3

“I looked at him, lost in astonishment. There he was before me, in motley, as though he had absconded from a troupe of mimes, enthusiastic, fabulous. His very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and altogether bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It was inconceivable how he had existed, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had managed to remain—why he did not instantly disappear. ‘I went a little farther,’ he said, ‘then still a little farther—till I had gone so far that I don’t know how I’ll ever get back. Never mind. Plenty time. I can manage. You take Kurtz away quick—quick—I tell you.’ The glamour of youth enveloped his parti-coloured rags, his destitution, his loneliness, the essential desolation of his futile wanderings. For months—for years—his life hadn’t been worth a day’s purchase; and there he was gallantly, thoughtlessly alive, to all appearances indestructible solely by the virtue of his few years and of his unreflecting audacity. I was seduced into something like admiration—like envy. Glamour urged him on, glamour kept him unscathed. He surely wanted nothing from the wilderness but space to breathe in and to push on through. His need was to exist, and to move onwards at the greatest possible risk, and with a maximum of privation. If the absolutely pure, uncalculating, unpractical spirit of adventure had ever ruled a human being, it ruled this bepatched youth. I almost envied him the possession of this modest and clear flame. It seemed to have consumed all thought of self so completely, that even while he was talking to you, you forgot that it was he—the man before your eyes—who had gone through these things. I did not envy him his devotion to Kurtz, though. He had not meditated over it. It came to him, and he accepted it with a sort of eager fatalism. I must say that to me it appeared about the most dangerous thing in every way he had come upon so far.

“I stared at him in astonishment. There he stood in his colorful patchwork clothes, as though he had run away from a troupe of mime performers. He was enthusiastic, almost unreal. His very existence seemed improbable, impossible to explain, and utterly bewildering. He was a puzzle with no solution. I couldn’t imagine how he had survived, how he had come so far, or how he had managed to stay. Why didn’t he simply vanish? ‘I went a little farther,’ he said, ‘then a little farther still. Now I’ve gone so far that I don’t know how I’ll ever get back. Never mind. Plenty of time. I can manage. Take Kurtz away quickly, quickly, I tell you.’ The charm of youth surrounded his multicolored rags, his poverty, his loneliness, and the deep emptiness of his pointless wanderings. For months, for years, his life hadn’t been worth a day’s purchase. Yet there he was, boldly, thoughtlessly alive. He seemed indestructible simply because he was young and recklessly daring. I was drawn into something like admiration, something like envy. The spell of youth drove him onward and kept him unharmed. Surely he wanted nothing from the wilderness but room to breathe and to push ahead. He needed only to exist and keep moving, taking the greatest possible risks and enduring the greatest possible hardship. If the utterly pure spirit of adventure ever ruled anyone, it ruled this young man in his patched clothes. His adventurous spirit made no calculations and had no practical purpose. I almost envied him that small, clear flame. The flame seemed to have burned away all thought of himself. Even as he spoke, you forgot that the man before you had lived through those experiences. I did not envy his devotion to Kurtz, though. He had never thought that devotion through. The devotion had come to him, and he had accepted it with a kind of eager surrender to fate. I must say, his devotion seemed to me the most dangerous thing, in every way, he had encountered so far.”

“They had come together unavoidably, like two ships becalmed near each other, and lay rubbing sides at last. I suppose Kurtz wanted an audience, because on a certain occasion, when encamped in the forest, they had talked all night, or more probably Kurtz had talked. ‘We talked of everything,’ he said, quite transported at the recollection. ‘I forgot there was such a thing as sleep. The night did not seem to last an hour. Everything! Everything!... Of love, too.’ ‘Ah, he talked to you of love!’ I said, much amused. ‘It isn’t what you think,’ he cried, almost passionately. ‘It was in general. He made me see things—things.’

“They had been drawn together inevitably, like two ships stranded near each other without wind, finally rubbing against each other. I suppose Kurtz wanted an audience, because once, while camping in the forest, they had talked all night. Or more likely, Kurtz had done the talking. ‘We talked about everything,’ he said, swept away by the memory. ‘I forgot there was such a thing as sleep. The night didn’t seem to last even an hour. Everything! Everything!... Love, too.’ ‘Ah, he talked to you about love!’ I said, very amused. ‘It isn’t what you think,’ he cried, almost passionately. ‘He was talking about love in general. He made me see things, things.’”

“He threw his arms up. We were on deck at the time, and the headman of my wood-cutters, lounging near by, turned upon him his heavy and glittering eyes. I looked around, and I don’t know why, but I assure you that never, never before, did this land, this river, this jungle, the very arch of this blazing sky, appear to me so hopeless and so dark, so impenetrable to human thought, so pitiless to human weakness. ‘And, ever since, you have been with him, of course?’ I said.

“He threw his arms up. We were on deck at the time. The head of my wood-cutters was lounging nearby and turned his heavy, glittering eyes toward him. I looked around. I don’t know why, but I assure you, never, never before had this land seemed so hopeless and dark. The river, the jungle, even the arch of the blazing sky seemed just as hopeless and dark. They seemed so impossible for the human mind to understand, so merciless toward human weakness. ‘And you’ve been with him ever since, of course?’ I said.

“On the contrary. It appears their intercourse had been very much broken by various causes. He had, as he informed me proudly, managed to nurse Kurtz through two illnesses (he alluded to it as you would to some risky feat), but as a rule Kurtz wandered alone, far in the depths of the forest. ‘Very often coming to this station, I had to wait days and days before he would turn up,’ he said. ‘Ah, it was worth waiting for!—sometimes.’ ‘What was he doing? exploring or what?’ I asked. ‘Oh, yes, of course’; he had discovered lots of villages, a lake, too—he did not know exactly in what direction; it was dangerous to inquire too much—but mostly his expeditions had been for ivory. ‘But he had no goods to trade with by that time,’ I objected. ‘There’s a good lot of cartridges left even yet,’ he answered, looking away. ‘To speak plainly, he raided the country,’ I said. He nodded. ‘Not alone, surely!’ He muttered something about the villages round that lake. ‘Kurtz got the tribe to follow him, did he?’ I suggested. He fidgeted a little. ‘They adored him,’ he said. The tone of these words was so extraordinary that I looked at him searchingly. It was curious to see his mingled eagerness and reluctance to speak of Kurtz. The man filled his life, occupied his thoughts, swayed his emotions. ‘What can you expect?’ he burst out; ‘he came to them with thunder and lightning, you know—and they had never seen anything like it—and very terrible. He could be very terrible. You can’t judge Mr. Kurtz as you would an ordinary man. No, no, no! Now—just to give you an idea—I don’t mind telling you, he wanted to shoot me, too, one day—but I don’t judge him.’ ‘Shoot you!’ I cried. ‘What for?’ ‘Well, I had a small lot of ivory the chief of that village near my house gave me. You see I used to shoot game for them. Well, he wanted it, and wouldn’t hear reason. He declared he would shoot me unless I gave him the ivory and then cleared out of the country, because he could do so, and had a fancy for it, and there was nothing on earth to prevent him killing whom he jolly well pleased. And it was true, too. I gave him the ivory. What did I care! But I didn’t clear out. No, no. I couldn’t leave him. I had to be careful, of course, till we got friendly again for a time. He had his second illness then. Afterwards I had to keep out of the way; but I didn’t mind. He was living for the most part in those villages on the lake. When he came down to the river, sometimes he would take to me, and sometimes it was better for me to be careful. This man suffered too much. He hated all this, and somehow he couldn’t get away. When I had a chance I begged him to try and leave while there was time; I offered to go back with him. And he would say yes, and then he would remain; go off on another ivory hunt; disappear for weeks; forget himself amongst these people—forget himself—you know.’ ‘Why! he’s mad,’ I said. He protested indignantly. Mr. Kurtz couldn’t be mad. If I had heard him talk, only two days ago, I wouldn’t dare hint at such a thing.... I had taken up my binoculars while we talked, and was looking at the shore, sweeping the limit of the forest at each side and at the back of the house. The consciousness of there being people in that bush, so silent, so quiet—as silent and quiet as the ruined house on the hill—made me uneasy. There was no sign on the face of nature of this amazing tale that was not so much told as suggested to me in desolate exclamations, completed by shrugs, in interrupted phrases, in hints ending in deep sighs. The woods were unmoved, like a mask—heavy, like the closed door of a prison—they looked with their air of hidden knowledge, of patient expectation, of unapproachable silence. The Russian was explaining to me that it was only lately that Mr. Kurtz had come down to the river, bringing along with him all the fighting men of that lake tribe. He had been absent for several months—getting himself adored, I suppose—and had come down unexpectedly, with the intention to all appearance of making a raid either across the river or down stream. Evidently the appetite for more ivory had got the better of the—what shall I say?—less material aspirations. However he had got much worse suddenly. ‘I heard he was lying helpless, and so I came up—took my chance,’ said the Russian. ‘Oh, he is bad, very bad.’ I directed my glass to the house. There were no signs of life, but there was the ruined roof, the long mud wall peeping above the grass, with three little square window-holes, no two of the same size; all this brought within reach of my hand, as it were. And then I made a brusque movement, and one of the remaining posts of that vanished fence leaped up in the field of my glass. You remember I told you I had been struck at the distance by certain attempts at ornamentation, rather remarkable in the ruinous aspect of the place. Now I had suddenly a nearer view, and its first result was to make me throw my head back as if before a blow. Then I went carefully from post to post with my glass, and I saw my mistake. These round knobs were not ornamental but symbolic; they were expressive and puzzling, striking and disturbing—food for thought and also for vultures if there had been any looking down from the sky; but at all events for such ants as were industrious enough to ascend the pole. They would have been even more impressive, those heads on the stakes, if their faces had not been turned to the house. Only one, the first I had made out, was facing my way. I was not so shocked as you may think. The start back I had given was really nothing but a movement of surprise. I had expected to see a knob of wood there, you know. I returned deliberately to the first I had seen—and there it was, black, dried, sunken, with closed eyelids—a head that seemed to sleep at the top of that pole, and, with the shrunken dry lips showing a narrow white line of the teeth, was smiling, too, smiling continuously at some endless and jocose dream of that eternal slumber.

“On the contrary. It seemed their contact had been interrupted a great deal for various reasons. He proudly told me he had nursed Kurtz through two illnesses. He spoke of this as you might describe some dangerous achievement. But usually Kurtz wandered alone, deep in the forest. ‘Very often, when I came to this station, I had to wait days and days before he appeared,’ he said. ‘Ah, he was worth waiting for! Sometimes.’ ‘What was he doing? Exploring or what?’ I asked. ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Kurtz had discovered lots of villages, and a lake too. The Russian did not know exactly in what direction. It was dangerous to ask too many questions. But most of Kurtz’s expeditions had been for ivory. ‘But he had no goods left to trade by then,’ I objected. ‘There’s still a good supply of cartridges,’ he answered, looking away. ‘To put it plainly, he raided the country,’ I said. He nodded. ‘Surely not alone!’ He muttered something about the villages around that lake. ‘Kurtz persuaded the tribe to follow him, did he?’ I suggested. He fidgeted a little. ‘They adored him,’ he said. His tone was so extraordinary that I studied him closely. It was curious how eager he was to speak about Kurtz, and yet how reluctant. Kurtz filled his life, occupied his thoughts, and controlled his emotions. ‘What can you expect?’ he burst out. ‘He came to them with thunder and lightning, you know. They had never seen anything like it, and it was terrifying. He could be terrifying. You can’t judge Mr. Kurtz as you would an ordinary man. No, no, no! Now, just to give you an idea, I don’t mind telling you. One day he wanted to shoot me too. But I don’t judge him.’ ‘Shoot you!’ I cried. ‘What for?’ ‘Well, I had a little ivory from the chief of that village near my house. You see, I used to hunt game for them. Well, Kurtz wanted the ivory, and he wouldn’t listen to reason. He said he would shoot me unless I gave him the ivory and then left the country. He could shoot me, he said, and he felt like doing it. Nothing on earth could stop him from killing whoever he damn well pleased. And that was true too. I gave him the ivory. What did I care! But I didn’t leave the country. No, no. I couldn’t leave him. Of course, I had to be careful until we became friendly again for a while. Then he had his second illness. Afterward, I had to keep out of his way, but I didn’t mind. He was living mostly in those villages by the lake. When he came down to the river, he was sometimes friendly toward me. At other times, I was better off being careful. This man suffered too much. He hated all this, and somehow he couldn’t get away. Whenever I had a chance, I begged him to try to leave while there was still time. I offered to go back with him. He would say yes, and then he would stay. He would go off on another ivory hunt and disappear for weeks. He would lose himself among these people. Lose himself, you know.’ ‘Why, he’s mad,’ I said. The Russian protested indignantly. Mr. Kurtz couldn’t be mad. If I had heard him talk only two days earlier, I wouldn’t dare suggest such a thing.... While we talked, I had picked up my binoculars and was looking at the shore. I scanned the forest’s edge on both sides of the house and behind it. Knowing there were people in that undergrowth made me uneasy. They were so silent, so still, as silent and still as the ruined house on the hill. Nothing in the natural scene showed any sign of this astonishing story. The Russian had suggested the story rather than told it, through bleak exclamations, shrugs, broken phrases, and hints ending in deep sighs. The forest remained unmoved, like a mask. It seemed heavy, like a prison’s closed door. It had an air of hidden knowledge, patient expectation, and silence no one could penetrate. The Russian explained that Mr. Kurtz had come down to the river only recently. He had brought all the fighting men of that lake tribe with him. He had been away for several months, getting himself adored, I suppose. Then he had come down unexpectedly, apparently planning a raid across the river or farther downstream. Clearly, his hunger for more ivory had overcome his, what shall I call them, less material ambitions. But suddenly he had become much worse. ‘I heard he was lying helpless, so I came up and took my chances,’ said the Russian. ‘Oh, he’s very ill, very ill.’ I pointed my binoculars at the house. There were no signs of life. But I could see the ruined roof and the long mud wall showing above the grass. The wall had three small square window openings, no two the same size. Through the binoculars, everything seemed close enough to touch. Then I moved abruptly, and a remaining post from the vanished fence sprang into view. You remember I told you that, from a distance, I had noticed some attempts at decoration. Those decorations seemed rather remarkable amid the ruins. Now, suddenly, I saw one close up. At first I jerked my head back as if someone were about to hit me. Then I carefully examined each post through the binoculars, and I saw my mistake. Those round knobs were not decorations but symbols. They were expressive and puzzling, striking and disturbing. They were food for thought, and also for vultures, if any had been looking down from the sky. In any case, they were food for ants industrious enough to climb the poles. Those heads on stakes would have been even more impressive if their faces had not been turned toward the house. Only one, the first I had spotted, faced me. I was not as shocked as you might think. My recoil had really been nothing more than surprise. I had expected to see a wooden knob there, you know. I deliberately looked again at the first head I had seen. There it was, black, dried, sunken, with closed eyelids. The head seemed to sleep on top of that pole. Its dry, shriveled lips revealed a thin white line of teeth. And it was smiling too, smiling endlessly at some everlasting, merry dream of that eternal sleep.

