TheProjectGutenbergEBookofHeartofDarkness,byJosephConrad

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Title:HeartofDarkness

Author:JosephConrad

ReleaseDate:January9,2006[EBook#526]

Language:English

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ProducedbyJudithBossandDavidWidger

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HEARTOFDARKNESS

ByJosephConrad

I

TheNellie,acruisingyawl,swungtoheranchorwithoutaflutterofthesails,andwasatrest.Thefloodhadmade,thewindwasnearlycalm,andbeingbounddowntheriver,theonlythingforitwastocometoandwaitfortheturnofthetide.

The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of aninterminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded togetherwithoutajoint,andintheluminousspacethetannedsailsofthebargesdriftingupwith the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, withgleamsofvarnished sprits.Ahaze restedon the lowshores that ranout to sea invanishingflatness.TheairwasdarkaboveGravesend,andfartherbackstillseemedcondensed intoamournfulgloom,broodingmotionlessover thebiggest, and thegreatest,townonearth.

TheDirector ofCompanieswas our captain and our host.We four affectionatelywatchedhisbackashe stood in thebows looking to seaward.On thewhole riverthere was nothing that looked half so nautical. He resembled a pilot, which to aseaman is trustworthiness personified. Itwasdifficult to realize hisworkwasnotoutthereintheluminousestuary,butbehindhim,withinthebroodinggloom.

Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of the sea.Besidesholdingourhearts together throughlongperiodsofseparation, ithadtheeffect of making us tolerant of each other's yarns—and even convictions. TheLawyer—thebestofoldfellows—had,becauseofhismanyyearsandmanyvirtues,the only cushion on deck, and was lying on the only rug. The Accountant hadbrought out already a box of dominoes, and was toying architecturally with thebones.Marlowsatcross-leggedrightaft, leaningagainst themizzen-mast.Hehadsunkencheeks,ayellowcomplexion,astraightback,anasceticaspect,and,withhisarms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an idol. The Director,satisfiedtheanchorhadgoodhold,madehiswayaftandsatdownamongstus.Weexchangedafewwordslazily.Afterwardstherewassilenceonboardtheyacht.Forsomereasonorotherwedidnotbeginthatgameofdominoes.Wefeltmeditative,andfitfornothingbutplacidstaring.Thedaywasendinginaserenityofstillandexquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was abenignimmensityofunstainedlight;theverymistontheEssexmarsheswaslikeagauzyandradiantfabric,hungfromthewoodedrisesinland,anddrapingthelowshores indiaphanous folds.Only thegloom to thewest, broodingover theupperreaches,becamemoresombereveryminute,as ifangeredby theapproachof thesun.

Andatlast,initscurvedandimperceptiblefall,thesunsanklow,andfromglowingwhite changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if about to go outsuddenly, stricken to death by the touchof that gloombroodingover a crowdofmen.

Forthwithachangecameoverthewaters,andtheserenitybecamelessbrilliantbut

moreprofound.Theoldriver in itsbroadreachrestedunruffledat thedeclineofday,afteragesofgoodservicedonetotheracethatpeopleditsbanks,spreadoutinthe tranquil dignity of awaterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth.Welookedatthevenerablestreamnotinthevividflushofashortdaythatcomesanddepartsforever,butintheaugustlightofabidingmemories.Andindeednothingiseasierforamanwhohas,asthephrasegoes,"followedthesea"withreverenceandaffection, than to evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of theThames. The tidal current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowdedwithmemoriesofmenandshipsithadbornetotherestofhomeortothebattlesofthesea. It had known and served all themen ofwhom the nation is proud, fromSirFrancis Drake to Sir John Franklin, knights all, titled and untitled—the greatknights-errant of the sea. It had borne all the ships whose names are like jewelsflashinginthenightoftime,fromtheGoldenHindreturningwithherroundflanksfull of treasure, to be visited by the Queen's Highness and thus pass out of thegigantic tale, to theErebusandTerror,boundonotherconquests—and thatneverreturned.Ithadknowntheshipsandthemen.TheyhadsailedfromDeptford,fromGreenwich,fromErith—theadventurersandthesettlers;kings'shipsandtheshipsofmenon 'Change;captains,admirals, thedark"interlopers"of theEasterntrade,andthecommissioned"generals"ofEastIndiafleets.Huntersforgoldorpursuersoffame,theyallhadgoneoutonthatstream,bearingthesword,andoftenthetorch,messengers of themightwithin the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire.What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of anunknownearth!...Thedreamsofmen,theseedofcommonwealths,thegermsofempires.

Thesunset;theduskfellonthestream,andlightsbegantoappearalongtheshore.TheChapmanlighthouse,athree-leggedthingerectonamud-flat,shonestrongly.Lights of shipsmoved in the fairway—a great stir of lights going up and goingdown.Andfartherwestontheupperreaches theplaceof themonstrous townwasstill marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glareunderthestars.

"And this also," said Marlow suddenly, "has been one of the dark places of theearth."

Hewastheonlymanofuswhostill"followedthesea."Theworstthatcouldbesaidof him was that he did not represent his class. He was a seaman, but he was awanderer, too,whilemost seamen lead, ifonemaysoexpress it, a sedentary life.Theirmindsareofthestay-at-homeorder,andtheirhomeisalwayswiththem—theship;andsois theircountry—thesea.Oneshipisverymuchlikeanother,andtheseaisalwaysthesame.Intheimmutabilityoftheirsurroundingstheforeignshores,

theforeignfaces,thechangingimmensityoflife,glidepast,veilednotbyasenseofmysterybutbyaslightlydisdainfulignorance;forthereisnothingmysterioustoaseaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and asinscrutable as Destiny. For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or acasualspreeonshoresufficestounfoldforhimthesecretofawholecontinent,andgenerallyhefindsthesecretnotworthknowing.Theyarnsofseamenhaveadirectsimplicity, thewholemeaningofwhich lieswithin the shell of a crackednut.ButMarlowwasnottypical(ifhispropensitytospinyarnsbeexcepted),andtohimthemeaningofanepisodewasnotinsidelikeakernelbutoutside,envelopingthetalewhichbroughtitoutonlyasaglowbringsoutahaze,inthelikenessofoneofthesemisty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination ofmoonshine.

Hisremarkdidnotseematallsurprising.ItwasjustlikeMarlow.Itwasacceptedinsilence.Noonetookthetroubletogrunteven;andpresentlyhesaid,veryslow—

"I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here, nineteenhundredyearsago—theotherday... .Lightcameoutofthisriversince—yousayKnights?Yes;butitislikearunningblazeonaplain,likeaflashoflightningintheclouds.Weliveintheflicker—mayitlastaslongastheoldearthkeepsrolling!Butdarknesswashereyesterday.Imaginethefeelingsofacommanderofafine—whatd'ye call 'em?—trireme in theMediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north; runoverland across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft thelegionaries,—awonderfullotofhandymentheymusthavebeentoo—usedtobuild,apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if we may believe what we read.Imagine him here—the very end of theworld, a sea the color of lead, a sky thecolorof smoke, akindof ship about as rigid as a concertina—andgoingup thisriverwithstores,ororders,orwhatyoulike.Sandbanks,marshes,forests,savages,—precious little toeat fit foracivilizedman,nothingbutThameswater todrink.NoFalernianwinehere,nogoingashore.Hereandthereamilitarycamplostinawilderness,likeaneedleinabundleofhay—cold,fog,tempests,disease,exile,anddeath,—death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. Theymust have beendyinglikeflieshere.Ohyes—hedidit.Diditverywell,too,nodoubt,andwithoutthinking much about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had gonethrough in his time, perhaps. They were men enough to face the darkness. AndperhapshewascheeredbykeepinghiseyeonachanceofpromotiontothefleetatRavennaby-and-by,ifhehadgoodfriendsinRomeandsurvivedtheawfulclimate.Orthinkofadecentyoungcitizeninatoga—perhapstoomuchdice,youknow—coming out here in the train of some prefect, or tax-gatherer, or trader even, tomendhisfortunes.Landinaswamp,marchthroughthewoods,andinsomeinlandpost feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him,—all that

mysteriouslifeofthewildernessthatstirsintheforest,inthejungles,intheheartsofwildmen.There'sno initiationeither intosuchmysteries.Hehas to live in themidst of the incomprehensible,which is also detestable.And it has a fascination,too, that goes toworkuponhim.The fascinationof the abomination—youknow.Imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, thesurrender,thehate."

Hepaused.

