2

“One evening as I was lying flat on the deck of my steamboat, I heard voices approaching—and there were the nephew and the uncle strolling along the bank. I laid my head on my arm again, and had nearly lost myself in a doze, when somebody said in my ear, as it were: ‘I am as harmless as a little child, but I don’t like to be dictated to. Am I the manager—or am I not? I was ordered to send him there. It’s incredible.’ ... I became aware that the two were standing on the shore alongside the forepart of the steamboat, just below my head. I did not move; it did not occur to me to move: I was sleepy. ‘It is unpleasant,’ grunted the uncle. ‘He has asked the Administration to be sent there,’ said the other, ‘with the idea of showing what he could do; and I was instructed accordingly. Look at the influence that man must have. Is it not frightful?’ They both agreed it was frightful, then made several bizarre remarks: ‘Make rain and fine weather—one man—the Council—by the nose’—bits of absurd sentences that got the better of my drowsiness, so that I had pretty near the whole of my wits about me when the uncle said, ‘The climate may do away with this difficulty for you. Is he alone there?’ ‘Yes,’ answered the manager; ‘he sent his assistant down the river with a note to me in these terms: “Clear this poor devil out of the country, and don’t bother sending more of that sort. I had rather be alone than have the kind of men you can dispose of with me.” It was more than a year ago. Can you imagine such impudence!’ ‘Anything since then?’ asked the other hoarsely. ‘Ivory,’ jerked the nephew; ‘lots of it—prime sort—lots—most annoying, from him.’ ‘And with that?’ questioned the heavy rumble. ‘Invoice,’ was the reply fired out, so to speak. Then silence. They had been talking about Kurtz.

“One evening, I was lying flat on the deck of my steamboat when I heard voices approaching. There were the nephew and the uncle, strolling along the bank. I rested my head on my arm again and had almost dozed off. Then someone spoke, seemingly right in my ear: ‘I am as harmless as a little child, but I don’t like being ordered around. Am I the manager or not? I was ordered to send him there. It’s incredible.’ ... I realized the two men were standing on the shore beside the front of the steamboat, just below my head. I didn’t move. Moving never occurred to me. I was sleepy. ‘It is unpleasant,’ the uncle grunted. ‘He asked the Administration to send him there,’ the other said, ‘so he could show what he could do. And I was instructed to send him. Think of the influence that man must have. Isn’t it frightening?’ Both men agreed that his influence was frightening, then made several bizarre remarks: ‘Control everything, rain or sunshine. One man. The Council. Lead them by the nose.’ Those fragments of absurd sentences shook off my drowsiness. So I was almost fully alert when the uncle said, ‘The climate may solve this difficulty for you. Is he alone there?’ ‘Yes,’ the manager answered. ‘He sent his assistant down the river with a note to me saying: “Get this poor devil out of the country. And don’t bother sending any more like him. I’d rather be alone than have the kind of men you can spare with me.” That was more than a year ago. Can you imagine such nerve!’ ‘Anything since then?’ the other asked hoarsely. ‘Ivory,’ the nephew snapped. ‘Lots of it. Top quality. Lots. Most annoying, coming from him.’ ‘And with the ivory?’ came the deep, rumbling voice. ‘An invoice,’ came the reply, almost like a shot. Then silence. They had been talking about Kurtz.

“I was broad awake by this time, but, lying perfectly at ease, remained still, having no inducement to change my position. ‘How did that ivory come all this way?’ growled the elder man, who seemed very vexed. The other explained that it had come with a fleet of canoes in charge of an English half-caste clerk Kurtz had with him; that Kurtz had apparently intended to return himself, the station being by that time bare of goods and stores, but after coming three hundred miles, had suddenly decided to go back, which he started to do alone in a small dugout with four paddlers, leaving the half-caste to continue down the river with the ivory. The two fellows there seemed astounded at anybody attempting such a thing. They were at a loss for an adequate motive. As to me, I seemed to see Kurtz for the first time. It was a distinct glimpse: the dugout, four paddling savages, and the lone white man turning his back suddenly on the headquarters, on relief, on thoughts of home—perhaps; setting his face towards the depths of the wilderness, towards his empty and desolate station. I did not know the motive. Perhaps he was just simply a fine fellow who stuck to his work for its own sake. His name, you understand, had not been pronounced once. He was ‘that man.’ The half-caste, who, as far as I could see, had conducted a difficult trip with great prudence and pluck, was invariably alluded to as ‘that scoundrel.’ The ‘scoundrel’ had reported that the ‘man’ had been very ill—had recovered imperfectly.... The two below me moved away then a few paces, and strolled back and forth at some little distance. I heard: ‘Military post—doctor—two hundred miles—quite alone now—unavoidable delays—nine months—no news—strange rumours.’ They approached again, just as the manager was saying, ‘No one, as far as I know, unless a species of wandering trader—a pestilential fellow, snapping ivory from the natives.’ Who was it they were talking about now? I gathered in snatches that this was some man supposed to be in Kurtz’s district, and of whom the manager did not approve. ‘We will not be free from unfair competition till one of these fellows is hanged for an example,’ he said. ‘Certainly,’ grunted the other; ‘get him hanged! Why not? Anything—anything can be done in this country. That’s what I say; nobody here, you understand, here, can endanger your position. And why? You stand the climate—you outlast them all. The danger is in Europe; but there before I left I took care to—’ They moved off and whispered, then their voices rose again. ‘The extraordinary series of delays is not my fault. I did my best.’ The fat man sighed. ‘Very sad.’ ‘And the pestiferous absurdity of his talk,’ continued the other; ‘he bothered me enough when he was here. “Each station should be like a beacon on the road towards better things, a centre for trade of course, but also for humanizing, improving, instructing.” Conceive you—that ass! And he wants to be manager! No, it’s—’ Here he got choked by excessive indignation, and I lifted my head the least bit. I was surprised to see how near they were—right under me. I could have spat upon their hats. They were looking on the ground, absorbed in thought. The manager was switching his leg with a slender twig: his sagacious relative lifted his head. ‘You have been well since you came out this time?’ he asked. The other gave a start. ‘Who? I? Oh! Like a charm—like a charm. But the rest—oh, my goodness! All sick. They die so quick, too, that I haven’t the time to send them out of the country—it’s incredible!’ ‘Hm’m. Just so,’ grunted the uncle. ‘Ah! my boy, trust to this—I say, trust to this.’ I saw him extend his short flipper of an arm for a gesture that took in the forest, the creek, the mud, the river—seemed to beckon with a dishonouring flourish before the sunlit face of the land a treacherous appeal to the lurking death, to the hidden evil, to the profound darkness of its heart. It was so startling that I leaped to my feet and looked back at the edge of the forest, as though I had expected an answer of some sort to that black display of confidence. You know the foolish notions that come to one sometimes. The high stillness confronted these two figures with its ominous patience, waiting for the passing away of a fantastic invasion.

“I was wide awake by then, but I lay perfectly comfortable and still. I had no reason to move. ‘How did that ivory come all this way?’ growled the older man, who seemed very annoyed. The other man explained that a fleet of canoes had brought it. An English clerk of mixed race, who worked for Kurtz, had been in charge. Apparently, Kurtz had intended to return himself, since the station had run out of goods and supplies. But after traveling three hundred miles, he had suddenly decided to go back. He had set off alone in a small dugout canoe with four paddlers. He had left the clerk to continue downriver with the ivory. The two men seemed amazed that anyone would attempt such a thing. They could think of no adequate reason. As for me, I seemed to see Kurtz for the first time. The glimpse was clear: the dugout, four paddling savages, and the lone white man suddenly turning his back on headquarters. He was turning away from relief, and perhaps from thoughts of home. He was heading into the depths of the wilderness, toward his empty, lonely station. I did not know his reason. Perhaps he was simply a fine fellow who stuck to his work for its own sake. You understand, they had not said his name once. He was ‘that man.’ As far as I could tell, the mixed-race clerk had managed a difficult journey with great care and courage. Yet they always called him ‘that scoundrel.’ The ‘scoundrel’ had reported that the ‘man’ had been very ill and had not fully recovered.... The two men below me then moved a few steps away and strolled back and forth a little farther off. I heard: ‘Military post, doctor, two hundred miles, quite alone now, unavoidable delays, nine months, no news, strange rumours.’ They came closer again, just as the manager was saying, ‘No one, as far as I know. Unless you count a kind of wandering trader, a wretched nuisance who grabs ivory from the natives.’ Who were they talking about now? From the fragments I heard, I gathered that some man was thought to be in Kurtz’s district. The manager did not approve of him. ‘We won’t be free of unfair competition until one of these fellows is hanged as an example,’ he said. ‘Certainly,’ grunted the other man. ‘Get him hanged! Why not? Anything, anything can be done in this country. That’s what I say. Nobody here, you understand, here, can threaten your position. And why? You can stand the climate. You outlast them all. The danger is in Europe. But before I left Europe, I took care to...’ They moved away and whispered, then raised their voices again. ‘The extraordinary string of delays is not my fault. I did my best.’ The fat man sighed. ‘Very sad.’ ‘And his talk is such a damnable absurdity,’ the manager continued. ‘He bothered me enough when he was here. “Each station should be like a beacon on the road toward better things. A centre for trade, of course, but also for humanizing, improving, and teaching.” Just imagine, that ass! And he wants to be manager! No, it’s...’ At that point, his outrage choked him, and I lifted my head a little. I was surprised to see how close they were, right beneath me. I could have spat on their hats. They were staring at the ground, deep in thought. The manager was flicking his leg with a thin twig. His wise relative raised his head. ‘Have you been well since you came out this time?’ he asked. The manager gave a start. ‘Who? Me? Oh! Perfectly well, perfectly well. But the others, oh, my goodness! All sick. They die so quickly, too, that I haven’t time to send them out of the country. It’s incredible!’ ‘Hmm. Exactly,’ grunted the uncle. ‘Ah! My boy, trust in this. I say, trust in this.’ I saw him stretch out his short, flipper-like arm. His gesture swept over the forest, the creek, the mud, and the river. Before the sunlit land, his shameful flourish seemed to beckon. It was a treacherous appeal to the death lurking there, to the hidden evil, to the deep darkness of its heart. The gesture was so startling that I leaped to my feet and looked back at the forest’s edge. It was as though I expected some answer to that sinister show of confidence. You know the foolish ideas that sometimes come to you. The great stillness faced those two figures with ominous patience, waiting for that bizarre invasion to pass away.”

“They swore aloud together—out of sheer fright, I believe—then pretending not to know anything of my existence, turned back to the station. The sun was low; and leaning forward side by side, they seemed to be tugging painfully uphill their two ridiculous shadows of unequal length, that trailed behind them slowly over the tall grass without bending a single blade.

“They both swore aloud. I believe it was out of sheer fright. Then, pretending not to know I existed, they turned back toward the station. The sun was low. Leaning forward side by side, they seemed to struggle to drag their two ridiculous shadows of unequal length uphill. The shadows trailed slowly behind them over the tall grass without bending a single blade.

“In a few days the Eldorado Expedition went into the patient wilderness, that closed upon it as the sea closes over a diver. Long afterwards the news came that all the donkeys were dead. I know nothing as to the fate of the less valuable animals. They, no doubt, like the rest of us, found what they deserved. I did not inquire. I was then rather excited at the prospect of meeting Kurtz very soon. When I say very soon I mean it comparatively. It was just two months from the day we left the creek when we came to the bank below Kurtz’s station.

“Within a few days, the Eldorado Expedition entered the patient wilderness. The wilderness closed around the expedition as the sea closes over a diver. Much later, news came that all the donkeys were dead. I know nothing about the fate of the less valuable animals. No doubt those animals, like the rest of us, got what they deserved. I did not ask. At the time, I was rather excited by the prospect of meeting Kurtz very soon. When I say very soon, I mean by comparison. We reached the bank below Kurtz’s station exactly two months after the day we left the creek.

“Going up that river was like traveling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadowed distances. On silvery sand-banks hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once—somewhere—far away—in another existence perhaps. There were moments when one’s past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare for yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect. I got used to it afterwards; I did not see it any more; I had no time. I had to keep guessing at the channel; I had to discern, mostly by inspiration, the signs of hidden banks; I watched for sunken stones; I was learning to clap my teeth smartly before my heart flew out, when I shaved by a fluke some infernal sly old snag that would have ripped the life out of the tin-pot steamboat and drowned all the pilgrims; I had to keep a lookout for the signs of dead wood we could cut up in the night for next day’s steaming. When you have to attend to things of that sort, to the mere incidents of the surface, the reality—the reality, I tell you—fades. The inner truth is hidden—luckily, luckily. But I felt it all the same; I felt often its mysterious stillness watching me at my monkey tricks, just as it watches you fellows performing on your respective tight-ropes for—what is it? half-a-crown a tumble—”

“Going up that river was like traveling back to the world’s earliest beginnings. Plants grew wild across the earth, and the great trees were kings. An empty river, a vast silence, a forest too dense to enter. The air was warm, thick, heavy, and still. There was no joy in the brilliant sunshine. Long stretches of deserted water ran into the gloom of distant shadows. On silvery sandbanks, hippos and alligators basked side by side. The widening river flowed through a crowd of wooded islands. You lost your way on that river as you would in a desert. All day, you bumped against shallow banks, trying to find the channel. At last, you felt bewitched, cut off forever from everything you had once known. Somewhere, far away, perhaps in another life. Sometimes your past came back to you, as it can when you have no time for yourself. But the past returned as a restless, noisy dream. You remembered the dream with wonder amid the overwhelming reality of this strange world of plants, water, and silence. And the stillness of this living world was nothing like peace. The stillness belonged to a merciless force brooding over some purpose you could not understand. The force seemed to look at you with a desire for revenge. Later, I grew used to the force. I no longer noticed it. I had no time. I had to keep guessing where the channel lay. Mostly by instinct, I had to recognize the signs of hidden banks. I watched for submerged rocks. I was learning to snap my teeth shut before my heart could leap out of my mouth. This happened whenever, by sheer luck, I barely missed some devilishly sneaky old submerged trunk. The trunk would have torn the life out of our flimsy little steamboat and drowned all the pilgrims. I also had to watch for dead wood we could cut up at night to fuel the next day’s journey. When you must attend to such things, to mere details on the surface, reality fades. Reality itself, I tell you. The inner truth stays hidden. Luckily, luckily. But I felt the truth all the same. I often felt its mysterious stillness watching my monkey tricks. Just as that stillness watches you fellows performing on your own tightropes for, what is it? Half a crown a tumble...”