“I am not disclosing any trade secrets. In fact, the manager said afterwards that Mr. Kurtz’s methods had ruined the district. I have no opinion on that point, but I want you clearly to understand that there was nothing exactly profitable in these heads being there. They only showed that Mr. Kurtz lacked restraint in the gratification of his various lusts, that there was something wanting in him—some small matter which, when the pressing need arose, could not be found under his magnificent eloquence. Whether he knew of this deficiency himself I can’t say. I think the knowledge came to him at last—only at the very last. But the wilderness had found him out early, and had taken on him a terrible vengeance for the fantastic invasion. I think it had whispered to him things about himself which he did not know, things of which he had no conception till he took counsel with this great solitude—and the whisper had proved irresistibly fascinating. It echoed loudly within him because he was hollow at the core.... I put down the glass, and the head that had appeared near enough to be spoken to seemed at once to have leaped away from me into inaccessible distance.

“I am not revealing any trade secrets. In fact, the manager said afterwards that Mr. Kurtz’s methods had ruined the district. I have no opinion on that. But I want you to understand clearly that there was no real profit in having those heads there. They only showed that Mr. Kurtz had no restraint in satisfying his various lusts. Something was missing in him, some small thing that, when urgently needed, could not be found beneath his magnificent words. Whether he knew about this failing himself, I can’t say. I think he finally recognized it, but only at the very end. But the wilderness had discovered his failing early. It had taken terrible revenge on him for his outlandish invasion. I think the wilderness had whispered things about himself that he did not know. He had never imagined those things until he turned to this vast solitude for advice. And the whisper had proved irresistibly fascinating. It echoed loudly inside him because he was hollow at the core.... I lowered the telescope. The head had seemed close enough to speak to. Now it seemed suddenly to have leaped away from me, too far away to reach.

“The admirer of Mr. Kurtz was a bit crestfallen. In a hurried, indistinct voice he began to assure me he had not dared to take these—say, symbols—down. He was not afraid of the natives; they would not stir till Mr. Kurtz gave the word. His ascendancy was extraordinary. The camps of these people surrounded the place, and the chiefs came every day to see him. They would crawl.... ‘I don’t want to know anything of the ceremonies used when approaching Mr. Kurtz,’ I shouted. Curious, this feeling that came over me that such details would be more intolerable than those heads drying on the stakes under Mr. Kurtz’s windows. After all, that was only a savage sight, while I seemed at one bound to have been transported into some lightless region of subtle horrors, where pure, uncomplicated savagery was a positive relief, being something that had a right to exist—obviously—in the sunshine. The young man looked at me with surprise. I suppose it did not occur to him that Mr. Kurtz was no idol of mine. He forgot I hadn’t heard any of these splendid monologues on, what was it? on love, justice, conduct of life—or what not. If it had come to crawling before Mr. Kurtz, he crawled as much as the veriest savage of them all. I had no idea of the conditions, he said: these heads were the heads of rebels. I shocked him excessively by laughing. Rebels! What would be the next definition I was to hear? There had been enemies, criminals, workers—and these were rebels. Those rebellious heads looked very subdued to me on their sticks. ‘You don’t know how such a life tries a man like Kurtz,’ cried Kurtz’s last disciple. ‘Well, and you?’ I said. ‘I! I! I am a simple man. I have no great thoughts. I want nothing from anybody. How can you compare me to...?’ His feelings were too much for speech, and suddenly he broke down. ‘I don’t understand,’ he groaned. ‘I’ve been doing my best to keep him alive, and that’s enough. I had no hand in all this. I have no abilities. There hasn’t been a drop of medicine or a mouthful of invalid food for months here. He was shamefully abandoned. A man like this, with such ideas. Shamefully! Shamefully! I—I—haven’t slept for the last ten nights...’

“Mr. Kurtz’s admirer looked a little discouraged. Speaking quickly and unclearly, he began assuring me he had not dared take down these, let’s say, symbols. He was not afraid of the local people. They would not move until Mr. Kurtz gave the word. His power over them was extraordinary. Their camps surrounded the place, and the chiefs came every day to see him. They would crawl.... ‘I don’t want to know anything about the ceremonies for approaching Mr. Kurtz,’ I shouted. It was strange to feel that such details would be harder to bear than those heads drying on stakes under Mr. Kurtz’s windows. After all, the heads were only a savage sight. But I seemed to have leaped into some dark region of subtle horrors. There, pure, simple savagery was a real relief. It was something that obviously had a right to exist in the sunshine. The young man looked at me in surprise. I suppose he never considered that Mr. Kurtz was no idol of mine. He forgot I had heard none of those splendid speeches. What were they about? Love, justice, how to live, or whatever else. If it came to crawling before Mr. Kurtz, he crawled as much as the most savage of them all. I had no idea what conditions were like, he said. These heads were the heads of rebels. I shocked him terribly by laughing. Rebels! What label would I hear next? There had been enemies, criminals, workers, and now these were rebels. Those rebellious heads looked very subdued to me on their sticks. ‘You don’t know how a life like this wears down a man like Kurtz,’ cried Kurtz’s last disciple. ‘Well, what about you?’ I said. ‘I! I! I am a simple man. I have no great thoughts. I want nothing from anybody. How can you compare me to...?’ He was too overcome with emotion to speak, and suddenly he broke down. ‘I don’t understand,’ he groaned. ‘I’ve been doing my best to keep him alive, and that’s enough. I had no part in all this. I have no abilities. There hasn’t been a drop of medicine or a mouthful of food for a sick man here for months. He was shamefully abandoned. A man like this, with such ideas. Shamefully! Shamefully! I... I... haven’t slept for the last ten nights...’

“His voice lost itself in the calm of the evening. The long shadows of the forest had slipped downhill while we talked, had gone far beyond the ruined hovel, beyond the symbolic row of stakes. All this was in the gloom, while we down there were yet in the sunshine, and the stretch of the river abreast of the clearing glittered in a still and dazzling splendour, with a murky and overshadowed bend above and below. Not a living soul was seen on the shore. The bushes did not rustle.

“His voice faded into the evening calm. As we talked, the forest’s long shadows had slipped downhill. They had stretched far beyond the ruined hut and beyond the symbolic row of stakes. All of this lay in shadow, while we down below were still in sunlight. The stretch of river beside the clearing glittered with a still, dazzling brightness. But the bends upstream and downstream were dark and shadowed. Not a living soul could be seen on the shore. The bushes did not rustle.

“Suddenly round the corner of the house a group of men appeared, as though they had come up from the ground. They waded waist-deep in the grass, in a compact body, bearing an improvised stretcher in their midst. Instantly, in the emptiness of the landscape, a cry arose whose shrillness pierced the still air like a sharp arrow flying straight to the very heart of the land; and, as if by enchantment, streams of human beings—of naked human beings—with spears in their hands, with bows, with shields, with wild glances and savage movements, were poured into the clearing by the dark-faced and pensive forest. The bushes shook, the grass swayed for a time, and then everything stood still in attentive immobility.

“Suddenly a group of men appeared around the corner of the house, as though they had risen from the ground. They waded in a tight group through waist-deep grass, carrying a makeshift stretcher in their midst. At once, a cry rose in the empty landscape. Its piercing sound cut through the still air like a sharp arrow flying straight to the land’s very heart. And, as if by magic, the dark, brooding forest poured streams of naked people into the clearing. They carried spears, bows, and shields, with wild looks and savage movements. The bushes shook, and the grass swayed for a while. Then everything stood still, as if watching and listening.”

“‘Now, if he does not say the right thing to them we are all done for,’ said the Russian at my elbow. The knot of men with the stretcher had stopped, too, halfway to the steamer, as if petrified. I saw the man on the stretcher sit up, lank and with an uplifted arm, above the shoulders of the bearers. ‘Let us hope that the man who can talk so well of love in general will find some particular reason to spare us this time,’ I said. I resented bitterly the absurd danger of our situation, as if to be at the mercy of that atrocious phantom had been a dishonouring necessity. I could not hear a sound, but through my glasses I saw the thin arm extended commandingly, the lower jaw moving, the eyes of that apparition shining darkly far in its bony head that nodded with grotesque jerks. Kurtz—Kurtz—that means short in German—don’t it? Well, the name was as true as everything else in his life—and death. He looked at least seven feet long. His covering had fallen off, and his body emerged from it pitiful and appalling as from a winding-sheet. I could see the cage of his ribs all astir, the bones of his arm waving. It was as though an animated image of death carved out of old ivory had been shaking its hand with menaces at a motionless crowd of men made of dark and glittering bronze. I saw him open his mouth wide—it gave him a weirdly voracious aspect, as though he had wanted to swallow all the air, all the earth, all the men before him. A deep voice reached me faintly. He must have been shouting. He fell back suddenly. The stretcher shook as the bearers staggered forward again, and almost at the same time I noticed that the crowd of savages was vanishing without any perceptible movement of retreat, as if the forest that had ejected these beings so suddenly had drawn them in again as the breath is drawn in a long aspiration.

“‘Now, if he doesn’t say the right thing to them, we’re all done for,’ said the Russian beside me. The men carrying the stretcher had also stopped halfway to the steamer, as if turned to stone. I saw the man on the stretcher sit up above the bearers’ shoulders, his body thin, one arm raised. ‘Let’s hope the man who speaks so well about love in general finds some particular reason to spare us this time,’ I said. I bitterly resented the absurd danger we faced. It was as if being at the mercy of that hideous ghost were a necessity that dishonored us. I couldn’t hear a sound, but through my binoculars I saw his thin arm stretched out in command. His lower jaw moved, and his eyes gleamed darkly, deep in his bony head. His head nodded in grotesque jerks. Kurtz. Kurtz means short in German, doesn’t it? Well, his name was as truthful as everything else in his life and death. He looked at least seven feet long. His covering had fallen away, revealing his body, pitiful and horrifying, as if emerging from a burial shroud. I could see his rib cage moving and the bones of his arm waving. He looked like a figure of death carved from old ivory and brought to life. It was as though this figure were shaking its hand threateningly at a motionless crowd made of dark, gleaming bronze. I saw him open his mouth wide, giving him a strangely ravenous look. It was as though he wanted to swallow all the air, all the earth, all the men before him. A deep voice reached me faintly. He must have been shouting. He suddenly fell back. The stretcher shook as the bearers staggered forward again. Almost at the same time, I noticed the crowd of savages vanishing, without any visible movement of retreat. It was as if the forest, having suddenly thrown these beings out, had drawn them back in with one long breath.”

“Some of the pilgrims behind the stretcher carried his arms—two shot-guns, a heavy rifle, and a light revolver-carbine—the thunderbolts of that pitiful Jupiter. The manager bent over him murmuring as he walked beside his head. They laid him down in one of the little cabins—just a room for a bed place and a camp-stool or two, you know. We had brought his belated correspondence, and a lot of torn envelopes and open letters littered his bed. His hand roamed feebly amongst these papers. I was struck by the fire of his eyes and the composed languor of his expression. It was not so much the exhaustion of disease. He did not seem in pain. This shadow looked satiated and calm, as though for the moment it had had its fill of all the emotions.

“Some of the pilgrims behind the stretcher carried his weapons: two shotguns, a heavy rifle, and a light revolver-carbine. These were the thunderbolts of that pitiful Jupiter. The manager leaned over him, murmuring as he walked beside his head. They laid him in one of the little cabins. There was just room for a bed and a camp stool or two, you know. We had brought his overdue mail, and torn envelopes and open letters lay scattered across his bed. His hand moved weakly among the papers. I was struck by his fiery eyes and the calm weariness of his expression. It was not so much the exhaustion of illness. He did not seem to be in pain. This shadow of a man looked satisfied and calm. It was as though, for the moment, he had had his fill of all the emotions.”