"Mind," he began again, lifting one arm from the elbow, the palm of the handoutwards, so that, with his legs folded before him, he had the pose of a Buddhapreaching in European clothes and without a lotus-flower—"Mind, none of uswouldfeelexactlylikethis.Whatsavesusisefficiency—thedevotiontoefficiency.But these chaps were not much account, really. They were no colonists; theiradministration was merely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect. They wereconquerors,andforthatyouwantonlybruteforce—nothingtoboastof,whenyouhaveit,sinceyourstrengthisjustanaccidentarisingfromtheweaknessofothers.They grabbedwhat they could get for the sake ofwhatwas to be got. Itwas justrobbery with violence, aggravatedmurder on a great scale, andmen going at itblind—asisveryproperforthosewhotackleadarkness.Theconquestoftheearth,whichmostlymeansthetakingitawayfromthosewhohaveadifferentcomplexionorslightly flatternoses thanourselves, isnotapretty thingwhenyou look into ittoo much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not asentimentalpretensebutanidea;andanunselfishbeliefintheidea—somethingyoucansetup,andbowdownbefore,andofferasacrificeto...."

He broke off. Flames glided in the river, small green flames, red flames, whiteflames,pursuing,overtaking,joining,crossingeachother—thenseparatingslowlyor hastily. The traffic of the great city went on in the deepening night upon thesleepless river.We lookedon,waitingpatiently—therewasnothingelse todo tilltheendoftheflood;butitwasonlyafteralongsilence,whenhesaid,inahesitatingvoice,"IsupposeyoufellowsrememberIdidonceturnfresh-watersailorforabit,"that we knew we were fated, before the ebb began to run, to hear about one ofMarlow'sinconclusiveexperiences.

"Idon'twanttobotheryoumuchwithwhathappenedtomepersonally,"hebegan,showing in this remark theweakness ofmany tellers of taleswho seem so oftenunawareofwhattheiraudiencewouldbestliketohear;"yettounderstandtheeffectofitonmeyououghttoknowhowIgotoutthere,whatIsaw,howIwentupthatriver to the place where I first met the poor chap. It was the farthest point ofnavigationandtheculminatingpointofmyexperience.Itseemedsomehowtothrow

a kind of light on everything about me—and into my thoughts. It was somberenoughtoo—andpitiful—notextraordinaryinanyway—notverycleareither.No,notveryclear.Andyetitseemedtothrowakindoflight.

"Ihadthen,asyouremember,justreturnedtoLondonafteralotofIndianOcean,Pacific,ChinaSeas—aregulardoseoftheEast—sixyearsorso,andIwasloafingabout,hinderingyoufellowsinyourworkandinvadingyourhomes,justasthoughIhadgotaheavenlymissiontocivilizeyou.Itwasveryfineforatime,butafterabit I did get tired of resting.Then I began to look for a ship—I should think thehardestworkonearth.Buttheshipswouldn'tevenlookatme.AndIgottiredofthatgametoo.

"NowwhenIwasalittlechapIhadapassionformaps.IwouldlookforhoursatSouth America, or Africa, or Australia, and lose myself in all the glories ofexploration.Atthattimethereweremanyblankspacesontheearth,andwhenIsawonethatlookedparticularlyinvitingonamap(buttheyalllookthat)Iwouldputmyfingeronitandsay, 'WhenIgrowupIwillgothere.'TheNorthPolewasoneoftheseplaces,Iremember.Well,Ihaven'tbeenthereyet,andshallnottrynow.Theglamour'soff.Otherplaceswerescatteredabout theEquator,and ineverysortoflatitudealloverthetwohemispheres.Ihavebeeninsomeofthem,and...well,wewon'ttalkaboutthat.Buttherewasoneyet—thebiggest,themostblank,sotospeak—thatIhadahankeringafter.

"True, by this time itwas not a blank space anymore. It had got filled sincemyboyhood with rivers and lakes and names. It had ceased to be a blank space ofdelightful mystery—a white patch for a boy to dream gloriously over. It hadbecomeaplaceofdarkness.But therewas in itoneriverespecially,amightybigriver, thatyoucouldseeonthemap,resemblinganimmensesnakeuncoiled,withitsheadinthesea,itsbodyatrestcurvingafaroveravastcountry,anditstaillostinthe depths of the land. And as I looked at the map of it in a shop-window, itfascinatedmeasasnakewouldabird—asillylittlebird.ThenIrememberedtherewas a big concern, a Company for trade on that river. Dash it all! I thought tomyself,theycan'ttradewithoutusingsomekindofcraftonthatlotoffreshwater—steamboats!Whyshouldn'tItrytogetchargeofone?IwentonalongFleetStreet,butcouldnotshakeofftheidea.Thesnakehadcharmedme.

"YouunderstanditwasaContinentalconcern,thatTradingsociety;butIhavealotofrelationslivingontheContinent,becauseit'scheapandnotsonastyasitlooks,theysay.

"IamsorrytoownIbegantoworrythem.Thiswasalreadyafreshdeparturefor

me.Iwasnotusedtogetthingsthatway,youknow.IalwayswentmyownroadandonmyownlegswhereIhadamindtogo.Iwouldn'thavebelieveditofmyself;but,then—yousee—IfeltsomehowImustgettherebyhookorbycrook.SoIworriedthem.Themensaid'Mydearfellow,'anddidnothing.Then—wouldyoubelieveit?—I tried the women. I, Charlie Marlow, set the women to work—to get a job.Heavens!Well,yousee,thenotiondroveme.Ihadanaunt,adearenthusiasticsoul.Shewrote:'Itwillbedelightful.Iamreadytodoanything,anythingforyou.Itisagloriousidea.IknowthewifeofaveryhighpersonageintheAdministration,andalsoamanwhohaslotsofinfluencewith,'&c.,&c.Shewasdeterminedtomakenoendoffusstogetmeappointedskipperofariversteamboat,ifsuchwasmyfancy.

"Igotmyappointment—ofcourse;andIgotitveryquick.ItappearstheCompanyhad received news that one of their captains had been killed in a scufflewith thenatives.Thiswasmychance,and itmademe themoreanxious togo. Itwasonlymonthsandmonthsafterwards,whenImadetheattempttorecoverwhatwasleftofthe body, that I heard the original quarrel arose from a misunderstanding aboutsomehens.Yes, twoblackhens.Fresleven—thatwas the fellow'sname, aDane—thoughthimselfwrongedsomehowinthebargain,sohewentashoreandstartedtohammerthechiefofthevillagewithastick.Oh,itdidn'tsurprisemeintheleasttohear this, and at the same time to be told that Freslevenwas the gentlest, quietestcreaturethateverwalkedontwolegs.Nodoubthewas;buthehadbeenacoupleofyearsalreadyoutthereengagedinthenoblecause,youknow,andheprobablyfelttheneedatlastofassertinghisself-respectinsomeway.Thereforehewhackedtheoldniggermercilessly,whileabigcrowdofhispeoplewatchedhim,thunderstruck,tillsomeman,—Iwastoldthechief'sson,—indesperationathearingtheoldchapyell,madeatentativejabwithaspearatthewhiteman—andofcourseitwentquiteeasybetweentheshoulder-blades.Thenthewholepopulationclearedintotheforest,expecting all kinds of calamities to happen,while, on the other hand, the steamerFreslevencommandedleftalsoinabadpanic,inchargeoftheengineer,Ibelieve.AfterwardsnobodyseemedtotroublemuchaboutFresleven'sremains,tillIgotoutand stepped into his shoes. I couldn't let it rest, though; butwhen an opportunityofferedatlasttomeetmypredecessor,thegrassgrowingthroughhisribswastallenoughtohidehisbones.Theywereallthere.Thesupernaturalbeinghadnotbeentouchedafterhefell.Andthevillagewasdeserted,thehutsgapedblack,rotting,allaskewwithin the fallen enclosures. A calamity had come to it, sure enough. Thepeople had vanished.Mad terror had scattered them, men, women, and children,through the bush, and they had never returned.What became of the hens I don'tknow either. I should think the cause of progress got them, anyhow. However,throughthisgloriousaffairIgotmyappointment,beforeIhadfairlybeguntohopeforit.

"Iflewaroundlikemadtogetready,andbeforeforty-eighthoursIwascrossingtheChanneltoshowmyselftomyemployers,andsignthecontract.InaveryfewhoursIarrived inacity thatalwaysmakesme thinkofawhitedsepulcher.Prejudicenodoubt.IhadnodifficultyinfindingtheCompany'soffices.Itwasthebiggestthinginthetown,andeverybodyImetwasfullofit.Theyweregoingtorunanover-seaempire,andmakenoendofcoinbytrade.