“Try to be civil, Marlow,” growled a voice, and I knew there was at least one listener awake besides myself.

“Try to be polite, Marlow,” a voice growled. And I knew at least one listener besides me was awake.

“I beg your pardon. I forgot the heartache which makes up the rest of the price. And indeed what does the price matter, if the trick be well done? You do your tricks very well. And I didn’t do badly either, since I managed not to sink that steamboat on my first trip. It’s a wonder to me yet. Imagine a blindfolded man set to drive a van over a bad road. I sweated and shivered over that business considerably, I can tell you. After all, for a seaman, to scrape the bottom of the thing that’s supposed to float all the time under his care is the unpardonable sin. No one may know of it, but you never forget the thump—eh? A blow on the very heart. You remember it, you dream of it, you wake up at night and think of it—years after—and go hot and cold all over. I don’t pretend to say that steamboat floated all the time. More than once she had to wade for a bit, with twenty cannibals splashing around and pushing. We had enlisted some of these chaps on the way for a crew. Fine fellows—cannibals—in their place. They were men one could work with, and I am grateful to them. And, after all, they did not eat each other before my face: they had brought along a provision of hippo-meat which went rotten, and made the mystery of the wilderness stink in my nostrils. Phoo! I can sniff it now. I had the manager on board and three or four pilgrims with their staves—all complete. Sometimes we came upon a station close by the bank, clinging to the skirts of the unknown, and the white men rushing out of a tumble-down hovel, with great gestures of joy and surprise and welcome, seemed very strange—had the appearance of being held there captive by a spell. The word ivory would ring in the air for a while—and on we went again into the silence, along empty reaches, round the still bends, between the high walls of our winding way, reverberating in hollow claps the ponderous beat of the stern-wheel. Trees, trees, millions of trees, massive, immense, running up high; and at their foot, hugging the bank against the stream, crept the little begrimed steamboat, like a sluggish beetle crawling on the floor of a lofty portico. It made you feel very small, very lost, and yet it was not altogether depressing, that feeling. After all, if you were small, the grimy beetle crawled on—which was just what you wanted it to do. Where the pilgrims imagined it crawled to I don’t know. To some place where they expected to get something. I bet! For me it crawled towards Kurtz—exclusively; but when the steam-pipes started leaking we crawled very slow. The reaches opened before us and closed behind, as if the forest had stepped leisurely across the water to bar the way for our return. We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness. It was very quiet there. At night sometimes the roll of drums behind the curtain of trees would run up the river and remain sustained faintly, as if hovering in the air high over our heads, till the first break of day. Whether it meant war, peace, or prayer we could not tell. The dawns were heralded by the descent of a chill stillness; the wood-cutters slept, their fires burned low; the snapping of a twig would make you start. We were wanderers on a prehistoric earth, on an earth that wore the aspect of an unknown planet. We could have fancied ourselves the first of men taking possession of an accursed inheritance, to be subdued at the cost of profound anguish and of excessive toil. But suddenly, as we struggled round a bend, there would be a glimpse of rush walls, of peaked grass-roofs, a burst of yells, a whirl of black limbs, a mass of hands clapping, of feet stamping, of bodies swaying, of eyes rolling, under the droop of heavy and motionless foliage. The steamer toiled along slowly on the edge of a black and incomprehensible frenzy. The prehistoric man was cursing us, praying to us, welcoming us—who could tell? We were cut off from the comprehension of our surroundings; we glided past like phantoms, wondering and secretly appalled, as sane men would be before an enthusiastic outbreak in a madhouse. We could not understand because we were too far and could not remember because we were travelling in the night of first ages, of those ages that are gone, leaving hardly a sign—and no memories.

“I’m sorry. I forgot the heartache that makes up the rest of the price. And really, what does the price matter if the trick is done well? You do your tricks very well. And I didn’t do badly either, since I managed not to sink that steamboat on my first trip. That still amazes me. Imagine a blindfolded man driving a van over a rough road. I sweated and shivered plenty over that job, I can tell you. After all, a sailor must keep his boat afloat. Scraping its bottom is the unforgivable sin. No one may know about it, but you never forget the thump, do you? A blow straight to the heart. You remember that blow. You dream about it. Years later, you wake at night thinking about it, going hot and cold all over. I don’t claim that steamboat stayed afloat the whole time. More than once she had to wade a little, with twenty cannibals splashing around and pushing. We had recruited some of these men along the way as crew. Fine fellows, those cannibals, in their place. They were men you could work with, and I am grateful to them. And after all, they didn’t eat each other in front of me. They had brought a supply of hippo meat, but the meat went rotten. The smell made the mystery of the wilderness stink in my nostrils. Ugh! I can smell it now. I had the manager aboard, along with three or four pilgrims, walking sticks and all. Sometimes we came upon a station near the bank, clinging to the edge of the unknown. White men rushed out of a crumbling hut, waving wildly with joy, surprise, and welcome. They seemed very strange, as if a spell held them captive there. The word ivory would ring through the air for a while. Then we went on again into the silence, along empty stretches of river and around quiet bends. Tall walls of forest lined our winding route. The heavy beat of the stern-wheel echoed between them in hollow claps. Trees, trees, millions of trees, massive, immense, towering overhead. At their feet, the little filthy steamboat crept upstream, hugging the bank. She was like a sluggish beetle crawling across the floor of a towering, roofed entrance. The sight made you feel very small, very lost. Yet that feeling was not entirely depressing. After all, small as you were, the grimy beetle kept crawling. And that was just what you wanted her to do. Where the pilgrims imagined she was crawling to, I don’t know. Somewhere they expected to get something. You can bet on that! For me, she crawled toward Kurtz, and nowhere else. But when the steam pipes began leaking, we crawled very slowly. Stretches of river opened before us and closed behind us. The forest seemed to step slowly across the water to block our return. We went deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness. It was very quiet there. Sometimes at night, the rumble of drums behind the curtain of trees would travel up the river. The faint sound would linger until dawn, as if hovering in the air high above our heads. Whether the drums meant war, peace, or prayer, we could not tell. A cold stillness settled over us before dawn. The woodcutters slept, and their fires burned low. A twig snapping would make you jump. We were wanderers on a prehistoric earth, an earth that looked like an unknown planet. We might have imagined ourselves the first men taking possession of a cursed inheritance. Bringing that inheritance under control would cost us deep anguish and immense effort. But suddenly, as we struggled around a bend, we would glimpse walls made of reeds and pointed grass roofs. There would be a burst of yells, a whirl of black limbs. Hands clapped, feet stamped, bodies swayed, and eyes rolled beneath the heavy, motionless, drooping leaves. The steamer struggled slowly along the edge of a black and incomprehensible frenzy. Prehistoric man was cursing us, praying to us, welcoming us. Who could tell? We were cut off from any understanding of our surroundings. We glided past like ghosts, bewildered and secretly horrified. Sane men might feel the same before an excited outburst in a madhouse. We could not understand because we were too far removed. And we could not remember because we were travelling through the night of the earliest ages. Those ages are gone, leaving hardly a trace, and no memories.”

“The earth seemed unearthly. We are accustomed to look upon the shackled form of a conquered monster, but there—there you could look at a thing monstrous and free. It was unearthly, and the men were—No, they were not inhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst of it—this suspicion of their not being inhuman. It would come slowly to one. They howled and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity—like yours—the thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in it which you—you so remote from the night of first ages—could comprehend. And why not? The mind of man is capable of anything—because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future. What was there after all? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valour, rage—who can tell?—but truth—truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the fool gape and shudder—the man knows, and can look on without a wink. But he must at least be as much of a man as these on the shore. He must meet that truth with his own true stuff—with his own inborn strength. Principles won’t do. Acquisitions, clothes, pretty rags—rags that would fly off at the first good shake. No; you want a deliberate belief. An appeal to me in this fiendish row—is there? Very well; I hear; I admit, but I have a voice, too, and for good or evil mine is the speech that cannot be silenced. Of course, a fool, what with sheer fright and fine sentiments, is always safe. Who’s that grunting? You wonder I didn’t go ashore for a howl and a dance? Well, no—I didn’t. Fine sentiments, you say? Fine sentiments, be hanged! I had no time. I had to mess about with white-lead and strips of woolen blanket helping to put bandages on those leaky steam-pipes—I tell you. I had to watch the steering, and circumvent those snags, and get the tin-pot along by hook or by crook. There was surface-truth enough in these things to save a wiser man. And between whiles I had to look after the savage who was fireman. He was an improved specimen; he could fire up a vertical boiler. He was there below me, and, upon my word, to look at him was as edifying as seeing a dog in a parody of breeches and a feather hat, walking on his hind-legs. A few months of training had done for that really fine chap. He squinted at the steam-gauge and at the water-gauge with an evident effort of intrepidity—and he had filed teeth, too, the poor devil, and the wool of his pate shaved into queer patterns, and three ornamental scars on each of his cheeks. He ought to have been clapping his hands and stamping his feet on the bank, instead of which he was hard at work, a thrall to strange witchcraft, full of improving knowledge. He was useful because he had been instructed; and what he knew was this—that should the water in that transparent thing disappear, the evil spirit inside the boiler would get angry through the greatness of his thirst, and take a terrible vengeance. So he sweated and fired up and watched the glass fearfully (with an impromptu charm, made of rags, tied to his arm, and a piece of polished bone, as big as a watch, stuck flatways through his lower lip), while the wooded banks slipped past us slowly, the short noise was left behind, the interminable miles of silence—and we crept on, towards Kurtz. But the snags were thick, the water was treacherous and shallow, the boiler seemed indeed to have a sulky devil in it, and thus neither that fireman nor I had any time to peer into our creepy thoughts.

“The earth seemed like something not of this world. We are used to seeing a conquered monster in chains. But there, there you could see something monstrous and free. It seemed unearthly, and the men were... No, they were not inhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst part: the suspicion that they were not inhuman. That realization came slowly. They howled and leaped and spun and made horrible faces. But what sent a thrill through you was the thought that they were human, just like you. You felt your distant kinship with this wild, passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough. But if you were man enough, you would admit that something in you responded, however faintly. Something answered the terrible openness of that noise. You dimly suspected that the noise held a meaning you could understand. You, so far removed from the darkness of the earliest ages. And why not? The human mind is capable of anything, because everything is in it, all the past and all the future. What was really there? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, courage, rage, who can tell? But there was truth, truth stripped of the covering of time. Let the fool stare open-mouthed and shudder. The man understands and can watch without blinking. But he must at least be as much of a man as those men on the shore. He must face that truth with his own true nature, his own inborn strength. Principles will not do. Things you have acquired, clothes, pretty rags. Rags that would fall off at the first good shake. No, you need a belief you have consciously chosen. Is there something in this hellish racket that calls to me? Very well, I hear it. I acknowledge it. But I have a voice too. And for good or evil, mine is the voice that cannot be silenced. Of course, a fool is always safe, protected by sheer fright and noble feelings. Who’s that grunting? You wonder why I didn’t go ashore for a howl and a dance? Well, no, I didn’t. Noble feelings, you say? To hell with noble feelings! I had no time. I had to fuss with white lead and strips of wool blanket, helping to bandage those leaking steam pipes. I tell you, I had to watch the steering and avoid those submerged branches and trunks. I had to get that tin-pot boat along, one way or another. Those tasks held enough practical truth to save a wiser man. And in between, I had to look after the savage who tended the furnace. He was an improved specimen. He could keep a vertical boiler fired. He was down below me, and, I swear, the sight of him was instructive. As instructive as seeing a dog walking on its hind legs in ridiculous trousers and a feathered hat. A few months of training had done that to the really fine fellow. He squinted at the steam gauge and the water gauge, visibly making an effort to be brave. And he had filed teeth too, the poor devil. The woolly hair on his head was shaved into strange patterns. He had three decorative scars on each cheek. He should have been clapping his hands and stamping his feet on the riverbank. Instead, he was hard at work, enslaved by strange witchcraft and full of knowledge meant to improve him. He was useful because he had been taught. And what he knew was this: if the water disappeared from that transparent tube, the boiler’s evil spirit would grow angry. Its terrible thirst would drive it to take terrible revenge. So he sweated, fed the furnace, and watched the glass fearfully. He had a makeshift charm of rags tied to his arm. A piece of polished bone, as big as a watch, was stuck flat through his lower lip. Meanwhile, the wooded banks slipped slowly past us. We left that brief burst of noise behind and passed through endless miles of silence. And we crept on toward Kurtz. But the submerged branches and trunks were thick, and the water was treacherous and shallow. The boiler really did seem to have a sulky devil inside it. So neither the furnace tender nor I had any time to look closely at our disturbing thoughts.

