I

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

The Nellie, a cruising sailboat, swung around her anchor and came to rest without her sails fluttering. The tide was coming in, and the wind had nearly died. Since we were heading downriver, we could only anchor and wait for the tide to turn.

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

The stretch of the Thames leading to the sea lay before us like the beginning of an endless waterway. In the distance, the sea and sky merged without a seam. In the glowing light, barges drifted upriver with the tide, their brown sails seeming to stand still. The sails formed red clusters of sharply pointed canvas, with gleams from the varnished poles supporting them. Haze lay over the low shores, which stretched toward the sea until their flat outlines vanished. The air was dark above Gravesend. Farther inland, the darkness seemed to thicken into a mournful gloom. The gloom hung motionless over the biggest and greatest city on earth.

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

The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. The four of us watched his back affectionately as he stood at the bow, looking out to sea. Nothing on the whole river looked half as seafaring as he did. He looked like a harbor pilot, the very image of trustworthiness to a sailor. It was hard to grasp that his work was not out there in the bright estuary. Instead, his work lay behind him, in the brooding gloom.

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

As I have already mentioned somewhere, we shared the bond of the sea. The sea kept our hearts close through long separations. It also made us tolerant of each other’s stories and even opinions. The Lawyer was the best of old fellows. Because of his many years and many virtues, he had the only cushion on deck and lay on the only rug. The Accountant had already brought out a box of dominoes and was playing with the pieces, building little structures. Marlow sat cross-legged at the very back of the boat, leaning against the mizzen-mast. He had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, and the look of someone who denied himself worldly comforts. With his arms hanging down and his palms turned outward, he resembled an idol. The director, satisfied that the anchor held firmly, came to the back of the boat and sat among us. We exchanged a few lazy words. After that, silence fell aboard the yacht. For some reason, we did not start our game of dominoes. We felt thoughtful, capable of nothing but gazing quietly. The day was ending in a calm of still, exquisite brightness. The water shone peacefully. The spotless sky was a vast, gentle expanse of pure light. Even the mist over the Essex marsh looked like thin, glowing fabric. It hung from the wooded hills inland and draped the low shores in sheer folds. Only the darkness to the west, brooding over the river’s upper stretches, grew deeper every minute. It was as if the approaching sun had angered the darkness.

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

At last, the sun sank low, following a curve so slowly that its movement could not be seen. It changed from glowing white to a dull red, giving off neither rays nor heat. The sun looked as if it might suddenly go out, struck dead by the touch of that gloom. The gloom hung over a crowd of men.

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

At once, a change came over the waters, and the calm became less radiant but deeper. The old river lay smooth across its broad reach as the day faded. For ages, the river had faithfully served the people living along its banks. Now it stretched out with the quiet dignity of a waterway leading to the farthest ends of the earth. We saw the ancient river not in the bright glow of a brief day that passes forever. Instead, we saw it in the majestic light of lasting memories. And indeed, nothing is easier for someone who has, as people say, “followed the sea” with respect and affection. On the lower Thames, such a person can easily summon the great spirit of the past. The tidal current flows back and forth in its endless service. The river is filled with memories of men and ships carried home to rest or out to battles at sea. It had known and served all the men the nation takes pride in, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin. All were knights, with or without titles, the great wandering knights of the sea. The river had carried all the ships whose names flash like jewels in the darkness of time. Among them was the Golden Hind, returning with her rounded sides full of treasure. The Queen herself would visit the ship, which would then pass out of the grand story. There were also the Erebus and Terror, bound for other conquests, from which they never returned. The river had known the ships and the men. They had sailed from Deptford, from Greenwich, from Erith: adventurers and settlers, kings’ ships and ships owned by merchants. There were captains, admirals, the shadowy “interlopers” who traded in the East, and the officially appointed “generals” of East India fleets. Whether hunting gold or pursuing fame, all had set out along that river, carrying the sword and often the torch. They carried word of the power within the land and a spark from its sacred fire. What greatness had not floated down that river on the outgoing tide, into the mystery of an unknown world!... The dreams of men, the seeds of nations, the beginnings of empires.

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

The sun set. Dusk fell over the river, and lights began to appear along the shore. The Chapman lighthouse stood on three legs on a mudflat, shining brightly. Ships’ lights moved along the main channel, a busy flow of lights going upstream and downstream. Farther west, upriver, the monstrous town still cast an ominous mark on the sky. In sunshine, the mark was a brooding darkness. Under the stars, it was a harsh, fiery glow.

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

“And this place, too,” Marlow said suddenly, “was once one of the dark places of the earth.”

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

He was the only one of us who still “made his living at sea.” The worst anyone could say about him was that he was not typical of seamen. He was a sailor, but also a wanderer, while most sailors lead what you might call a settled life. Their minds prefer staying home, and their home is always with them: the ship. So is their country: the sea. One ship is much like another, and the sea is always the same. Against these unchanging surroundings, foreign shores, foreign faces, and the vast, changing world of life slip past. They are hidden not by mystery but by an ignorance tinged with contempt. For nothing is mysterious to a sailor except perhaps the sea itself. The sea rules his life and is as impossible to understand as Destiny. As for everything else, a casual stroll or drinking spree ashore after work is enough. Such an outing reveals to him the secret of a whole continent. Usually, he finds the secret not worth knowing. Sailors’ stories have a straightforward simplicity. Their whole meaning lies within them, like a nut inside its cracked shell. But Marlow was not typical, except in his fondness for telling stories. For him, the meaning of an event was not inside the story like a kernel. Instead, the meaning surrounded the story, which revealed that meaning only as a glow reveals a haze. It was like one of those misty halos sometimes made visible by the ghostly light of the moon.

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

His remark did not seem at all surprising. It was just like Marlow. We accepted it in silence. No one even bothered to grunt. After a while, he said very slowly, “I was thinking of very ancient times, when the Romans first came here. Nineteen hundred years ago, just the other day.... Since then, light has spread from this river. Did you say Knights? Yes, but that light is like a blaze racing across a plain, like lightning flashing in the clouds. We live in the flicker. May it last as long as the old earth keeps turning! But darkness was here yesterday. Imagine how a commander of a fine Mediterranean trireme would feel. Is that what you call those ships? Suddenly he gets orders to head north. He rushes overland across the Gauls. Then he takes command of one of those boats the legionaries used to build. They must have been wonderfully resourceful men, too. Apparently, they built hundreds of boats in a month or two, if we can believe what we read. Imagine him here, at the very end of the world. The sea is the colour of lead, the sky the colour of smoke. His ship is about as rigid as an accordion. And he heads up this river carrying supplies, or orders, or whatever you like. Sandbanks, marshes, forests, savages. Almost nothing fit for a civilized man to eat, and nothing but Thames water to drink. No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there, a military camp lost in the wilderness, like a needle in a haystack. Cold, fog, storms, disease, exile, and death. Death lurking in the air, in the water, in the bushes. They must have been dying like flies here. Oh, yes, he did the job. No doubt he did it very well, too, and without thinking much about it. Except perhaps afterwards, when he could boast about what he had been through in his day. They were brave enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he kept his spirits up by watching for a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravenna. That might come eventually, if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awful climate. Or think of a respectable young citizen in a toga. Perhaps he had gambled too much at dice, you know. He comes out here with some prefect, or tax collector, or even a trader, to rebuild his fortune. He lands in a swamp and marches through the woods. At some inland post, he feels that savagery, utter savagery, has closed around him. All that mysterious life of the wilderness stirring in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. And there is no way to be initiated into such mysteries. He has to live surrounded by what he cannot understand, and what he also finds hateful. Yet that incomprehensible world also has a fascination that begins to work on him. The fascination of something horrifying. You know, imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the helpless disgust, the surrender, the hate.”

He paused.

He paused.

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

“Remember,” he began again, raising one forearm with his palm facing out. With his legs folded before him, he looked like a Buddha preaching in European clothes, without a lotus flower. “Remember, none of us would feel quite this way. What saves us is efficiency, our devotion to efficiency. But these fellows weren’t worth much, really. They weren’t colonists. Their administration was just a way to squeeze out wealth, and nothing more, I suspect. They were conquerors, and conquest takes nothing but brute force. Having that strength is nothing to boast about, since your strength is merely an accident of other people’s weakness. They grabbed whatever they could, just for the sake of having it. It was simply violent robbery, brutal murder on a vast scale. And men plunged into it blindly, as is only proper for those who take on a darkness. Conquering the earth mostly means taking it from people with different skin colors or slightly flatter noses than ours. That conquest isn’t a pretty thing when you look into it too closely. Only the idea redeems it. An idea behind the conquest, not a sentimental excuse but an idea. And a selfless belief in that idea, something you can set up, bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to....”