“He rustled one of the letters, and looking straight in my face said, ‘I am glad.’ Somebody had been writing to him about me. These special recommendations were turning up again. The volume of tone he emitted without effort, almost without the trouble of moving his lips, amazed me. A voice! a voice! It was grave, profound, vibrating, while the man did not seem capable of a whisper. However, he had enough strength in him—factitious no doubt—to very nearly make an end of us, as you shall hear directly.

“He rustled one of the letters, looked me straight in the face, and said, ‘I am glad.’ Somebody had been writing to him about me. Those special recommendations were turning up again. The sheer volume of his voice amazed me. He produced it effortlessly, barely even moving his lips. What a voice! What a voice! It was deep, solemn, and resonant, though the man seemed too weak even to whisper. Still, he had enough strength to very nearly finish us off, as you will soon hear. No doubt that strength was artificial.

“The manager appeared silently in the doorway; I stepped out at once and he drew the curtain after me. The Russian, eyed curiously by the pilgrims, was staring at the shore. I followed the direction of his glance.

“The manager appeared silently in the doorway. I stepped out at once, and he closed the curtain behind me. The pilgrims watched the Russian curiously as he stared at the shore. I looked in the same direction.

“Dark human shapes could be made out in the distance, flitting indistinctly against the gloomy border of the forest, and near the river two bronze figures, leaning on tall spears, stood in the sunlight under fantastic head-dresses of spotted skins, warlike and still in statuesque repose. And from right to left along the lighted shore moved a wild and gorgeous apparition of a woman.

“Dark human shapes could be seen in the distance, moving like shadows against the dark edge of the forest. Near the river, two bronze-colored figures stood in the sunlight, leaning on tall spears. They wore elaborate headdresses of spotted skins and stood like statues, warlike and motionless. And from right to left along the sunlit shore moved a woman, a wild and magnificent vision.

“She walked with measured steps, draped in striped and fringed cloths, treading the earth proudly, with a slight jingle and flash of barbarous ornaments. She carried her head high; her hair was done in the shape of a helmet; she had brass leggings to the knee, brass wire gauntlets to the elbow, a crimson spot on her tawny cheek, innumerable necklaces of glass beads on her neck; bizarre things, charms, gifts of witch-men, that hung about her, glittered and trembled at every step. She must have had the value of several elephant tusks upon her. She was savage and superb, wild-eyed and magnificent; there was something ominous and stately in her deliberate progress. And in the hush that had fallen suddenly upon the whole sorrowful land, the immense wilderness, the colossal body of the fecund and mysterious life seemed to look at her, pensive, as though it had been looking at the image of its own tenebrous and passionate soul.

“She walked with slow, steady steps, draped in striped cloths with fringes. She trod proudly on the earth, her barbaric ornaments jingling softly and flashing. She held her head high, and her hair was shaped like a helmet. Brass leggings reached her knees, and gloves of brass wire reached her elbows. She had a crimson spot on her golden-brown cheek and countless necklaces of glass beads around her neck. Strange objects, charms, and gifts from witch doctors hung about her, glittering and trembling with every step. She must have been wearing ornaments worth several elephant tusks. She was savage and splendid, wild-eyed and magnificent. There was something threatening and majestic in her slow, deliberate approach. Silence had suddenly fallen over the whole sorrowful land. In that silence, the immense wilderness seemed to gaze at her thoughtfully. That vast body of fertile, mysterious life seemed to be looking at an image of its own dark, passionate soul.

“She came abreast of the steamer, stood still, and faced us. Her long shadow fell to the water’s edge. Her face had a tragic and fierce aspect of wild sorrow and of dumb pain mingled with the fear of some struggling, half-shaped resolve. She stood looking at us without a stir, and like the wilderness itself, with an air of brooding over an inscrutable purpose. A whole minute passed, and then she made a step forward. There was a low jingle, a glint of yellow metal, a sway of fringed draperies, and she stopped as if her heart had failed her. The young fellow by my side growled. The pilgrims murmured at my back. She looked at us all as if her life had depended upon the unswerving steadiness of her glance. Suddenly she opened her bared arms and threw them up rigid above her head, as though in an uncontrollable desire to touch the sky, and at the same time the swift shadows darted out on the earth, swept around on the river, gathering the steamer into a shadowy embrace. A formidable silence hung over the scene.

“She came alongside the steamer, stopped, and faced us. Her long shadow reached the water’s edge. Her face showed fierce, tragic grief and silent pain, mixed with fear of some struggling, half-formed determination. She stood watching us without moving. Like the wilderness itself, she seemed to brood over some purpose no one could understand. A whole minute passed, and then she took a step forward. There was a soft jingle, a flash of yellow metal, and a sway of fringed clothing. Then she stopped as if her courage had failed her. The young man beside me growled. The pilgrims murmured behind me. She looked at us all as if her life depended on keeping her gaze absolutely steady. Suddenly she spread her bare arms and raised them stiffly above her head. It was as though she had an uncontrollable desire to touch the sky. At the same time, swift shadows shot across the ground and swept around on the river. The shadows gathered the steamer into a dark embrace. An overwhelming silence hung over the scene.

“She turned away slowly, walked on, following the bank, and passed into the bushes to the left. Once only her eyes gleamed back at us in the dusk of the thickets before she disappeared.

“She slowly turned away and walked along the bank, then entered the bushes to the left. Just once, her eyes gleamed back at us in the shadowy bushes before she disappeared.

“‘If she had offered to come aboard I really think I would have tried to shoot her,’ said the man of patches, nervously. ‘I have been risking my life every day for the last fortnight to keep her out of the house. She got in one day and kicked up a row about those miserable rags I picked up in the storeroom to mend my clothes with. I wasn’t decent. At least it must have been that, for she talked like a fury to Kurtz for an hour, pointing at me now and then. I don’t understand the dialect of this tribe. Luckily for me, I fancy Kurtz felt too ill that day to care, or there would have been mischief. I don’t understand.... No—it’s too much for me. Ah, well, it’s all over now.’

“‘If she had offered to come aboard, I really think I would have tried to shoot her,’ said the man in patched clothes, nervously. ‘I’ve been risking my life every day for the last two weeks to keep her out of the house. One day she got in and made a scene about those miserable rags. I’d picked them up in the storeroom to mend my clothes. I wasn’t decent. At least that must have been the problem, because she raged at Kurtz for an hour, pointing at me occasionally. I don’t understand this tribe’s dialect. Luckily for me, I suppose Kurtz felt too ill that day to care. Otherwise, there would have been trouble. I don’t understand.... No, it’s too much for me. Ah, well, it’s all over now.’

“At this moment I heard Kurtz’s deep voice behind the curtain: ‘Save me!—save the ivory, you mean. Don’t tell me. Save me! Why, I’ve had to save you. You are interrupting my plans now. Sick! Sick! Not so sick as you would like to believe. Never mind. I’ll carry my ideas out yet—I will return. I’ll show you what can be done. You with your little peddling notions—you are interfering with me. I will return. I....’

“At that moment I heard Kurtz’s deep voice behind the curtain: ‘Save me! You mean save the ivory. Don’t tell me. Save me! Why, I’ve had to save you. You’re disrupting my plans now. Sick! Sick! Not as sick as you’d like to believe. Never mind. I’ll still carry out my ideas. I will return. I’ll show you what can be done. You and your petty trading schemes. You’re getting in my way. I will return. I....’

“The manager came out. He did me the honour to take me under the arm and lead me aside. ‘He is very low, very low,’ he said. He considered it necessary to sigh, but neglected to be consistently sorrowful. ‘We have done all we could for him—haven’t we? But there is no disguising the fact, Mr. Kurtz has done more harm than good to the Company. He did not see the time was not ripe for vigorous action. Cautiously, cautiously—that’s my principle. We must be cautious yet. The district is closed to us for a time. Deplorable! Upon the whole, the trade will suffer. I don’t deny there is a remarkable quantity of ivory—mostly fossil. We must save it, at all events—but look how precarious the position is—and why? Because the method is unsound.’ ‘Do you,’ said I, looking at the shore, ‘call it “unsound method?”’ ‘Without doubt,’ he exclaimed hotly. ‘Don’t you?’... ‘No method at all,’ I murmured after a while. ‘Exactly,’ he exulted. ‘I anticipated this. Shows a complete want of judgment. It is my duty to point it out in the proper quarter.’ ‘Oh,’ said I, ‘that fellow—what’s his name?—the brickmaker, will make a readable report for you.’ He appeared confounded for a moment. It seemed to me I had never breathed an atmosphere so vile, and I turned mentally to Kurtz for relief—positively for relief. ‘Nevertheless I think Mr. Kurtz is a remarkable man,’ I said with emphasis. He started, dropped on me a heavy glance, said very quietly, ‘he was,’ and turned his back on me. My hour of favour was over; I found myself lumped along with Kurtz as a partisan of methods for which the time was not ripe: I was unsound! Ah! but it was something to have at least a choice of nightmares.

“The manager came out. He did me the honour of taking my arm and leading me aside. ‘He is very weak, very weak,’ he said. He felt obliged to sigh, but forgot to keep sounding sorrowful. ‘We have done all we could for him, haven’t we? But there’s no hiding the fact that Mr. Kurtz has done more harm than good to the Company. He failed to see that the time wasn’t right for forceful action. Caution, caution, that’s my principle. We must still be cautious. The district is closed to us for a time. Deplorable! Overall, trade will suffer. I don’t deny there’s a remarkable amount of ivory, mostly fossil ivory. We must save the ivory, whatever happens. But look how uncertain our position is. And why? Because the method is unsound.’ ‘Do you,’ I said, looking at the shore, ‘call it “an unsound method?”’ ‘Without a doubt,’ he exclaimed heatedly. ‘Don’t you?’... ‘No method at all,’ I murmured after a while. ‘Exactly,’ he said triumphantly. ‘I expected this. It shows a complete lack of judgment. It’s my duty to report this to the proper authorities.’ ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘that fellow, what’s his name? The brickmaker. He’ll write you a readable report.’ He looked bewildered for a moment. It seemed to me I had never been surrounded by anything so vile. I turned to the thought of Kurtz for relief, actually for relief. ‘Even so, I think Mr. Kurtz is a remarkable man,’ I said firmly. He gave a start, fixed me with a heavy stare, and said very quietly, ‘he was.’ Then he turned his back on me. My brief time in his favour was over. I found myself grouped with Kurtz as a supporter of methods for which the time wasn’t right. I was unsound! Ah! But at least it was something to have a choice of nightmares.

“I had turned to the wilderness really, not to Mr. Kurtz, who, I was ready to admit, was as good as buried. And for a moment it seemed to me as if I also were buried in a vast grave full of unspeakable secrets. I felt an intolerable weight oppressing my breast, the smell of the damp earth, the unseen presence of victorious corruption, the darkness of an impenetrable night.... The Russian tapped me on the shoulder. I heard him mumbling and stammering something about ‘brother seaman—couldn’t conceal—knowledge of matters that would affect Mr. Kurtz’s reputation.’ I waited. For him evidently Mr. Kurtz was not in his grave; I suspect that for him Mr. Kurtz was one of the immortals. ‘Well!’ said I at last, ‘speak out. As it happens, I am Mr. Kurtz’s friend—in a way.’

“I had really turned to the wilderness, not to Mr. Kurtz. I was ready to admit that Mr. Kurtz was as good as buried. And for a moment I felt as if I too were buried in a vast grave full of unspeakable secrets. I felt an unbearable weight pressing on my chest. I smelled the damp earth and sensed the unseen presence of decay that had triumphed. I felt the darkness of a night no light could pierce.... The Russian tapped me on the shoulder. I heard him mumbling and stammering something about ‘fellow sailor, couldn’t hide it, knew things that would affect Mr. Kurtz’s reputation.’ I waited. To him, clearly, Mr. Kurtz was not in his grave. I suspect that, to him, Mr. Kurtz was one of the immortals. ‘Well!’ I said at last. ‘Speak up. As it happens, I am Mr. Kurtz’s friend, in a way.’

“He stated with a good deal of formality that had we not been ‘of the same profession,’ he would have kept the matter to himself without regard to consequences. ‘He suspected there was an active ill-will towards him on the part of these white men that—’ ‘You are right,’ I said, remembering a certain conversation I had overheard. ‘The manager thinks you ought to be hanged.’ He showed a concern at this intelligence which amused me at first. ‘I had better get out of the way quietly,’ he said earnestly. ‘I can do no more for Kurtz now, and they would soon find some excuse. What’s to stop them? There’s a military post three hundred miles from here.’ ‘Well, upon my word,’ said I, ‘perhaps you had better go if you have any friends amongst the savages near by.’ ‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘They are simple people—and I want nothing, you know.’ He stood biting his lip, then: ‘I don’t want any harm to happen to these whites here, but of course I was thinking of Mr. Kurtz’s reputation—but you are a brother seaman and—’ ‘All right,’ said I, after a time. ‘Mr. Kurtz’s reputation is safe with me.’ I did not know how truly I spoke.