“Some fifty miles below the Inner Station we came upon a hut of reeds, an inclined and melancholy pole, with the unrecognizable tatters of what had been a flag of some sort flying from it, and a neatly stacked wood-pile. This was unexpected. We came to the bank, and on the stack of firewood found a flat piece of board with some faded pencil-writing on it. When deciphered it said: ‘Wood for you. Hurry up. Approach cautiously.’ There was a signature, but it was illegible—not Kurtz—a much longer word. ‘Hurry up.’ Where? Up the river? ‘Approach cautiously.’ We had not done so. But the warning could not have been meant for the place where it could be only found after approach. Something was wrong above. But what—and how much? That was the question. We commented adversely upon the imbecility of that telegraphic style. The bush around said nothing, and would not let us look very far, either. A torn curtain of red twill hung in the doorway of the hut, and flapped sadly in our faces. The dwelling was dismantled; but we could see a white man had lived there not very long ago. There remained a rude table—a plank on two posts; a heap of rubbish reposed in a dark corner, and by the door I picked up a book. It had lost its covers, and the pages had been thumbed into a state of extremely dirty softness; but the back had been lovingly stitched afresh with white cotton thread, which looked clean yet. It was an extraordinary find. Its title was, An Inquiry into some Points of Seamanship, by a man Towser, Towson—some such name—Master in his Majesty’s Navy. The matter looked dreary reading enough, with illustrative diagrams and repulsive tables of figures, and the copy was sixty years old. I handled this amazing antiquity with the greatest possible tenderness, lest it should dissolve in my hands. Within, Towson or Towser was inquiring earnestly into the breaking strain of ships’ chains and tackle, and other such matters. Not a very enthralling book; but at the first glance you could see there a singleness of intention, an honest concern for the right way of going to work, which made these humble pages, thought out so many years ago, luminous with another than a professional light. The simple old sailor, with his talk of chains and purchases, made me forget the jungle and the pilgrims in a delicious sensation of having come upon something unmistakably real. Such a book being there was wonderful enough; but still more astounding were the notes pencilled in the margin, and plainly referring to the text. I couldn’t believe my eyes! They were in cipher! Yes, it looked like cipher. Fancy a man lugging with him a book of that description into this nowhere and studying it—and making notes—in cipher at that! It was an extravagant mystery.

“About fifty miles downriver from the Inner Station, we came upon a reed hut and a sad-looking, leaning pole. Unrecognizable scraps of what had once been some sort of flag flew from the pole. Beside them stood a neatly stacked woodpile. This was unexpected. We pulled up to the bank and found a flat board on the firewood, with faded pencil writing on it. Once deciphered, the message read: ‘Wood for you. Hurry up. Approach cautiously.’ There was a signature, but we couldn’t read it. It wasn’t Kurtz. The name was much longer. ‘Hurry up.’ Where? Up the river? ‘Approach cautiously.’ We hadn’t done so. But the warning couldn’t have meant this spot, since we could only find the warning after approaching. Something was wrong upriver. But what, and how much was wrong? That was the question. We criticized the stupidity of such a brief, telegram-like message. The surrounding bush said nothing and wouldn’t let us see very far, either. A torn curtain of red twill hung in the hut’s doorway and flapped sadly in our faces. The hut had been stripped, but we could see that a white man had lived there not long before. A rough table remained, just a plank on two posts. A heap of rubbish lay in a dark corner, and by the door I picked up a book. Its covers were gone, and handling had worn its pages into an extremely dirty softness. But its spine had been lovingly sewn back together with white cotton thread, which still looked clean. It was an extraordinary find. Its title was An Inquiry into some Points of Seamanship. The author was a man named Towser, Towson, something like that, a Master in His Majesty’s Navy. The contents looked dull enough, with explanatory diagrams and off-putting tables of figures. The copy was sixty years old. I handled this astonishing relic as gently as possible, afraid it might crumble in my hands. Inside, Towson or Towser carefully examined how much strain ships’ chains and rigging could withstand, along with other such matters. It wasn’t a very gripping book. But at first glance, you could see its single-minded purpose and honest concern with doing things properly. Those qualities made these modest pages, written so many years ago, shine with more than professional knowledge. The plain old sailor’s talk of chains and pulley systems made me forget the jungle and the pilgrims. I felt the delicious pleasure of finding something unmistakably real. Finding such a book there was remarkable enough. But even more astonishing were the penciled notes in the margins, clearly referring to the text. I couldn’t believe my eyes! The notes were in code! Yes, they looked like code. Imagine a man dragging a book like that into this nowhere, studying it, and making notes. In code, of all things! It was an outlandish mystery.

“I had been dimly aware for some time of a worrying noise, and when I lifted my eyes I saw the wood-pile was gone, and the manager, aided by all the pilgrims, was shouting at me from the riverside. I slipped the book into my pocket. I assure you to leave off reading was like tearing myself away from the shelter of an old and solid friendship.

“For some time, I had been vaguely aware of a troubling noise. When I looked up, I saw that the woodpile was gone. The manager, helped by all the pilgrims, was shouting at me from the riverbank. I slipped the book into my pocket. I assure you, stopping reading felt like tearing myself away from the comfort of an old, dependable friendship.

“I started the lame engine ahead. ‘It must be this miserable trader—this intruder,’ exclaimed the manager, looking back malevolently at the place we had left. ‘He must be English,’ I said. ‘It will not save him from getting into trouble if he is not careful,’ muttered the manager darkly. I observed with assumed innocence that no man was safe from trouble in this world.

“I started the struggling engine forward. ‘It must be this miserable trader, this intruder,’ the manager exclaimed, looking back with hatred at the place we had left. ‘He must be English,’ I said. ‘Being English won’t keep him out of trouble if he isn’t careful,’ the manager muttered darkly. Pretending to be innocent, I remarked that no one was safe from trouble in this world.

“The current was more rapid now, the steamer seemed at her last gasp, the stern-wheel flopped languidly, and I caught myself listening on tiptoe for the next beat of the boat, for in sober truth I expected the wretched thing to give up every moment. It was like watching the last flickers of a life. But still we crawled. Sometimes I would pick out a tree a little way ahead to measure our progress towards Kurtz by, but I lost it invariably before we got abreast. To keep the eyes so long on one thing was too much for human patience. The manager displayed a beautiful resignation. I fretted and fumed and took to arguing with myself whether or no I would talk openly with Kurtz; but before I could come to any conclusion it occurred to me that my speech or my silence, indeed any action of mine, would be a mere futility. What did it matter what any one knew or ignored? What did it matter who was manager? One gets sometimes such a flash of insight. The essentials of this affair lay deep under the surface, beyond my reach, and beyond my power of meddling.

“The current was faster now, and the steamer seemed to be on her last breath. The stern-wheel turned weakly, and I caught myself standing on tiptoe, listening for the boat’s next beat. In all honesty, I expected the wretched thing to give out at any moment. It was like watching the last flickers of a life. But still we crawled. Sometimes I would choose a tree a little way ahead to measure our progress toward Kurtz. But I always lost sight of the tree before we drew level with it. Keeping my eyes on one thing for so long was more than human patience could bear. The manager showed an admirable acceptance of our situation. I fretted and fumed, debating with myself whether I would speak openly with Kurtz. But before I could decide, I realized that speaking or staying silent, or doing anything at all, would be pointless. What did it matter what anyone knew or did not know? What did it matter who was manager? Sometimes you get a flash of insight like that. The heart of the whole affair lay deep beneath the surface, beyond my reach and beyond my power to interfere.”

“Towards the evening of the second day we judged ourselves about eight miles from Kurtz’s station. I wanted to push on; but the manager looked grave, and told me the navigation up there was so dangerous that it would be advisable, the sun being very low already, to wait where we were till next morning. Moreover, he pointed out that if the warning to approach cautiously were to be followed, we must approach in daylight—not at dusk or in the dark. This was sensible enough. Eight miles meant nearly three hours’ steaming for us, and I could also see suspicious ripples at the upper end of the reach. Nevertheless, I was annoyed beyond expression at the delay, and most unreasonably, too, since one night more could not matter much after so many months. As we had plenty of wood, and caution was the word, I brought up in the middle of the stream. The reach was narrow, straight, with high sides like a railway cutting. The dusk came gliding into it long before the sun had set. The current ran smooth and swift, but a dumb immobility sat on the banks. The living trees, lashed together by the creepers and every living bush of the undergrowth, might have been changed into stone, even to the slenderest twig, to the lightest leaf. It was not sleep—it seemed unnatural, like a state of trance. Not the faintest sound of any kind could be heard. You looked on amazed, and began to suspect yourself of being deaf—then the night came suddenly, and struck you blind as well. About three in the morning some large fish leaped, and the loud splash made me jump as though a gun had been fired. When the sun rose there was a white fog, very warm and clammy, and more blinding than the night. It did not shift or drive; it was just there, standing all round you like something solid. At eight or nine, perhaps, it lifted as a shutter lifts. We had a glimpse of the towering multitude of trees, of the immense matted jungle, with the blazing little ball of the sun hanging over it—all perfectly still—and then the white shutter came down again, smoothly, as if sliding in greased grooves. I ordered the chain, which we had begun to heave in, to be paid out again. Before it stopped running with a muffled rattle, a cry, a very loud cry, as of infinite desolation, soared slowly in the opaque air. It ceased. A complaining clamour, modulated in savage discords, filled our ears. The sheer unexpectedness of it made my hair stir under my cap. I don’t know how it struck the others: to me it seemed as though the mist itself had screamed, so suddenly, and apparently from all sides at once, did this tumultuous and mournful uproar arise. It culminated in a hurried outbreak of almost intolerably excessive shrieking, which stopped short, leaving us stiffened in a variety of silly attitudes, and obstinately listening to the nearly as appalling and excessive silence. ‘Good God! What is the meaning—’ stammered at my elbow one of the pilgrims—a little fat man, with sandy hair and red whiskers, who wore sidespring boots, and pink pyjamas tucked into his socks. Two others remained open-mouthed a whole minute, then dashed into the little cabin, to rush out incontinently and stand darting scared glances, with Winchesters at ‘ready’ in their hands. What we could see was just the steamer we were on, her outlines blurred as though she had been on the point of dissolving, and a misty strip of water, perhaps two feet broad, around her—and that was all. The rest of the world was nowhere, as far as our eyes and ears were concerned. Just nowhere. Gone, disappeared; swept off without leaving a whisper or a shadow behind.

“Toward evening on the second day, we reckoned we were about eight miles from Kurtz’s station. I wanted to press on, but the manager looked serious. He told me that navigating farther upriver was so dangerous that we should wait there until morning. The sun was already very low. Besides, he pointed out, if we were to follow the warning to approach cautiously, we must approach in daylight. Not at dusk or in the dark. His advice made sense. Eight miles meant nearly three hours of steaming for us. I could also see suspicious ripples at the far end of the straight stretch ahead. Still, the delay annoyed me more than I could express. My annoyance was quite unreasonable, since one more night could hardly matter after so many months. We had plenty of wood, and caution was our watchword, so I anchored in midstream. The stretch of river was narrow and straight, with high banks like a railway cutting. Dusk glided into the channel long before sunset. The current flowed smoothly and swiftly, but a silent stillness hung over the banks. Creepers bound the living trees together. Those trees and every living bush beneath them might have turned to stone, down to the smallest twig and lightest leaf. The stillness was not sleep. It seemed unnatural, like a trance. Not the faintest sound of any kind could be heard. You stared in amazement and began to wonder whether you were deaf. Then night fell suddenly and struck you blind as well. At about three in the morning, some large fish leaped. The loud splash made me jump as though a gun had been fired. When the sun rose, a white fog surrounded us, very warm and clammy, and more blinding than the night. The fog neither shifted nor drifted. It simply stood all around us like something solid. At eight or nine, perhaps, the fog lifted like a shutter. We glimpsed the towering mass of trees and the vast, tangled jungle. Above them hung the sun, a small, blazing ball. Everything was perfectly still. Then the white shutter slid down again, smoothly, as if moving in greased grooves. We had begun hauling in the anchor chain, but I ordered the men to let it out again. Before the chain stopped running with a muffled rattle, a cry rose slowly through the thick air. It was a very loud cry, sounding utterly desolate. The cry stopped. A clamour of wailing voices filled our ears, rising and falling in harsh, jarring tones. The sheer surprise made my hair stir beneath my cap. I don’t know how the others felt. To me, the mist itself seemed to have screamed. The wild, mournful uproar rose so suddenly, apparently from every direction at once. It peaked in a sudden rush of shrieking so extreme it was almost unbearable. Then the shrieking stopped abruptly, leaving us frozen in various foolish poses. We kept listening intently to a silence almost as overwhelming and terrifying as the noise. ‘Good God! What does this mean...’ stammered one of the pilgrims beside me. He was a short, fat man with sandy hair and red whiskers. He wore boots with elastic side panels, and pink pyjamas tucked into his socks. Two others stood open-mouthed for a full minute, then rushed into the little cabin. They immediately rushed out again and stood casting frightened glances around, holding their Winchesters ready to fire. All we could see was our steamer, its outline blurred as though it were about to dissolve. Around the steamer lay a misty strip of water, perhaps two feet wide. That was all. As far as our eyes and ears could tell, the rest of the world was nowhere. Simply nowhere. Gone, vanished, swept away without leaving a whisper or a shadow behind.