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

He stopped speaking. Flames glided along the river, small green flames, red flames, white flames. They chased, overtook, joined, and crossed one another, then separated slowly or quickly. The great city’s traffic continued on the sleepless river as the night deepened. We watched, waiting patiently. There was nothing else to do until the incoming tide ended. But only after a long silence did he speak again, his voice hesitant. “I suppose you fellows remember I did once work as a river sailor for a while.” Only then did we know our fate. Before the tide began to go out, we would hear about one of Marlow’s experiences that led to no clear conclusion.

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

“I don’t want to bother you much with what happened to me personally,” he began. His remark showed a weakness shared by many storytellers. They so often seem unaware of what their audience would most like to hear. “Still, to understand its effect on me, you need to know how I got out there and what I saw. You need to know how I traveled up that river to the place where I first met the poor fellow. That was the farthest point boats could reach, and the high point of my experience. The experience somehow seemed to cast a kind of light on everything around me and on my thoughts. It was dark enough, too, and pitiful. There was nothing extraordinary about it, and it wasn’t very clear either. No, not very clear. And yet it seemed to cast a kind of light.

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

“As you remember, I had just returned to London after six years or so away. I’d spent those years on the Indian Ocean, the Pacific, and the China Seas. A full dose of the East. I was hanging around, getting in the way of your work and invading your homes. I acted as though I had a mission from heaven to civilize you fellows. For a while, I enjoyed myself, but after a bit I got tired of resting. Then I began looking for a job on a ship. I’d say that’s the hardest work on earth. But the ships wouldn’t even look at me. And I got tired of that game, too.

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

“When I was a little boy, I loved maps. I would spend hours looking at South America, or Africa, or Australia, lost in all the wonders of exploration. Back then, there were many blank spaces on the map of the world. When one looked especially inviting (though they all did), I would put my finger on the spot. I would say, ‘When I grow up I will go there.’ The North Pole was one of those places, I remember. Well, I haven’t been there yet, and I won’t try now. It has lost its appeal. Other places were scattered across both hemispheres. I have been to some of those places, and... well, we won’t talk about that. But there was still one place I longed to visit. It was the biggest and, you might say, the blankest.

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

“True, by then it was no longer a blank space. Since my boyhood, the map had filled up with rivers, lakes, and names. It was no longer a blank space full of delightful mystery, a white patch for a boy’s glorious dreams. It had become a place of darkness. But one river there stood out, a mighty big river you could see on the map. It looked like an enormous snake stretched out, with its head in the sea. Its body lay still, curving far across a vast country, and its tail disappeared deep into the land. As I looked at the map in a shop window, the river fascinated me as a snake would a bird. A silly little bird. Then I remembered a big business, a Company that traded on that river. Damn it all! I thought to myself, they can’t trade on all that fresh water without using some kind of boat. Steamboats! Why shouldn’t I try to get command of one? I walked on along Fleet Street, but I couldn’t shake off the idea. The snake had charmed me.

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

“You understand, that Trading society was a Continental business. But I have a lot of relatives living on the Continent. That’s because, they say, life on the Continent is cheap and not as unpleasant as it looks.

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

“I’m sorry to admit I began pestering them. Pestering people was already something new for me. I wasn’t used to getting things that way, you know. I always went my own way, on my own two feet, wherever I wanted to go. I wouldn’t have believed I could behave like that. But, you see, I somehow felt I had to get there by any means possible. So I pestered them. The men said ‘My dear fellow,’ and did nothing. Then, would you believe it? I tried the women. I, Charlie Marlow, put the women to work getting me a job. Heavens! Well, you see, the idea drove me. I had an aunt, a dear, enthusiastic soul. She wrote: ‘It will be delightful. I’m ready to do anything, anything for you. It’s a wonderful idea. I know the wife of a very important official in the Administration. I also know a man who has a lot of influence with,’ etc. She was determined to make an enormous fuss to get me appointed captain of a river steamboat, if I wanted.

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

“I got the job, of course, and I got it very quickly. Apparently, the Company had heard that one of their captains had been killed in a fight with the local people. This was my chance, and it made me even more eager to go. Only many months later, when I tried to recover what remained of his body, did I hear how the quarrel started. It had begun with a misunderstanding about some hens. Yes, two black hens. The man’s name was Fresleven. He was a Dane. He thought he had somehow been cheated in the deal. So he went ashore and began beating the village chief with a stick. Oh, hearing this didn’t surprise me at all. Nor did hearing, at the same time, that Fresleven was the gentlest, quietest person who ever walked on two legs. No doubt he was. But he had already spent a couple of years out there working for the noble cause, you know. He probably felt the need, at last, to assert his self-respect somehow. So he beat the old black man mercilessly, while a large crowd of the chief’s people watched, stunned. At last, one man made a hesitant thrust at the white man with a spear. I was told he was the chief’s son, driven to desperation by hearing the old man cry out. And of course, the spear slid quite easily between Fresleven’s shoulder blades. Then the entire population fled into the forest, expecting all kinds of disasters to follow. Meanwhile, Fresleven’s steamboat also left in a wild panic, with the engineer in command, I believe. Afterward, nobody seemed to bother much about Fresleven’s remains until I arrived and took his place. But I couldn’t leave the matter alone. At last, a chance came to meet my predecessor. By then, the grass growing through his ribs was tall enough to hide his bones. All his bones were there. The supernatural being had not been touched after he fell. And the village was deserted. The rotting huts stood crooked, their openings gaping black, inside the collapsed fences. A disaster had certainly struck the village. The people had vanished. Wild terror had scattered them through the bush, men, women, and children, and they had never returned. What became of the hens, I don’t know either. I suppose the cause of progress got them, anyway. Still, this glorious affair got me the job before I had really begun to hope for it.”

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

“I rushed around like mad to get ready. Within forty-eight hours, I was crossing the Channel to meet my employers and sign the contract. A few hours later, I arrived in a city that always makes me think of a whitewashed tomb. No doubt that’s my prejudice. I had no trouble finding the Company’s offices. The Company was the biggest thing in town, and everyone I met talked of nothing else. The Company was going to run an overseas empire and make endless money from trade.

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

“A narrow, deserted street lay in deep shadow. Tall houses had countless windows with Venetian blinds. There was complete silence, and grass grew between the paving stones. Grand carriage archways stood on either side, their huge double doors standing heavily ajar. I slipped through one of these gaps and went up a swept, bare staircase, as dry as a desert. I opened the first door I reached. Two women, one fat and the other slim, sat on straw-seated chairs, knitting black wool. The slim woman got up and walked straight toward me, still knitting with her eyes lowered. Just as I began thinking of stepping aside, as you would for a sleepwalker, she stopped and looked up. Her dress was as plain as an umbrella cover. Without a word, she turned and led me into a waiting room. I gave my name and looked around. A pine table stood in the middle, with plain chairs along all the walls. At one end hung a large, shiny map marked with all the colours of the rainbow. There was a vast amount of red. Red was always good to see, because you knew some real work was being done in those places. There was a hell of a lot of blue, a little green, and smears of orange. On the East Coast, a purple patch showed where the merry pioneers of progress drank their merry lager beer. But I wasn’t going to any of those places. I was going into the yellow. Right in the centre. And the river was there, fascinating and deadly, like a snake. Ugh! A door opened. A white-haired head appeared, looking like a secretary’s, but with a sympathetic expression. A thin forefinger beckoned me into the inner sanctum. The light inside was dim, and a heavy writing desk squatted in the middle. From behind that desk emerged a figure who gave an impression of pale plumpness in a frock coat. The great man himself. He was five feet six, I would guess, and controlled many, many millions. He shook my hand, I think, murmured vaguely, and was satisfied with my French. Bon Voyage.”