“He told me quite formally that if we had not been ‘in the same profession,’ he would have said nothing. He would have kept the matter to himself, whatever the consequences. ‘He suspected these white men were actively working against him, and that...’ ‘You are right,’ I said, remembering a conversation I had overheard. ‘The manager thinks you ought to be hanged.’ His worry at this news amused me at first. ‘I had better slip away quietly,’ he said earnestly. ‘I can do no more for Kurtz now, and these men would soon find some excuse. What’s to stop them? There’s a military post three hundred miles from here.’ ‘Well, honestly,’ I said, ‘perhaps you had better go if you have any friends among the savages nearby.’ ‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘They are simple people, and I want nothing from them, you know.’ He stood biting his lip, then said: ‘I don’t want any harm to come to these white men here. But of course I was thinking of Mr. Kurtz’s reputation. But you are a fellow sailor, and...’ ‘All right,’ I said after a while. ‘Mr. Kurtz’s reputation is safe with me.’ I did not know how true my words were.

“He informed me, lowering his voice, that it was Kurtz who had ordered the attack to be made on the steamer. ‘He hated sometimes the idea of being taken away—and then again.... But I don’t understand these matters. I am a simple man. He thought it would scare you away—that you would give it up, thinking him dead. I could not stop him. Oh, I had an awful time of it this last month.’ ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘He is all right now.’ ‘Ye-e-es,’ he muttered, not very convinced apparently. ‘Thanks,’ said I; ‘I shall keep my eyes open.’ ‘But quiet-eh?’ he urged anxiously. ‘It would be awful for his reputation if anybody here—’ I promised a complete discretion with great gravity. ‘I have a canoe and three black fellows waiting not very far. I am off. Could you give me a few Martini-Henry cartridges?’ I could, and did, with proper secrecy. He helped himself, with a wink at me, to a handful of my tobacco. ‘Between sailors—you know—good English tobacco.’ At the door of the pilot-house he turned round—‘I say, haven’t you a pair of shoes you could spare?’ He raised one leg. ‘Look.’ The soles were tied with knotted strings sandalwise under his bare feet. I rooted out an old pair, at which he looked with admiration before tucking it under his left arm. One of his pockets (bright red) was bulging with cartridges, from the other (dark blue) peeped ‘Towson’s Inquiry,’ etc., etc. He seemed to think himself excellently well equipped for a renewed encounter with the wilderness. ‘Ah! I’ll never, never meet such a man again. You ought to have heard him recite poetry—his own, too, it was, he told me. Poetry!’ He rolled his eyes at the recollection of these delights. ‘Oh, he enlarged my mind!’ ‘Good-bye,’ said I. He shook hands and vanished in the night. Sometimes I ask myself whether I had ever really seen him—whether it was possible to meet such a phenomenon!...

“He lowered his voice and told me that Kurtz had ordered the attack on the steamer. ‘Sometimes he hated the idea of being taken away. Then again.... But I don’t understand these things. I’m a simple man. He thought the attack would scare you away. You would think he was dead and give up. I couldn’t stop him. Oh, I’ve had an awful time this past month.’ ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘He’s all right now.’ ‘Yeees,’ he muttered, apparently not very convinced. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll keep my eyes open.’ ‘But keep quiet, eh?’ he urged anxiously. ‘It would be awful for his reputation if anybody here...’ With great seriousness, I promised to say nothing. ‘I have a canoe and three black men waiting nearby. I’m leaving. Could you give me a few Martini-Henry cartridges?’ I could, and did, keeping it properly secret. He winked at me and helped himself to a handful of my tobacco. ‘Between sailors, you know. Good English tobacco.’ At the door of the pilot-house, he turned around. ‘I say, have you got a pair of shoes you could spare?’ He raised one leg. ‘Look.’ Shoe soles were tied under his bare feet with knotted strings, like sandals. I dug out an old pair of shoes. He looked at them admiringly, then tucked them under his left arm. One pocket, bright red, bulged with cartridges. From the other, dark blue, ‘Towson’s Inquiry,’ etc., etc., peeked out. He seemed to think he was excellently equipped to face the wilderness again. ‘Ah! I’ll never, never meet another man like him. You should have heard him recite poetry. His own poetry, too, he told me. Poetry!’ He rolled his eyes as he remembered those delights. ‘Oh, he opened my mind!’ ‘Goodbye,’ I said. He shook hands and vanished into the night. Sometimes I ask myself whether I ever really saw him. Was it possible to meet such an extraordinary creature!...

“When I woke up shortly after midnight his warning came to my mind with its hint of danger that seemed, in the starred darkness, real enough to make me get up for the purpose of having a look round. On the hill a big fire burned, illuminating fitfully a crooked corner of the station-house. One of the agents with a picket of a few of our blacks, armed for the purpose, was keeping guard over the ivory; but deep within the forest, red gleams that wavered, that seemed to sink and rise from the ground amongst confused columnar shapes of intense blackness, showed the exact position of the camp where Mr. Kurtz’s adorers were keeping their uneasy vigil. The monotonous beating of a big drum filled the air with muffled shocks and a lingering vibration. A steady droning sound of many men chanting each to himself some weird incantation came out from the black, flat wall of the woods as the humming of bees comes out of a hive, and had a strange narcotic effect upon my half-awake senses. I believe I dozed off leaning over the rail, till an abrupt burst of yells, an overwhelming outbreak of a pent-up and mysterious frenzy, woke me up in a bewildered wonder. It was cut short all at once, and the low droning went on with an effect of audible and soothing silence. I glanced casually into the little cabin. A light was burning within, but Mr. Kurtz was not there.

“When I woke shortly after midnight, I remembered his warning and its hint of danger. In the darkness under the stars, the danger seemed real enough to make me get up and look around. On the hill, a large fire burned, casting flickering light on a crooked corner of the station house. One of the agents was guarding the ivory with a few of our black men, armed for the task. But deep in the forest, red flashes flickered among jumbled, pitch-black shapes like columns. The flashes seemed to sink into the ground and rise again. They showed exactly where Mr. Kurtz’s worshippers had their camp and kept their uneasy watch. The monotonous beating of a large drum filled the air with muffled thuds and a lingering vibration. From the flat, black wall of the forest came the steady drone of many men chanting strange spells to themselves. The sound came out like the humming of bees from a hive. It had a strangely drugging effect on my half-awake senses. I believe I dozed off while leaning over the rail, until a sudden burst of yells woke me in bewilderment. The yells were an overwhelming outburst of a mysterious frenzy that had been held back. They stopped all at once, and the low droning continued, like a silence I could hear, soothing me. I glanced casually into the little cabin. A light was burning inside, but Mr. Kurtz was not there.”

“I think I would have raised an outcry if I had believed my eyes. But I didn’t believe them at first—the thing seemed so impossible. The fact is I was completely unnerved by a sheer blank fright, pure abstract terror, unconnected with any distinct shape of physical danger. What made this emotion so overpowering was—how shall I define it?—the moral shock I received, as if something altogether monstrous, intolerable to thought and odious to the soul, had been thrust upon me unexpectedly. This lasted of course the merest fraction of a second, and then the usual sense of commonplace, deadly danger, the possibility of a sudden onslaught and massacre, or something of the kind, which I saw impending, was positively welcome and composing. It pacified me, in fact, so much that I did not raise an alarm.

“I think I would have cried out if I had believed my eyes. But at first I didn’t believe them. What I saw seemed so impossible. The truth is, I was completely shaken by a stark, empty fear, pure terror unrelated to any specific physical danger. What made the feeling so overwhelming? How can I describe it? It was the shock to my sense of right and wrong. I felt as if something utterly monstrous had suddenly been forced upon me, unbearable to think about and repulsive to the soul. Of course, that feeling lasted only a tiny fraction of a second. Then came the familiar sense of immediate, deadly danger. I could see a sudden attack and massacre, or something like that, about to happen. That familiar danger actually felt welcome and calming. In fact, the danger calmed me so much that I did not raise an alarm.

“There was an agent buttoned up inside an ulster and sleeping on a chair on deck within three feet of me. The yells had not awakened him; he snored very slightly; I left him to his slumbers and leaped ashore. I did not betray Mr. Kurtz—it was ordered I should never betray him—it was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice. I was anxious to deal with this shadow by myself alone—and to this day I don’t know why I was so jealous of sharing with any one the peculiar blackness of that experience.

“An agent sat sleeping in a chair on deck, buttoned into a heavy overcoat, within three feet of me. The yells had not woken him. He snored very softly. I left him sleeping and leaped ashore. I did not betray Mr. Kurtz. It was ordained that I should never betray him. It was written that I should stay loyal to the nightmare I had chosen. I was eager to deal with this shadow entirely on my own. To this day, I don’t know why I was so unwilling to share the strange darkness of that experience with anyone.

“As soon as I got on the bank I saw a trail—a broad trail through the grass. I remember the exultation with which I said to myself, ‘He can’t walk—he is crawling on all-fours—I’ve got him.’ The grass was wet with dew. I strode rapidly with clenched fists. I fancy I had some vague notion of falling upon him and giving him a drubbing. I don’t know. I had some imbecile thoughts. The knitting old woman with the cat obtruded herself upon my memory as a most improper person to be sitting at the other end of such an affair. I saw a row of pilgrims squirting lead in the air out of Winchesters held to the hip. I thought I would never get back to the steamer, and imagined myself living alone and unarmed in the woods to an advanced age. Such silly things—you know. And I remember I confounded the beat of the drum with the beating of my heart, and was pleased at its calm regularity.

“As soon as I reached the bank, I saw a trail, a broad trail through the grass. I remember how triumphantly I told myself, ‘He can’t walk. He is crawling on all fours. I’ve got him.’ The grass was wet with dew. I walked quickly with my fists clenched. I think I had some vague idea of jumping on him and beating him up. I don’t know. I had some idiotic thoughts. The old woman knitting beside her cat forced her way into my memory. She seemed a most unsuitable person to be sitting at the other end of such an affair. I saw a row of pilgrims firing bullets into the air from Winchesters held at their hips. I thought I would never get back to the steamer. I imagined myself living alone and unarmed in the woods to a ripe old age. Such silly things, you know. And I remember mistaking the beat of the drum for the beating of my heart. I was pleased by its calm, steady rhythm.”

“I kept to the track though—then stopped to listen. The night was very clear; a dark blue space, sparkling with dew and starlight, in which black things stood very still. I thought I could see a kind of motion ahead of me. I was strangely cocksure of everything that night. I actually left the track and ran in a wide semicircle (I verily believe chuckling to myself) so as to get in front of that stir, of that motion I had seen—if indeed I had seen anything. I was circumventing Kurtz as though it had been a boyish game.

“I stayed on the path, though, then stopped to listen. The night was very clear. It was a dark blue space, sparkling with dew and starlight, where black shapes stood perfectly still. I thought I could see some movement ahead of me. I was strangely sure of myself about everything that night. I actually left the path and ran in a wide semicircle. I truly believe I was chuckling to myself. I wanted to get ahead of that movement I had seen, if I had seen anything at all. I was circling around Kurtz as though we were playing a boyhood game.

“I came upon him, and, if he had not heard me coming, I would have fallen over him, too, but he got up in time. He rose, unsteady, long, pale, indistinct, like a vapour exhaled by the earth, and swayed slightly, misty and silent before me; while at my back the fires loomed between the trees, and the murmur of many voices issued from the forest. I had cut him off cleverly; but when actually confronting him I seemed to come to my senses, I saw the danger in its right proportion. It was by no means over yet. Suppose he began to shout? Though he could hardly stand, there was still plenty of vigour in his voice. ‘Go away—hide yourself,’ he said, in that profound tone. It was very awful. I glanced back. We were within thirty yards from the nearest fire. A black figure stood up, strode on long black legs, waving long black arms, across the glow. It had horns—antelope horns, I think—on its head. Some sorcerer, some witch-man, no doubt: it looked fiendlike enough. ‘Do you know what you are doing?’ I whispered. ‘Perfectly,’ he answered, raising his voice for that single word: it sounded to me far off and yet loud, like a hail through a speaking-trumpet. ‘If he makes a row we are lost,’ I thought to myself. This clearly was not a case for fisticuffs, even apart from the very natural aversion I had to beat that Shadow—this wandering and tormented thing. ‘You will be lost,’ I said—‘utterly lost.’ One gets sometimes such a flash of inspiration, you know. I did say the right thing, though indeed he could not have been more irretrievably lost than he was at this very moment, when the foundations of our intimacy were being laid—to endure—to endure—even to the end—even beyond.

“I came upon him. If he had not heard me coming, I would have tripped over him, too. But he got up in time. He rose, unsteady, tall, pale, and indistinct, like vapor breathed out by the earth. He swayed slightly before me, hazy and silent. Behind me, the fires glowed between the trees, and the murmur of many voices came from the forest. I had cleverly cut him off. But now, facing him, I seemed to come to my senses and see the danger for what it was. The danger was far from over. What if he began to shout? Though he could hardly stand, his voice still had plenty of strength. ‘Go away. Hide yourself,’ he said in that deep voice. It was truly terrifying. I glanced back. We were within thirty yards of the nearest fire. A black figure stood up and strode across the glow on long black legs, waving long black arms. The figure had horns on its head, antelope horns, I think. Some sorcerer, some witch doctor, no doubt. The figure looked demonic enough. ‘Do you know what you are doing?’ I whispered. ‘Perfectly,’ he answered, raising his voice for that single word. His answer sounded distant yet loud, like a call through a speaking trumpet. ‘If he makes a noise, we are lost,’ I thought to myself. This was clearly no time for a fistfight. Besides, I naturally felt reluctant to beat that Shadow, that wandering, tormented thing. ‘You will be lost,’ I said. ‘Utterly lost.’ Sometimes you get a flash of inspiration like that, you know. I did say the right thing. Yet he could not have been more hopelessly lost than he was at that very moment. That was when the foundations of our closeness were being laid. That closeness would last, would last even to the end, even beyond.