“I went forward, and ordered the chain to be hauled in short, so as to be ready to trip the anchor and move the steamboat at once if necessary. ‘Will they attack?’ whispered an awed voice. ‘We will be all butchered in this fog,’ murmured another. The faces twitched with the strain, the hands trembled slightly, the eyes forgot to wink. It was very curious to see the contrast of expressions of the white men and of the black fellows of our crew, who were as much strangers to that part of the river as we, though their homes were only eight hundred miles away. The whites, of course greatly discomposed, had besides a curious look of being painfully shocked by such an outrageous row. The others had an alert, naturally interested expression; but their faces were essentially quiet, even those of the one or two who grinned as they hauled at the chain. Several exchanged short, grunting phrases, which seemed to settle the matter to their satisfaction. Their headman, a young, broad-chested black, severely draped in dark-blue fringed cloths, with fierce nostrils and his hair all done up artfully in oily ringlets, stood near me. ‘Aha!’ I said, just for good fellowship’s sake. ‘Catch ’im,’ he snapped, with a bloodshot widening of his eyes and a flash of sharp teeth—‘catch ’im. Give ’im to us.’ ‘To you, eh?’ I asked; ‘what would you do with them?’ ‘Eat ’im!’ he said curtly, and, leaning his elbow on the rail, looked out into the fog in a dignified and profoundly pensive attitude. I would no doubt have been properly horrified, had it not occurred to me that he and his chaps must be very hungry: that they must have been growing increasingly hungry for at least this month past. They had been engaged for six months (I don’t think a single one of them had any clear idea of time, as we at the end of countless ages have. They still belonged to the beginnings of time—had no inherited experience to teach them as it were), and of course, as long as there was a piece of paper written over in accordance with some farcical law or other made down the river, it didn’t enter anybody’s head to trouble how they would live. Certainly they had brought with them some rotten hippo-meat, which couldn’t have lasted very long, anyway, even if the pilgrims hadn’t, in the midst of a shocking hullabaloo, thrown a considerable quantity of it overboard. It looked like a high-handed proceeding; but it was really a case of legitimate self-defence. You can’t breathe dead hippo waking, sleeping, and eating, and at the same time keep your precarious grip on existence. Besides that, they had given them every week three pieces of brass wire, each about nine inches long; and the theory was they were to buy their provisions with that currency in riverside villages. You can see how that worked. There were either no villages, or the people were hostile, or the director, who like the rest of us fed out of tins, with an occasional old he-goat thrown in, didn’t want to stop the steamer for some more or less recondite reason. So, unless they swallowed the wire itself, or made loops of it to snare the fishes with, I don’t see what good their extravagant salary could be to them. I must say it was paid with a regularity worthy of a large and honourable trading company. For the rest, the only thing to eat—though it didn’t look eatable in the least—I saw in their possession was a few lumps of some stuff like half-cooked dough, of a dirty lavender colour, they kept wrapped in leaves, and now and then swallowed a piece of, but so small that it seemed done more for the looks of the thing than for any serious purpose of sustenance. Why in the name of all the gnawing devils of hunger they didn’t go for us—they were thirty to five—and have a good tuck-in for once, amazes me now when I think of it. They were big powerful men, with not much capacity to weigh the consequences, with courage, with strength, even yet, though their skins were no longer glossy and their muscles no longer hard. And I saw that something restraining, one of those human secrets that baffle probability, had come into play there. I looked at them with a swift quickening of interest—not because it occurred to me I might be eaten by them before very long, though I own to you that just then I perceived—in a new light, as it were—how unwholesome the pilgrims looked, and I hoped, yes, I positively hoped, that my aspect was not so—what shall I say?—so—unappetizing: a touch of fantastic vanity which fitted well with the dream-sensation that pervaded all my days at that time. Perhaps I had a little fever, too. One can’t live with one’s finger everlastingly on one’s pulse. I had often ‘a little fever,’ or a little touch of other things—the playful paw-strokes of the wilderness, the preliminary trifling before the more serious onslaught which came in due course. Yes; I looked at them as you would on any human being, with a curiosity of their impulses, motives, capacities, weaknesses, when brought to the test of an inexorable physical necessity. Restraint! What possible restraint? Was it superstition, disgust, patience, fear—or some kind of primitive honour? No fear can stand up to hunger, no patience can wear it out, disgust simply does not exist where hunger is; and as to superstition, beliefs, and what you may call principles, they are less than chaff in a breeze. Don’t you know the devilry of lingering starvation, its exasperating torment, its black thoughts, its sombre and brooding ferocity? Well, I do. It takes a man all his inborn strength to fight hunger properly. It’s really easier to face bereavement, dishonour, and the perdition of one’s soul—than this kind of prolonged hunger. Sad, but true. And these chaps, too, had no earthly reason for any kind of scruple. Restraint! I would just as soon have expected restraint from a hyena prowling amongst the corpses of a battlefield. But there was the fact facing me—the fact dazzling, to be seen, like the foam on the depths of the sea, like a ripple on an unfathomable enigma, a mystery greater—when I thought of it—than the curious, inexplicable note of desperate grief in this savage clamour that had swept by us on the river-bank, behind the blind whiteness of the fog.

“I went forward and ordered the anchor chain pulled in short. That would let us free the anchor and move the steamboat at once if necessary. ‘Will they attack?’ whispered a frightened voice. ‘We’ll all be butchered in this fog,’ another murmured. Faces twitched with tension, hands trembled slightly, and eyes forgot to blink. The contrast between the white men’s expressions and those of our black crewmen was very strange. The black crewmen were as unfamiliar with this part of the river as we were. Yet their homes were only eight hundred miles away. The white men were, of course, deeply unsettled. They also looked painfully shocked by such an outrageous racket. The others looked alert and naturally interested, but their faces were basically calm. Even the one or two who grinned as they pulled the chain looked calm. Several exchanged brief, grunting remarks that seemed to settle the matter to their satisfaction. Their leader stood near me, a young, broad-chested black man, sternly wrapped in dark-blue fringed cloth. He had fierce-looking nostrils, and his hair was carefully arranged in oily ringlets. ‘Aha!’ I said, simply to be friendly. ‘Catch them,’ he snapped, widening his bloodshot eyes and flashing sharp teeth. ‘Catch them. Give them to us.’ ‘To you, eh?’ I asked. ‘What would you do with them?’ ‘Eat them!’ he said shortly. Then he leaned his elbow on the railing and stared into the fog, dignified and deep in thought. I would no doubt have been properly horrified, except that I realized he and his men must be very hungry. Their hunger must have been growing for at least the past month. They had been hired for six months. (I don’t think a single one clearly understood time as we do, after countless ages. They still belonged to the beginning of time. They had no inherited experience to teach them, so to speak.) And of course, nobody thought to worry about how they would live. All that mattered was having a written document satisfying some ridiculous law or other made downriver. Certainly, they had brought some rotten hippo meat. The meat couldn’t have lasted very long anyway, even if the pilgrims hadn’t thrown a considerable amount overboard. The pilgrims had done so amid a shocking uproar. Throwing it away seemed heavy-handed, but it was really legitimate self-defense. You can’t breathe dead hippo while awake, asleep, and eating, and still keep your shaky hold on life. Besides, the crewmen had been given three pieces of brass wire every week, each about nine inches long. In theory, they were supposed to use this currency to buy food in riverside villages. You can see how that worked. Either there were no villages, or the people were hostile, or the director didn’t want to stop the steamer. His reasons for not stopping were more or less obscure. Like the rest of us, he ate canned food, with an occasional old male goat thrown in. So I don’t see what use their generous salary could have been to them. They would have had to swallow the wire itself or make loops from it to catch fish. I must say their pay arrived with a regularity worthy of a large and honorable trading company. Beyond that, I saw only a few lumps of something like half-cooked dough among their supplies. The stuff was a dirty lavender color and didn’t look remotely edible. They kept it wrapped in leaves and swallowed a piece now and then. But each piece was so small that eating it seemed more for show than for any real nourishment. Why, in the name of all hunger’s gnawing devils, didn’t they attack us and have one good feast? There were thirty of them to five of us. The question amazes me now when I think about it. They were big, powerful men, with little ability to weigh the consequences. They had courage and still had strength, though their skin had lost its shine and their muscles their firmness. And I saw that some restraining force had come into play. It was one of those human secrets that defy what seems likely. I looked at them with a sudden surge of interest. Not because I thought they might eat me before long. Though I admit that, just then, I saw in a new light how unhealthy the pilgrims looked. And I hoped, yes, I positively hoped, that I didn’t look so, what shall I say? So unappetizing. This touch of absurd vanity suited the dreamlike feeling that filled all my days then. Perhaps I had a slight fever, too. You can’t live with your finger always on your pulse. I often had ‘a slight fever,’ or a slight touch of something else. These illnesses were the wilderness’s playful swipes, its early teasing before the more serious attack that eventually came. Yes, I looked at them as you would look at any human being. I wondered about their impulses, motives, abilities, and weaknesses when tested by an unavoidable physical need. Self-control! What could possibly hold them back? Was it superstition, disgust, patience, fear, or some kind of primitive honor? No fear can stand up to hunger. No patience can outlast hunger. Disgust simply doesn’t exist in the presence of hunger. As for superstition, beliefs, and what you might call principles, they are worth less than chaff in a breeze. Don’t you know the hell of slow starvation, its maddening torment, its dark thoughts, its gloomy, brooding ferocity? Well, I do. A man needs all his natural strength to fight hunger properly. It’s really easier to face loss, dishonor, and the damnation of your soul than this kind of prolonged hunger. Sad, but true. And these men had no earthly reason for any moral hesitation, either. Self-control! I would just as readily have expected self-control from a hyena prowling among the corpses on a battlefield. But the fact of their restraint faced me, dazzling and visible, like foam over the depths of the sea. Their restraint was like a ripple on an unfathomable mystery. When I thought about it, their restraint was a greater mystery than that strange, inexplicable note of desperate grief. That note had sounded in the wild clamor sweeping past us along the riverbank, behind the fog’s blinding whiteness.

“Two pilgrims were quarrelling in hurried whispers as to which bank. ‘Left.’ ‘no, no; how can you? Right, right, of course.’ ‘It is very serious,’ said the manager’s voice behind me; ‘I would be desolated if anything should happen to Mr. Kurtz before we came up.’ I looked at him, and had not the slightest doubt he was sincere. He was just the kind of man who would wish to preserve appearances. That was his restraint. But when he muttered something about going on at once, I did not even take the trouble to answer him. I knew, and he knew, that it was impossible. Were we to let go our hold of the bottom, we would be absolutely in the air—in space. We wouldn’t be able to tell where we were going to—whether up or down stream, or across—till we fetched against one bank or the other—and then we wouldn’t know at first which it was. Of course I made no move. I had no mind for a smash-up. You couldn’t imagine a more deadly place for a shipwreck. Whether we drowned at once or not, we were sure to perish speedily in one way or another. ‘I authorize you to take all the risks,’ he said, after a short silence. ‘I refuse to take any,’ I said shortly; which was just the answer he expected, though its tone might have surprised him. ‘Well, I must defer to your judgment. You are captain,’ he said with marked civility. I turned my shoulder to him in sign of my appreciation, and looked into the fog. How long would it last? It was the most hopeless lookout. The approach to this Kurtz grubbing for ivory in the wretched bush was beset by as many dangers as though he had been an enchanted princess sleeping in a fabulous castle. ‘Will they attack, do you think?’ asked the manager, in a confidential tone.

“Two pilgrims were arguing in hurried whispers about which bank it was. ‘Left.’ ‘No, no. How can you think that? Right, right, of course.’ ‘This is very serious,’ said the manager behind me. ‘I would be devastated if anything happened to Mr. Kurtz before we reached him.’ I looked at him and had no doubt at all that he was sincere. He was just the kind of man who would want to keep up appearances. That concern was what held him back. But when he muttered something about moving on at once, I did not even bother to answer. I knew, and he knew, that moving on was impossible. If we let go of our hold on the riverbed, we would be completely adrift, as though suspended in space. We couldn’t tell whether we were going upstream, downstream, or across until we struck one bank or the other. Even then, we wouldn’t know at first which bank we had hit. Of course I made no move. I had no intention of wrecking the boat. You couldn’t imagine a deadlier place for a shipwreck. Whether we drowned at once or not, we were sure to die quickly, one way or another. ‘I authorize you to take all the risks,’ he said after a short silence. ‘I refuse to take any,’ I said sharply. My answer was just what he expected, though my tone might have surprised him. ‘Well, I must accept your judgment. You are captain,’ he said with pointed politeness. I turned my shoulder toward him to show my appreciation and looked into the fog. How long would the fog last? The outlook could not have been more hopeless. Reaching this Kurtz, scraping around for ivory in the miserable bush, involved as many dangers as reaching an enchanted princess. She might have been sleeping in a castle out of a fairy tale. ‘Do you think they will attack?’ asked the manager in a confidential tone.”

“I did not think they would attack, for several obvious reasons. The thick fog was one. If they left the bank in their canoes they would get lost in it, as we would be if we attempted to move. Still, I had also judged the jungle of both banks quite impenetrable—and yet eyes were in it, eyes that had seen us. The riverside bushes were certainly very thick; but the undergrowth behind was evidently penetrable. However, during the short lift I had seen no canoes anywhere in the reach—certainly not abreast of the steamer. But what made the idea of attack inconceivable to me was the nature of the noise—of the cries we had heard. They had not the fierce character boding immediate hostile intention. Unexpected, wild, and violent as they had been, they had given me an irresistible impression of sorrow. The glimpse of the steamboat had for some reason filled those savages with unrestrained grief. The danger, if any, I expounded, was from our proximity to a great human passion let loose. Even extreme grief may ultimately vent itself in violence—but more generally takes the form of apathy....