"Anarrowanddesertedstreet indeepshadow,highhouses, innumerablewindowswithvenetianblinds,adeadsilence,grasssproutingbetween thestones, imposingcarriagearchwaysrightandleft,immensedoubledoorsstandingponderouslyajar.Islippedthroughoneofthesecracks,wentupasweptandungarnishedstaircase,asaridasadesert,andopened thefirstdoorIcameto.Twowomen,onefatand theotherslim,satonstraw-bottomedchairs,knittingblackwool.Theslimonegotupand walked straight at me—still knitting with downcast eyes—and only just as Ibeganto thinkofgettingoutofherway,asyouwouldforasomnambulist,stoodstill, and looked up.Her dresswas as plain as an umbrella-cover, and she turnedroundwithoutawordandprecededmeintoawaiting-room.Igavemyname,andlookedabout.Dealtableinthemiddle,plainchairsallroundthewalls,ononeendalarge shining map, marked with all the colors of a rainbow. There was a vastamountofred—goodtoseeatanytime,becauseoneknowsthatsomerealworkisdoneinthere,adeuceofalotofblue,alittlegreen,smearsoforange,and,ontheEastCoast,apurplepatch, toshowwherethejollypioneersofprogressdrinkthejolly lager-beer. However, I wasn't going into any of these. I was going into theyellow. Dead in the center. And the river was there—fascinating—deadly—like asnake. Ough! A door opened, a white-haired secretarial head, but wearing acompassionateexpression,appeared,andaskinnyforefingerbeckonedmeintothesanctuary.Itslightwasdim,andaheavywriting-desksquattedinthemiddle.Frombehindthatstructurecameoutanimpressionofpaleplumpnessinafrock-coat.Thegreatman himself. Hewas five feet six, I should judge, and had his grip on thehandle-endofeversomanymillions.Heshookhands,Ifancy,murmuredvaguely,wassatisfiedwithmyFrench.Bonvoyage.

"In about forty-five seconds I found myself again in the waiting-room with thecompassionatesecretary,who,fullofdesolationandsympathy,mademesignsomedocument. I believe I undertook amongst other things not to disclose any tradesecrets.Well,Iamnotgoingto.

"Ibegan to feel slightlyuneasy.YouknowIamnotused tosuchceremonies,andtherewassomethingominousintheatmosphere.ItwasjustasthoughIhadbeenletintosomeconspiracy—Idon'tknow—somethingnotquiteright;andIwasgladtogetout.Intheouterroomthetwowomenknittedblackwoolfeverishly.Peoplewere

arriving, and theyounger onewaswalkingback and forth introducing them.Theoldonesatonherchair.Herflatclothslipperswereproppeduponafoot-warmer,andacat reposedonher lap.Sheworeastarchedwhiteaffaironherhead,hadawartononecheek,andsilver-rimmedspectacleshungon the tipofhernose.Sheglanced at me above the glasses. The swift and indifferent placidity of that looktroubledme.Twoyouthswithfoolishandcheerycountenanceswerebeingpilotedover, and she threw at them the same quick glance of unconcernedwisdom. Sheseemedtoknowallaboutthemandaboutmetoo.Aneeriefeelingcameoverme.She seemed uncanny and fateful. Often far away there I thought of these two,guarding the door of Darkness, knitting black wool as for a warm pall, oneintroducing, introducing continuously to the unknown, the other scrutinizing thecheeryandfoolishfaceswithunconcernedoldeyes.Ave!Oldknitterofblackwool.Morituritesalutant.Notmanyofthoseshelookedateversawheragain—nothalf,byalongway.

"Therewasyetavisittothedoctor. 'Asimpleformality,'assuredmethesecretary,withanairoftakinganimmensepartinallmysorrows.Accordinglyayoungchapwearinghishatoverthelefteyebrow,someclerkIsuppose,—theremusthavebeenclerksinthebusiness,thoughthehousewasasstillasahouseinacityofthedead,—camefromsomewhereup-stairs,andledmeforth.Hewasshabbyandcareless,with ink-stains on the sleeves of his jacket, and his cravatwas large andbillowy,underachinshapedlikethetoeofanoldboot.Itwasalittletooearlyforthedoctor,so I proposed a drink, and thereupon he developed a vein of joviality.Aswe satoverourvermouthsheglorifiedtheCompany'sbusiness,andby-and-byIexpressedcasuallymysurpriseathimnotgoingoutthere.Hebecameverycoolandcollectedall at once. 'I am not such a fool as I look, quoth Plato to his disciples,' he saidsententiously,emptiedhisglasswithgreatresolution,andwerose.

"The old doctor felt my pulse, evidently thinking of something else the while.'Good, good for there,' hemumbled, and thenwith a certain eagerness askedmewhether Iwould let himmeasuremy head.Rather surprised, I saidYes,when heproducedathinglikecalipersandgotthedimensionsbackandfrontandeveryway,taking notes carefully. Hewas an unshaven littleman in a threadbare coat like agaberdine,withhisfeetinslippers,andIthoughthimaharmlessfool.'Ialwaysaskleave,intheinterestsofscience,tomeasurethecraniaofthosegoingoutthere,'hesaid.'Andwhentheycomeback,too?'Iasked.'Oh,Ineverseethem,'heremarked;'and,moreover, thechangestakeplaceinside,youknow.'Hesmiled,asifatsomequiet joke. 'So you are going out there. Famous. Interesting too.' He gave me asearching glance, andmade another note. 'Ever anymadness in your family?' heasked,inamatter-of-facttone.Ifeltveryannoyed.'Isthatquestionintheinterestsofsciencetoo?''Itwouldbe,'hesaid,withouttakingnoticeofmyirritation,'interesting

forsciencetowatchthementalchangesofindividuals,onthespot,but...''Areyouanalienist?'Iinterrupted.'Everydoctorshouldbe—alittle,'answeredthatoriginal,imperturbably. 'I have a little theorywhich youMessieurswhogo out theremusthelpmetoprove.Thisismyshareintheadvantagesmycountryshallreapfromthepossession of such amagnificent dependency. Themerewealth I leave to others.Pardon my questions, but you are the first Englishman coming under myobservation....'IhastenedtoassurehimIwasnotintheleasttypical.'IfIwere,'saidI, 'Iwouldn't be talking like thiswithyou.' 'What you say is rather profound, andprobablyerroneous,'hesaid,withalaugh.'Avoidirritationmorethanexposuretothesun.Adieu.HowdoyouEnglishsay,eh?Good-by.Ah!Good-by.Adieu.Inthetropicsonemustbeforeeverythingkeepcalm.'...Heliftedawarningforefinger....'Ducalme,ducalme.Adieu.'

"One thingmore remained to do—saygood-by tomy excellent aunt. I found hertriumphant.Ihadacupof tea—thelastdecentcupof teaformanydays—andinaroomthatmostsoothinglylookedjustasyouwouldexpectalady'sdrawing-roomtolook,wehadalongquietchatbythefireside.Inthecourseoftheseconfidencesitbecamequiteplain tomeIhadbeenrepresented to thewifeof thehighdignitary,andgoodnessknowstohowmanymorepeoplebesides,asanexceptionalandgiftedcreature—apieceofgoodfortunefortheCompany—amanyoudon'tgetholdofeveryday.Goodheavens!andIwasgoingtotakechargeofatwo-penny-halfpennyriver-steamboatwithapennywhistleattached!Itappeared,however,Iwasalsooneof theWorkers, with a capital—you know. Something like an emissary of light,somethinglikealowersortofapostle.Therehadbeenalotofsuchrotletlooseinprintandtalkjustaboutthattime,andtheexcellentwoman,livingrightintherushofallthathumbug,gotcarriedoffherfeet.Shetalkedabout'weaningthoseignorantmillions from their horrid ways,' till, upon my word, she made me quiteuncomfortable.IventuredtohintthattheCompanywasrunforprofit.

"'Youforget,dearCharlie,thatthelaborerisworthyofhishire,'shesaid,brightly.It'squeerhowoutoftouchwithtruthwomenare.Theyliveinaworldoftheirown,and there had never been anything like it, and never can be. It is too beautifulaltogether,andiftheyweretosetitupitwouldgotopiecesbeforethefirstsunset.Someconfoundedfactwemenhavebeenlivingcontentedlywitheversincethedayofcreationwouldstartupandknockthewholethingover.

"AfterthisIgotembraced,toldtowearflannel,besuretowriteoften,andsoon—andIleft.Inthestreet—Idon'tknowwhy—aqueerfeelingcametomethatIwasanimpostor.OddthingthatI,whousedtoclearoutforanypartoftheworldattwenty-fourhours'notice,withlessthoughtthanmostmengivetothecrossingofastreet,had a moment—I won't say of hesitation, but of startled pause, before this

commonplace affair.The bestway I can explain it to you is by saying that, for asecondortwo,Ifeltasthough,insteadofgoingtothecenterofacontinent,Iwereabouttosetoffforthecenteroftheearth.