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

“In about forty-five seconds I was back in the waiting room with the compassionate secretary. Full of sadness and sympathy, he made me sign some document. I believe I promised, among other things, not to reveal any trade secrets. Well, I’m not going to.

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

“I began to feel slightly uneasy. You know I’m not used to ceremonies like these, and there was something ominous in the air. It was just as though I’d been let in on some conspiracy. I don’t know, something wasn’t quite right, and I was glad to get out. In the outer room, the two women were knitting black wool feverishly. People were arriving, and the younger woman was walking back and forth, introducing them. The old woman sat in her chair. Her flat cloth slippers rested on a foot warmer, and a cat lay on her lap. She wore something made of stiff white fabric on her head and had a wart on one cheek. Silver-rimmed glasses hung on the tip of her nose. She glanced at me over her glasses. Her quick, calm, indifferent look troubled me. Two young men with foolish, cheerful faces were being guided over. She gave them the same quick glance of unconcerned wisdom. She seemed to know all about them, and about me too. An eerie feeling came over me. She seemed mysterious and strangely connected to fate. Often, far away out there, I thought of those two women guarding the door of Darkness. They knitted black wool as if making a warm cloth to cover a coffin. One kept introducing people, endlessly introducing them to the unknown. The other studied the cheerful, foolish faces with unconcerned old eyes. Hail! Old knitter of black wool. Those about to die salute you. Not many of those she looked at ever saw her again. Far fewer than half.”

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

“I still had to visit the doctor. ‘Just a formality,’ the secretary assured me, as though he shared deeply in all my troubles. So a young fellow came down from somewhere upstairs, wearing his hat tilted over his left eyebrow, and led me out. I suppose he was a clerk. There must have been clerks in the business, though the building was as quiet as a house in a city of the dead. He was shabby and careless, with ink stains on his jacket sleeves. His cravat was large and billowing beneath a chin shaped like the toe of an old boot. We were a little too early to see the doctor, so I suggested a drink. At that, he grew cheerful. As we sat over our vermouths, he praised the Company’s business extravagantly. After a while, I casually expressed my surprise that he wasn’t going out there himself. All at once, he became very cool and composed. ‘I’m not as big a fool as I look, as Plato said to his disciples,’ he said with solemn authority. He emptied his glass with great determination, and we got up.

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

“The old doctor checked my pulse, clearly thinking about something else. ‘Good, good for out there,’ he mumbled. Then, with some eagerness, he asked whether I would let him measure my head. Rather surprised, I said yes. He produced something like calipers and measured my head from front to back and in every direction, carefully taking notes. He was a small, unshaven man in slippers and a worn-out coat like a long robe. I thought he was a harmless fool. ‘For the sake of science, I always ask permission to measure the skulls of people going out there,’ he said. ‘And when they come back, too?’ I asked. ‘Oh, I never see them,’ he replied. ‘Besides, the changes happen inside, you know.’ He smiled, as if at some private joke. ‘So you’re going out there. Splendid. Interesting, too.’ He gave me a searching look and made another note. ‘Has there ever been any mental illness in your family?’ he asked in a matter-of-fact tone. I felt very annoyed. ‘Is that question for the sake of science, too?’ ‘Science would find it interesting,’ he said, ignoring my irritation, ‘to observe people’s mental changes there, on the spot, but...’ ‘Are you a psychiatrist?’ I interrupted. ‘Every doctor should be, a little,’ the eccentric man answered, completely unruffled. ‘I have a little theory that you gentlemen going out there must help me prove. My country will benefit from possessing such a magnificent colony, and this research is my share of those benefits. I leave the mere wealth to others. Forgive my questions, but you’re the first Englishman I’ve had the chance to observe...’ I hurried to assure him that I was not at all typical. ‘If I were,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t be talking to you like this.’ ‘What you say is rather profound, and probably wrong,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Be more careful to avoid irritation than exposure to the sun. Goodbye. How do you English say it, eh? Good-bye. Ah! Good-bye. Goodbye. In the tropics, you must stay calm above all else.’... He raised a warning finger.... ‘Stay calm, stay calm.’

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

“One thing remained: to say goodbye to my excellent aunt. I found her in a triumphant mood. I had a cup of tea, the last decent cup I would have for many days. The room looked reassuringly just as you would expect a lady’s sitting room to look. We had a long, quiet chat by the fire. As we shared our thoughts, I realized how she had described me to the high official’s wife. Goodness knows how many other people had heard the same account. I was an exceptional, gifted creature, a stroke of luck for the Company, a man you don’t find every day. Good heavens! And I was going to take charge of a cheap little river steamboat with a penny whistle attached! But apparently I was also one of the Workers, with a capital W, you know. Something like a messenger of light, something like a lesser sort of apostle. A lot of such nonsense was circulating in print and conversation just then. My excellent aunt, surrounded by all that humbug, had been swept away by it. She talked about ‘weaning those ignorant millions from their horrid ways’ until, honestly, she made me quite uncomfortable. I dared to hint that the Company was run for profit.

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

“‘You forget, dear Charlie, that workers deserve their pay,’ she said brightly. It’s strange how out of touch with reality women are. They live in a world of their own. There has never been anything like that world, and there never can be. It is far too beautiful, and if women tried to make it real, it would collapse before the first sunset. Some damned fact would spring up and knock the whole thing down. It would be a fact we men have lived with contentedly since the day of creation.

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

“After this I was hugged, told to wear flannel and to be sure to write often, and so on. Then I left. In the street, I had a strange feeling that I was an impostor. I don’t know why. It was odd, considering how readily I used to set off for any part of the world at twenty-four hours’ notice. I gave those journeys less thought than most men give to crossing a street. Yet before this ordinary undertaking, I paused in surprise for a moment. I wouldn’t call it hesitation. The best way I can explain that feeling is to say that, for a second or two, my destination seemed different. I felt as though I were about to set off for the centre of the earth, not a continent.”

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

“I left on a French steamship, which stopped at every damned port they have out there. As far as I could see, the only purpose was to put soldiers and customs officers ashore. I watched the coast. Watching a coast slip past a ship is like thinking about a mystery. There it is before you, smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, shabby, dull, or savage. The coast is always silent, yet seems to whisper, ‘Come and find out.’ This coast had almost no features, as if it were still being made. It had a grim, monotonous look. The edge of an enormous jungle, so dark green it was almost black, was bordered by white surf. The jungle stretched straight as a ruled line, far, far along a blue sea. A creeping mist blurred the sea’s glitter. The sun was fierce. The land seemed to glisten and drip with steam. Here and there, clusters of greyish-white specks appeared inside the line of white surf, perhaps with a flag flying overhead. These settlements were centuries old, yet still no bigger than pinheads against the untouched land behind them. We steamed noisily along, stopped, and put soldiers ashore. We went on and landed customs clerks to collect duties in what looked like a God-forsaken wilderness. A tin shed and a flagpole stood lost in that wilderness. We landed more soldiers, presumably to look after the customs clerks. Some, I heard, drowned in the surf. But whether they drowned or not, nobody seemed particularly to care. The men were simply dumped out there, and we went on. Every day the coast looked the same, as though we had not moved. But we passed various trading posts with names like Gran’ Bassam and Little Popo. The names seemed to belong to some shabby farce performed against a sinister backdrop. I was an idle passenger, isolated among all these men with whom I had nothing in common. The sea was oily and sluggish, and the coast was uniformly gloomy. All of this seemed to shut me off from the truth of things. I felt caught in the grip of a mournful, senseless illusion. The sound of the surf, heard now and then, was a real pleasure, like a brother’s voice. The surf was something natural, something with a reason and a meaning. Now and then, a boat from shore gave me a moment’s contact with reality. Black men paddled the boat. From far away, you could see the whites of their eyes gleaming. They shouted and sang, their bodies streaming with sweat. These men had faces like grotesque masks. But they had bone, muscle, a wild vitality, and an intense energy in their movements. Their energy was as natural and real as the surf along their coast. They needed no excuse for being there. They were a great comfort to look at. For a while, I would feel I still belonged to a world of straightforward facts. But the feeling never lasted long. Something would happen to frighten the feeling away. Once, I remember, we came upon a warship anchored off the coast. There was not even a shed ashore, and the ship was firing shells into the bush. Apparently, the French had one of their wars going on somewhere nearby. The ship’s flag hung limp like a rag. The barrels of long six-inch guns stuck out all around the low hull. The greasy, slimy swell lazily lifted and lowered the ship, making its thin masts sway. There the ship sat in the vast emptiness of earth, sky, and water, incomprehensibly firing into a continent. One of the six-inch guns would go pop. A small flame would flash and vanish, and a little white smoke would disappear. A tiny shell would give a feeble screech, and nothing happened. Nothing could happen. There was a touch of insanity in the whole business, something grimly comical about the sight. Someone on board earnestly assured me that a camp of local people lay hidden somewhere out of sight. He called them enemies! His assurance did nothing to dispel that sense of grim absurdity.