“I did not think they would attack, for several obvious reasons. The thick fog was one. If they left the bank in their canoes, they would get lost in the fog. We would be just as lost if we tried to move. Still, I had also thought the jungle on both banks was impossible to get through. Yet there were eyes in the jungle, eyes that had seen us. The riverside bushes were certainly very thick, but people could evidently get through the undergrowth behind them. However, when the fog briefly lifted, I had seen no canoes anywhere along that stretch of river. Certainly none were alongside the steamer. But what made an attack seem unthinkable was the nature of the noise, the cries we had heard. The cries lacked the fierceness that would suggest an immediate intention to attack. Unexpected, wild, and violent as the cries had been, they had left me with an overwhelming impression of sorrow. For some reason, the sight of the steamboat had filled those savages with uncontrollable grief. I explained that any danger came from being so close to a powerful human emotion that had broken loose. Even extreme grief may eventually express itself in violence, but more often it takes the form of apathy....

“You should have seen the pilgrims stare! They had no heart to grin, or even to revile me: but I believe they thought me gone mad—with fright, maybe. I delivered a regular lecture. My dear boys, it was no good bothering. Keep a lookout? Well, you may guess I watched the fog for the signs of lifting as a cat watches a mouse; but for anything else our eyes were of no more use to us than if we had been buried miles deep in a heap of cotton-wool. It felt like it, too—choking, warm, stifling. Besides, all I said, though it sounded extravagant, was absolutely true to fact. What we afterwards alluded to as an attack was really an attempt at repulse. The action was very far from being aggressive—it was not even defensive, in the usual sense: it was undertaken under the stress of desperation, and in its essence was purely protective.

“You should have seen the pilgrims stare! They had no heart to grin or even to curse me. But I believe they thought I had gone mad, maybe from fear. I gave them a proper lecture. My dear boys, there was no point worrying. Keep a lookout? Well, you can imagine how I watched for signs of the fog lifting, like a cat watching a mouse. But for anything else, our eyes were as useless as if we had been buried miles deep in cotton wool. It felt like being buried in cotton wool, too: choking, warm, suffocating. Besides, everything I said was absolutely true, though it sounded far-fetched. What we later called an attack was really an attempt to drive us away. The action was far from aggressive. It was not even defensive in the usual sense. It was driven by desperation and was, at heart, purely protective.

“It developed itself, I should say, two hours after the fog lifted, and its commencement was at a spot, roughly speaking, about a mile and a half below Kurtz’s station. We had just floundered and flopped round a bend, when I saw an islet, a mere grassy hummock of bright green, in the middle of the stream. It was the only thing of the kind; but as we opened the reach more, I perceived it was the head of a long sand-bank, or rather of a chain of shallow patches stretching down the middle of the river. They were discoloured, just awash, and the whole lot was seen just under the water, exactly as a man’s backbone is seen running down the middle of his back under the skin. Now, as far as I did see, I could go to the right or to the left of this. I didn’t know either channel, of course. The banks looked pretty well alike, the depth appeared the same; but as I had been informed the station was on the west side, I naturally headed for the western passage.

“It unfolded, I would say, two hours after the fog lifted. It began roughly a mile and a half downstream from Kurtz’s station. We had just struggled and lurched around a bend when I saw a tiny island in midstream. It was no more than a mound covered in bright green grass. It was the only island of its kind. But as more of the river ahead came into view, I saw the island headed a long sandbank. Or rather, it headed a chain of shallow patches stretching down the middle of the river. The patches were discolored and barely covered by water. The whole chain was visible just beneath the surface, exactly like a man’s backbone beneath the skin of his back. Now, as far as I could see, I could pass to the right or left of these shallows. Of course, I knew neither channel. The banks looked much alike, and the water seemed equally deep on both sides. But I had been told the station was on the west side, so I naturally headed for the western passage.”

“No sooner had we fairly entered it than I became aware it was much narrower than I had supposed. To the left of us there was the long uninterrupted shoal, and to the right a high, steep bank heavily overgrown with bushes. Above the bush the trees stood in serried ranks. The twigs overhung the current thickly, and from distance to distance a large limb of some tree projected rigidly over the stream. It was then well on in the afternoon, the face of the forest was gloomy, and a broad strip of shadow had already fallen on the water. In this shadow we steamed up—very slowly, as you may imagine. I sheered her well inshore—the water being deepest near the bank, as the sounding-pole informed me.

“We had only just entered it when I realized it was much narrower than I had thought. To our left lay a long, unbroken stretch of shallow water. To our right rose a high, steep bank thickly covered with bushes. Above the bushes, trees stood in tightly packed rows. Twigs hung thickly over the current. Here and there, a large tree branch stuck stiffly out over the stream. By then it was late afternoon, and the forest looked gloomy. A broad strip of shadow had already fallen across the water. We steamed upstream through the shadow, very slowly, as you can imagine. I steered the boat close to the bank because the sounding pole showed the water was deepest there.

“One of my hungry and forbearing friends was sounding in the bows just below me. This steamboat was exactly like a decked scow. On the deck, there were two little teakwood houses, with doors and windows. The boiler was in the fore-end, and the machinery right astern. Over the whole there was a light roof, supported on stanchions. The funnel projected through that roof, and in front of the funnel a small cabin built of light planks served for a pilot-house. It contained a couch, two camp-stools, a loaded Martini-Henry leaning in one corner, a tiny table, and the steering-wheel. It had a wide door in front and a broad shutter at each side. All these were always thrown open, of course. I spent my days perched up there on the extreme fore-end of that roof, before the door. At night I slept, or tried to, on the couch. An athletic black belonging to some coast tribe and educated by my poor predecessor, was the helmsman. He sported a pair of brass earrings, wore a blue cloth wrapper from the waist to the ankles, and thought all the world of himself. He was the most unstable kind of fool I had ever seen. He steered with no end of a swagger while you were by; but if he lost sight of you, he became instantly the prey of an abject funk, and would let that cripple of a steamboat get the upper hand of him in a minute.

“One of my hungry, patient friends was measuring the water’s depth at the bow, just below me. The steamboat was exactly like a flat-bottomed barge with a deck. On the deck stood two little teakwood houses with doors and windows. The boiler was at the front, and the machinery was right at the back. A light roof covered everything, supported by posts. The smokestack stuck up through the roof. In front of the smokestack, a small cabin made of thin planks served as the steering cabin. Inside were a couch, two folding camp stools, a loaded Martini-Henry rifle leaning in one corner, and a tiny table. There was also the steering wheel. The cabin had a wide door at the front and a broad shutter on each side. The door and shutters were always wide open, of course. I spent my days perched at the very front of the roof, outside the cabin door. At night I slept, or tried to sleep, on the couch. The helmsman was an athletic black man from one of the coastal tribes, trained by my poor predecessor. He sported a pair of brass earrings and wore a blue cloth wrapped around him from waist to ankles. He thought the world of himself. He was the most unreliable kind of fool I had ever seen. He steered with endless swagger while you were nearby. But if he lost sight of you, he immediately fell into pathetic terror. He would let that crippled steamboat get the better of him in a minute.”

“I was looking down at the sounding-pole, and feeling much annoyed to see at each try a little more of it stick out of that river, when I saw my poleman give up on the business suddenly, and stretch himself flat on the deck, without even taking the trouble to haul his pole in. He kept hold on it though, and it trailed in the water. At the same time the fireman, whom I could also see below me, sat down abruptly before his furnace and ducked his head. I was amazed. Then I had to look at the river mighty quick, because there was a snag in the fairway. Sticks, little sticks, were flying about—thick: they were whizzing before my nose, dropping below me, striking behind me against my pilot-house. All this time the river, the shore, the woods, were very quiet—perfectly quiet. I could only hear the heavy splashing thump of the stern-wheel and the patter of these things. We cleared the snag clumsily. Arrows, by Jove! We were being shot at! I stepped in quickly to close the shutter on the landside. That fool-helmsman, his hands on the spokes, was lifting his knees high, stamping his feet, champing his mouth, like a reined-in horse. Confound him! And we were staggering within ten feet of the bank. I had to lean right out to swing the heavy shutter, and I saw a face amongst the leaves on the level with my own, looking at me very fierce and steady; and then suddenly, as though a veil had been removed from my eyes, I made out, deep in the tangled gloom, naked breasts, arms, legs, glaring eyes—the bush was swarming with human limbs in movement, glistening of bronze colour. The twigs shook, swayed, and rustled, the arrows flew out of them, and then the shutter came to. ‘Steer her straight,’ I said to the helmsman. He held his head rigid, face forward; but his eyes rolled, he kept on lifting and setting down his feet gently, his mouth foamed a little. ‘Keep quiet!’ I said in a fury. I might just as well have ordered a tree not to sway in the wind. I darted out. Below me there was a great scuffle of feet on the iron deck; confused exclamations; a voice screamed, ‘Can you turn back?’ I caught sight of a V-shaped ripple on the water ahead. What? Another snag! A fusillade burst out under my feet. The pilgrims had opened with their Winchesters, and were simply squirting lead into that bush. A deuce of a lot of smoke came up and drove slowly forward. I swore at it. Now I couldn’t see the ripple or the snag either. I stood in the doorway, peering, and the arrows came in swarms. They might have been poisoned, but they looked as though they wouldn’t kill a cat. The bush began to howl. Our wood-cutters raised a warlike whoop; the report of a rifle just at my back deafened me. I glanced over my shoulder, and the pilot-house was yet full of noise and smoke when I made a dash at the wheel. The fool-nigger had dropped everything, to throw the shutter open and let off that Martini-Henry. He stood before the wide opening, glaring, and I yelled at him to come back, while I straightened the sudden twist out of that steamboat. There was no room to turn even if I had wanted to, the snag was somewhere very near ahead in that confounded smoke, there was no time to lose, so I just crowded her into the bank—right into the bank, where I knew the water was deep.

“I was looking down at the depth-measuring pole, increasingly annoyed as more of it stuck out of the river with each try. Then I saw the man handling the pole suddenly stop working and lie flat on the deck. He didn’t even bother to pull his pole in. He still held on to it, though, and it dragged through the water. At the same time, the furnace stoker, whom I could also see below me, suddenly sat down before his furnace. He ducked his head. I was amazed. Then I had to look at the river very quickly, because a submerged tree blocked the channel. Sticks, little sticks, were flying everywhere in thick swarms. They whizzed past my nose, dropped below me, and struck the wheelhouse behind me. All this time, the river, the shore, and the woods were very quiet. Perfectly quiet. I could hear only the heavy, splashing thud of the stern-wheel and the patter of those things. We clumsily cleared the submerged tree. Arrows, good God! We were being shot at! I quickly stepped inside to close the shutter facing the shore. That fool of a helmsman had his hands on the wheel’s spokes. He lifted his knees high, stamped his feet, and worked his mouth like a horse held back by its reins. Damn him! And we were lurching along within ten feet of the bank. I had to lean right out to swing the heavy shutter closed. Among the leaves, level with my own face, I saw a face watching me fiercely and steadily. Then suddenly, as though a veil had lifted from my eyes, I could make out more in the tangled darkness. Bare chests, arms, legs, glaring eyes. The bushes swarmed with moving human limbs, glistening bronze. The twigs shook, swayed, and rustled. Arrows flew out from among them, and then the shutter closed. ‘Steer her straight,’ I told the helmsman. He held his head stiffly, facing forward, but his eyes rolled. He kept gently lifting and lowering his feet, and his mouth foamed a little. ‘Keep still!’ I said furiously. I might just as well have ordered a tree not to sway in the wind. I darted outside. Below me, feet shuffled wildly on the iron deck, and confused cries rose up. A voice screamed, ‘Can you turn back?’ I spotted a V-shaped ripple on the water ahead. What? Another submerged tree! A burst of gunfire erupted beneath my feet. The pilgrims had opened fire with their Winchesters and were simply spraying lead into the bushes. A hell of a lot of smoke rose and drifted slowly forward. I cursed the smoke. Now I couldn’t see either the ripple or the submerged tree. I stood peering from the doorway as arrows came in swarms. They might have been poisoned, but they looked as though they wouldn’t kill a cat. Howls rose from the bushes. Our woodcutters let out a warlike whoop. A rifle shot right behind me deafened me. I glanced over my shoulder, then dashed for the wheel while the wheelhouse was still full of noise and smoke. The black fool had abandoned everything to throw open the shutter and fire that Martini-Henry. He stood glaring through the wide opening. I yelled at him to come back while I corrected the steamboat’s sudden swerve. There was no room to turn, even if I had wanted to. The submerged tree was somewhere very close ahead in that damned smoke, and there was no time to lose. So I pushed the boat close against the bank, right against the bank, where I knew the water was deep.”