"IleftinaFrenchsteamer,andshecalledineveryblamedporttheyhaveoutthere,for, as far as I could see, the sole purpose of landing soldiers and custom-houseofficers.Iwatchedthecoast.Watchingacoastasitslipsbytheshipislikethinkingaboutanenigma.Thereitisbeforeyou—smiling,frowning,inviting,grand,mean,insipid,orsavage,andalwaysmutewithanairofwhispering,'Comeandfindout.'This one was almost featureless, as if still in the making, with an aspect ofmonotonousgrimness.Theedgeofacolossaljungle,sodark-greenastobealmostblack,fringedwithwhitesurf,ranstraight, likearuledline,far,farawayalongablueseawhoseglitterwasblurredbyacreepingmist.Thesunwasfierce,thelandseemed to glisten and drip with steam. Here and there grayish-whitish specksshowedup,clustered inside thewhitesurf,witha flag flyingabove themperhaps.Settlementssomecenturiesold,andstillnobiggerthanpin-headsontheuntouchedexpanseoftheirbackground.Wepoundedalong,stopped,landedsoldiers;wenton,landed custom-house clerks to levy toll in what looked like a God-forsakenwilderness,withatinshedandaflag-polelostinit;landedmoresoldiers—totakecare of the custom-house clerks, presumably. Some, I heard, got drowned in thesurf; butwhether theydidor not, nobody seemedparticularly to care.Theywerejustflungoutthere,andonwewent.Everydaythecoastlookedthesame,asthoughwehadnotmoved;butwepassedvariousplaces—tradingplaces—withnameslikeGran'BassamLittlePopo,namesthatseemedtobelongtosomesordidfarceactedinfrontofasinisterbackcloth.Theidlenessofapassenger,myisolationamongstall thesemenwithwhom I had no point of contact, the oily and languid sea, theuniformsombernessofthecoast,seemedtokeepmeawayfromthetruthofthings,within the toil of amournful and senseless delusion.The voice of the surf heardnowandthenwasapositivepleasure,likethespeechofabrother.Itwassomethingnatural,thathaditsreason,thathadameaning.Nowandthenaboatfromtheshoregave one amomentary contactwith reality. Itwas paddled by black fellows.Youcouldseefromafarthewhiteoftheireyeballsglistening.Theyshouted,sang;theirbodies streamed with perspiration; they had faces like grotesque masks—thesechaps;but theyhadbone,muscle, awildvitality, an intense energyofmovement,thatwasasnaturalandtrueasthesurfalongtheircoast.Theywantednoexcuseforbeing there. They were a great comfort to look at. For a time I would feel Ibelonged still to a world of straightforward facts; but the feeling would not lastlong.Somethingwouldturnuptoscareitaway.Once,Iremember,wecameuponaman-of-war anchored off the coast. There wasn't even a shed there, and she wasshellingthebush.ItappearstheFrenchhadoneoftheirwarsgoingonthereabouts.Herensigndroppedlimplikearag;themuzzlesofthelongeight-inchgunsstuck

out all over the lowhull; the greasy, slimy swell swungher up lazily and let herdown,swayingherthinmasts.Intheemptyimmensityofearth,sky,andwater,thereshewas,incomprehensible,firingintoacontinent.Pop,wouldgooneoftheeight-inch guns; a small flame would dart and vanish, a little white smoke woulddisappear, a tiny projectile would give a feeble screech—and nothing happened.Nothingcouldhappen.Therewasatouchofinsanityintheproceeding,asenseoflugubriousdrollery in the sight; and itwasnotdissipatedby somebodyonboardassuring me earnestly there was a camp of natives—he called them enemies!—hiddenoutofsightsomewhere.

"Wegaveherherletters(Iheardthemeninthatlonelyshipweredyingoffeveratthe rateof threeaday)andwenton.Wecalledat somemoreplaceswith farcicalnames, where the merry dance of death and trade goes on in a still and earthyatmosphereasofanoverheatedcatacomb;allalongtheformlesscoastborderedbydangeroussurf, as ifNatureherselfhad tried towardoff intruders; inandoutofrivers,streamsofdeathinlife,whosebankswererottingintomud,whosewaters,thickenedintoslime,invadedthecontortedmangroves,thatseemedtowritheatusintheextremityofanimpotentdespair.Nowheredidwestoplongenoughtogetaparticularized impression, but the general sense of vague and oppressivewondergrewuponme.Itwaslikeawearypilgrimageamongsthintsfornightmares.

"ItwasupwardofthirtydaysbeforeIsawthemouthofthebigriver.Weanchoredofftheseatofthegovernment.Butmyworkwouldnotbegintillsometwohundredmilesfartheron.SoassoonasIcouldImadeastartforaplacethirtymileshigherup.

"I had my passage on a little sea-going steamer. Her captain was a Swede, andknowingmeforaseaman,invitedmeonthebridge.Hewasayoungman,lean,fair,and morose, with lanky hair and a shuffling gait. As we left the miserable littlewharf,hetossedhisheadcontemptuouslyattheshore.'Beenlivingthere?'heasked.Isaid, 'Yes.' 'Finelotthesegovernmentchaps—aretheynot?'hewenton,speakingEnglish with great precision and considerable bitterness. 'It is funny what somepeoplewilldoforafewfrancsamonth.Iwonderwhatbecomesofthatkindwhenitgoesupcountry?'IsaidtohimIexpectedtoseethatsoon. 'So-o-o!'heexclaimed.He shuffled athwart, keeping one eye ahead vigilantly. 'Don't be too sure,' hecontinued.'TheotherdayItookupamanwhohangedhimselfontheroad.HewasaSwede,too.''Hangedhimself!Why,inGod'sname?'Icried.Hekeptonlookingoutwatchfully.'Whoknows?Thesuntoomuchforhim,orthecountryperhaps.'

"Atlastweopenedareach.Arockycliffappeared,moundsofturned-upearthbytheshore,housesonahill,others,withironroofs,amongstawasteofexcavations,or

hangingtothedeclivity.Acontinuousnoiseoftherapidsabovehoveredoverthisscene of inhabited devastation. A lot of people, mostly black and naked, movedaboutlikeants.Ajettyprojectedintotheriver.Ablindingsunlightdrownedallthisattimesinasuddenrecrudescenceofglare. 'There'syourCompany'sstation,'saidtheSwede,pointing to threewoodenbarrack-like structureson the rockyslope. 'Iwillsendyourthingsup.Fourboxesdidyousay?So.Farewell.'

"Icameuponaboilerwallowinginthegrass,thenfoundapathleadingupthehill.Itturnedasideforthebowlders,andalsoforanundersizedrailway-trucklyingthereonitsbackwithitswheelsintheair.Onewasoff.Thethinglookedasdeadasthecarcassofsomeanimal.Icameuponmorepiecesofdecayingmachinery,astackofrustyrails.Totheleftaclumpoftreesmadeashadyspot,wheredarkthingsseemedtostirfeebly.Iblinked,thepathwassteep.Ahorntootedtotheright,andIsawtheblackpeople run.Aheavyanddulldetonationshook theground,apuffofsmokecameoutofthecliff,andthatwasall.Nochangeappearedonthefaceoftherock.Theywere building a railway. The cliffwas not in theway or anything; but thisobjectlessblastingwasalltheworkgoingon.

"Aslightclinkingbehindmemademeturnmyhead.Sixblackmenadvancedinafile,toilingupthepath.Theywalkederectandslow,balancingsmallbasketsfullofearthon theirheads, and the clinkkept timewith their footsteps.Black ragswerewoundround their loins,and theshortendsbehindwagged toand fro like tails. Icouldseeeveryrib,thejointsoftheirlimbswerelikeknotsinarope;eachhadanironcollaronhisneck,andallwereconnectedtogetherwithachainwhosebightsswungbetweenthem,rhythmicallyclinking.AnotherreportfromthecliffmademethinksuddenlyofthatshipofwarIhadseenfiringintoacontinent.Itwasthesamekindofominousvoice;butthesemencouldbynostretchofimaginationbecalledenemies.Theywerecalledcriminals,andtheoutragedlaw,liketheburstingshells,hadcometothem,aninsolublemysteryfromoverthesea.Alltheirmeagerbreastspantedtogether,theviolentlydilatednostrilsquivered,theeyesstaredstonilyuphill.They passedmewithin six inches,without a glance,with that complete, deathlikeindifferenceofunhappysavages.Behind this rawmatteroneof thereclaimed, theproduct of the new forces at work, strolled despondently, carrying a rifle by itsmiddle.Hehadauniformjacketwithonebuttonoff,andseeingawhitemanonthepath, hoisted hisweapon to his shoulderwith alacrity.Thiswas simple prudence,whitemenbeingsomuchalikeatadistancethathecouldnottellwhoImightbe.Hewas speedily reassured, andwith a large,white, rascallygrin, and aglance at hischarge,seemedtotakemeintopartnershipinhisexaltedtrust.Afterall,Ialsowasapartofthegreatcauseofthesehighandjustproceedings.