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

“We delivered the ship’s letters. (I heard the men aboard that lonely ship were dying of fever at a rate of three a day.) Then we went on. We stopped at some more places with ridiculous names, where the merry dance of death and trade goes on. The air there was still and earthy, like the air in an overheated catacomb. We traveled along the shapeless coast, edged with dangerous surf, as if Nature herself had tried to keep intruders away. We went in and out of rivers, streams of death amid life. Their banks were rotting into mud, and their waters had thickened into slime. The water flooded the twisted mangroves, which seemed to writhe at us in utter, helpless despair. Nowhere did we stop long enough to form a detailed impression. But a vague sense of oppressive wonder kept growing in me. The journey was like a weary pilgrimage among hints of nightmares.

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

“It took more than thirty days before I saw the mouth of the big river. We anchored off the government headquarters. But my work would not begin until about two hundred miles farther upriver. So as soon as I could, I set off for a place thirty miles farther upriver.

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

“I booked passage on a small seagoing steamer. Her captain was a Swede. Knowing I was a sailor, he invited me onto the bridge. He was young, thin, fair-haired, and gloomy, with long, limp hair and a shuffling walk. As we left the miserable little wharf, he jerked his head toward the shore in contempt. ‘Been living there?’ he asked. I said, ‘Yes.’ ‘A fine bunch, those government men, aren’t they?’ he went on, speaking very precise English with considerable bitterness. ‘It’s funny what some people will do for a few francs a month. I wonder what happens to men like that when they go inland?’ I told him I expected to find out soon. ‘Oh, so you do!’ he exclaimed. He shuffled across the bridge, keeping a watchful eye ahead. ‘Don’t be too sure,’ he continued. ‘The other day I took a man upriver who hanged himself on the way. He was a Swede, too.’ ‘Hanged himself! Why, in God’s name?’ I cried. He kept looking ahead watchfully. ‘Who knows? The sun was too much for him, or perhaps the country.’”

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

“At last we entered a stretch of open river. A rocky cliff appeared, with mounds of dug-up earth along the shore and houses on a hill. Other houses had iron roofs and stood among scattered excavations or clung to the slope. The constant roar of the rapids upstream hung over this scene of inhabited devastation. Many people, mostly black and naked, moved about like ants. A jetty extended into the river. At times, the blinding sunlight drowned the whole scene in a sudden burst of renewed glare. ‘There’s your Company’s station,’ said the Swede, pointing to three wooden buildings like barracks on the rocky slope. ‘I’ll send your things up. Four boxes, did you say? Right. Goodbye.’”

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

“I came across a boiler half-buried in the grass, then found a path leading up the hill. The path curved around boulders and a small railway cart lying upside down with its wheels in the air. One wheel had come off. The cart looked as dead as an animal’s carcass. I came across more pieces of decaying machinery and a stack of rusty rails. To the left, a clump of trees shaded a spot where dark shapes seemed to move weakly. I blinked. The path was steep. A horn sounded to the right, and I saw the black people run. A heavy, dull explosion shook the ground. A puff of smoke came out of the cliff, and that was all. The rock face showed no change. They were building a railway. The cliff was not in the way or anything, but this pointless blasting was all the work going on.”

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

“A faint clinking behind me made me turn my head. Six black men came in single file, struggling up the path. They walked upright and slowly, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads. The clinking kept time with their footsteps. Black rags were wrapped around their waists, and the short ends wagged behind them like tails. I could see every rib. Their joints looked like knots in a rope. Each man wore an iron collar, and a chain connected them all. Loops of chain swung between them, clinking rhythmically. Another blast from the cliff suddenly reminded me of the warship I had seen firing into a continent. The sound had the same threatening voice. But these men could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be called enemies. They were called criminals. Like the exploding shells, the outraged law had come to them from the sea, a mystery they could not solve. All their thin chests heaved together. Their nostrils flared wide and trembled, and their eyes stared blankly uphill. They passed within six inches of me without a glance, with the complete, deathlike indifference of miserable savages. Behind this raw material strolled one of the supposedly civilized men, a product of the new forces at work. He looked dejected and carried a rifle by its middle. He wore a uniform jacket with one button missing. Seeing a white man on the path, he quickly raised his weapon to his shoulder. This was simple caution. White men looked so alike at a distance that he could not tell who I might be. He was soon reassured. With a broad, white, roguish grin and a glance at his prisoners, he seemed to make me his partner. We shared, it seemed, the lofty responsibility entrusted to him. After all, I too was part of the great cause behind these noble and just proceedings.”

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

“Instead of going up, I turned and went down to the left. I wanted to let that chain gang get out of sight before I climbed the hill. You know I’m not particularly softhearted. I’ve had to strike blows and defend myself. I’ve had to resist, and sometimes attack. Attacking is only another way of resisting. I did all this without calculating the exact cost, as the life I had stumbled into demanded. I’ve seen the devil of violence, the devil of greed, and the devil of burning desire. But by all the stars, those were strong, vigorous, red-eyed devils that controlled and drove men. Men, I tell you. But as I stood on that hillside, I foresaw another kind of devil I would meet in that land’s blinding sunshine. This devil would be flabby, weak-eyed, and full of pretense, embodying greedy and merciless foolishness. Just how quietly this devil could work its way in, I would discover only several months later, a thousand miles farther on. For a moment I stood horrified, as though I had received a warning. Finally I went diagonally down the hill toward the trees I had seen.”

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

“I walked around a huge hole someone had been digging on the slope. I couldn’t work out what the hole was for. It wasn’t a quarry or a sandpit, anyway. It was just a hole. Perhaps the hole had something to do with a charitable wish to give the criminals something to do. I don’t know. Then I nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, barely more than a scar in the hillside. I found that many drainage pipes imported for the settlement had been dumped into the ravine. Every one of the pipes was broken. The destruction was senseless. At last I reached the shade of the trees. I only meant to walk into the shade for a moment. But as soon as I entered, I felt I had stepped into the dark circle of some Inferno. The rapids were nearby. Their steady, ceaseless roar filled the mournful stillness of the grove, where no breeze stirred and no leaf moved. The sound was mysterious, as though the earth’s headlong rush through space had suddenly become audible.

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

“Black figures crouched, lay, or sat among the trees, leaning against the trunks and clinging to the earth. They were half visible, half lost in the dim light, in all the postures of pain, abandonment, and despair. Another explosive charge went off on the cliff, and the ground trembled slightly under my feet. The work was going on. The work! And this was the place where some of the helpers had gone to die.

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

“They were dying slowly. That was very clear. They were not enemies. They were not criminals. They were nothing earthly now, only black shadows of disease and starvation, scattered in the greenish gloom. They had been brought from every hidden corner of the coast under fully legal fixed-term contracts. Lost in surroundings that did not suit them and fed unfamiliar food, they grew sick and unable to work properly. Then they were allowed to crawl away and rest. These dying figures were as free as air, and nearly as thin. I began to make out the gleam of eyes under the trees. Then I glanced down and saw a face near my hand. The black, skeletal body lay stretched out, with one shoulder against the tree. Slowly, the eyelids rose. The sunken eyes looked up at me, enormous and empty. A kind of blind, white flicker deep in the eyes slowly faded. The man seemed young, almost a boy. But you know, with them, it’s hard to tell. I could think of nothing else to do but offer him a ship’s biscuit from my pocket. It was one of the biscuits my good Swede had given me. His fingers closed slowly around the biscuit and held it. He made no other movement and gave no other glance. He had tied a bit of white wool yarn around his neck. Why? Where had he got it? Was the yarn a badge, an ornament, a charm, an offering to appease something? Was there any idea behind it at all? That bit of white thread from across the seas looked startling around his black neck.”