“We tore slowly along the overhanging bushes in a whirl of broken twigs and flying leaves. The fusillade below stopped short, as I had foreseen it would when the squirts got empty. I threw my head back to a glinting whizz that traversed the pilot-house, in at one shutter-hole and out at the other. Looking past that mad helmsman, who was shaking the empty rifle and yelling at the shore, I saw vague forms of men running bent double, leaping, gliding, distinct, incomplete, evanescent. Something big appeared in the air before the shutter, the rifle went overboard, and the man stepped back swiftly, looked at me over his shoulder in an extraordinary, profound, familiar manner, and fell upon my feet. The side of his head hit the wheel twice, and the end of what appeared a long cane clattered round and knocked over a little camp-stool. It looked as though after wrenching that thing from somebody ashore he had lost his balance in the effort. The thin smoke had blown away, we were clear of the snag, and looking ahead I could see that in another hundred yards or so I would be free to sheer off, away from the bank; but my feet felt so very warm and wet that I had to look down. The man had rolled on his back and stared straight up at me; both his hands clutched that cane. It was the shaft of a spear that, either thrown or lunged through the opening, had caught him in the side, just below the ribs; the blade had gone in out of sight, after making a frightful gash; my shoes were full; a pool of blood lay very still, gleaming dark-red under the wheel; his eyes shone with an amazing lustre. The fusillade burst out again. He looked at me anxiously, gripping the spear like something precious, with an air of being afraid I would try to take it away from him. I had to make an effort to free my eyes from his gaze and attend to the steering. With one hand I felt above my head for the line of the steam whistle, and jerked out screech after screech hurriedly. The tumult of angry and warlike yells was checked instantly, and then from the depths of the woods went out such a tremulous and prolonged wail of mournful fear and utter despair as may be imagined to follow the flight of the last hope from the earth. There was a great commotion in the bush; the shower of arrows stopped, a few dropping shots rang out sharply—then silence, in which the languid beat of the stern-wheel came plainly to my ears. I put the helm hard a-starboard at the moment when the pilgrim in pink pyjamas, very hot and agitated, appeared in the doorway. ‘The manager sends me—’ he began in an official tone, and stopped short. ‘Good God!’ he said, glaring at the wounded man.

“We pushed slowly through the overhanging bushes in a swirl of broken twigs and flying leaves. The gunfire below stopped abruptly, as I had expected it would when the guns ran out of ammunition. I jerked my head back as something flashed and whizzed through the pilot-house, entering one shutter opening and leaving the other. I looked past the frantic helmsman, who was shaking his empty rifle and yelling at the shore. I saw shadowy figures of men running bent double, leaping and gliding. They appeared clearly, then only partly, then vanished. Something big appeared in the air outside the shutter, and the rifle went overboard. The man stepped back quickly and looked at me over his shoulder with an extraordinary, deep, familiar look. Then he fell at my feet. The side of his head struck the wheel twice. The end of what looked like a long cane clattered around and knocked over a small camp stool. He looked as though he had pulled the thing from someone ashore and lost his balance in the effort. The thin smoke had blown away, and we were clear of the submerged tree. Looking ahead, I could see that another hundred yards or so would leave me free to turn away from shore. But my feet felt so warm and wet that I had to look down. The man had rolled onto his back and was staring straight up at me. Both hands gripped the cane. It was the shaft of a spear, either thrown or thrust through the opening. The spear had struck him in the side, just below his ribs. The blade had disappeared into his body, leaving a terrible gash. My shoes were full of blood. A pool of blood lay perfectly still beneath the wheel, gleaming dark red. His eyes shone with an astonishing brightness. The gunfire broke out again. He looked at me anxiously, clutching the spear as though it were precious. He seemed afraid I would try to take the spear away from him. I had to force myself to look away from his eyes and concentrate on steering. With one hand, I reached above my head for the steam whistle’s cord. I pulled it hurriedly, sending out screech after screech. The uproar of angry war cries stopped instantly. Then a trembling, drawn-out wail of grief, fear, and utter despair rose from deep in the woods. It was the kind of cry you might imagine if the last hope had fled the earth. There was a great disturbance in the bushes, and the shower of arrows stopped. A few scattered shots rang out sharply. Then came silence, and I could clearly hear the slow beat of the stern-wheel. I turned the helm hard to starboard just as the pilgrim in pink pyjamas appeared in the doorway. He was very hot and agitated. ‘The manager sends me,’ he began in an official tone, then stopped abruptly. ‘Good God!’ he said, staring fiercely at the wounded man.

“We two whites stood over him, and his lustrous and inquiring glance enveloped us both. I declare it looked as though he would presently put to us some questions in an understandable language; but he died without uttering a sound, without moving a limb, without twitching a muscle. Only in the very last moment, as though in response to some sign we could not see, to some whisper we could not hear, he frowned heavily, and that frown gave to his black death-mask an inconceivably sombre, brooding, and menacing expression. The lustre of inquiring glance faded swiftly into vacant glassiness. ‘Can you steer?’ I asked the agent eagerly. He looked very dubious; but I made a grab at his arm, and he understood at once I meant him to steer whether or no. To tell you the truth, I was morbidly anxious to change my shoes and socks. ‘He is dead,’ murmured the fellow, immensely impressed. ‘No doubt about it,’ said I, tugging like mad at the shoe-laces. ‘And by the way, I suppose Mr. Kurtz is dead as well by this time.’

“We two white men stood over him, and his bright, questioning gaze took us both in. I swear he looked as though he was about to ask us some questions in a language we could understand. But he died without a sound, without moving a limb or twitching a muscle. Only at the very last moment did he frown deeply. It was as though he were responding to some sign we could not see, some whisper we could not hear. The frown gave his black, death-mask face an unimaginably dark, brooding, and threatening expression. The brightness of his questioning gaze quickly faded into a blank, glassy stare. ‘Can you steer?’ I asked the agent eagerly. He looked very doubtful. But I grabbed his arm, and he immediately understood that I meant him to steer whether he wanted to or not. To tell you the truth, I was desperately, almost unhealthily anxious to change my shoes and socks. ‘He is dead,’ the fellow murmured, deeply affected. ‘No doubt about it,’ I said, pulling like mad at my shoelaces. ‘And by the way, I suppose Mr. Kurtz is dead by now as well.’”

“For the moment that was the dominant thought. There was a sense of extreme disappointment, as though I had found out I had been striving after something altogether without a substance. I couldn’t have been more disgusted if I had travelled all this way for the sole purpose of talking with Mr. Kurtz. Talking with... I flung one shoe overboard, and became aware that that was exactly what I had been looking forward to—a talk with Kurtz. I made the strange discovery that I had never imagined him as doing, you know, but as discoursing. I didn’t say to myself, ‘Now I will never see him,’ or ‘Now I will never shake him by the hand,’ but, ‘Now I will never hear him.’ The man presented himself as a voice. Not of course that I did not connect him with some sort of action. Hadn’t I been told in all the tones of jealousy and admiration that he had collected, bartered, swindled, or stolen more ivory than all the other agents together? That was not the point. The point was in his being a gifted creature, and that of all his gifts the one that stood out preeminently, that carried with it a sense of real presence, was his ability to talk, his words—the gift of expression, the bewildering, the illuminating, the most exalted and the most contemptible, the pulsating stream of light, or the deceitful flow from the heart of an impenetrable darkness.

“For the moment, that thought filled my mind. I felt deeply disappointed, as though I had discovered I was striving for something with no substance at all. I couldn’t have been more disgusted if I had come all this way just to talk with Mr. Kurtz. Talking with... I threw one shoe overboard. Then I realized that a talk with Kurtz was exactly what I had been looking forward to. I made a strange discovery. I had never imagined him doing things, you know, only talking. I didn’t say to myself, ‘Now I will never see him,’ or ‘Now I will never shake his hand.’ Instead, I thought, ‘Now I will never hear him.’ In my mind, the man was a voice. Of course, I did associate him with some kind of action. Hadn’t people told me, with every shade of jealousy and admiration, how much ivory he had gathered? He had collected, traded for, swindled, or stolen more than all the other agents put together. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that he was gifted. Of all his gifts, one stood out above the rest and made him seem truly present: his ability to talk. His words, his gift for expression, could confuse or enlighten. They could be the noblest or the most contemptible. They could be a pulsing stream of light, or a deceptive flow from the heart of an impenetrable darkness.

“The other shoe went flying unto the devil-god of that river. I thought, ‘By Jove! it’s all over. We are too late; he has vanished—the gift has vanished, by means of some spear, arrow, or club. I will never hear that chap speak after all’—and my sorrow had a startling extravagance of emotion, even such as I had noticed in the howling sorrow of these savages in the bush. I couldn’t have felt more of lonely desolation somehow, had I been robbed of a belief or had missed my destiny in life.... Why do you sigh in this beastly way, somebody? Absurd? Well, absurd. Good Lord! mustn’t a man ever—Here, give me some tobacco.”...

“The other shoe went flying to the devil-god of that river. I thought, ‘By God! It’s all over. We are too late. He’s gone, and his gift is gone, killed by some spear, arrow, or club. I’ll never hear that fellow speak after all.’ My grief was shockingly intense, like the howling grief I had noticed among these savages in the bush. Somehow, I couldn’t have felt more alone and desolate if I’d lost a belief or missed my destiny in life.... Who’s sighing in that awful way? Absurd? Well, absurd. Good Lord! Can’t a man ever... Here, give me some tobacco.”...

There was a pause of profound stillness, then a match flared, and Marlow’s lean face appeared, worn, hollow, with downward folds and dropped eyelids, with an aspect of concentrated attention; and as he took vigorous draws at his pipe, it seemed to retreat and advance out of the night in the regular flicker of tiny flame. The match went out.

There was a pause of deep stillness. Then a match flared, revealing Marlow’s thin face, worn and hollow, with downward creases and lowered eyelids. He looked intensely focused. As he drew hard on his pipe, his face seemed to recede into the night and emerge again. The tiny flame’s steady flickering created the effect. The match went out.

“Absurd!” he cried. “This is the worst of trying to tell.... Here you all are, each moored with two good addresses, like a hulk with two anchors, a butcher round one corner, a policeman round another, excellent appetites, and temperature normal—you hear—normal from year’s end to year’s end. And you say, Absurd! Absurd be—exploded! Absurd! My dear boys, what can you expect from a man who out of sheer nervousness had just flung overboard a pair of new shoes! Now I think of it, it is amazing I did not shed tears. I am, upon the whole, proud of my fortitude. I was cut to the quick at the idea of having lost the inestimable privilege of listening to the gifted Kurtz. Of course I was wrong. The privilege was waiting for me. Oh, yes, I heard more than enough. And I was right, too. A voice. He was very little more than a voice. And I heard—him—it—this voice—other voices—all of them were so little more than voices—and the memory of that time itself lingers around me, impalpable, like a dying vibration of one immense jabber, silly, atrocious, sordid, savage, or simply mean, without any kind of sense. Voices, voices—even the girl herself—now—”

“Absurd!” he cried. “This is the worst part of trying to tell the story.... Here you all are, each securely tied to two good addresses, like an old ship with two anchors. There’s a butcher around one corner and a policeman around another. You have excellent appetites, and your temperatures are normal. Do you hear? Normal, all year round. And you say, Absurd! To hell with absurd! Absurd! My dear boys, what can you expect from a man who had just thrown new shoes overboard out of sheer nervousness? Now that I think of it, it’s amazing I didn’t cry. On the whole, I’m proud of how well I held up. I was deeply hurt by the thought of losing the priceless privilege of listening to the gifted Kurtz. Of course, I was wrong. The privilege was waiting for me. Oh, yes, I heard more than enough. And I was right, too. A voice. He was very little more than a voice. And I heard him, it, this voice, other voices. All of them were so little more than voices. And the memory of that time still hangs around me, impossible to touch. It’s like the fading vibration of one immense babble, silly, appalling, filthy, savage, or simply petty, without any sense. Voices, voices, even the girl herself, now...”

He was silent for a long time.

He was silent for a long time.