"Insteadofgoingup,Iturnedanddescendedtotheleft.Myideawastoletthatchain-

gang get out of sight before I climbed the hill. You know I am not particularlytender;I'vehadtostrikeandtofendoff.I'vehadtoresistandtoattacksometimes—that'sonlyonewayofresisting—withoutcountingtheexactcost,accordingto thedemandsofsuchsortoflifeasIhadblunderedinto.I'veseenthedevilofviolence,andthedevilofgreed,andthedevilofhotdesire;but,byall thestars!thesewerestrong,lusty,red-eyeddevils,thatswayedanddrovemen—men,Itellyou.ButasIstoodon thishillside, I foresaw that in theblinding sunshineof that land Iwouldbecome acquaintedwith a flabby, pretending,weak-eyed devil of a rapacious andpitilessfolly.Howinsidioushecouldbe,too,Iwasonlytofindoutseveralmonthslateranda thousandmiles farther.Foramoment I stoodappalled,as thoughbyawarning.FinallyIdescendedthehill,obliquely,towardsthetreesIhadseen.

"I avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on the slope, thepurpose ofwhich I found it impossible to divine. Itwasn't a quarry or a sandpit,anyhow. It was just a hole. It might have been connected with the philanthropicdesireofgivingthecriminalssomethingtodo.Idon'tknow.ThenInearlyfellintoaverynarrowravine,almostnomorethanascarinthehillside.Idiscoveredthatalotofimporteddrainage-pipesforthesettlementhadbeentumbledinthere.Therewasn't one thatwas not broken. Itwas awanton smash-up.At last I got under thetrees.Mypurposewastostroll intotheshadeforamoment;butnosoonerwithinthanitseemedtomeIhadsteppedintoagloomycircleofsomeInferno.Therapidswere near, and an uninterrupted, uniform, headlong, rushing noise filled themournfulstillnessofthegrove,wherenotabreathstirred,notaleafmoved,withamysterious sound—as though the tearingpaceof the launchedearthhad suddenlybecomeaudible.

"Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees, leaning against the trunks,clinging to theearth,halfcomingout,halfeffacedwithin thedim light, inall theattitudes of pain, abandonment, and despair. Another mine on the cliff went off,followedbyaslightshudderofthesoilundermyfeet.Theworkwasgoingon.Thework!Andthiswastheplacewheresomeofthehelpershadwithdrawntodie.

"Theyweredyingslowly—itwasveryclear.Theywerenotenemies,theywerenotcriminals, theywere nothing earthly now,—nothing but black shadows of diseaseand starvation, lying confusedly in the greenish gloom. Brought from all therecesses of the coast in all the legality of time contracts, lost in uncongenialsurroundings, fedonunfamiliarfood, theysickened,becameinefficient,andwerethenallowedtocrawlawayandrest.Thesemoribundshapeswerefreeasair—andnearly as thin. I began to distinguish the gleam of eyes under the trees. Then,glancingdown,Isawafacenearmyhand.Theblackbonesreclinedatfulllengthwithoneshoulderagainstthetree,andslowlytheeyelidsroseandthesunkeneyes

lookedupatme,enormousandvacant,akindofblind,whiteflickerinthedepthsoftheorbs,whichdiedout slowly.Themanseemedyoung—almostaboy—butyouknowwiththemit'shardtotell.IfoundnothingelsetodobuttoofferhimoneofmygoodSwede'sship'sbiscuitsIhadinmypocket.Thefingersclosedslowlyonitandheld—therewasnoothermovementandnootherglance.Hehad tiedabitofwhite worsted round his neck—Why? Where did he get it? Was it a badge—anornament—acharm—apropitiatoryact?Wasthereanyideaatallconnectedwithit?It looked startling round his black neck, this bit ofwhite thread frombeyond theseas.

"Nearthesametreetwomorebundlesofacuteanglessatwiththeirlegsdrawnup.One,with his chin propped on his knees, stared at nothing, in an intolerable andappallingmanner: his brotherphantom rested its forehead, as if overcomewith agreat weariness; and all about others were scattered in every pose of contortedcollapse, as in somepicture of amassacre or a pestilence.While I stoodhorror-struck,oneofthesecreaturesrosetohishandsandknees,andwentoffonall-fourstowards the river to drink.He lapped out of his hand, then sat up in the sunlight,crossinghisshins infrontofhim,andaftera timelethiswoollyheadfallonhisbreastbone.

"Ididn'twantanymoreloiteringintheshade,andImadehastetowardsthestation.WhennearthebuildingsImetawhiteman,insuchanunexpectedeleganceofget-up that in the firstmoment I tookhim for a sort of vision. I saw a high starchedcollar, white cuffs, a light alpaca jacket, snowy trousers, a clear necktie, andvarnished boots.No hat. Hair parted, brushed, oiled, under a green-lined parasolheldinabigwhitehand.Hewasamazing,andhadapenholderbehindhisear.

"I shook hands with this miracle, and I learned he was the Company's chiefaccountant,andthatall thebookkeepingwasdoneat thisstation.Hehadcomeoutfor a moment, he said, 'to get a breath of fresh air.' The expression soundedwonderfully odd, with its suggestion of sedentary desk-life. I wouldn't havementioned the fellow to you at all, only itwas fromhis lips that I first heard thenameofthemanwhoissoindissolublyconnectedwiththememoriesofthattime.Moreover, I respected the fellow. Yes; I respected his collars, his vast cuffs, hisbrushedhair.Hisappearancewascertainlythatofahairdresser'sdummy;butinthegreat demoralization of the land he kept up his appearance. That's backbone.Hisstarched collars and got-up shirt-fronts were achievements of character. He hadbeen out nearly three years; and, later on, I could not help asking him how hemanagedtosportsuchlinen.Hehadjustthefaintestblush,andsaidmodestly, 'I'vebeenteachingoneofthenativewomenaboutthestation.Itwasdifficult.Shehadadistaste for thework.' Thisman had verily accomplished something.And hewas

devotedtohisbooks,whichwereinapple-pieorder.

"Everythingelseinthestationwasinamuddle,—heads,things,buildings.Stringsofdustyniggerswithsplayfeetarrivedanddeparted;astreamofmanufacturedgoods,rubbishy cottons, beads, and brass-wire sent into the depths of darkness, and inreturncameaprecioustrickleofivory.

"Ihadtowaitinthestationfortendays—aneternity.Ilivedinahutintheyard,buttobeoutofthechaosIwouldsometimesgetintotheaccountant'soffice.Itwasbuiltofhorizontalplanks,andsobadlyputtogetherthat,ashebentoverhishighdesk,hewasbarredfromnecktoheelswithnarrowstripsofsunlight.Therewasnoneedtoopenthebigshuttertosee.Itwashottheretoo;bigfliesbuzzedfiendishly,anddidnot sting, but stabbed. I sat generally on the floor, while, of faultless appearance(andevenslightlyscented),perchingonahighstool,hewrote,hewrote.Sometimeshestoodupforexercise.Whenatruckle-bedwithasickman(someinvalidedagentfromup-country)wasputinthere,heexhibitedagentleannoyance.'Thegroansofthis sick person,' he said, 'distract my attention. And without that it is extremelydifficulttoguardagainstclericalerrorsinthisclimate.'

"Onedayhe remarked,without liftinghishead, 'In the interioryouwillnodoubtmeetMr. Kurtz.' On my asking whoMr. Kurtz was, he said he was a first-classagent; and seeingmydisappointment at this information, he added slowly, layingdownhispen,'Heisaveryremarkableperson.'FurtherquestionselicitedfromhimthatMr.Kurtzwasatpresentinchargeofatradingpost,averyimportantone,inthetrue ivory-country,at 'theverybottomof there.Sends inasmuch ivoryasall theothersputtogether....'Hebegantowriteagain.Thesickmanwastooilltogroan.Thefliesbuzzedinagreatpeace.

"Suddenlytherewasagrowingmurmurofvoicesandagreat trampingoffeet.Acaravanhadcomein.Aviolentbabbleofuncouthsoundsburstoutontheothersideoftheplanks.Allthecarrierswerespeakingtogether,andinthemidstoftheuproarthe lamentable voice of the chief agent was heard 'giving it up' tearfully for thetwentieth time that day. . . . He rose slowly. 'What a frightful row,' he said. Hecrossedtheroomgentlytolookatthesickman,andreturning,saidtome,'Hedoesnot hear.' 'What! Dead?' I asked, startled. 'No, not yet,' he answered, with greatcomposure.Then,alludingwithatossoftheheadtothetumultinthestation-yard,'Whenonehasgottomakecorrectentries,onecomestohatethosesavages—hatethemtothedeath.'Heremainedthoughtfulforamoment.'WhenyouseeMr.Kurtz,'hewenton,'tellhimfrommethateverythinghere'—heglancedatthedesk—'isverysatisfactory.Idon'tliketowritetohim—withthosemessengersofoursyouneverknowwhomaygetholdofyourletter—atthatCentralStation.'Hestaredatmefora

momentwithhismild,bulgingeyes. 'Oh,hewillgofar,veryfar,'hebeganagain.'He will be a somebody in the Administration before long. They, above—theCouncilinEurope,youknow—meanhimtobe.'