“‘I had immense plans,’ he muttered irresolutely. ‘Yes,’ said I; ‘but if you try to shout I’ll smash your head with—’ There was not a stick or a stone near. ‘I will throttle you for good,’ I corrected myself. ‘I was on the threshold of great things,’ he pleaded, in a voice of longing, with a wistfulness of tone that made my blood run cold. ‘And now for this stupid scoundrel—’ ‘Your success in Europe is assured in any case,’ I affirmed steadily. I did not want to have the throttling of him, you understand—and indeed it would have been very little use for any practical purpose. I tried to break the spell—the heavy, mute spell of the wilderness—that seemed to draw him to its pitiless breast by the awakening of forgotten and brutal instincts, by the memory of gratified and monstrous passions. This alone, I was convinced, had driven him out to the edge of the forest, to the bush, towards the gleam of fires, the throb of drums, the drone of weird incantations; this alone had beguiled his unlawful soul beyond the bounds of permitted aspirations. And, don’t you see, the terror of the position was not in being knocked on the head—though I had a very lively sense of that danger, too—but in this, that I had to deal with a being to whom I could not appeal in the name of anything high or low. I had, even like the niggers, to invoke him—himself—his own exalted and incredible degradation. There was nothing either above or below him, and I knew it. He had kicked himself loose of the earth. Confound the man! he had kicked the very earth to pieces. He was alone, and I before him did not know whether I stood on the ground or floated in the air. I’ve been telling you what we said—repeating the phrases we pronounced—but what’s the good? They were common everyday words—the familiar, vague sounds exchanged on every waking day of life. But what of that? They had behind them, to my mind, the terrific suggestiveness of words heard in dreams, of phrases spoken in nightmares. Soul! If anybody ever struggled with a soul, I am the man. And I wasn’t arguing with a lunatic either. Believe me or not, his intelligence was perfectly clear—concentrated, it is true, upon himself with horrible intensity, yet clear; and therein was my only chance—barring, of course, the killing him there and then, which wasn’t so good, on account of unavoidable noise. But his soul was mad. Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself, and, by heavens! I tell you, it had gone mad. I had—for my sins, I suppose—to go through the ordeal of looking into it myself. No eloquence could have been so withering to one’s belief in mankind as his final burst of sincerity. He struggled with himself, too. I saw it—I heard it. I saw the inconceivable mystery of a soul that knew no restraint, no faith, and no fear, yet struggling blindly with itself. I kept my head pretty well; but when I had him at last stretched on the couch, I wiped my forehead, while my legs shook under me as though I had carried half a ton on my back down that hill. And yet I had only supported him, his bony arm clasped round my neck—and he was not much heavier than a child.

“‘I had enormous plans,’ he muttered uncertainly. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but if you try to shout, I’ll smash your head with...’ There wasn’t a stick or stone nearby. ‘I’ll strangle you to death,’ I corrected myself. ‘I was on the verge of great things,’ he pleaded. The longing in his voice made my blood run cold. ‘And now, because of this stupid scoundrel...’ ‘Your success in Europe is assured in any case,’ I said firmly. I didn’t want to have to strangle him, you understand. And killing him would have served very little practical purpose. I tried to break the spell, the heavy, silent spell of the wilderness. The wilderness seemed to draw him to its merciless breast, awakening forgotten, brutal instincts and memories of monstrous passions satisfied. I was convinced that this alone had driven him to the forest’s edge, into the bush. It had drawn him toward the glow of fires, the beat of drums, and the drone of strange chants. This alone had lured his lawless soul beyond the limits of permitted ambition. And don’t you see, the terror wasn’t that someone might strike me on the head. Though I was very much aware of that danger too. The terror was that I faced someone I couldn’t appeal to in the name of anything, high or low. Like the Black people, I had to appeal to him alone, to his own exalted and incredible degradation. There was nothing above or below him, and I knew it. He had kicked himself free of the earth. Damn the man! He had kicked the earth itself to pieces. He was alone. Facing him, I didn’t know whether I stood on the ground or floated in the air. I’ve been telling you what we said, repeating the words we spoke, but what’s the use? They were ordinary, everyday words, the familiar, vague sounds we exchange every waking day of our lives. But what did that matter? To me, those words carried the terrifying suggestions of words heard in dreams, of phrases spoken in nightmares. Soul! If anyone ever struggled with a soul, I’m the man. And I wasn’t arguing with a madman either. Believe me or not, his mind was perfectly clear. True, his thoughts focused on himself with horrible intensity, but his mind was clear. That clear mind gave me my only chance, apart from killing him then and there, of course. Killing him wasn’t a good option because of the unavoidable noise. But his soul was mad. Alone in the wilderness, his soul had looked into itself. And, by heavens, I tell you, it had gone mad. For my sins, I suppose, I had to endure the ordeal of looking into his soul myself. No eloquence could have damaged anyone’s faith in humanity as deeply as his final burst of honesty. He was struggling with himself too. I saw it. I heard it. I saw the unimaginable mystery of a soul that knew no restraint, no faith, and no fear. Yet that soul was struggling blindly with itself. I kept my head fairly well. But once I finally had him lying on the couch, I wiped my forehead. My legs shook beneath me as though I’d carried half a ton on my back down that hill. Yet I had only supported him, with his bony arm wrapped around my neck. And he was not much heavier than a child.

“When next day we left at noon, the crowd, of whose presence behind the curtain of trees I had been acutely conscious all the time, flowed out of the woods again, filled the clearing, covered the slope with a mass of naked, breathing, quivering, bronze bodies. I steamed up a bit, then swung down stream, and two thousand eyes followed the evolutions of the splashing, thumping, fierce river-demon beating the water with its terrible tail and breathing black smoke into the air. In front of the first rank, along the river, three men, plastered with bright red earth from head to foot, strutted to and fro restlessly. When we came abreast again, they faced the river, stamped their feet, nodded their horned heads, swayed their scarlet bodies; they shook towards the fierce river-demon a bunch of black feathers, a mangy skin with a pendent tail—something that looked a dried gourd; they shouted periodically together strings of amazing words that resembled no sounds of human language; and the deep murmurs of the crowd, interrupted suddenly, were like the responses of some satanic litany.

“When we left at noon the next day, the crowd flowed out of the woods again. All along, I had been sharply aware of the crowd behind the screen of trees. Now the crowd filled the clearing and covered the slope with naked, breathing, trembling, bronze bodies. I steamed a little upstream, then turned downstream. Two thousand eyes followed the movements of the splashing, thumping, fierce river-demon. The demon beat the water with its terrible tail and breathed black smoke into the air. Along the river, in front of the crowd’s first row, three men strutted restlessly back and forth. The men were coated from head to foot in bright red earth. When we came alongside again, the three men faced the river. They stamped their feet, nodded their horned heads, and swayed their scarlet bodies. Toward the fierce river-demon, they shook a bunch of black feathers, a mangy skin with a dangling tail, something that looked like a dried gourd. At intervals, the men shouted together, pouring out strings of astonishing words unlike any sounds of human language. The crowd’s deep murmurs, suddenly cut short, sounded like the responses in some satanic prayer.”

“We had carried Kurtz into the pilot-house: there was more air there. Lying on the couch, he stared through the open shutter. There was an eddy in the mass of human bodies, and the woman with helmeted head and tawny cheeks rushed out to the very brink of the stream. She put out her hands, shouted something, and all that wild mob took up the shout in a roaring chorus of articulated, rapid, breathless utterance.

“We had carried Kurtz into the pilot-house, where there was more air. He lay on the couch, staring through the open shutter. The tightly packed crowd swirled, and the woman with the helmeted head and tawny cheeks rushed to the water’s edge. She stretched out her hands and shouted something. The whole wild mob took up her shout in a roaring chorus of distinct words, spoken rapidly and breathlessly.

“‘Do you understand this?’ I asked.

“‘Do you understand this?’ I asked.

“He kept on looking out past me with fiery, longing eyes, with a mingled expression of wistfulness and hate. He made no answer, but I saw a smile, a smile of indefinable meaning, appear on his colourless lips that a moment after twitched convulsively. ‘Do I not?’ he said slowly, gasping, as if the words had been torn out of him by a supernatural power.

“He kept looking past me with burning, longing eyes, his expression a mix of sadness and hate. He gave no answer, but I saw a smile appear on his pale lips. I could not tell what the smile meant. A moment later, his lips twitched uncontrollably. ‘Don’t I?’ he said slowly, gasping, as if a supernatural power had torn the words out of him.

“I pulled the string of the whistle, and I did this because I saw the pilgrims on deck getting out their rifles with an air of anticipating a jolly lark. At the sudden screech there was a movement of abject terror through that wedged mass of bodies. ‘Don’t! don’t you frighten them away,’ cried some one on deck disconsolately. I pulled the string time after time. They broke and ran, they leaped, they crouched, they swerved, they dodged the flying terror of the sound. The three red chaps had fallen flat, face down on the shore, as though they had been shot dead. Only the barbarous and superb woman did not so much as flinch, and stretched tragically her bare arms after us over the sombre and glittering river.

“I pulled the whistle cord because I saw the pilgrims on deck taking out their rifles. They looked as if they expected some great fun. At the sudden screech, a shudder of utter terror passed through the tightly packed crowd. ‘Don’t! Don’t scare them away,’ someone on deck cried in disappointment. I pulled the cord again and again. The crowd scattered and ran, leaping, crouching, swerving, and dodging the terrifying sound as it swept over them. The three red men had fallen flat on the shore, face down, as though they had been shot dead. Only the wild and magnificent woman did not even flinch. In a tragic gesture, she stretched her bare arms after us over the dark, glittering river.

“And then that imbecile crowd down on the deck started their little fun, and I could see nothing more for smoke.

“And then that idiotic crowd down on the deck started their little fun. And the smoke blocked my view completely.

“The brown current ran swiftly out of the heart of darkness, bearing us down towards the sea with twice the speed of our upward progress; and Kurtz’s life was running swiftly, too, ebbing, ebbing out of his heart into the sea of inexorable time. The manager was very placid, he had no vital anxieties now, he took us both in with a comprehensive and satisfied glance: the ‘affair’ had come off as well as could be wished. I saw the time approaching when I would be left alone of the party of ‘unsound method.’ The pilgrims looked upon me with disfavour. I was, so to speak, numbered with the dead. It is strange how I accepted this unforeseen partnership, this choice of nightmares forced upon me in the tenebrous land invaded by these mean and greedy phantoms.

“The brown current flowed swiftly out of the heart of darkness, carrying us down toward the sea. We were moving twice as fast as we had going upriver. And Kurtz’s life was draining swiftly, too, ebbing, ebbing from his heart into the sea of relentless time. The manager was very calm. He had no serious worries now. He looked us both over with a satisfied glance: the ‘affair’ had gone as well as anyone could wish. I saw that soon I would be the only one left in the group accused of ‘unsound method.’ The pilgrims looked down on me. I was, so to speak, counted among the dead. It is strange how I accepted this unexpected partnership, this choice of nightmares forced on me in that dark land. These petty, greedy ghosts had invaded the land.”

“Kurtz discoursed. A voice! a voice! It rang deep to the very last. It survived his strength to hide in the magnificent folds of eloquence the barren darkness of his heart. Oh, he struggled! he struggled! The wastes of his weary brain were haunted by shadowy images now—images of wealth and fame revolving obsequiously round his unextinguishable gift of noble and lofty expression. My Intended, my station, my career, my ideas—these were the subjects for the occasional utterances of elevated sentiments. The shade of the original Kurtz frequented the bedside of the hollow sham, whose fate it was to be buried presently in the mould of primeval earth. But both the diabolic love and the unearthly hate of the mysteries it had penetrated fought for the possession of that soul satiated with primitive emotions, avid of lying fame, of sham distinction, of all the appearances of success and power.

“Kurtz spoke at length. A voice! A voice! It rang deep to the very end. His voice outlasted his strength, hiding his heart’s barren darkness beneath rich layers of eloquence. Oh, he struggled! He struggled! Shadowy images now haunted the wasteland of his exhausted mind. Images of wealth and fame circled like servants around his undying gift for noble, grand expression. My Intended, my station, my career, my ideas. These were the subjects of his occasional lofty statements. The ghost of the original Kurtz often visited the bedside of the empty fraud he had become. That fraud would soon be buried in the soil of the primeval earth. But a devilish love and an unearthly hatred fought to possess his soul. Both were feelings toward the mysteries his soul had entered. His soul was glutted with primitive emotions, hungry for false fame, hollow honors, and all the appearances of success and power.

“Sometimes he was contemptibly childish. He desired to have kings meet him at railway-stations on his return from some ghastly Nowhere, where he intended to accomplish great things. ‘You show them you have in you something that is really profitable, and then there will be no limits to the recognition of your ability,’ he would say. ‘Of course you must take care of the motives—right motives—always.’ The long reaches that were like one and the same reach, monotonous bends that were exactly alike, slipped past the steamer with their multitude of secular trees looking patiently after this grimy fragment of another world, the forerunner of change, of conquest, of trade, of massacres, of blessings. I looked ahead—piloting. ‘Close the shutter,’ said Kurtz suddenly one day; ‘I can’t bear to look at this.’ I did so. There was a silence. ‘Oh, but I will wring your heart yet!’ he cried at the invisible wilderness.

