scale of his vile desires, the m eanness, the torm ent, the tem pestuous anguish of his soul. And later on I seem ed to see his collected languid m anner, when he said one day, ‘This lot of ivory now is really m ine. The Com pany did not pay for it. I collected it m y self at a very great personal risk. I am afraid they will try to claim it as theirs though. H’m . It is a difficult case. What do y ou think I ought to do – resist? Eh? I want no m ore than j ustice.’ ... He wanted no m ore than j ustice – no m ore than j ustice. I rang the bell before a m ahogany door on the first floor, and while I waited he seem ed to stare at m e out of the glassy panel – stare with that wide and im m ense stare em bracing, condem ning, loathing all the universe. I seem ed to hear the whispered cry, ‘The horror! The horror!’

“The dusk was falling. I had to wait in a lofty drawing–room with three

long windows from floor to ceiling that were like three lum inous and bedraped colum ns. The bent gilt legs and backs of the furniture shone in indistinct curves. The tall m arble fireplace had a cold and m onum ental whiteness. A grand piano stood m assively in a corner, with dark gleam s on the flat surfaces like a som ber and polished sarcophagus. A high door opened – closed. I rose.

“She cam e forward, all in black, with a pale head, floating towards m e in

the dusk. She was in m ourning. It was m ore than a y ear since his death, m ore than a y ear since the news cam e; she seem ed as though she would rem em ber and m ourn for ever. She took both m y hands in hers and m urm ured, ‘I had heard y ou were com ing.’ I noticed she was not very y oung – I m ean not girlish. She had a m ature capacity for fidelity, for belief, for suffering. The room seem ed to have grown darker, as if all the sad light of the cloudy evening had taken refuge on her forehead. This fair hair, this pale visage, this pure brow, seem ed surrounded by an ashy halo from which the dark ey es looked out at m e. Their glance was guileless, profound, confident, and trustful. She carried her sorrowful head as though she were proud of that sorrow, as though she would say, ‘I – I alone know how to m ourn for him as he deserves. But while we were still shaking hands, such a look of awful desolation cam e upon her face that I perceived she was one of those creatures that are not the play things of Tim e. For her he had died only y esterday. And, by Jove! the im pression was so powerful that for m e too he seem ed to have died only y esterday – nay, this very m inute. I saw her and him in the sam e instant of tim e – his death and her sorrow – I saw her sorrow in the very m om ent of his death. Do y ou understand? I saw them together – I heard them together. She had said, with a deep catch of the breath, ‘I have survived;’ while m y strained ears seem ed to hear distinctly, m ingled with her tone of despairing regret, the sum m ing–up whisper of his eternal condem nation. I asked m y self what I was doing there, with a sensation of panic in m y heart as though I had blundered into a place of cruel and absurd m y steries not fit for a hum an being to behold. She m otioned m e to a chair. We sat down. I laid the packet gently on the little table, and she put her hand over it... ‘You knew him well,’ she m urm ured, after a m om ent of m ourning silence.

“’Intim acy grows quick out there,’ I said. ‘I knew him as well as it is

possible for one m an to know another.’

“’And y ou adm ired him ,’ she said. ‘It was im possible to know him and

not to adm ire him . Was it?’

“’He was a rem arkable m an,’ I said, unsteadily. Then before the

appealing fixity of her gaze, that seem ed to watch for m ore words on m y lips, I went on, ‘It was im possible not to – ‘

“’Love him ,’ she finished eagerly, silencing m e into an appalled

dum bness. ‘How true! how true! But when y ou think that no one knew him so well as I! I had all his noble confidence. I knew him best.’

“’You knew him best,’ I repeated. And perhaps she did. But with every word spoken the room was growing darker, and only her forehead, sm ooth and white, rem ained illum ined by the unextinguishable light of belief and love.

“’You were his friend,’ she went on. ‘His friend,’ she repeated, a little

louder. ‘You m ust have been, if he had given y ou this, and sent y ou to m e. I feel I can speak to y ou – and oh! I m ust speak. I want y ou – y ou who have heard his last words – to know I have been worthy of him ... It is not pride... Yes! I am proud to know I understood him better than any one on earth – he told m e so him self. And since his m other died I have had no one – no one – to – to – ‘

“I listened. The darkness deepened. I was not even sure whether he had

given m e the right bundle. I rather suspect he wanted m e to take care of another batch of his papers which, after his death, I saw the m anager exam ining under the lam p. And the girl talked, easing her pain in the certitude of m y sy m pathy ; she talked as thirsty m en drink. I had heard that her engagem ent with Kurtz had been disapproved by her people. He wasn’t rich enough or som ething. And indeed I don’t know whether he had not been a pauper all his life. He had given m e som e reason to infer that it was his im patience of com parative poverty that drove him out there.