"Heturnedtohiswork.Thenoiseoutsidehadceased,andpresentlyingoingoutIstoppedatthedoor.Inthesteadybuzzoffliesthehomeward-boundagentwaslyingflushedandinsensible;theother,bentoverhisbooks,wasmakingcorrectentriesofperfectlycorrecttransactions;andfiftyfeetbelowthedoorstepIcouldseethestilltree-topsofthegroveofdeath.

"NextdayIleftthatstationatlast,withacaravanofsixtymen,foratwo-hundred-miletramp.

"Nousetellingyoumuchaboutthat.Paths,paths,everywhere;astamped-innetworkof paths spreadingover the empty land, through longgrass, throughburnt grass,through thickets,downandupchilly ravines,upanddownstonyhillsablazewithheat;andasolitude,asolitude,nobody,notahut.Thepopulationhadclearedoutalongtimeago.Well,ifalotofmysteriousniggersarmedwithallkindsoffearfulweapons suddenly took to traveling on the road between Deal and Gravesend,catchingtheyokelsrightandlefttocarryheavyloadsforthem,Ifancyeveryfarmandcottagethereaboutswouldgetemptyverysoon.Onlyherethedwellingsweregone too. Still I passed through several abandoned villages. There's somethingpatheticallychildish in the ruinsofgrasswalls.Dayafterday,with the stampandshuffleof sixtypairofbare feetbehindme, eachpairunder a60-lb. load.Camp,cook,sleep,strikecamp,march.Nowandthenacarrierdeadinharness,atrestinthelonggrassnearthepath,withanemptywater-gourdandhislongstafflyingbyhisside.Agreatsilencearoundandabove.Perhapsonsomequietnightthetremoroffar-offdrums,sinking,swelling,atremorvast,faint;asoundweird,appealing,suggestive,andwild—andperhapswithasprofoundameaningasthesoundofbellsinaChristiancountry.Onceawhitemaninanunbuttoneduniform,campingonthepathwith an armed escort of lankZanzibaris, very hospitable and festive—not tosaydrunk.Waslookingaftertheupkeepoftheroad,hedeclared.Can'tsayIsawanyroadoranyupkeep,unlessthebodyofamiddle-agednegro,withabullet-holeinthe forehead, upon which I absolutely stumbled three miles farther on, may beconsidered as a permanent improvement. I had awhite companion too, not a badchap, but rather too fleshy andwith the exasperating habit of fainting on the hothillsides,milesawayfromtheleastbitofshadeandwater.Annoying,youknow,tohold your own coat like a parasol over a man's head while he is coming-to. Icouldn't help asking him once what he meant by coming there at all. 'To makemoney,ofcourse.Whatdoyouthink?'hesaid,scornfully.Thenhegotfever,andhadtobecarriedinahammockslungunderapole.AsheweighedsixteenstoneI

hadnoendofrowswiththecarriers.Theyjibbed,ranaway,sneakedoffwiththeirloadsinthenight—quiteamutiny.So,oneevening,ImadeaspeechinEnglishwithgestures,notoneofwhichwaslosttothesixtypairsofeyesbeforeme,andthenextmorning I started the hammock off in front all right.An hour afterwards I cameupon the whole concern wrecked in a bush—man, hammock, groans, blankets,horrors.Theheavypolehadskinnedhispoornose.Hewasveryanxiousformetokillsomebody,buttherewasn'ttheshadowofacarriernear.Irememberedtheolddoctor,—'It would be interesting for science to watch the mental changes ofindividuals,onthespot.'IfeltIwasbecomingscientificallyinteresting.However,allthatistonopurpose.OnthefifteenthdayIcameinsightofthebigriveragain,andhobbled into theCentral Station. Itwas on a backwater surroundedby scrub andforest, with a pretty border of smelly mud on one side, and on the three othersinclosedbyacrazyfenceofrushes.Aneglectedgapwasallthegateithad,andthefirstglanceattheplacewasenoughtoletyouseetheflabbydevilwasrunningthatshow.Whitemenwithlongstavesintheirhandsappearedlanguidlyfromamongstthe buildings, strolling up to take a look at me, and then retired out of sightsomewhere.Oneofthem,astout,excitablechapwithblackmustaches,informedmewithgreatvolubilityandmanydigressions,assoonasItoldhimwhoIwas,thatmysteamerwasatthebottomoftheriver.Iwasthunderstruck.What,how,why?Oh,itwas 'all right.'The 'managerhimself'was there.Allquitecorrect. 'Everybodyhadbehaved splendidly! splendidly!'—'youmust,' he said in agitation, 'go and see thegeneralmanageratonce.Heiswaiting!'

"Ididnotseetherealsignificanceofthatwreckatonce.IfancyIseeitnow,butIamnotsure—notatall.Certainly theaffairwas toostupid—whenI thinkof it—tobealtogether natural. Still. . . . But at the moment it presented itself simply as aconfoundednuisance.Thesteamerwassunk.Theyhadstartedtwodaysbeforeinasuddenhurryuptheriverwiththemanageronboard,inchargeofsomevolunteerskipper,andbeforetheyhadbeenoutthreehourstheytorethebottomoutofheronstones,andshesanknearthesouthbank.IaskedmyselfwhatIwastodothere,nowmyboatwaslost.Asamatteroffact,Ihadplentytodoinfishingmycommandoutof the river. I had to set about it the very next day. That, and the repairs when Ibroughtthepiecestothestation,tooksomemonths.

"My first interviewwith themanagerwas curious.Hedidnot askme to sit downaftermy twenty-milewalk thatmorning.Hewas commonplace in complexion, infeatures,inmanners,andinvoice.Hewasofmiddlesizeandofordinarybuild.Hiseyes,oftheusualblue,wereperhapsremarkablycold,andhecertainlycouldmakehisglancefallononeas trenchantandheavyasanax.Butevenat these times therest of his person seemed to disclaim the intention. Otherwise therewas only anindefinable,faintexpressionofhislips,somethingstealthy—asmile—notasmile—

I remember it, but I can't explain. Itwas unconscious, this smilewas, though justafterhehadsaidsomethingitgotintensifiedforaninstant.Itcameattheendofhisspeeches likea sealappliedon thewords tomake themeaningof thecommonestphraseappearabsolutely inscrutable.Hewasacommontrader, fromhisyouthupemployedintheseparts—nothingmore.Hewasobeyed,yetheinspiredneitherlovenor fear, nor even respect.He inspireduneasiness.Thatwas it!Uneasiness.Not adefinitemistrust—justuneasiness—nothingmore.Youhaveno ideahoweffectivesucha...a...facultycanbe.Hehadnogeniusfororganizing,forinitiative,orforordereven.Thatwasevidentinsuchthingsasthedeplorablestateofthestation.Hehadnolearning,andnointelligence.Hispositionhadcometohim—why?Perhapsbecausehewasneverill...Hehadservedthreetermsofthreeyearsoutthere...Becausetriumphanthealthinthegeneralroutofconstitutionsisakindofpowerinitself.Whenhewent homeon leave he rioted on a large scale—pompously. Jackashore—withadifference—inexternalsonly.Thisonecouldgatherfromhiscasualtalk.Heoriginatednothing,hecouldkeeptheroutinegoing—that'sall.Buthewasgreat. He was great by this little thing that it was impossible to tell what couldcontrol such a man. He never gave that secret away. Perhaps there was nothingwithinhim.Suchasuspicionmadeonepause—forouttheretherewerenoexternalchecks.Oncewhenvarioustropicaldiseaseshadlaidlowalmostevery'agent'inthestation,hewasheardtosay, 'Menwhocomeouthereshouldhavenoentrails.'Hesealedtheutterancewiththatsmileofhis,asthoughithadbeenadooropeningintoadarknesshehadinhiskeeping.Youfanciedyouhadseenthings—butthesealwason.When annoyed atmeal-times by the constant quarrels of thewhitemen aboutprecedence, he ordered an immense round table to bemade, forwhich a specialhousehadtobebuilt.Thiswasthestation'smess-room.Wherehesatwasthefirstplace—therestwerenowhere.Onefeltthistobehisunalterableconviction.Hewasneither civil nor uncivil. He was quiet. He allowed his 'boy'—an overfed youngnegrofromthecoast—totreatthewhitemen,underhisveryeyes,withprovokinginsolence.