“Sometimes he was shamefully childish. He wanted kings to meet him at railway stations when he returned from some ghastly Nowhere. He planned to achieve great things there. ‘Show them you have something truly profitable in you, and their recognition of your ability will have no limits,’ he would say. ‘Of course, you must always make sure your motives are right.’ The long stretches of river slipped past the steamer, each seeming the same as the next. The monotonous bends were exactly alike. Countless ancient trees seemed to watch patiently as this grimy fragment of another world passed by. The steamer was a forerunner of change, of conquest, of trade, of massacres, of blessings. I looked ahead, steering. ‘Close the shutter,’ Kurtz said suddenly one day. ‘I can’t bear to look at this.’ I closed the shutter. There was silence. ‘Oh, but I will break your heart yet!’ he cried at the wilderness he could no longer see.”

“We broke down—as I had expected—and had to lie up for repairs at the head of an island. This delay was the first thing that shook Kurtz’s confidence. One morning he gave me a packet of papers and a photograph—the lot tied together with a shoe-string. ‘Keep this for me,’ he said. ‘This noxious fool’ (meaning the manager) ‘is capable of prying into my boxes when I am not looking.’ In the afternoon I saw him. He was lying on his back with closed eyes, and I withdrew quietly, but I heard him mutter, ‘Live rightly, die, die...’ I listened. There was nothing more. Was he rehearsing some speech in his sleep, or was it a fragment of a phrase from some newspaper article? He had been writing for the papers and meant to do so again, ‘for the furthering of my ideas. It’s a duty.’

“We broke down, as I had expected, and had to stop for repairs at the upstream end of an island. This delay was the first thing that shook Kurtz’s confidence. One morning he gave me a packet of papers and a photograph, all tied together with a shoelace. ‘Keep this for me,’ he said. ‘That poisonous fool is capable of snooping through my boxes when I’m not looking.’ He meant the manager. In the afternoon I saw Kurtz. He was lying on his back with his eyes closed. I quietly stepped away, but I heard him mutter, ‘Live rightly, die, die...’ I listened. There was nothing more. Was he rehearsing a speech in his sleep, or repeating part of a phrase from some newspaper article? He had been writing for newspapers and intended to do so again, ‘to promote my ideas. It’s a duty.’”

“His was an impenetrable darkness. I looked at him as you peer down at a man who is lying at the bottom of a precipice where the sun never shines. But I had not much time to give him, because I was helping the engine-driver to take to pieces the leaky cylinders, to straighten a bent connecting-rod, and in other such matters. I lived in an infernal mess of rust, filings, nuts, bolts, spanners, hammers, ratchet-drills—things I abominate, because I don’t get on with them. I tended the little forge we fortunately had aboard; I toiled wearily in a wretched scrap-heap—unless I had the shakes too bad to stand.

“His darkness could not be penetrated. I looked at him as you might peer down at a man lying at the bottom of a cliff. Down there, the sun never shines. But I had little time for him because I was helping the engine operator take apart the leaking cylinders. I also helped straighten a bent connecting rod and do other jobs like that. I lived in a hellish mess of rust, metal shavings, nuts, bolts, wrenches, hammers, and ratchet drills. I hate those things because I’m no good with them. I tended the little forge we were lucky enough to have aboard. I worked wearily in a miserable scrap heap, unless I was shaking too badly to stand.”

“One evening coming in with a candle I was startled to hear him say a little tremulously, ‘I am lying here in the dark waiting for death.’ The light was within a foot of his eyes. I forced myself to murmur, ‘Oh, nonsense!’ and stood over him as if transfixed.

“One evening I came in with a candle. I was startled to hear him say, his voice trembling slightly, ‘I am lying here in the dark waiting for death.’ The light was less than a foot from his eyes. I forced myself to murmur, ‘Oh, nonsense!’ and stood over him as if frozen.

“Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never seen before, and hope never to see again. Oh, I wasn’t touched. I was fascinated. It was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that ivory face the expression of sombre pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror—of an intense and hopeless despair. Did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision—he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath:

“I have never seen anything like the change that came over his face, and I hope I never will again. Oh, I wasn’t moved. I was fascinated. It was as though a veil had been torn away. On his ivory face I saw dark pride, ruthless power, cowardly terror, and deep, hopeless despair. In that final moment of complete understanding, did he relive his life? Did he relive every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender? He cried in a whisper at some image, some vision. Twice he cried out, his cry no more than a breath:

“‘The horror! The horror!’

“‘The horror! The horror!’

“I blew the candle out and left the cabin. The pilgrims were dining in the mess-room, and I took my place opposite the manager, who lifted his eyes to give me a questioning glance, which I successfully ignored. He leaned back, serene, with that peculiar smile of his sealing the unexpressed depths of his meanness. A continuous shower of small flies streamed upon the lamp, upon the cloth, upon our hands and faces. Suddenly the manager’s boy put his insolent black head in the doorway, and said in a tone of scathing contempt:

“I blew out the candle and left the cabin. The pilgrims were eating in the dining room, and I sat down opposite the manager. He looked up at me questioningly, but I managed to ignore his glance. He leaned back calmly, his peculiar smile hiding the unspoken depths of his nastiness. A constant shower of tiny flies fell on the lamp, the tablecloth, and our hands and faces. Suddenly the manager’s boy poked his insolent black head through the doorway and spoke with scathing contempt:

“‘Mistah Kurtz—he dead.’

“‘Mr. Kurtz, he's dead.’

“All the pilgrims rushed out to see. I remained, and went on with my dinner. I believe I was considered brutally callous. However, I did not eat much. There was a lamp in there—light, don’t you know—and outside it was so beastly, beastly dark. I went no more near the remarkable man who had pronounced a judgment upon the adventures of his soul on this earth. The voice was gone. What else had been there? But I am of course aware that next day the pilgrims buried something in a muddy hole.

“All the pilgrims rushed out to see. I stayed and went on with my dinner. I believe they thought I was brutally uncaring. Still, I did not eat much. There was a lamp in there. There was light, you know, and outside it was so terribly, terribly dark. I never went near the remarkable man again. He had passed judgment on his soul’s adventures on this earth. The voice was gone. What else had been there? But of course I know that the next day the pilgrims buried something in a muddy hole.”

“And then they very nearly buried me.

“And then they came very close to burying me.

“However, as you see, I did not go to join Kurtz there and then. I did not. I remained to dream the nightmare out to the end, and to show my loyalty to Kurtz once more. Destiny. My destiny! Droll thing life is—that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself—that comes too late—a crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable greyness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamour, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid scepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary. If such is the form of ultimate wisdom, then life is a greater riddle than some of us think it to be. I was within a hair’s breadth of the last opportunity for pronouncement, and I found with humiliation that probably I would have nothing to say. This is the reason why I affirm that Kurtz was a remarkable man. He had something to say. He said it. Since I had peeped over the edge myself, I understand better the meaning of his stare, that could not see the flame of the candle, but was wide enough to embrace the whole universe, piercing enough to penetrate all the hearts that beat in the darkness. He had summed up—he had judged. ‘The horror!’ He was a remarkable man. After all, this was the expression of some sort of belief; it had candour, it had conviction, it had a vibrating note of revolt in its whisper, it had the appalling face of a glimpsed truth—the strange commingling of desire and hate. And it is not my own extremity I remember best—a vision of greyness without form filled with physical pain, and a careless contempt for the evanescence of all things—even of this pain itself. No! It is his extremity that I seem to have lived through. True, he had made that last stride, he had stepped over the edge, while I had been permitted to draw back my hesitating foot. And perhaps in this is the whole difference; perhaps all the wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just compressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which we step over the threshold of the invisible. Perhaps! I like to think my summing-up would not have been a word of careless contempt. Better his cry—much better. It was an affirmation, a moral victory paid for by innumerable defeats, by abominable terrors, by abominable satisfactions. But it was a victory! That is why I have remained loyal to Kurtz to the last, and even beyond, when a long time after I heard once more, not his own voice, but the echo of his magnificent eloquence thrown to me from a soul as translucently pure as a cliff of crystal.

“Still, as you see, I did not go to join Kurtz then and there. I did not. I stayed to live through the nightmare to the end, and to show my loyalty to Kurtz once more. Fate. My fate! Life is a strange thing. Its mysterious workings follow a merciless logic, yet serve no purpose. The most you can hope for is some knowledge of yourself, which comes too late, and regrets that never fade. I have wrestled with death. It is the least exciting struggle you can imagine. The struggle takes place in a grayness you cannot touch, with nothing beneath your feet and nothing around you. There are no spectators, no noise, no glory. There is no great desire to win, no great fear of losing. There is only a sickly atmosphere of halfhearted doubt. You have little belief in your own right to win, and still less in your opponent’s. If that is what ultimate wisdom looks like, then life is a greater mystery than some of us think. I came within a hair’s breadth of my last chance to make a final statement. I found, to my humiliation, that I would probably have nothing to say. That is why I insist that Kurtz was a remarkable man. He had something to say. He said it. Since I had looked over the edge myself, I understand better what his stare meant. His eyes could not see the candle flame. Yet his stare was wide enough to take in the whole universe. It was piercing enough to see into all the hearts beating in the darkness. He had summed everything up. He had passed judgment. ‘The horror!’ He was a remarkable man. After all, his cry expressed some sort of belief. It had honesty and conviction. A note of rebellion trembled in his whisper. His cry revealed the terrifying face of a truth briefly seen, a strange mixture of desire and hate. And it is not my own brush with death that I remember best. I remember a vision of shapeless grayness filled with physical pain. I felt an indifferent contempt for how quickly all things vanish, even the pain itself. No! It is his final ordeal that I seem to have lived through. True, he had taken that last step. He had gone over the edge, while I had been allowed to pull back my hesitant foot. And perhaps that is the whole difference. Perhaps all wisdom, all truth, and all sincerity are packed into that immeasurably brief moment when we enter the unseen. Perhaps! I like to think my final judgment would not have been a word of indifferent contempt. His cry was better, much better. It affirmed something. It was a moral victory paid for with countless defeats, with horrible terrors, with horrible satisfactions. But it was a victory! That is why I remained loyal to Kurtz to the end, and even beyond. Long afterward, I heard once more, not his own voice, but an echo of his magnificent eloquence. The echo reached me from a soul as clear and pure as a cliff of crystal.

“No, they did not bury me, though there is a period of time which I remember mistily, with a shuddering wonder, like a passage through some inconceivable world that had no hope in it and no desire. I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretence, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend. I had no particular desire to enlighten them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces so full of stupid importance. I daresay I was not very well at that time. I tottered about the streets—there were various affairs to settle—grinning bitterly at perfectly respectable persons. I admit my behaviour was inexcusable, but then my temperature was seldom normal in these days. My dear aunt’s endeavours to ‘nurse up my strength’ seemed altogether beside the mark. It was not my strength that wanted nursing, it was my imagination that wanted soothing. I kept the bundle of papers given me by Kurtz, not knowing exactly what to do with it. His mother had died lately, watched over, as I was told, by his Intended. A clean-shaved man, with an official manner and wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, called on me one day and made inquiries, at first circuitous, afterwards suavely pressing, about what he was pleased to denominate certain ‘documents.’ I was not surprised, because I had had two rows with the manager on the subject out there. I had refused to give up the smallest scrap out of that package, and I took the same attitude with the spectacled man. He became darkly menacing at last, and with much heat argued that the Company had the right to every bit of information about its ‘territories.’ And said he, ‘Mr. Kurtz’s knowledge of unexplored regions must have been necessarily extensive and peculiar—owing to his great abilities and to the deplorable circumstances in which he had been placed: therefore—’ I assured him Mr. Kurtz’s knowledge, however extensive, did not bear upon the problems of commerce or administration. He invoked then the name of science. ‘It would be an incalculable loss if,’ etc., etc. I offered him the report on the ‘Suppression of Savage Customs,’ with the postscriptum torn off. He took it up eagerly, but ended by sniffing at it with an air of contempt. ‘This is not what we had a right to expect,’ he remarked. ‘Expect nothing else,’ I said. ‘There are only private letters.’ He withdrew upon some threat of legal proceedings, and I saw him no more; but another fellow, calling himself Kurtz’s cousin, appeared two days later, and was anxious to hear all the details about his dear relative’s last moments. Incidentally he gave me to understand that Kurtz had been essentially a great musician. ‘There was the making of an immense success,’ said the man, who was an organist, I believe, with lank grey hair flowing over a greasy coat-collar. I had no reason to doubt his statement; and to this day I am unable to say what was Kurtz’s profession, whether he ever had any—which was the greatest of his talents. I had taken him for a painter who wrote for the papers, or else for a journalist who could paint—but even the cousin (who took snuff during the interview) could not tell me what he had been—exactly. He was a universal genius—on that point I agreed with the old chap, who thereupon blew his nose noisily into a large cotton handkerchief and withdrew in senile agitation, bearing off some family letters and memoranda without importance. Ultimately a journalist anxious to know something of the fate of his ‘dear colleague’ turned up. This visitor informed me Kurtz’s proper sphere ought to have been politics ‘on the popular side.’ He had furry straight eyebrows, bristly hair cropped short, an eyeglass on a broad ribbon, and, becoming expansive, confessed his opinion that Kurtz really couldn’t write a bit—‘but heavens! how that man could talk. He electrified large meetings. He had faith—don’t you see?—he had the faith. He could get himself to believe anything—anything. He would have been a splendid leader of an extreme party.’ ‘What party?’ I asked. ‘Any party,’ answered the other. ‘He was an—an—extremist.’ Did I not think so? I assented. Did I know, he asked, with a sudden flash of curiosity, ‘what it was that had induced him to go out there?’ ‘Yes,’ said I, and forthwith handed him the famous Report for publication, if he thought fit. He glanced through it hurriedly, mumbling all the time, judged ‘it would do,’ and took himself off with this plunder.