“I laid the ghost of his gifts at last with a lie,” he began, suddenly. “Girl! What? Did I mention a girl? Oh, she is out of it—completely. They—the women, I mean—are out of it—should be out of it. We must help them to stay in that beautiful world of their own, lest ours gets worse. Oh, she had to be out of it. You should have heard the disinterred body of Mr. Kurtz saying, ‘My Intended.’ You would have perceived directly then how completely she was out of it. And the lofty frontal bone of Mr. Kurtz! They say the hair goes on growing sometimes, but this—ah—specimen, was impressively bald. The wilderness had patted him on the head, and, behold, it was like a ball—an ivory ball; it had caressed him, and—lo!—he had withered; it had taken him, loved him, embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his flesh, and sealed his soul to its own by the inconceivable ceremonies of some devilish initiation. He was its spoiled and pampered favourite. Ivory? I should think so. Heaps of it, stacks of it. The old mud shanty was bursting with it. You would think there was not a single tusk left either above or below the ground in the whole country. ‘Mostly fossil,’ the manager had remarked, disparagingly. It was no more fossil than I am; but they call it fossil when it is dug up. It appears these niggers do bury the tusks sometimes—but evidently they couldn’t bury this parcel deep enough to save the gifted Mr. Kurtz from his fate. We filled the steamboat with it, and had to pile a lot on the deck. Thus he could see and enjoy as long as he could see, because the appreciation of this favour had remained with him to the last. You should have heard him say, ‘My ivory.’ Oh, yes, I heard him. ‘My Intended, my ivory, my station, my river, my—’ everything belonged to him. It made me hold my breath in expectation of hearing the wilderness burst into a prodigious peal of laughter that would shake the fixed stars in their places. Everything belonged to him—but that was a trifle. The thing was to know what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own. That was the reflection that made you creepy all over. It was impossible—it was not good for one either—trying to imagine. He had taken a high seat amongst the devils of the land—I mean literally. You can’t understand. How could you?—with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by kind neighbours ready to cheer you or to fall on you, stepping delicately between the butcher and the policeman, in the holy terror of scandal and gallows and lunatic asylums—how can you imagine what particular region of the first ages a man’s untrammelled feet may take him into by the way of solitude—utter solitude without a policeman—by the way of silence—utter silence, where no warning voice of a kind neighbour can be heard whispering of public opinion? These little things make all the great difference. When they are gone you must fall back upon your own innate strength, upon your own capacity for faithfulness. Of course you may be too much of a fool to go wrong—too dull even to know you are being assaulted by the powers of darkness. I take it, no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil; the fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil—I don’t know which. Or you may be such a thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth for you is only a standing place—and whether to be like this is your loss or your gain I won’t pretend to say. But most of us are neither one nor the other. The earth for us is a place to live in, where we must put up with sights, with sounds, with smells, too, by Jove!—breathe dead hippo, so to speak, and not be contaminated. And there, don’t you see? Your strength comes in, the faith in your ability for the digging of unostentatious holes to bury the stuff in—your power of devotion, not to yourself, but to an obscure, back-breaking business. And that’s difficult enough. Mind, I am not trying to excuse or even explain—I am trying to account to myself for—for—Mr. Kurtz—for the shade of Mr. Kurtz. This initiated wraith from the back of Nowhere honoured me with its amazing confidence before it vanished altogether. This was because it could speak English to me. The original Kurtz had been educated partly in England, and—as he was good enough to say himself—his sympathies were in the right place. His mother was half-English, his father was half-French. All Europe contributed to the making of Kurtz; and by and by I learned that, most appropriately, the International Society for the Suppression of Savage Customs had intrusted him with the making of a report, for its future guidance. And he had written it, too. I’ve seen it. I’ve read it. It was eloquent, vibrating with eloquence, but too high-strung, I think. Seventeen pages of close writing he had found time for! But this must have been before his—let us say—nerves, went wrong, and caused him to preside at certain midnight dances ending with unspeakable rites, which—as far as I reluctantly gathered from what I heard at various times—were offered up to him—do you understand?—to Mr. Kurtz himself. But it was a beautiful piece of writing. The opening paragraph, however, in the light of later information, strikes me now as ominous. He began with the argument that we whites, from the point of development we had arrived at, ‘must necessarily appear to them [savages] in the nature of supernatural beings—we approach them with the might of a deity,’ and so on, and so on. ‘By the simple exercise of our will we can exert a power for good practically unbounded,’ etc., etc. From that point he soared and took me with him. The peroration was magnificent, though difficult to remember, you know. It gave me the notion of an exotic Immensity ruled by an august Benevolence. It made me tingle with enthusiasm. This was the unbounded power of eloquence—of words—of burning noble words. There were no practical hints to interrupt the magic current of phrases, unless a kind of note at the foot of the last page, scrawled evidently much later, in an unsteady hand, may be regarded as the exposition of a method. It was very simple, and at the end of that moving appeal to every altruistic sentiment it blazed at you, luminous and terrifying, like a flash of lightning in a serene sky: ‘Exterminate all the brutes!’ The curious part was that he had apparently forgotten all about that valuable postscriptum, because, later on, when he in a sense came to himself, he repeatedly entreated me to take good care of ‘my pamphlet’ (he called it), as it was sure to have in the future a good influence upon his career. I had full information about all these things, and, besides, as it turned out, I was to have the care of his memory. I’ve done enough for it to give me the indisputable right to lay it, if I choose, for an everlasting rest in the dust-bin of progress, amongst all the sweepings and, figuratively speaking, all the dead cats of civilization. But then, you see, I can’t choose. He won’t be forgotten. Whatever he was, he was not common. He had the power to charm or frighten rudimentary souls into an aggravated witch-dance in his honour; he could also fill the small souls of the pilgrims with bitter misgivings: he had one devoted friend at least, and he had conquered one soul in the world that was neither rudimentary nor tainted with self-seeking. No; I can’t forget him, though I am not prepared to affirm the fellow was exactly worth the life we lost in getting to him. I missed my late helmsman awfully—I missed him even while his body was still lying in the pilot-house. Perhaps you will think it passing strange this regret for a savage who was no more account than a grain of sand in a black Sahara. Well, don’t you see, he had done something, he had steered; for months I had him at my back—a help—an instrument. It was a kind of partnership. He steered for me—I had to look after him, I worried about his deficiencies, and thus a subtle bond had been created, of which I only became aware when it was suddenly broken. And the intimate profundity of that look he gave me when he received his hurt remains to this day in my memory—like a claim of distant kinship affirmed in a supreme moment.

“I finally laid the ghost of his talents to rest with a lie,” he began suddenly. “Girl! What? Did I mention a girl? Oh, she has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. They, the women, I mean, have nothing to do with it. They should have nothing to do with it. We must help them stay in that beautiful world of their own, or ours may grow worse. Oh, she had to be kept out of it. You should have heard that dug-up corpse of Mr. Kurtz saying, ‘My fiancée.’ You would have understood at once how completely she was removed from everything. And Mr. Kurtz’s high forehead! They say hair sometimes keeps growing after death, but this specimen was impressively bald. The wilderness had patted his head, and look, it was like a ball. An ivory ball. The wilderness had caressed him, and behold, he had withered. It had taken him, loved him, embraced him, entered his veins, and consumed his flesh. It had bound his soul to its own through the unimaginable ceremonies of some devilish initiation. He was its spoiled and pampered favorite. Ivory? I should think so. Heaps of it, stacks of it. The old mud shack was bursting with ivory. You would think the whole country had not a single tusk left, either above ground or below it. ‘Mostly fossil ivory,’ the manager had remarked dismissively. It was no more fossilized than I am, but they call ivory fossil ivory when someone digs it up. Apparently these Black people do sometimes bury the tusks. But clearly they couldn’t bury this batch deep enough to save the gifted Mr. Kurtz from his fate. We filled the steamboat with ivory and had to pile a lot on the deck. That way he could look at it and enjoy it as long as he could still see. He remained grateful for this kindness to the very end. You should have heard him say, ‘My ivory.’ Oh, yes, I heard him. ‘My fiancée, my ivory, my station, my river, my...’ Everything belonged to him. I held my breath, expecting the wilderness to burst into an enormous roar of laughter. A laugh that would shake the fixed stars from their places. Everything belonged to him, but that was a small matter. The real question was what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him as their own. That thought made your skin crawl. Trying to imagine those powers was impossible. It wasn’t good for you, either. He had taken a high-ranking seat among the devils of the land. I mean that literally. You can’t understand. How could you? You have solid pavement beneath your feet and kind neighbors around you, ready to encourage you or attack you. You tread carefully between the butcher and the policeman, terrified of scandal, the gallows, and mental asylums. How can you imagine what corner of the prehistoric world a man’s unrestricted footsteps might lead him into? He reaches it through solitude, complete solitude without a policeman. He reaches it through silence, complete silence without a kind neighbor’s warning whisper about public opinion. These little things make all the difference. When they are gone, you must depend on your own inner strength, your own ability to remain faithful. Of course, you may be too much of a fool to go wrong. Too dull even to know that the powers of darkness are attacking you. I suppose no fool ever struck a bargain with the devil for his soul. The fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil. I don’t know which. Or you may be so astonishingly spiritual that you see and hear nothing but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth is only a place for you to stand. Whether you lose or gain by being like that, I won’t pretend to say. But most of us are neither one nor the other. For us, the earth is a place to live. We must put up with sights, sounds, and smells too, by God! We must breathe dead hippo, so to speak, without becoming contaminated. And there, don’t you see? That is where your strength matters. Your faith in your ability to dig modest holes and bury the stuff. Your ability to devote yourself, not to yourself, but to some unnoticed, backbreaking task. And that is difficult enough. Mind you, I’m not trying to excuse or even explain. I’m trying to make sense, for myself, of Mr. Kurtz. Of the ghost of Mr. Kurtz. This ghost, initiated into dark mysteries in the middle of Nowhere, honored me with his astonishing confidences before vanishing altogether. He confided in me because he could speak English to me. The original Kurtz had been educated partly in England. And, as he was kind enough to say himself, his sympathies were in the right place. His mother was half-English, his father half-French. All Europe had helped make Kurtz. Later I learned something entirely fitting. The International Society for the Suppression of Savage Customs had entrusted him with writing a report to guide its future work. And he had written it, too. I’ve seen it. I’ve read it. It was eloquent, alive with eloquence, but too emotionally intense, I think. He had found time to write seventeen closely written pages! But this must have been before his nerves, let us say, went wrong. Before they led him to preside over certain midnight dances that ended in unspeakable rituals. From things I heard at various times, I reluctantly gathered that these rituals were offered to him. Do you understand? To Mr. Kurtz himself. But the report was a beautiful piece of writing. Still, knowing what I learned later, I now find the opening paragraph ominous. He began by arguing that we whites had reached such a level of development that we ‘must necessarily seem like supernatural beings to them [savages]. We approach them with the power of a god,’ and so on, and so on. ‘Simply by exercising our will, we can do almost unlimited good,’ etc., etc. From that point he soared, and took me with him. The closing passage was magnificent, though difficult to remember, you know. It suggested a vast, unfamiliar world ruled by a majestic spirit of kindness. It made me tingle with enthusiasm. Such was the unlimited power of eloquence, of words, of fiery, noble words. No practical suggestions interrupted that magical flow of phrases. Unless you count a sort of note at the bottom of the last page as an explanation of his method. He had clearly scrawled the note much later, in an unsteady hand. It was very simple. After that moving appeal to every generous feeling, the note blazed out at you, bright and terrifying. Like lightning in a clear sky: ‘Exterminate all the brutes!’ The curious thing was that he had apparently forgotten that valuable addition entirely. Later, when he had in a sense recovered himself, he repeatedly begged me to take care of ‘my pamphlet.’ That was what he called it. He was sure the pamphlet would help his career in the future. I knew all about these things. Besides, as it turned out, I was to be responsible for his memory. I’ve done enough for his memory to earn an unquestionable right to leave it forever in the trash heap of progress. If I choose, I can leave it among civilization’s sweepings and, figuratively speaking, its dead cats. But you see, I can’t choose to do that. He won’t be forgotten. Whatever he was, he was not ordinary. He could charm or frighten primitive souls into a frenzied witch dance in his honor. He could also fill the petty souls of the pilgrims with bitter doubts. He had at least one devoted friend. And he had won over one soul in the world that was neither primitive nor corrupted by selfish ambition. No, I can’t forget him. Though I’m not prepared to say the fellow was really worth the life we lost reaching him. I missed my dead helmsman terribly. I missed him even while his body still lay in the pilot’s cabin. Perhaps you will think it very strange to mourn a savage worth no more than a grain of sand in a Black Sahara. Well, don’t you see, he had done something. He had steered. For months he had stood behind me, a help, a tool. It was a kind of partnership. He steered for me, and I had to look after him. I worried about his shortcomings, and so a subtle bond had formed between us. I only recognized that bond when it suddenly broke. And I still remember the deep intimacy of the look he gave me when he was wounded. It was like a claim of distant kinship, affirmed at a moment of ultimate importance.

“Poor fool! If he had only left that shutter alone. He had no restraint, no restraint—just like Kurtz—a tree swayed by the wind. As soon as I had put on a dry pair of slippers, I dragged him out, after first jerking the spear out of his side, which operation I confess I performed with my eyes shut tight. His heels leaped together over the little doorstep; his shoulders were pressed to my breast; I hugged him from behind desperately. Oh! he was heavy, heavy; heavier than any man on earth, I should imagine. Then without more ado I tipped him overboard. The current snatched him as though he had been a wisp of grass, and I saw the body roll over twice before I lost sight of it for ever. All the pilgrims and the manager were then congregated on the awning-deck about the pilot-house, chattering at each other like a flock of excited magpies, and there was a scandalized murmur at my heartless promptitude. What they wanted to keep that body hanging about for I can’t guess. Embalm it, maybe. But I had also heard another, and a very ominous, murmur on the deck below. My friends the wood-cutters were likewise scandalized, and with a better show of reason—though I admit that the reason itself was quite inadmissible. Oh, quite! I had made up my mind that if my late helmsman was to be eaten, the fishes alone should have him. He had been a very second-rate helmsman while alive, but now he was dead he might have become a first-class temptation, and possibly cause some startling trouble. Besides, I was anxious to take the wheel, the man in pink pyjamas showing himself a hopeless duffer at the business.

“Poor fool! If only he had left that shutter alone. He had no self-control, no self-control. Just like Kurtz, he was a tree swaying in the wind. As soon as I put on dry slippers, I dragged him out, first pulling the spear from his side. I admit I pulled the spear out with my eyes squeezed shut. His heels jumped together over the little doorstep. His shoulders pressed against my chest as I desperately hugged him from behind. Oh! He was heavy, heavy. Heavier than any man on earth, I would imagine. Then, without further delay, I tipped him overboard. The current snatched him away as though he were a blade of grass. I saw his body roll over twice before I lost sight of him forever. All the pilgrims and the manager had gathered on the upper deck around the wheelhouse. They chattered at one another like a flock of excited magpies. An outraged murmur greeted my heartless haste. Why they wanted to keep the body around, I can’t guess. To embalm him, maybe. But I had also heard another murmur from the deck below, a very ominous one. My friends the woodcutters were outraged too, and with more reason. Though I admit their reason was completely unacceptable. Oh, completely! I had decided that if my dead helmsman was to be eaten, only the fish would have him. He had been a very second-rate helmsman while alive. But now that he was dead, he might have become a first-rate temptation and possibly caused some alarming trouble. Besides, I was eager to take the wheel. The man in pink pyjamas was proving hopeless at steering.

“This I did directly the simple funeral was over. We were going half-speed, keeping right in the middle of the stream, and I listened to the talk about me. They had given up Kurtz, they had given up the station; Kurtz was dead, and the station had been burnt—and so on—and so on. The red-haired pilgrim was beside himself with the thought that at least this poor Kurtz had been properly avenged. ‘Say! We must have made a glorious slaughter of them in the bush. Eh? What do you think? Say?’ He positively danced, the bloodthirsty little gingery beggar. And he had nearly fainted when he saw the wounded man! I could not help saying, ‘You made a glorious lot of smoke, anyhow.’ I had seen, from the way the tops of the bushes rustled and flew, that almost all the shots had gone too high. You can’t hit anything unless you take aim and fire from the shoulder; but these chaps fired from the hip with their eyes shut. The retreat, I maintained—and I was right—was caused by the screeching of the steam whistle. Upon this they forgot Kurtz, and began to howl at me with indignant protests.