"He began to speak as soon as he sawme. I had been very long on the road.Hecould notwait.Had to startwithoutme. The up-river stations had to be relieved.Therehadbeensomanydelaysalreadythathedidnotknowwhowasdeadandwhowasalive,andhowtheygoton—andsoon,andsoon.Hepaidnoattentiontomyexplanations, and, playingwith a stick of sealing-wax, repeated several times thatthesituationwas'verygrave,verygrave.'Therewererumorsthataveryimportantstationwasinjeopardy,anditschief,Mr.Kurtz,wasill.Hopeditwasnottrue.Mr.Kurtzwas...Ifeltwearyandirritable.HangKurtz,Ithought.IinterruptedhimbysayingIhadheardofMr.Kurtzonthecoast.'Ah!Sotheytalkofhimdownthere,'hemurmured to himself. Then he began again, assuringmeMr. Kurtz was the bestagent he had, an exceptional man, of the greatest importance to the Company;

therefore I could understand his anxiety. He was, he said, 'very, very uneasy.'Certainlyhefidgetedonhischairagooddeal,exclaimed,'Ah,Mr.Kurtz!'brokethestickofsealing-waxandseemeddumbfoundedbytheaccident.Nextthinghewantedtoknow'howlongitwouldtaketo'...Iinterruptedhimagain.Beinghungry,youknow, and kept onmy feet too, Iwas getting savage. 'How could I tell,' I said. 'Ihadn'tevenseenthewreckyet—somemonths,nodoubt.'Allthistalkseemedtomesofutile.'Somemonths,'hesaid.'Well,letussaythreemonthsbeforewecanmakeastart.Yes.Thatoughttodotheaffair.'Iflungoutofhishut(helivedallaloneinaclayhutwithasortofveranda)mutteringtomyselfmyopinionofhim.Hewasachatteringidiot.AfterwardsItookitbackwhenitwasborneinuponmestartlinglywithwhatextremenicetyhehadestimatedthetimerequisiteforthe'affair.'

"Iwent towork thenextday, turning, so to speak,mybackon that station. In thatwayonlyitseemedtomeIcouldkeepmyholdontheredeemingfactsoflife.Still,one must look about sometimes; and then I saw this station, these men strollingaimlessly about in the sunshine of the yard. I askedmyself sometimeswhat it allmeant.Theywanderedhereand therewith theirabsurd longstaves in theirhands,likealotoffaithlesspilgrimsbewitchedinsidearottenfence.Theword'ivory'rangin theair,waswhispered,was sighed.Youwould think theywerepraying to it.Ataint of imbecile rapacity blew through it all, like awhiff from some corpse.ByJove! I've never seen anything so unreal in my life. And outside, the silentwildernesssurroundingthisclearedspeckontheearthstruckmeassomethinggreatand invincible, like evil or truth, waiting patiently for the passing away of thisfantasticinvasion.

"Oh,thesemonths!Well,nevermind.Variousthingshappened.Oneeveningagrassshed full of calico, cotton prints, beads, and I don't knowwhat else, burst into ablaze so suddenly that you would have thought the earth had opened to let anavenging fire consume all that trash. I was smoking my pipe quietly by mydismantled steamer, and saw them all cutting capers in the light, with their armsliftedhigh,whenthestoutmanwithmustachescametearingdowntotheriver,atinpail inhis hand, assuredme that everybodywas 'behaving splendidly, splendidly,'dippedaboutaquartofwaterandtorebackagain.Inoticedtherewasaholeinthebottomofhispail.

"I strolled up. Therewas no hurry.You see the thing had gone off like a box ofmatches.Ithadbeenhopelessfromtheveryfirst.Theflamehadleapedhigh,driveneverybodyback,lightedupeverything—andcollapsed.Theshedwasalreadyaheapofembersglowingfiercely.Aniggerwasbeingbeatennearby.Theysaidhehadcaused thefire insomeway;be thatas itmay,hewasscreechingmosthorribly. Isawhim,lateron,forseveraldays,sittinginabitofshadelookingverysickand

trying to recover himself: afterwards he arose andwent out—and the wildernesswithoutasoundtookhimintoitsbosomagain.AsIapproachedtheglowfromthedark I found myself at the back of two men, talking. I heard the name of Kurtzpronounced,thenthewords,'takeadvantageofthisunfortunateaccident.'Oneofthemenwasthemanager.Iwishedhimagoodevening.'Didyoueverseeanythinglikeit—eh?itisincredible,'hesaid,andwalkedoff.Theothermanremained.Hewasafirst-classagent,young,gentlemanly,abitreserved,withaforkedlittlebeardandahookednose.Hewasstand-offishwiththeotheragents,andtheyontheirsidesaidhewas themanager's spy upon them.As tome, I had hardly ever spoken to himbefore.We got into talk, and by-and-bywe strolled away from the hissing ruins.Thenheaskedme tohis room,whichwas in themainbuildingof the station.Hestruck a match, and I perceived that this young aristocrat had not only a silver-mounteddressing-casebutalsoawholecandleall tohimself. Justat that time themanager was the only man supposed to have any right to candles. Native matscoveredtheclaywalls;acollectionofspears,assegais,shields,kniveswashungupintrophies.Thebusinessintrustedtothisfellowwasthemakingofbricks—soIhadbeeninformed;buttherewasn'tafragmentofabrickanywhereinthestation,andhehad been there more than a year—waiting. It seems he could not make brickswithout something, I don't know what—straw maybe. Anyways, it could not befoundthere,andasitwasnotlikelytobesentfromEurope,itdidnotappearcleartomewhathewaswaiting for.Anactof special creationperhaps.However, theywereallwaiting—all the sixteenor twentypilgrimsof them—for something; anduponmyworditdidnotseemanuncongenialoccupation,fromthewaytheytookit,though the only thing that ever came to themwas disease—as far as I could see.Theybeguiledthetimebybackbitingandintriguingagainsteachotherinafoolishkindofway.Therewasanairofplottingaboutthatstation,butnothingcameofit,ofcourse.Itwasasunrealaseverythingelse—asthephilanthropicpretenseofthewholeconcern,astheirtalk,astheirgovernment,astheirshowofwork.Theonlyreal feelingwasadesire togetappointed toa trading-postwhere ivorywas tobehad, so that they could earn percentages. They intrigued and slandered and hatedeachotheronlyonthataccount,—butastoeffectuallyliftingalittlefinger—oh,no.Byheavens! there is somethingafter all in theworldallowingoneman to steal ahorsewhileanothermustnotlookatahalter.Stealahorsestraightout.Verywell.Hehasdone it.Perhapshecan ride.But there is awayof lookingat ahalter thatwouldprovokethemostcharitableofsaintsintoakick.

"Ihadnoideawhyhewantedtobesociable,butaswechattedinthereitsuddenlyoccurredtomethefellowwastryingtogetatsomething—infact,pumpingme.HealludedconstantlytoEurope, tothepeopleIwassupposedtoknowthere—puttingleadingquestionsastomyacquaintancesinthesepulchralcity,andsoon.Hislittleeyesglitteredlikemicadiscs—withcuriosity,—thoughhetriedtokeepupabitof

superciliousness.AtfirstIwasastonished,butverysoonIbecameawfullycurioustoseewhathewouldfindoutfromme.Icouldn'tpossiblyimaginewhatIhadinmetomakeitworthhiswhile.Itwasveryprettytoseehowhebaffledhimself,forintruthmybodywas full of chills, andmyheadhadnothing in it but thatwretchedsteamboat business. It was evident he took me for a perfectly shamelessprevaricator.Atlasthegotangry,andtoconcealamovementoffuriousannoyance,heyawned.Irose.ThenInoticedasmallsketchinoils,onapanel,representingawoman, draped and blindfolded, carrying a lighted torch. The background wassomber—almostblack.Themovementof thewomanwasstately,and theeffectofthetorchlightonthefacewassinister.

"It arrested me, and he stood by civilly, holding a half-pint champagne bottle(medicalcomforts)withthecandlestuckinit.TomyquestionhesaidMr.Kurtzhadpaintedthis—inthisverystationmorethanayearago—whilewaitingformeanstogotohistrading-post.'Tellme,pray,'saidI,'whoisthisMr.Kurtz?'