“No, they did not bury me. Though there is a stretch of time I remember hazily, with a shudder of wonder. It was like passing through some unimaginable world without hope or desire. I found myself back in that tomb of a city, resenting the sight of people rushing through the streets. They hurried to steal a little money from one another, eat their dreadful food, and gulp their unhealthy beer. They dreamed their trivial, foolish dreams. They invaded my thoughts. They were intruders, and their supposed knowledge of life irritated me. I felt certain they could not possibly know the things I knew. Their manner was simply that of ordinary people going about their business, confident they were perfectly safe. But their manner offended me, like fools brazenly showing off in the face of danger they cannot understand. I had no particular wish to enlighten them. But I struggled not to laugh in their faces, so full of stupid self-importance. I suppose I was not very well at the time. I staggered through the streets, grinning bitterly at perfectly respectable people. There were various matters I had to settle. I admit my behavior was inexcusable, but my temperature was seldom normal in those days. My dear aunt’s efforts to ‘build up my strength’ seemed entirely beside the point. My strength did not need nursing. My imagination needed soothing. I kept the bundle of papers Kurtz had given me, unsure exactly what to do with it. His mother had recently died, cared for, I was told, by his Intended, the woman he had planned to marry. One day a clean-shaven man visited me, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and carrying himself like an official. He asked about what he chose to call certain ‘documents.’ At first his questions were indirect. Then he began pressing me politely. I was not surprised, because I had argued twice with the manager about the papers out there. I had refused to hand over even the smallest scrap from the bundle. I took the same position with the man in glasses. At last he became vaguely threatening. He argued heatedly that the Company had a right to every bit of information about its ‘territories.’ He said, ‘Mr. Kurtz must have had extensive and unusual knowledge of unexplored regions. His great abilities and the deplorable circumstances in which he found himself made that inevitable. Therefore...’ I assured him that Mr. Kurtz’s knowledge, however extensive, had no bearing on trade or administration. Then he appealed to science. ‘It would be an immeasurable loss if,’ and so on, and so on. I offered him the report on the ‘Suppression of Savage Customs,’ with the postscript torn off. He picked it up eagerly, but ended by sniffing at it contemptuously. ‘This is not what we had a right to expect,’ he remarked. ‘Expect nothing else,’ I said. ‘There are only private letters.’ He left with some threat of legal action, and I never saw him again. But two days later another man appeared, calling himself Kurtz’s cousin. He wanted to hear every detail of his dear relative’s last moments. In passing, he let me know that Kurtz had been, above all, a great musician. ‘He had the makings of an enormous success,’ the man said. I believe he was an organist. His limp gray hair hung over a greasy coat collar. I had no reason to doubt his statement. To this day, I cannot say what Kurtz’s profession was, or whether he ever had one. Nor can I say which of his talents was greatest. I had taken him for a painter who wrote for newspapers, or perhaps a journalist who could paint. But even his cousin could not tell me exactly what he had been. The cousin took snuff during our conversation. Kurtz was a genius in every field. On that point I agreed with the old fellow. He then blew his nose noisily into a large cotton handkerchief and left in an agitated, senile state. He took some family letters and unimportant notes with him. Eventually, a journalist turned up, eager to learn what had happened to his ‘dear colleague.’ This visitor told me that Kurtz’s true calling should have been politics, ‘on the side of the people.’ He had thick, straight eyebrows, short, bristly hair, and a monocle hanging from a broad ribbon. As he grew more talkative, he admitted that, in his opinion, Kurtz really could not write at all. ‘But heavens! How the man could talk. He electrified large meetings. He had faith, don’t you see? He had the faith. He could make himself believe anything, anything. He would have been a splendid leader of a radical party.’ ‘What party?’ I asked. ‘Any party,’ the other man answered. ‘He was an... an... extremist.’ Didn’t I think so? I agreed. Then, with a sudden flash of curiosity, he asked whether I knew ‘what had persuaded him to go out there.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. I immediately handed him the famous Report to publish, if he thought fit. He skimmed it hurriedly, mumbling the whole time, decided ‘it would do,’ and went off with his loot.

“Thus I was left at last with a slim packet of letters and the girl’s portrait. She struck me as beautiful—I mean she had a beautiful expression. I know that the sunlight can be made to lie, too, yet one felt that no manipulation of light and pose could have conveyed the delicate shade of truthfulness upon those features. She seemed ready to listen without mental reservation, without suspicion, without a thought for herself. I concluded I would go and give her back her portrait and those letters myself. Curiosity? Yes; and also some other feeling perhaps. All that had been Kurtz’s had passed out of my hands: his soul, his body, his station, his plans, his ivory, his career. There remained only his memory and his Intended—and I wanted to give that up, too, to the past, in a way—to surrender personally all that remained of him with me to that oblivion which is the last word of our common fate. I don’t defend myself. I had no clear perception of what it was I really wanted. Perhaps it was an impulse of unconscious loyalty, or the fulfilment of one of those ironic necessities that lurk in the facts of human existence. I don’t know. I can’t tell. But I went.

“At last, I was left with a small packet of letters and the girl’s portrait. She struck me as beautiful. I mean she had a beautiful expression. I know a photograph can be made to lie, too. Yet I felt no tricks of light or pose could have captured the subtle honesty in her face. She seemed ready to listen without holding anything back, without suspicion, without a thought for herself. I decided I would go and return her portrait and those letters myself. Curiosity? Yes, and perhaps some other feeling, too. Everything that had belonged to Kurtz had passed out of my hands: his soul, his body, his station, his plans, his ivory, his career. Only his memory and his Intended, his fiancée, remained. In a way, I wanted to give them up to the past, too. I wanted to personally surrender everything of him still with me to the oblivion that is our final, shared fate. I don’t defend myself. I had no clear idea of what I really wanted. Perhaps I acted out of loyalty without knowing it. Or perhaps I was fulfilling one of those ironic necessities hidden in the facts of human life. I don’t know. I can’t say. But I went.”

“I thought his memory was like the other memories of the dead that accumulate in every man’s life—a vague impress on the brain of shadows that had fallen on it in their swift and final passage; but before the high and ponderous door, between the tall houses of a street as still and decorous as a well-kept alley in a cemetery, I had a vision of him on the stretcher, opening his mouth voraciously, as if to devour all the earth with all its mankind. He lived then before me; he lived as much as he had ever lived—a shadow insatiable of splendid appearances, of frightful realities; a shadow darker than the shadow of the night, and draped nobly in the folds of a gorgeous eloquence. The vision seemed to enter the house with me—the stretcher, the phantom-bearers, the wild crowd of obedient worshippers, the gloom of the forests, the glitter of the reach between the murky bends, the beat of the drum, regular and muffled like the beating of a heart—the heart of a conquering darkness. It was a moment of triumph for the wilderness, an invading and vengeful rush which, it seemed to me, I would have to keep back alone for the salvation of another soul. And the memory of what I had heard him say afar there, with the horned shapes stirring at my back, in the glow of fires, within the patient woods, those broken phrases came back to me, were heard again in their ominous and terrifying simplicity. I remembered his abject pleading, his abject threats, the colossal scale of his vile desires, the meanness, the torment, the tempestuous anguish of his soul. And later on I seemed to see his collected languid manner, when he said one day, ‘This lot of ivory now is really mine. The Company did not pay for it. I collected it myself at a very great personal risk. I am afraid they will try to claim it as theirs though. H’m. It is a difficult case. What do you think I ought to do—resist? Eh? I want no more than justice.’... He wanted no more than justice—no more than justice. I rang the bell before a mahogany door on the first floor, and while I waited he seemed to stare at me out of the glassy panel—stare with that wide and immense stare embracing, condemning, loathing all the universe. I seemed to hear the whispered cry, “The horror! The horror!”

“I thought his memory was like the other memories of the dead that build up in every man’s life. They leave a faint impression on the mind, like shadows passing over it, swiftly and for the last time. But before the tall, heavy door, I had a vision of him on the stretcher. Tall houses lined the street, as quiet and orderly as a well-kept path in a cemetery. In my vision, he opened his mouth hungrily, as if to swallow the whole earth and all its people. He was alive before me then, as alive as he had ever been. He was a shadow with an endless hunger for dazzling appearances and horrifying realities. He was darker than the shadow of night, yet nobly wrapped in the splendid folds of his eloquence. The vision seemed to enter the house with me. With it came the stretcher, the ghostly bearers, the wild crowd of obedient worshippers, and the darkness of the forests. There was the glitter of the stretch of river between the murky bends. There was the drumbeat, steady and muffled like a beating heart, the heart of a conquering darkness. It was a moment of triumph for the wilderness, a vengeful surge of invasion. I felt I would have to hold back that surge alone to save another soul. And I remembered what I had heard him say out there. Horned shapes had moved behind me in the firelight, among the patient woods. His broken phrases came back to me, and I heard them again in their ominous, terrifying simplicity. I remembered his groveling pleas and his groveling threats, the vast scale of his vile desires. I remembered his soul’s pettiness, torment, and violent anguish. And then I seemed to see his calm, listless manner when he said one day, ‘This lot of ivory really is mine. The Company did not pay for it. I collected it myself at very great personal risk. But I’m afraid they’ll try to claim it as theirs. H’m. It’s a difficult case. What do you think I should do? Resist? Eh? I want nothing more than justice.’... He wanted nothing more than justice, nothing more than justice. I rang the bell at a mahogany door on the first floor. While I waited, he seemed to stare at me through the glass panel. His vast, wide-eyed stare took in, condemned, and loathed the whole universe. I seemed to hear his whispered cry, “The horror! The horror!”

“The dusk was falling. I had to wait in a lofty drawing-room with three long windows from floor to ceiling that were like three luminous and bedraped columns. The bent gilt legs and backs of the furniture shone in indistinct curves. The tall marble fireplace had a cold and monumental whiteness. A grand piano stood massively in a corner; with dark gleams on the flat surfaces like a sombre and polished sarcophagus. A high door opened—closed. I rose.

“Dusk was falling. I had to wait in a high-ceilinged sitting room with three tall windows stretching from floor to ceiling. The windows looked like three glowing columns hung with curtains. The curved, gold-covered legs and backs of the furniture shone in faint outlines. The tall marble fireplace had a cold, imposing whiteness. A grand piano stood, large and heavy, in a corner. Dark reflections gleamed on its flat surfaces, like a somber, polished stone coffin. A tall door opened, then closed. I stood up.

“She came forward, all in black, with a pale head, floating towards me in the dusk. She was in mourning. It was more than a year since his death, more than a year since the news came; she seemed as though she would remember and mourn forever. She took both my hands in hers and murmured, ‘I had heard you were coming.’ I noticed she was not very young—I mean not girlish. She had a mature capacity for fidelity, for belief, for suffering. The room seemed to have grown darker, as if all the sad light of the cloudy evening had taken refuge on her forehead. This fair hair, this pale visage, this pure brow, seemed surrounded by an ashy halo from which the dark eyes looked out at me. Their glance was guileless, profound, confident, and trustful. She carried her sorrowful head as though she were proud of that sorrow, as though she would say, ‘I—I alone know how to mourn for him as he deserves.’ But while we were still shaking hands, such a look of awful desolation came upon her face that I perceived she was one of those creatures that are not the playthings of Time. For her he had died only yesterday. And, by Jove! the impression was so powerful that for me, too, he seemed to have died only yesterday—nay, this very minute. I saw her and him in the same instant of time—his death and her sorrow—I saw her sorrow in the very moment of his death. Do you understand? I saw them together—I heard them together. She had said, with a deep catch of the breath, ‘I have survived’ while my strained ears seemed to hear distinctly, mingled with her tone of despairing regret, the summing up whisper of his eternal condemnation. I asked myself what I was doing there, with a sensation of panic in my heart as though I had blundered into a place of cruel and absurd mysteries not fit for a human being to behold. She motioned me to a chair. We sat down. I laid the packet gently on the little table, and she put her hand over it.... ‘You knew him well,’ she murmured, after a moment of mourning silence.