“’... Who was not his friend who had heard him speak once?’ she was

say ing. ‘He drew m en towards him by what was best in them .’ She looked at m e with intensity. ‘It is the gift of the great,’ she went on, and the sound of her low voice seem ed to have the accom panim ent of all the other sounds, full of m y stery, desolation, and sorrow, I had ever heard – the ripple of the river, the soughing of the trees sway ed by the wind, the m urm urs of wild crowds, the faint ring of incom prehensible words cried from afar, the whisper of a voice speaking from bey ond the threshold of an eternal darkness. ‘But y ou have heard him ! You know!’ she cried.

“’Yes, I know,’ I said with som ething like despair in m y heart, but bowing

m y head before the faith that was in her, before that great and saving illusion that shone with an unearthly glow in the darkness, in the trium phant darkness from which I could not have defended her – from which I could not even defend m y self.

“’What a loss to m e – to us!’ – she corrected herself with beautiful

generosity ; then added in a m urm ur, ‘To the world.’ By the last gleam s of twilight I could see the glitter of her ey es, full of tears – of tears that would not fall.

“’I have been very happy – very fortunate – very proud,’ she went on.

‘Too fortunate. Too happy for a little while. And now I am unhappy for – for life.’

“She stood up; her fair hair seem ed to catch all the rem aining light in a

glim m er of gold. I rose too.

“’And of all this,’ she went on, m ournfully, ‘of all his prom ise, and of all

his greatness, of his generous m ind, of his noble heart, nothing rem ains – nothing but a m em ory. You and I – ‘

“’We shall alway s rem em ber him ,’ I said, hastily.

“’No!’ she cried. ‘It is im possible that all this should be lost – that such a

life should be sacrificed to leave nothing – but sorrow. You know what vast plans he had. I knew of them too – I could not perhaps understand, – but others knew of them . Som ething m ust rem ain. His words, at least, have not died.’

“’His words will rem ain,’ I said.

“’And his exam ple,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Men looked up to him , –

his goodness shone in every act. His exam ple – ‘

“’True,’ I said; ‘his exam ple too. Yes, his exam ple. I forgot that.’

“’But I do not. I cannot – I cannot believe – not y et. I cannot believe that

I shall never see him again, that nobody will see him again, never, never, never.’

“She put out her arm s as if after a retreating figure, stretching them

black and with clasped pale hands across the fading and narrow sheen of the window. Never see him ! I saw him clearly enough then. I shall see this eloquent phantom as long as I live, and I shall see her too, a tragic and fam iliar Shade, resem bling in this gesture another one, tragic also, and bedecked with powerless charm s, stretching bare brown arm s over the glitter of the infernal stream , the stream of darkness. She said suddenly very low, ‘He died as he lived.’

“’His end,’ said I, with dull anger stirring in m e, ‘was in every way

worthy of his life.’

“’And I was not with him ,’ she m urm ured. My anger subsided before a

feeling of infinite pity.

“’Every thing that could be done – ‘ I m um bled.

“’Ah, but I believed in him m ore than any one on earth – m ore than his

own m other, m ore than – him self. He needed m e! Me! I would have treasured every sigh, every word, every sign, every glance.’

“I felt like a chill grip on m y chest. ‘Don’t,’ I said, in a m uffled voice.

“’Forgive m e. I – I – have m ourned so long in silence – in silence... You

were with him – to the last? I think of his loneliness. Nobody near to understand him as I would have understood. Perhaps no one to hear...’

“’To the very end,’ I said, shakily. ‘I heard his very last words...’

I stopped in a fright.

“’Repeat them ,’ she said in a heart–broken tone. ‘I want – I want –

som ething – som ething – to – to live with.’

“I was on the point of cry ing at her, ‘Don’t y ou hear them ?’ The dusk was

repeating them in a persistent whisper all around us, in a whisper that seem ed to swell m enacingly like the first whisper of a rising wind. ‘The horror! The horror!’

“’His last word – to live with,’ she m urm ured. ‘Don’t y ou understand I

loved him – I loved him – I loved him !’

“I pulled m y self together and spoke slowly.

“’The last word he pronounced was – y our nam e.’

“I heard a light sigh, and then m y heart stood still, stopped dead short by

an exulting and terrible cry, by the cry of inconceivable trium ph and of unspeakable pain. ‘I knew it – I was sure!’ ... She knew. She was sure. I heard her weeping; she had hidden her face in her hands. It seem ed to m e that the house would collapse before I could escape, that the heavens would fall upon m y head. But nothing happened. The heavens do not fall for such a trifle. Would they have fallen, I wonder, if I had rendered Kurtz that j ustice which was his due? Hadn’t he said he wanted only j ustice? But I couldn’t. I could not tell her. It would have been too dark – too dark altogether...”

Marlow ceased, and sat apart, indistinct and silent, in the pose of a

m editating Buddha. Nobody m oved for a tim e. “We have lost the first of the ebb,” said the Director, suddenly. I raised m y head. The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the utterm ost ends of the earth flowed som ber under an overcast sky – seem ed to lead into the heart of an im m ense darkness.