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

“Near the same tree sat two more bundles of sharp angles, their legs drawn up. One rested his chin on his knees and stared at nothing in an unbearable, horrifying way. His fellow phantom rested his forehead as if overcome by deep exhaustion. All around, others lay scattered in twisted poses of collapse, as in a picture of a massacre or a plague. As I stood horrified, one of these creatures rose onto his hands and knees. He crawled on all fours toward the river to drink. He lapped water from his hand, then sat up in the sunlight with his shins crossed in front of him. After a while, he let his head, covered in woolly hair, drop onto his breastbone.

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

“I didn’t want to linger in the shade any longer, so I hurried towards the station. Near the buildings, I met a white man dressed with such unexpected elegance that at first I thought he was a vision. I saw a high, starched collar, white cuffs, a light alpaca jacket, snow-white trousers, a clean tie, and polished boots. No hat. His hair was parted, brushed, and oiled beneath a green-lined parasol held in a large white hand. He was amazing, and he had a penholder tucked behind his ear.

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

“I shook hands with this miracle of a man and learned he was the Company’s chief accountant. All the bookkeeping was done at this station. He had stepped outside for a moment, he said, ‘to get a breath of fresh air.’ The phrase sounded wonderfully strange, suggesting a life spent sitting at a desk. I wouldn’t have mentioned the fellow to you at all, except that he first spoke a certain man’s name. That man is inseparably linked with my memories of that time. Besides, I respected the fellow. Yes, I respected his collars, his enormous cuffs, his neatly brushed hair. He certainly looked like a mannequin in a hairdresser’s window. But amid the widespread loss of discipline in that land, he kept up his appearance. That takes backbone. His starched collars and carefully prepared shirtfronts were achievements of character. He had been out there nearly three years. Later, I couldn’t help asking how he managed to wear such fine linen. He blushed ever so slightly and said modestly, ‘I’ve been teaching one of the local women around the station. It was difficult. She disliked the work.’ So this man really had accomplished something. And he was devoted to his account books, which he kept in perfect order.

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

“Everything else at the station was a mess: minds, things, buildings. Lines of dusty black people with wide, splayed feet came and went. A stream of manufactured goods, shoddy cotton cloth, beads, and brass wire flowed into the depths of darkness. In return came a precious trickle of ivory.

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

“I had to wait at the station for ten days. It felt like an eternity. I lived in a hut in the yard, but sometimes I went into the accountant’s office to escape the chaos. The office was built of horizontal planks, so poorly fitted that narrow strips of sunlight fell through the gaps. As he bent over his high desk, the light striped him from neck to heels. There was no need to open the big shutter to see. The office was hot, too. Big flies buzzed like devils, and they did not sting but stabbed. I usually sat on the floor while he perched on a high stool, looking immaculate and even slightly perfumed. He wrote and wrote. Sometimes he stood up for exercise. When a low bed holding a sick man was brought into the office, he showed mild annoyance. The man was an agent from somewhere upcountry. ‘This sick person’s groans,’ he said, ‘distract me. And even without the groans, avoiding errors in the paperwork is extremely difficult in this climate.’

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

“One day he said, without lifting his head, ‘In the interior you will no doubt meet Mr. Kurtz.’ When I asked who Mr. Kurtz was, he said Kurtz was a first-rate agent. Seeing my disappointment at his answer, he put down his pen and added slowly, ‘He is a very remarkable person.’ After more questions, he told me Mr. Kurtz was currently in charge of a very important trading post. The post was deep in ivory country, at ‘the very bottom of there. Sends in as much ivory as all the others put together...’ He began writing again. The sick man was too ill to groan. The flies buzzed in perfect peace.”

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

“Suddenly, a murmur of voices grew louder, followed by the heavy tramp of feet. A caravan had arrived. A loud babble of rough voices broke out on the other side of the planks. All the carriers were talking at once. Above the uproar, the chief agent’s pitiful voice could be heard tearfully ‘giving up’ for the twentieth time that day.... He rose slowly. ‘What a terrible racket,’ he said. He walked quietly across the room to look at the sick man. When he returned, he said to me, ‘He can’t hear.’ ‘What! Is he dead?’ I asked, startled. ‘No, not yet,’ he answered very calmly. Then he nodded toward the uproar in the station yard. ‘When you have to keep accurate records, you begin to hate those savages. Hate them to death.’ He stood thinking for a moment. ‘When you see Mr. Kurtz,’ he went on, ‘tell him from me that everything here is very satisfactory.’ He glanced at the deck. ‘I don’t like writing to him. With our messengers, you never know who might get hold of your letter at that Central Station.’ He stared at me for a moment with his mild, bulging eyes. ‘Oh, he’ll go far, very far,’ he began again. ‘Before long, he’ll be someone important in the Administration. The people at the top, the Council in Europe, you know, intend him to be.’”

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

“He went back to his work. The noise outside had stopped, and a little later, as I left, I paused at the door. Amid the steady buzzing of flies, the agent heading home lay completely spent and unconscious. The other man, bent over his account books, was accurately recording perfectly proper transactions. And fifty feet below the doorstep, I could see the motionless treetops of the grove of death.

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

“The next day I finally left that station with a group of sixty men for a two-hundred-mile walk.

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

“There’s no point telling you much about that. Paths, paths, everywhere. A network of trampled paths spread across the empty land. Through tall grass, burnt grass, and thickets. Down and up chilly ravines, up and down stony hills blazing with heat. And loneliness, loneliness, nobody, not a hut. The people had left long ago. Well, imagine a crowd of mysterious black men armed with all kinds of terrifying weapons. Suppose they suddenly started travelling along the road between Deal and Gravesend. Suppose they seized local country people everywhere to carry heavy loads for them. I imagine every nearby farm and cottage would soon be empty. Only here, the homes were gone too. Still, I passed through several abandoned villages. There’s something pitifully childish about the ruins of grass walls. Day after day, sixty pairs of bare feet stamped and shuffled behind me, each pair beneath a sixty-pound load. Camp, cook, sleep, pack up camp, march. Now and then, a carrier lay dead, still strapped to his load, resting in the tall grass beside the path. His empty water gourd and long staff lay beside him. A great silence surrounded us and stretched above us. Perhaps, on some quiet night, the trembling of distant drums, fading, swelling, a vast, faint trembling. A strange, pleading, suggestive, wild sound. And perhaps a sound with as deep a meaning as bells in a Christian country. Once, a white man in an unbuttoned uniform was camping on the path with an armed escort of lanky Zanzibaris. He was very welcoming and cheerful, not to say drunk. He declared that he was maintaining the road. I can’t say I saw any road or maintenance. Unless a middle-aged black man’s body could count as a permanent improvement. The man had a bullet hole in his forehead. I actually stumbled over his body three miles farther on. I also had a white companion. He wasn’t a bad fellow, but he was rather too fat and had an infuriating habit of fainting. He would faint on hot hillsides, miles from even the smallest patch of shade or any water. Annoying, you know, holding your own coat over a man’s head like a sunshade while he comes around. Once, I couldn’t help asking what he meant by coming there at all. ‘To make money, of course. What do you think?’ he said scornfully. Then he developed a fever and had to be carried in a hammock hanging beneath a pole. Since he weighed 224 pounds, I had endless arguments with the carriers. They refused, ran away, and slipped off with their loads during the night. A real mutiny. So, one evening, I made a speech in English, with gestures. Not one gesture was lost on the sixty pairs of eyes facing me. The next morning, I got the hammock sent off ahead without trouble. An hour later, I found the whole outfit wrecked in a bush: man, hammock, groans, blankets, horrors. The heavy pole had scraped the skin off his poor nose. He was very eager for me to kill somebody, but there wasn’t a trace of a carrier nearby. I remembered the old doctor. ‘It would be interesting for science to observe the mental changes in individuals, right there on the spot.’ I felt I was becoming scientifically interesting. But none of that matters. On the fifteenth day, I caught sight of the great river again and limped into the Central Station. The station stood on a backwater, surrounded by scrub and forest. A lovely strip of stinking mud bordered one side. A rickety reed fence enclosed the other three sides. A neglected gap was the station’s only gate. One glance showed you that a weak, flabby devil was running the place. White men holding long staffs emerged lazily from among the buildings. They strolled over to look at me, then disappeared somewhere again. One was a stout, excitable fellow with a black moustache. As soon as I told him who I was, he launched into a rambling stream of talk. He told me my steamer was at the bottom of the river. I was stunned. What, how, why? Oh, it was ‘all right.’ The ‘manager himself’ was there. Everything was quite proper. ‘Everybody had behaved splendidly! splendidly!’ ‘You must,’ he said anxiously, ‘go and see the general manager at once. He is waiting!’