“She came forward, dressed all in black, her pale head seeming to float toward me in the dusk. She was in mourning. More than a year had passed since his death, more than a year since the news had arrived. She seemed as though she would remember and mourn forever. She took both my hands in hers and murmured, ‘I had heard you were coming.’ I noticed she was not very young. I mean she was no longer a girl. She had a mature capacity for loyalty, for belief, for suffering. The room seemed to have grown darker. It was as if all the sad light of the cloudy evening had taken shelter on her forehead. Her fair hair, her pale face, her pure forehead seemed surrounded by an ash-colored halo. From within that halo, her dark eyes looked out at me. Her gaze was innocent, deep, confident, and trusting. She held her sorrowful head as though she were proud of her sorrow. It was as though she were saying, ‘I, I alone know how to mourn for him as he deserves.’ But while we were still shaking hands, a look of terrible desolation came over her face. I realized she was one of those people whom Time cannot toy with. For her, he had died only yesterday. And, by God! The impression was so powerful that to me, too, he seemed to have died only yesterday. No, this very minute. I saw her and him at the same instant, his death and her sorrow. I saw her sorrow at the very moment of his death. Do you understand? I saw them together. I heard them together. She had said, with a deep catch in her breath, ‘I have survived’. At the same time, my straining ears seemed to hear his final whisper distinctly. His whisper summed up his eternal condemnation and mingled with her voice of despairing regret. I asked myself what I was doing there, feeling panic in my heart. It was as though I had stumbled into a place of cruel and senseless mysteries no human should witness. She gestured toward a chair. We sat down. I gently laid the packet on the little table, and she put her hand over it.... ‘You knew him well,’ she murmured, after a moment of grieving silence.

“‘Intimacy grows quickly out there,’ I said. ‘I knew him as well as it is possible for one man to know another.’

“‘People grow close quickly out there,’ I said. ‘I knew him as well as one man can know another.’

“‘And you admired him,’ she said. ‘It was impossible to know him and not to admire him. Was it?’

“‘And you admired him,’ she said. ‘No one could know him without admiring him. Could they?’

“‘He was a remarkable man,’ I said, unsteadily. Then before the appealing fixity of her gaze, that seemed to watch for more words on my lips, I went on, ‘It was impossible not to—’

“‘He was a remarkable man,’ I said, my voice unsteady. Her pleading gaze stayed fixed on me, as though watching my lips for more words. So I went on, ‘It was impossible not to...’

“‘Love him,’ she finished eagerly, silencing me into an appalled dumbness. ‘How true! how true! But when you think that no one knew him so well as I! I had all his noble confidence. I knew him best.’

“‘Love him,’ she finished eagerly, leaving me too horrified to speak. ‘How true! How true! But to think that no one knew him as well as I did! He placed all his noble trust in me. I knew him best.’

“‘You knew him best,’ I repeated. And perhaps she did. But with every word spoken the room was growing darker, and only her forehead, smooth and white, remained illumined by the inextinguishable light of belief and love.

“‘You knew him best,’ I repeated. And perhaps she did. But with every word spoken, the room grew darker. Only her smooth, white forehead remained lit by the light of belief and love that could never go out.

“‘You were his friend,’ she went on. ‘His friend,’ she repeated, a little louder. ‘You must have been, if he had given you this, and sent you to me. I feel I can speak to you—and oh! I must speak. I want you—you who have heard his last words—to know I have been worthy of him.... It is not pride.... Yes! I am proud to know I understood him better than any one on earth—he told me so himself. And since his mother died I have had no one—no one—to—to—’

“‘You were his friend,’ she went on. ‘His friend,’ she repeated, a little louder. ‘You must have been, if he gave you this and sent you to me. I feel I can talk to you. And oh! I must talk. You heard his last words. I want you to know I have been worthy of him.... It is not pride.... Yes! I am proud to know I understood him better than anyone else on earth. He told me so himself. And since his mother died I have had no one, no one, to, to...’

“I listened. The darkness deepened. I was not even sure whether he had given me the right bundle. I rather suspect he wanted me to take care of another batch of his papers which, after his death, I saw the manager examining under the lamp. And the girl talked, easing her pain in the certitude of my sympathy; she talked as thirsty men drink. I had heard that her engagement with Kurtz had been disapproved by her people. He wasn’t rich enough or something. And indeed I don’t know whether he had not been a pauper all his life. He had given me some reason to infer that it was his impatience of comparative poverty that drove him out there.

“I listened. The darkness deepened. I wasn’t even sure whether he had given me the right bundle. I suspect he wanted me to look after a different set of his papers. After his death, I saw the manager examining those papers under the lamp. And the girl kept talking, easing her pain because she was sure I sympathized. She talked as thirsty men drink. I had heard that her family had disapproved of her engagement to Kurtz. He wasn’t rich enough or something. And honestly, I don’t know whether he had been desperately poor all his life. He had given me some reason to think his frustration with being relatively poor had driven him out there.

“‘... Who was not his friend who had heard him speak once?’ she was saying. ‘He drew men towards him by what was best in them.’ She looked at me with intensity. ‘It is the gift of the great,’ she went on, and the sound of her low voice seemed to have the accompaniment of all the other sounds, full of mystery, desolation, and sorrow, I had ever heard—the ripple of the river, the soughing of the trees swayed by the wind, the murmurs of the crowds, the faint ring of incomprehensible words cried from afar, the whisper of a voice speaking from beyond the threshold of an eternal darkness. ‘But you have heard him! You know!’ she cried.

“‘... Who could hear him speak even once and not become his friend?’ she was saying. ‘He drew men to him through what was best in them.’ She looked at me intently. ‘That is the gift of great people,’ she went on. Her low voice seemed accompanied by all the sounds I had ever heard, full of mystery, loneliness, and sorrow. There was the ripple of the river, the rustling of trees swaying in the wind, the murmur of crowds. There was the faint sound of words shouted from far away, impossible to understand. There was the whisper of a voice speaking from beyond the doorway into an eternal darkness. ‘But you have heard him! You know!’ she cried.”

“‘Yes, I know,’ I said with something like despair in my heart, but bowing my head before the faith that was in her, before that great and saving illusion that shone with an unearthly glow in the darkness, in the triumphant darkness from which I could not have defended her—from which I could not even defend myself.

“‘Yes, I know,’ I said, with something like despair in my heart. But I bowed my head before her faith, before that great illusion that saved her. The illusion shone with an unearthly glow in the darkness, the triumphant darkness I could not have protected her from. I could not even protect myself from that darkness.

“‘What a loss to me—to us!’—she corrected herself with beautiful generosity; then added in a murmur, ‘To the world.’ By the last gleams of twilight I could see the glitter of her eyes, full of tears—of tears that would not fall.

“‘What a loss to me, to us!’ she corrected herself with beautiful generosity. Then she added in a whisper, ‘To the world.’ In the last light of dusk, I could see her eyes shining, full of tears. The tears would not fall.

“‘I have been very happy—very fortunate—very proud,’ she went on. ‘Too fortunate. Too happy for a little while. And now I am unhappy for—for life.’

“‘I have been very happy, very lucky, very proud,’ she went on. ‘Too lucky. Too happy for a little while. And now I am unhappy for, for the rest of my life.’

“She stood up; her fair hair seemed to catch all the remaining light in a glimmer of gold. I rose, too.

“She stood up. Her blond hair seemed to catch all the remaining light in a golden gleam. I stood up, too.

“‘And of all this,’ she went on mournfully, ‘of all his promise, and of all his greatness, of his generous mind, of his noble heart, nothing remains—nothing but a memory. You and I—’

“‘And of all this,’ she continued sadly, ‘of all his promise and all his greatness, his generous mind and noble heart, nothing remains. Nothing but a memory. You and I...’”

“‘We shall always remember him,’ I said hastily.

“‘We’ll always remember him,’ I said quickly.

“‘No!’ she cried. ‘It is impossible that all this should be lost—that such a life should be sacrificed to leave nothing—but sorrow. You know what vast plans he had. I knew of them, too—I could not perhaps understand—but others knew of them. Something must remain. His words, at least, have not died.’

“‘No!’ she cried. ‘All this cannot be lost. Such a life cannot have been sacrificed to leave nothing but sorrow. You know what great plans he had. I knew about his plans, too. Perhaps I could not understand them, but others knew about them. Something must remain. His words, at least, have not died.’

“‘His words will remain,’ I said.

“‘His words will live on,’ I said.

“‘And his example,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Men looked up to him—his goodness shone in every act. His example—’

“‘And the example he set,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Men looked up to him. His goodness showed in everything he did. The example he set...’

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

“‘True,’ I said. ‘His example, too. Yes, his example. I forgot about that.’

“‘But I do not. I cannot—I cannot believe—not yet. I cannot believe that I shall never see him again, that nobody will see him again, never, never, never.’

“‘But I don’t. I can’t, I can’t believe it. Not yet. I can’t believe I’ll never see him again, that nobody will ever see him again. Never, never, never.’

“She put out her arms as if after a retreating figure, stretching them back and with clasped pale hands across the fading and narrow sheen of the window. Never see him! I saw him clearly enough then. I shall see this eloquent phantom as long as I live, and I shall see her, too, a tragic and familiar Shade, resembling in this gesture another one, tragic also, and bedecked with powerless charms, stretching bare brown arms over the glitter of the infernal stream, the stream of darkness. She said suddenly very low, ‘He died as he lived.’

“She held out her arms as if reaching after someone moving away. Her pale hands were clasped, her arms stretched back across the window’s narrow, fading light. Never see him! I saw him clearly enough then. I will see this eloquent ghost as long as I live. And I will see her too, a tragic and familiar spirit. Her gesture resembled that of another tragic woman, draped in charms with no power to protect her. That woman stretched her bare brown arms over the glittering, hellish river, the river of darkness. Suddenly she said, very quietly, ‘He died as he lived.’

“‘His end,’ said I, with dull anger stirring in me, ‘was in every way worthy of his life.’

“‘His death,’ I said, feeling a dull anger rise in me, ‘was in every way worthy of his life.’

“‘And I was not with him,’ she murmured. My anger subsided before a feeling of infinite pity.

“‘And I wasn’t with him,’ she murmured. My anger faded, replaced by endless pity.

“‘Everything that could be done—’ I mumbled.

“‘Everything that could be done...’ I mumbled.

“‘Ah, but I believed in him more than any one on earth—more than his own mother, more than—himself. He needed me! Me! I would have treasured every sigh, every word, every sign, every glance.’

“‘Ah, but I believed in him more than anyone on earth. More than his own mother, more than he believed in himself. He needed me! Me! I would have treasured every sigh, every word, every sign, every glance.’

“I felt like a chill grip on my chest. ‘Don’t,’ I said, in a muffled voice.

“I felt as if a cold hand gripped my chest. ‘Don’t,’ I said, my voice muffled.

“‘Forgive me. I—I have mourned so long in silence—in silence.... You were with him—to the last? I think of his loneliness. Nobody near to understand him as I would have understood. Perhaps no one to hear....’

“‘Forgive me. I, I have grieved for so long in silence. In silence.... Were you with him until the end? I think of how lonely he was. No one nearby to understand him as I would have. Perhaps no one to hear....’

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

“‘To the very end,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘I heard his very last words....’ I stopped in fear.

“‘Repeat them,’ she murmured in a heart-broken tone. ‘I want—I want—something—something—to—to live with.’

“‘Repeat them,’ she murmured, her voice full of heartbreak. ‘I want, I want something, something to, to live with.’

“I was on the point of crying at her, ‘Don’t you hear them?’ The dusk was repeating them in a persistent whisper all around us, in a whisper that seemed to swell menacingly like the first whisper of a rising wind. ‘The horror! The horror!’

“I was about to shout at her, ‘Don’t you hear them?’ The dusk kept repeating them in a whisper all around us. The whisper seemed to grow menacingly louder, like the first whisper of a rising wind. ‘The horror! The horror!’

“‘His last word—to live with,’ she insisted. ‘Don’t you understand I loved him—I loved him—I loved him!’

“‘His last word, to help me go on living,’ she insisted. ‘Don’t you understand? I loved him. I loved him. I loved him!’

“I pulled myself together and spoke slowly.

“I steadied myself and spoke slowly.

“‘The last word he pronounced was—your name.’

“‘The last word he said was your name.’

“I heard a light sigh and then my heart stood still, stopped dead short by an exulting and terrible cry, by the cry of inconceivable triumph and of unspeakable pain. ‘I knew it—I was sure!’... She knew. She was sure. I heard her weeping; she had hidden her face in her hands. It seemed to me that the house would collapse before I could escape, that the heavens would fall upon my head. But nothing happened. The heavens do not fall for such a trifle. Would they have fallen, I wonder, if I had rendered Kurtz that justice which was his due? Hadn’t he said he wanted only justice? But I couldn’t. I could not tell her. It would have been too dark—too dark altogether....”

“I heard a soft sigh. Then my heart stopped dead at a cry of joy and terror, of unimaginable triumph and unspeakable pain. ‘I knew it. I was sure!’... She knew. She was sure. I heard her crying. She had hidden her face in her hands. I felt as if the house would collapse before I could escape, as if the heavens would fall on my head. But nothing happened. The heavens do not fall over something so trivial. Would the heavens have fallen, I wonder, if I had given Kurtz the justice he deserved? Hadn’t he said he wanted only justice? But I couldn’t. I could not tell her. It would have been too dark, far too dark....”

Marlow ceased, and sat apart, indistinct and silent, in the pose of a meditating Buddha. Nobody moved for a time. “We have lost the first of the ebb,” said the Director suddenly. I raised my head. The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed sombre under an overcast sky—seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.

Marlow stopped speaking and sat apart, hard to make out and silent, in the pose of a meditating Buddha. No one moved for a while. “We have missed the start of the outgoing tide,” the Director said suddenly. I raised my head. A black bank of clouds blocked the view out to sea. The calm waterway leading to the farthest ends of the earth flowed darkly under a cloudy sky. The waterway seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.