“I did this as soon as the simple funeral was over. We were moving at half speed, keeping right in the middle of the river. I listened to the talk around me. They had given up on Kurtz and the station. Kurtz was dead, and the station had been burned, and so on, and so on. The red-haired pilgrim was beside himself at the thought that at least poor Kurtz had been properly avenged. ‘Say! We must have slaughtered a glorious number of them in the bush. Eh? What do you think? Say?’ The bloodthirsty little redheaded wretch actually danced. And he had nearly fainted at the sight of the wounded man! I couldn’t help saying, ‘You made a glorious amount of smoke, anyway.’ I had watched the tops of the bushes shake and fly apart. From that, I could tell that almost all the shots had gone too high. You can’t hit anything unless you take aim and fire from the shoulder. But these fellows fired from the hip with their eyes shut. I insisted that the screeching steam whistle had caused the retreat, and I was right. At that, they forgot Kurtz and began shouting angry protests at me.

“The manager stood by the wheel murmuring confidentially about the necessity of getting well away down the river before dark at all events, when I saw in the distance a clearing on the riverside and the outlines of some sort of building. ‘What’s this?’ I asked. He clapped his hands in wonder. ‘The station!’ he cried. I edged in at once, still going half-speed.

“The manager stood by the wheel, murmuring to me in confidence. He said we had to get well down the river before dark, no matter what. As he spoke, I saw a clearing on the riverbank in the distance and the outlines of some building. ‘What’s this?’ I asked. He clapped his hands in amazement. ‘The station!’ he cried. I steered toward the bank at once, still moving at half speed.

“Through my glasses I saw the slope of a hill interspersed with rare trees and perfectly free from undergrowth. A long decaying building on the summit was half buried in the high grass; the large holes in the peaked roof gaped black from afar; the jungle and the woods made a background. There was no enclosure or fence of any kind; but there had been one apparently, for near the house half-a-dozen slim posts remained in a row, roughly trimmed, and with their upper ends ornamented with round carved balls. The rails, or whatever there had been between, had disappeared. Of course the forest surrounded all that. The river-bank was clear, and on the waterside I saw a white man under a hat like a cart-wheel beckoning persistently with his whole arm. Examining the edge of the forest above and below, I was almost certain I could see movements—human forms gliding here and there. I steamed past prudently, then stopped the engines and let her drift down. The man on the shore began to shout, urging us to land. ‘We have been attacked,’ screamed the manager. ‘I know—I know. It’s all right,’ yelled back the other, as cheerful as you please. ‘Come along. It’s all right. I am glad.’

“Through my binoculars I saw a hillside with a few scattered trees and no undergrowth at all. A long, decaying building at the top was half buried in tall grass. From a distance, the large holes in its peaked roof looked like gaping black openings. The jungle and woods formed the background. There was no enclosure or fence of any kind. But apparently there had once been one, because six slender posts still stood in a row near the house. The posts were roughly trimmed, with round carved balls decorating their tops. The rails, or whatever had stood between the posts, had disappeared. Of course, the forest surrounded all of this. The riverbank was clear. By the water, I saw a white man wearing a hat like a cartwheel, beckoning persistently with his whole arm. I studied the forest’s edge upstream and downstream. I was almost certain I could see movement, human figures gliding here and there. I cautiously steamed past, then stopped the engines and let the boat drift downstream. The man on the shore began shouting, urging us to land. ‘We have been attacked,’ screamed the manager. ‘I know, I know. It’s all right,’ the other man yelled back, sounding perfectly cheerful. ‘Come along. It’s all right. I am glad.’”

“His aspect reminded me of something I had seen—something funny I had seen somewhere. As I manoeuvred to get alongside, I was asking myself, ‘What does this fellow look like?’ Suddenly I got it. He looked like a harlequin. His clothes had been made of some stuff that was brown holland probably, but it was covered with patches all over, with bright patches, blue, red, and yellow—patches on the back, patches on the front, patches on elbows, on knees; coloured binding around his jacket, scarlet edging at the bottom of his trousers; and the sunshine made him look extremely gay and wonderfully neat withal, because you could see how beautifully all this patching had been done. A beardless, boyish face, very fair, no features to speak of, nose peeling, little blue eyes, smiles and frowns chasing each other over that open countenance like sunshine and shadow on a wind-swept plain. ‘Look out, captain!’ he cried; ‘there’s a snag lodged in here last night.’ What! Another snag? I confess I swore shamefully. I had nearly holed my cripple, to finish off that charming trip. The harlequin on the bank turned his little pug-nose up to me. ‘You English?’ he asked, all smiles. ‘Are you?’ I shouted from the wheel. The smiles vanished, and he shook his head as if sorry for my disappointment. Then he brightened up. ‘Never mind!’ he cried encouragingly. ‘Are we in time?’ I asked. ‘He is up there,’ he replied, with a toss of the head up the hill, and becoming gloomy all of a sudden. His face was like the autumn sky, overcast one moment and bright the next.

“His appearance reminded me of something funny I had seen somewhere. As I steered alongside him, I asked myself, ‘What does this fellow look like?’ Suddenly I knew. He looked like a harlequin. His clothes were probably made of brown linen, but they were covered all over with bright blue, red, and yellow patches. There were patches on the back, the front, the elbows, and the knees. Colored trim ran around his jacket, and scarlet edging lined the bottoms of his trousers. In the sunshine he looked extremely cheerful and wonderfully neat, too, because you could see how beautifully every patch was sewn. He had a beardless, boyish face, very fair, with no remarkable features, a peeling nose, and little blue eyes. Smiles and frowns chased each other across his open face like sunshine and shadow on a windswept plain. ‘Look out, captain!’ he cried. ‘A submerged tree got stuck here last night.’ What! Another submerged tree? I admit I swore shamefully. I had nearly punched a hole in my battered boat, which would have finished off that charming trip. The harlequin on the bank tilted his little snub nose up toward me. ‘You English?’ he asked, all smiles. ‘Are you?’ I shouted from the wheel. His smiles vanished, and he shook his head as if sorry to disappoint me. Then he brightened up. ‘Never mind!’ he cried encouragingly. ‘Are we in time?’ I asked. ‘He is up there,’ he replied, tossing his head toward the hill and suddenly looking gloomy. His face was like the autumn sky, overcast one moment and bright the next.

“When the manager, escorted by the pilgrims, all of them armed to the teeth, had gone to the house this chap came on board. ‘I say, I don’t like this. These natives are in the bush,’ I said. He assured me earnestly it was all right. ‘They are simple people,’ he added; ‘well, I am glad you came. It took me all my time to keep them off.’ ‘But you said it was all right,’ I cried. ‘Oh, they meant no harm,’ he said; and as I stared he corrected himself, ‘Not exactly.’ Then vivaciously, ‘My faith, your pilot-house wants a clean-up!’ In the next breath he advised me to keep enough steam on the boiler to blow the whistle in case of any trouble. ‘One good screech will do more for you than all your rifles. They are simple people,’ he repeated. He rattled away at such a rate he quite overwhelmed me. He seemed to be trying to make up for lots of silence, and actually hinted, laughing, that such was the case. ‘Don’t you talk with Mr. Kurtz?’ I said. ‘You don’t talk with that man—you listen to him,’ he exclaimed with severe exaltation. ‘But now—’ He waved his arm, and in the twinkling of an eye was in the uttermost depths of despondency. In a moment he came up again with a jump, possessed himself of both my hands, shook them continuously, while he gabbled: ‘Brother sailor... honour... pleasure... delight... introduce myself... Russian... son of an arch-priest... Government of Tambov... What? Tobacco! English tobacco; the excellent English tobacco! Now, that’s brotherly. Smoke? Where’s a sailor that does not smoke?”

“The manager went to the house, escorted by the pilgrims, all of them armed to the teeth. Then this fellow came aboard. ‘Listen, I don’t like this. These natives are in the bush,’ I said. He earnestly assured me everything was all right. ‘They are simple people,’ he added. ‘Well, I’m glad you came. It took all my time to keep them away.’ ‘But you said everything was all right,’ I cried. ‘Oh, they meant no harm,’ he said. As I stared, he corrected himself. ‘Not exactly.’ Then he said brightly, ‘Good heavens, your pilothouse needs cleaning!’ In the next breath, he advised me to keep enough steam in the boiler to blow the whistle if trouble came. ‘One good blast will do more for you than all your rifles. They are simple people,’ he repeated. He talked so fast that he completely overwhelmed me. He seemed to be making up for a long silence. Laughing, he actually hinted that he was. ‘Don’t you talk with Mr. Kurtz?’ I said. ‘You don’t talk with that man. You listen to him,’ he exclaimed with fierce reverence. ‘But now...’ He waved his arm and instantly sank into the deepest despair. A moment later, he bounced back, grabbed both my hands, and shook them nonstop as he babbled: ‘Fellow sailor... honour... pleasure... delight... let me introduce myself... Russian... son of an archpriest... Province of Tambov... What? Tobacco! English tobacco, the excellent English tobacco! Now, that’s brotherly. Do I smoke? What sailor doesn’t smoke?’”

“The pipe soothed him, and gradually I made out he had run away from school, had gone to sea in a Russian ship; ran away again; served some time in English ships; was now reconciled with the arch-priest. He made a point of that. ‘But when one is young one must see things, gather experience, ideas; enlarge the mind.’ ‘Here!’ I interrupted. ‘You can never tell! Here I met Mr. Kurtz,’ he said, youthfully solemn and reproachful. I held my tongue after that. It appears he had persuaded a Dutch trading-house on the coast to fit him out with stores and goods, and had started for the interior with a light heart and no more idea of what would happen to him than a baby. He had been wandering about that river for nearly two years alone, cut off from everybody and everything. ‘I am not so young as I look. I am twenty-five,’ he said. ‘At first old Van Shuyten would tell me to go to the devil,’ he narrated with keen enjoyment; ‘but I stuck to him, and talked and talked, till at last he got afraid I would talk the hind-leg off his favourite dog, so he gave me some cheap things and a few guns, and told me he hoped he would never see my face again. Good old Dutchman, Van Shuyten. I’ve sent him one small lot of ivory a year ago, so that he can’t call me a little thief when I get back. I hope he got it. And for the rest I don’t care. I had some wood stacked for you. That was my old house. Did you see?’

“The pipe calmed him, and gradually I gathered his story. He had run away from school and gone to sea on a Russian ship. He had run away again, then spent some time working on English ships. Now he had made peace with the arch-priest. He made a point of mentioning that. ‘But when you’re young, you must see things, gain experience and ideas, and broaden your mind.’ ‘Here!’ I interrupted. ‘You never know! Here I met Mr. Kurtz,’ he said, solemn and reproachful in his youthful way. After that, I kept quiet. Apparently, he had persuaded a Dutch trading company on the coast to supply him with provisions and goods. Then he had cheerfully set off into the interior, with no more idea what would happen than a baby. He had wandered along that river for nearly two years, alone and cut off from everyone and everything. ‘I’m not as young as I look. I’m twenty-five,’ he said. ‘At first old Van Shuyten would tell me to go to hell,’ he said, clearly enjoying the story. ‘But I kept after him, talking and talking. Finally, he became afraid I’d talk the hind leg off his favourite dog. So he gave me some cheap things and a few guns. He told me he hoped he’d never see my face again. Good old Dutchman, Van Shuyten. I sent him one small shipment of ivory a year ago, so he can’t call me a little thief when I return. I hope he got the ivory. As for the rest, I don’t care. I had some wood stacked for you. That was my old house. Did you see?’”

“I gave him Towson’s book. He made as though he would kiss me, but restrained himself. ‘The only book I had left, and I thought I had lost it,’ he said, looking at it ecstatically. ‘So many accidents happen to a man going about alone, you know. Canoes get upset sometimes—and sometimes you’ve got to clear out so quick when the people get angry.’ He thumbed the pages. ‘You made notes in Russian?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘I thought they were written in cipher,’ I said. He laughed, then became serious. ‘I had lots of trouble to keep these people off,’ he said. ‘Did they want to kill you?’ I asked. ‘Oh, no!’ he cried, and checked himself. ‘Why did they attack us?’ I pursued. He hesitated, then said shamefacedly, ‘They don’t want him to go.’ ‘Don’t they?’ I said curiously. He nodded a nod full of mystery and wisdom. ‘I tell you,’ he cried, ‘this man has enlarged my mind.’ He opened his arms wide, staring at me with his little blue eyes that were perfectly round.”

“I gave him Towson’s book. He looked as if he was about to kiss me, but held himself back. ‘The only book I had left, and I thought I’d lost it,’ he said, looking at it with delight. ‘So many accidents happen when you travel alone, you know. Canoes tip over sometimes. And sometimes you have to get away so quickly when the people get angry.’ He flipped through the pages. ‘You made notes in Russian?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘I thought they were written in code,’ I said. He laughed, then grew serious. ‘I had a lot of trouble keeping these people away,’ he said. ‘Did they want to kill you?’ I asked. ‘Oh, no!’ he cried, then stopped himself. ‘Why did they attack us?’ I pressed. He hesitated, then said, looking ashamed, ‘They don’t want him to go.’ ‘Don’t they?’ I asked curiously. He nodded with an air of mystery and wisdom. ‘I tell you,’ he cried, ‘this man has broadened my mind.’ He spread his arms wide and stared at me with his little blue eyes, which were perfectly round.”