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

“I did not understand the real meaning of that wreck at first. I think I understand it now, but I am not sure. Not at all. When I think about it, the whole affair was certainly too stupid to have been entirely accidental. Still... But at the time, the wreck seemed like nothing more than a damned nuisance. The steamer had sunk. Two days earlier, they had suddenly hurried upriver with the manager on board and a volunteer captain in charge. Less than three hours into the trip, they ripped out the boat’s bottom on rocks. She sank near the south bank. I wondered what I was supposed to do there now that my boat was lost. In fact, I had plenty to do getting the boat I commanded out of the river. I had to start the very next day. Recovering her and making repairs after I brought the pieces to the station took some months.”

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

“My first meeting with the manager was strange. He did not offer me a seat after my twenty-mile walk that morning. His complexion, features, manners, and voice were all ordinary. He was of medium height and average build. His eyes were the usual blue, though perhaps remarkably cold. He could certainly bring his gaze down on you as sharply and heavily as an axe. But even then, everything else about him seemed to deny any such intention. Otherwise, there was only a faint, hard-to-place expression around his lips, something furtive. A smile, yet not quite a smile. I remember it, but I can’t explain it. He was unaware of this smile, though it grew stronger for an instant just after he had spoken. It came at the end of his speeches like a seal stamped on his words. The smile made even the most ordinary phrase seem utterly impossible to understand. He was an ordinary trader who had worked in these parts since his youth. Nothing more. People obeyed him, yet he inspired neither love nor fear, nor even respect. He inspired uneasiness. That was it! Uneasiness. Not any definite distrust, just uneasiness, nothing more. You have no idea how effective such a... a... ability can be. He had no talent for organizing, taking initiative, or even keeping things in order. You could see that in things like the station’s dreadful condition. He had no education and no intelligence. He had risen to his position, but why? Perhaps because he was never ill... He had served three three-year terms out there... Because staying triumphantly healthy while everyone else’s health collapses is a kind of power in itself. When he went home on leave, he indulged himself on a grand scale, with pomp and ceremony. Like a sailor on shore leave, but different only in outward appearances. You could gather this from his casual conversation. He started nothing new. He could keep the routine going, and that was all. But he was great. His greatness rested on one small thing: no one could tell what might restrain such a man. He never revealed that secret. Perhaps there was nothing inside him. That suspicion made you hesitate, because out there, nothing outside a man held him in check. Once, various tropical diseases had struck down almost every ‘agent’ at the station. He was heard to say, ‘Men who come out here should have no guts.’ He sealed his remark with that smile of his. It was as though his words had opened a door into some darkness he kept in his care. You imagined you had glimpsed things, but the smile had sealed the door shut. At meals, the white men’s constant quarrels over who ranked above whom annoyed him. So he ordered an enormous round table made. A special building had to be built to hold it. This became the station’s dining room. Wherever he sat was the seat of honor. The other seats counted for nothing. You felt that he believed this without question. He was neither polite nor rude. He was quiet. He allowed his ‘boy’, an overfed young Black servant from the coast, to treat the white men with infuriating insolence. The servant did so right before his eyes.”

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

“He began speaking as soon as he saw me. I had taken a very long time to get there. He could not wait. He had to start without me. The upriver stations needed supplies and help. There had already been so many delays that he did not know who was dead or alive. Nor did he know how they were managing, and so on, and so on. He ignored my explanations. He played with a stick of sealing wax and repeated several times that the situation was ‘very serious, very serious.’ There were rumours that a very important station was in danger, and its chief, Mr. Kurtz, was ill. He hoped the rumours were not true. Mr. Kurtz was... I felt tired and irritable. To hell with Kurtz, I thought. I interrupted him, saying I had heard of Mr. Kurtz on the coast. ‘Ah! So they talk about him down there,’ he murmured to himself. Then he started again. He assured me Mr. Kurtz was his best agent, an exceptional man of the greatest importance to the Company. So I could understand his anxiety. He was, he said, ‘very, very uneasy.’ He certainly fidgeted a great deal in his chair. He exclaimed, ‘Ah, Mr. Kurtz!’ and broke the stick of sealing wax. He seemed stunned by the accident. Next he wanted to know ‘how long it would take to’... I interrupted him again. I was hungry, you know, and he was keeping me standing too. I was getting furious. ‘How can I tell?’ I said. ‘I haven’t even seen the wreck yet. Some months, no doubt.’ All this talk seemed so pointless to me. ‘Some months,’ he said. ‘Well, let us say three months before we can set off. Yes. That ought to be enough for the job.’ I stormed out of his hut, muttering to myself what I thought of him. He lived all alone in a clay hut with a sort of porch. He was a babbling idiot. Later I took that back. I was startled to realize how precisely he had estimated the time needed for the ‘job.’”

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

“I went to work the next day, turning my back, so to speak, on that station. Only that way, it seemed to me, could I hold on to the facts that made life worthwhile. Still, you have to look around sometimes. When I did, I saw the station and the men wandering aimlessly around the yard in the sunshine. Sometimes I asked myself what it all meant. They wandered here and there with their absurdly long staffs in their hands. They looked like faithless pilgrims trapped by a spell inside a rotten fence. The word ‘ivory’ rang through the air, was whispered, was sighed. You would think they were praying to it. A hint of mindless greed drifted through it all, like a whiff from some corpse. By God! I’ve never seen anything so unreal in my life. And outside, the silent wilderness surrounded this cleared speck of earth. The wilderness struck me as something great and invincible, like evil or truth. It waited patiently for this bizarre invasion to pass away.”

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

“Oh, those months! Well, never mind. Various things happened. One evening, a grass shed full of calico, printed cotton, beads, and I don’t know what else suddenly caught fire. You would have thought the earth had opened to let a vengeful fire consume all that trash. I was quietly smoking my pipe beside my dismantled steamer. In the firelight, I saw them all leaping around with their arms raised high. Then the stout man with the moustache came rushing down to the river, carrying a tin bucket. He assured me that everyone was ‘behaving splendidly, splendidly.’ He scooped up about a quart of water and rushed back. I noticed a hole in the bottom of his bucket.

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

“I strolled over. There was no hurry. You see, the place had gone up like a box of matches. It had been hopeless from the start. The flames had leaped high, driven everyone back, lit up everything, and collapsed. The shed was already a heap of fiercely glowing embers. A black man was being beaten nearby. They said he had somehow caused the fire. Whether or not he had, he was screaming horribly. For several days afterward, I saw him sitting in a patch of shade. He looked very ill and was trying to recover. Then he got up and went away, and the wilderness silently took him back into its embrace. As I approached the glow from the darkness, I found myself behind two men who were talking. I heard the name Kurtz, then the words, ‘take advantage of this unfortunate accident.’ One of the men was the manager. I wished him a good evening. ‘Did you ever see anything like it, eh? It’s incredible,’ he said, and walked away. The other man stayed. He was a high-ranking agent, young, gentlemanly, and rather reserved, with a little forked beard and a hooked nose. He kept his distance from the other agents. They, in turn, said he was the manager’s spy. As for me, I had hardly ever spoken to him before. We began talking, and after a while we strolled away from the hissing ruins. Then he invited me to his room in the station’s main building. He struck a match. I saw that this young aristocrat had a silver-trimmed case for his grooming supplies. He also had a whole candle to himself. At that time, only the manager was supposed to have any right to candles. Local mats covered the clay walls. Spears, assegais, shields, and knives hung on display as trophies. I had been told that this fellow’s job was to make bricks. But there wasn’t a scrap of brick anywhere in the station. He had been there for more than a year, waiting. Apparently, he couldn’t make bricks without something. I don’t know what, perhaps straw. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be found there and was unlikely to be sent from Europe. So I couldn’t see what he was waiting for. Perhaps a special act of creation. Still, they were all waiting for something, all sixteen or twenty of those pilgrims. And I swear, judging by their attitude, waiting didn’t seem an unpleasant occupation. Yet disease was the only thing that ever came to them, as far as I could see. They passed the time gossiping maliciously and scheming against one another in a foolish sort of way. The station had an air of conspiracy about it, but of course nothing came of the plotting. It was as unreal as everything else. As unreal as the whole operation’s pretense of helping humanity, their talk, their administration, and their show of working. Their only genuine feeling was the desire for an appointment to a trading post where ivory was available. That way, they could earn commissions. That was their only reason for scheming, slandering, and hating one another. But actually lifting a finger to accomplish anything? Oh, no. By heaven! There is something, after all, in letting one man steal a horse while another mustn’t even look at a halter. Steal a horse outright. Very well. He’s done it. Perhaps he can ride. But there’s a way of looking at a halter that would provoke even the kindest saint into kicking.”

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

“I had no idea why he wanted to be friendly. But as we chatted in there, I suddenly realized he was trying to learn something. In fact, he was fishing for information. He kept referring to Europe and the people I supposedly knew there. He asked leading questions about my acquaintances in that tomb-like city, and so on. His little eyes glittered with curiosity like discs of mica, though he tried to keep looking slightly superior. At first I was astonished. But very soon I became terribly curious to see what he would find out from me. I couldn’t imagine what I knew that could make questioning me worth his time. It was quite a pleasure to watch him puzzle himself. In truth, my body was full of nothing but chills. My head held nothing but that wretched steamboat business. He clearly thought I was a completely shameless liar. At last he grew angry. To hide a sudden burst of furious irritation, he yawned. I stood up. Then I noticed a small oil sketch on a panel. It showed a woman wrapped in flowing cloth and blindfolded, carrying a burning torch. The background was dark, almost black. The woman moved with dignity, and the torchlight on her face looked sinister.

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

“It caught my attention, and he stood politely beside me, holding an empty half-pint champagne bottle (medical supplies). A candle was stuck in the bottle. When I asked, he said Mr. Kurtz had painted this here at the station more than a year ago. Mr. Kurtz had been waiting for a way to get to his trading post. ‘Please tell me,’ I said, ‘who is this Mr. Kurtz?’

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

“‘The chief of the Inner Station,’ he answered curtly, looking away. ‘Thanks very much,’ I said, laughing. ‘And you are the brickmaker of the Central Station. Everyone knows that.’ He was silent for a while. ‘He is a remarkable man,’ he said at last. ‘He represents compassion and science and progress, and the devil knows what else. We need,’ he suddenly began to announce grandly, ‘greater intelligence, broad sympathies, and a single purpose. We need these to guide the cause Europe has entrusted to us, so to speak.’ ‘Who says that?’ I asked. ‘Lots of people,’ he replied. ‘Some even write it. And so he comes here, an exceptional person, as you ought to know.’ ‘Why ought I to know?’ I interrupted, genuinely surprised. He paid no attention. ‘Yes. Today he is chief of the best station. Next year he will be assistant manager. Two years after that and... but I suppose you know what he will be in two years’ time. You are part of the new crowd, the crowd of virtue. The same people who sent him here specially also recommended you. Oh, don’t deny it. I can trust my own eyes.’ I began to understand. My dear aunt’s influential acquaintances were having an unexpected effect on that young man. I nearly burst out laughing. ‘Do you read the Company’s confidential correspondence?’ I asked. He had nothing to say. It was great fun. ‘When Mr. Kurtz,’ I continued sternly, ‘is General Manager, you won’t have the opportunity.’

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

“He suddenly blew out the candle, and we went outside. The moon had risen. Black figures wandered listlessly, pouring water on the glowing embers, which hissed. Steam rose in the moonlight. Somewhere, the beaten black man groaned. ‘What a racket the brute makes!’ said the tireless man with the moustaches, appearing beside us. ‘Serves him right. Wrongdoing, punishment, bang! No mercy, no mercy. That’s the only way. This will prevent all fires in the future. I was just telling the manager...’ He noticed my companion and suddenly looked deflated. ‘Not in bed yet,’ he said, with a kind of grovelling friendliness. ‘It’s so natural. Ha! Danger, excitement.’ He disappeared. I went on toward the river, and my companion followed me. I heard a scornful mutter in my ear. ‘Bunch of fools. Get out of here.’ The pilgrims stood in little groups, waving their arms and talking. Several still held their staffs. I truly believe they took those sticks to bed with them. Beyond the fence, the forest stood like a ghost in the moonlight. Through the dim movement and faint sounds of that wretched courtyard, the land’s silence reached deep into my heart. I felt its mystery, its vastness, the astonishing reality of its hidden life. The injured black man moaned weakly somewhere nearby. Then he gave a deep sigh that made me walk faster to get away. I felt a hand slip under my arm. ‘My dear sir,’ said the fellow, ‘I don’t want to be misunderstood, especially by you. You’ll see Mr. Kurtz long before I can have that pleasure. I wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea about my character....’”

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

“I let him keep talking, this papier-mache Mephistopheles. It seemed that, if I tried, I could poke my forefinger through him. Inside, I would find nothing but a little loose dirt, perhaps. You see, he had been planning to become assistant manager under the current manager eventually. I could see that Kurtz’s arrival had upset them both quite a bit. He spoke in a rush, and I did not try to stop him. My shoulders rested against my wrecked steamer, hauled onto the slope like the carcass of some large river animal. The smell of mud, of ancient mud, by God, filled my nostrils! Before my eyes stood the towering stillness of the ancient forest. Shiny patches gleamed on the black creek. The moon had spread a thin layer of silver over everything. It covered the thick, overgrown grass, the mud, and the wall of tangled vegetation, taller than a temple wall. Through a dark gap, I could see the great river glittering, glittering, as it flowed broadly past without a murmur. All this was vast, expectant, silent, while the man babbled about himself. I wondered about the stillness on the face of that immensity looking at us. Was the stillness meant as an appeal or a threat? What were we, who had wandered in here? Could we control that silent thing, or would it control us? I felt how big, how damned big, that thing was. It could not speak, and perhaps it was deaf as well. What was in there? I could see a little ivory coming out of there, and I had heard Mr. Kurtz was in there. I had heard enough about him, too, God knows! Yet somehow his name brought no image to mind. Someone might as well have told me an angel or a devil was in there. I believed in his presence as one of you might believe there are inhabitants on the planet Mars. I once knew a Scottish sailmaker who was certain, absolutely sure, that there were people on Mars. If you asked what they looked like and how they behaved, he grew shy. He would mutter something about ‘walking on all-fours.’ If you so much as smiled, he would offer to fight you, though he was sixty. I would not have gone so far as to fight for Kurtz. But I came close enough to lying for him. You know I hate, detest, and cannot stand a lie. Not because I am more honest than the rest of us, but simply because lying horrifies me. Lies carry a taint of death, a taste of mortality. That is exactly what I hate and detest in the world, what I want to forget. Lying makes me miserable and sick, as biting into something rotten would. My temperament, I suppose. Well, I came close enough to lying. I let that young fool believe whatever he wanted to imagine about my influence in Europe. In an instant, I became as much of a fraud as the rest of those spellbound pilgrims. I did this simply because I had an idea it would somehow help Kurtz. At the time, you understand, I could not picture him. He was just a word to me. I could no more see the man behind the name than you can. Do you see him? Do you see the story? Do you see anything? It seems to me that I am trying to tell you a dream. The attempt is hopeless, because no account of a dream can convey the feeling of dreaming. That mixture of absurdity, surprise, and confusion, trembling with a struggle to rebel. That sense of being captured by the unbelievable, which is the very essence of dreams....”

He was silent for a while.

He was silent for a while.

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

“... No, it is impossible. It is impossible to convey what it feels like to live through any particular period of your life. You cannot convey what gives that experience its truth and meaning, its subtle essence that reaches so deep. It is impossible. We live as we dream, alone....”

He paused again as if reflecting, then added:

He paused again as if thinking, then added:

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

“Of course, you can all see more in this than I could then. You see me, someone you know....”

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

It had grown so pitch dark that we listeners could hardly see one another. For a long time, the man sitting apart had been nothing more than a voice to us. Nobody said a word. The others might have been asleep, but I was awake. I listened, and kept listening, waiting for the sentence, the word, that would explain my faint uneasiness. His story stirred that feeling in me. The story seemed to take shape without human lips in the heavy night air over the river.

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

“... Yes, I let him keep talking,” Marlow began again, “and believe whatever he liked about the powerful people backing me. I did! And no one was backing me! There was nothing but the miserable, old, battered steamboat I was leaning against. Meanwhile, he talked smoothly about ‘the need for every man to get ahead.’ ‘And when you come out here, you understand, you don’t come to stare at the moon.’ Mr. Kurtz was a ‘genius at everything.’ But even a genius would find work easier with ‘the right tools, intelligent men.’ He didn’t make bricks because, as I knew very well, something made doing so physically impossible. And if he worked as the manager’s secretary, that was because ‘no sensible man carelessly rejects his superiors’ trust.’ Did I understand? I understood. What more did I want? What I really wanted was rivets, by heaven! Rivets. To get on with the work, to patch the hole. Rivets were what I wanted. There were crates of them down at the coast. Crates piled up, burst open, split apart! Every other step in the station yard on the hillside, you kicked a loose rivet. Rivets had rolled into the grove of death. You could fill your pockets with rivets just by bending down. And there wasn’t a single rivet where we needed them. We had metal plates that would do, but nothing to fasten them with. And every week the messenger left our station for the coast. He was a tall Black man, with a mailbag on his shoulder and a staff in his hand. And several times a week, a caravan arrived from the coast with trade goods. There was hideous, glossy calico that made you shudder just to look at it. There were glass beads worth about a penny a quart, and those damned spotted cotton handkerchiefs. And no rivets. Three carriers could have brought all the rivets we needed to get that steamboat afloat.

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

“He was speaking more openly now, but I suppose my lack of response must finally have annoyed him. He felt he had to tell me he feared neither God nor devil, let alone any mere man. I said I could see that very well, but I wanted a certain number of rivets. And rivets were what Mr. Kurtz really wanted, if only he had known it. Now, letters went to the coast every week.... ‘My dear sir,’ he cried, ‘I only write down what I’m told.’ I demanded rivets. There was a way to get them, for an intelligent man. His manner changed. He became very cold and suddenly started talking about a hippopotamus. He wondered whether the animal disturbed me while I slept aboard the steamer. I stayed with the boat I had salvaged, day and night. An old hippo had the bad habit of climbing onto the bank and roaming the station grounds at night. The pilgrims would turn out together and fire every rifle they could find at him until the guns were empty. Some had even stayed up at night waiting for him. All this effort was wasted, though. ‘That animal has a charmed life,’ he said. ‘But in this country, you can say that only about beasts. No man, do you understand me? No man here has a charmed life.’ He stood in the moonlight for a moment, his delicate hooked nose slightly crooked. His eyes glittered like mica, and he did not blink. Then, with a curt Good-night, he strode off. I could see he was unsettled and very puzzled. Seeing him that way made me feel more hopeful than I had for days. It was a great comfort to turn from that fellow to my influential friend, the battered, twisted, ruined tin-pot steamboat. I climbed aboard. She rang beneath my feet like an empty Huntley & Palmer biscuit tin kicked along a gutter. She was nowhere near as solidly built as the tin, and rather less attractive in shape. But I had put enough hard work into her to make me love her. No influential friend could have served me better. She had given me a chance to show something of myself, to find out what I could do. No, I don’t like work. I would rather laze around and think of all the fine things that can be done. I don’t like work. No man does. But I like what work offers: the chance to find yourself. Your own reality, for yourself, not for others. Something no other man can ever know. Other people can see only the outward show. They can never tell what that show really means.”

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

“I was not surprised to see someone sitting on the rear deck, with his legs dangling over the mud. You see, I was rather friendly with the few mechanics at the station. The other pilgrims naturally looked down on them, because of their poor manners, I suppose. The man on the deck was the foreman, a boilermaker by trade and a good worker. He was tall, thin, and bony, with a yellowish face and large, intense eyes. He looked worried, and his head was as bald as the palm of my hand. But as his hair fell out, it seemed to have stuck to his chin and flourished in its new home. His beard hung down to his waist. He was a widower with six young children. He had left them in his sister’s care to come out there. The great passion of his life was flying pigeons. He was an enthusiast and an expert. He would talk wildly about pigeons. Sometimes, after work, he would come over from his hut to talk about his children and his pigeons. At work, when he had to crawl through the mud under the steamboat, he would tie up his beard. He used a kind of white napkin he had brought for the purpose, with loops that went over his ears. In the evening, you could see him squatting on the bank, carefully rinsing the cloth in the creek. Then he would solemnly spread it on a bush to dry.

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

“I slapped him on the back and shouted, ‘We’re going to get rivets!’ He scrambled to his feet, exclaiming, ‘No! Rivets!’ as though he couldn’t believe his ears. Then he said quietly, ‘You... eh?’ I don’t know why we behaved like lunatics. I put my finger beside my nose and nodded mysteriously. ‘Good for you!’ he cried. He snapped his fingers above his head and lifted one foot. I tried a jig. We danced wildly on the iron deck. A terrible clatter rose from the old boat. The untouched forest across the creek echoed the noise back over the sleeping station like rolling thunder. The noise must have made some of the pilgrims sit up in their shacks. A dark figure blocked the lighted doorway of the manager’s hut, then vanished. A second or so later, the lighted doorway vanished too. We stopped. The silence our stamping feet had driven away flowed back from deep within the land. The great wall of vegetation was a thick, tangled mass of trunks, branches, leaves, and hanging vines. Motionless in the moonlight, the forest looked like a wild invasion of silent life. It was like a rolling wave of plants, heaped up and crested, ready to topple over the creek. The wave seemed ready to sweep every little one of us out of his little existence. Yet the forest did not move. A muffled burst of powerful splashes and snorts reached us from far away. It sounded as though an icthyosaurus were bathing in the glittering water of the great river. ‘After all,’ said the boilermaker in a reasonable tone, ‘why shouldn’t we get the rivets?’ Why not, indeed! I knew of no reason why we shouldn’t. ‘They’ll come in three weeks,’ I said confidently.”

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

“But they didn’t. Instead of rivets came an invasion, an affliction, a plague. The invasion arrived in groups over the next three weeks. Each group was led by a donkey carrying a white man in new clothes and tan shoes. From his perch, the man bowed right and left to the impressed pilgrims. A quarrelsome band of sulky Black men with sore feet followed close behind the donkey. Tents, camp stools, tin boxes, white cases, and brown bundles were dumped in the courtyard. And the mystery hanging over the station’s confusion grew a little deeper. Five such groups arrived, looking absurdly like people fleeing in disorder with loot from countless outfitters and supply stores. You would think they were hauling their plunder into the wilderness after a raid, to divide it fairly. The whole collection was a hopeless jumble of perfectly respectable things that human foolishness made look like stolen goods.

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

“This devoted band called itself the Eldorado Exploring Expedition, and I believe its members were sworn to secrecy. Yet they talked like filthy pirates: reckless without toughness, greedy without boldness, and cruel without courage. Not one of them had the slightest foresight or serious intention. They did not seem to realize that such qualities were needed to get anything done in the world. They wanted to rip treasure from deep inside the land. Their aim had no more moral purpose than that of burglars breaking into a safe. I don’t know who paid the expenses of this noble enterprise. But our manager’s uncle was the leader of the lot.”

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

“He looked like a butcher from a poor neighbourhood, and his eyes had a sleepy, cunning look. He carried his fat belly proudly on his short legs. While his gang infested the station, he spoke to no one but his nephew. You could see the two wandering around all day long, their heads close together, talking endlessly.

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

“I had stopped worrying about the rivets. Your capacity for that kind of foolishness is more limited than you might think. I said, ‘To hell with it!’ and let things slide. I had plenty of time to reflect, and now and then I thought about Kurtz. I wasn’t very interested in him. No. Still, I was curious whether he would reach the top after all. He had come out with moral ideas of some sort. I also wondered how he would go about his work once he got there.”