"'ThechiefoftheInnerStation,'heansweredinashorttone,lookingaway. 'Muchobliged,' I said, laughing. 'And you are the brickmaker of the Central Station.Everyoneknowsthat.'Hewassilentforawhile.'Heisaprodigy,'hesaidatlast.'Heis an emissary of pity, and science, and progress, and devil knowswhat else.Wewant,'hebegantodeclaimsuddenly,'fortheguidanceofthecauseintrustedtousbyEurope,sotospeak,higherintelligence,widesympathies,asinglenessofpurpose.''Whosaysthat?'Iasked.'Lotsofthem,'hereplied.'Someevenwritethat;andsohecomes here, a special being, as you ought to know.' 'Why ought I to know?' Iinterrupted,reallysurprised.Hepaidnoattention.'Yes.To-dayheischiefofthebeststation,nextyearhewillbeassistant-manager,twoyearsmoreand...butIdaresayyouknowwhathewillbeintwoyears'time.Youareofthenewgang—thegangofvirtue.Thesamepeoplewhosenthimspeciallyalsorecommendedyou.Oh,don'tsayno.I'vemyowneyestotrust.'Lightdawneduponme.Mydearaunt'sinfluentialacquaintanceswereproducinganunexpectedeffectupon thatyoungman. Inearlyburst into a laugh. 'Do you read the Company's confidential correspondence?' Iasked. He hadn't a word to say. It was great fun. 'When Mr. Kurtz,' I continuedseverely,'isGeneralManager,youwon'thavetheopportunity.'

"Heblewthecandleoutsuddenly,andwewentoutside.Themoonhadrisen.Blackfigures strolled about listlessly, pouring water on the glow, whence proceeded asound of hissing; steam ascended in the moonlight, the beaten nigger groanedsomewhere. 'What a row the brute makes!' said the indefatigable man with themustaches,appearingnearus.'Servehimright.Transgression—punishment—bang!Pitiless, pitiless. That's the only way. This will prevent all conflagrations for thefuture. Iwas just telling themanager . . .'Henoticedmycompanion, andbecame

crestfallenallatonce.'Notinbedyet,'hesaid,withakindofservileheartiness;'it'ssonatural.Ha!Danger—agitation.'Hevanished.Iwentontotheriver-side,andtheother followedme. Ihearda scathingmurmuratmyear, 'Heapofmuffs—go to.'Thepilgrimscouldbeseeninknotsgesticulating,discussing.Severalhadstilltheirstavesintheirhands.Iverilybelievetheytookthesestickstobedwiththem.Beyondthefencetheforeststoodupspectrallyinthemoonlight,andthroughthedimstir,through the faint soundsof that lamentablecourtyard, thesilenceof the landwenthome to one's very heart,—its mystery, its greatness, the amazing reality of itsconcealedlife.Thehurtniggermoanedfeeblysomewherenearby,andthenfetchedadeepsighthatmadememendmypaceawayfromthere.Ifeltahandintroducingitselfundermyarm.'Mydearsir,'saidthefellow,'Idon'twanttobemisunderstood,andespeciallybyyou,whowillseeMr.KurtzlongbeforeIcanhavethatpleasure.Iwouldn'tlikehimtogetafalseideaofmydisposition....'

"I lethimrunon, thispapier-macheMephistopheles, and it seemed tome that if ItriedIcouldpokemyforefingerthroughhim,andwouldfindnothinginsidebutalittleloosedirt,maybe.He,don'tyousee,hadbeenplanningtobeassistant-managerby-and-byunderthepresentman,andIcouldseethatthecomingofthatKurtzhadupset thembothnota little.He talkedprecipitately,andIdidnot try tostophim.Ihadmyshoulders against thewreckofmysteamer,hauledupon the slope likeacarcassofsomebigriveranimal.Thesmellofmud,ofprimevalmud,byJove!wasinmynostrils,thehighstillnessofprimevalforestwasbeforemyeyes;therewereshinypatchesontheblackcreek.Themoonhadspreadovereverythingathinlayerof silver—over the rank grass, over themud, upon thewall ofmatted vegetationstandinghigherthanthewallofatemple,overthegreatriverIcouldseethroughasombergapglittering,glittering,asitflowedbroadlybywithoutamurmur.Allthiswas great, expectant, mute, while the man jabbered about himself. I wonderedwhetherthestillnessonthefaceoftheimmensitylookingatustwoweremeantasanappealorasamenace.Whatwerewewhohadstrayedinhere?Couldwehandlethatdumbthing,orwouldithandleus?Ifelthowbig,howconfoundedlybig,wasthatthingthatcouldn'ttalk,andperhapswasdeafaswell.Whatwasinthere?Icouldseea little ivorycomingoutfromthere,andIhadheardMr.Kurtzwasin there.Ihadheardenoughaboutittoo—Godknows!Yetsomehowitdidn'tbringanyimagewithit—nomorethanifIhadbeentoldanangelorafiendwasinthere.IbelieveditinthesamewayoneofyoumightbelievethereareinhabitantsintheplanetMars.Iknew once a Scotch sailmaker who was certain, dead sure, there were people inMars.Ifyouaskedhimforsomeideahowtheylookedandbehaved,hewouldgetshyandmuttersomethingabout'walkingonall-fours.'Ifyouasmuchassmiled,hewould—thoughamanofsixty—offertofightyou.IwouldnothavegonesofarastofightforKurtz,butIwentforhimnearenoughtoalie.YouknowIhate,detest,

and can't bear a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simplybecauseitappallsme.Thereisataintofdeath,aflavorofmortalityinlies,—whichis exactlywhat I hate anddetest in theworld—what Iwant to forget. Itmakesmemiserableandsick,likebitingsomethingrottenwoulddo.Temperament,Isuppose.Well, Iwentnearenough to itby letting theyoung fool therebelieveanythinghelikedtoimagineastomyinfluenceinEurope.Ibecameinaninstantasmuchofapretenseastherestofthebewitchedpilgrims.ThissimplybecauseIhadanotionitsomehow would be of help to that Kurtz whom at the time I did not see—youunderstand.Hewasjustawordforme.Ididnotseethemaninthenameanymorethanyoudo.Doyouseehim?Doyouseethestory?Doyouseeanything?ItseemstomeIamtryingtotellyouadream—makingavainattempt,becausenorelationof a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity,surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of beingcapturedbytheincrediblewhichisoftheveryessenceofdreams...."

Hewassilentforawhile.

"...No,itisimpossible;itisimpossibletoconveythelife-sensationofanygivenepoch of one's existence,—thatwhichmakes its truth, itsmeaning—its subtle andpenetratingessence.Itisimpossible.Welive,aswedream—alone...."

He paused again as if reflecting, then added—"Of course in this you fellows seemorethanIcouldthen.Youseeme,whomyouknow...."

It hadbecome sopitchdark thatwe listeners couldhardly seeone another.For alongtimealreadyhe,sittingapart,hadbeennomoretousthanavoice.Therewasnot aword fromanybody.Theothersmight havebeen asleep, but Iwas awake. Ilistened,Ilistenedonthewatchforthesentence,fortheword,thatwouldgivemetheclewtothefaintuneasinessinspiredbythisnarrativethatseemedtoshapeitselfwithouthumanlipsintheheavynight-airoftheriver.

"...Yes—Ilethimrunon,"Marlowbeganagain,"andthinkwhathepleasedaboutthepowersthatwerebehindme.Idid!Andtherewasnothingbehindme!Therewasnothingbut thatwretched,old,mangledsteamboat Iwas leaningagainst,whilehetalkedfluentlyabout 'thenecessityforeverymantogeton.' 'Andwhenonecomesout here, you conceive, it is not to gaze at themoon.'Mr.Kurtzwas a 'universalgenius,' but even a genius would find it easier to work with 'adequate tools—intelligentmen.'Hedidnotmakebricks—why,therewasaphysicalimpossibilityintheway—asIwaswellaware;andifhedidsecretarialworkforthemanager,itwasbecause'nosensiblemanrejectswantonlytheconfidenceofhissuperiors.'DidIseeit? I saw it.What more did I want?What I really wanted was rivets, by heaven!

Rivets.Togetonwiththework—tostopthehole.RivetsIwanted.Therewerecasesofthemdownatthecoast—cases—piledup—burst—split!Youkickedalooserivetat every second step in that stationyardon thehillside.Rivetshad rolled into thegroveofdeath.Youcouldfillyourpocketswithrivetsforthetroubleofstoopingdown—and therewasn'tone rivet tobe foundwhere itwaswanted.Wehadplatesthatwould do, but nothing to fasten themwith.And everyweek themessenger, alonenegro, letter-bagonshoulderandstaff inhand, leftourstation for thecoast.Andseveraltimesaweekacoastcaravancameinwithtradegoods,—ghastlyglazedcalicothatmadeyoushudderonlytolookat it,glassbeadsvalueaboutapennyaquart,confoundedspottedcottonhandkerchiefs.Andnorivets.Threecarrierscouldhavebroughtallthatwaswantedtosetthatsteamboatafloat.

"Hewasbecomingconfidentialnow,butIfancymyunresponsiveattitudemusthaveexasperatedhimat last, forhe judged itnecessary to informmehefearedneitherGodnordevil,letaloneanymereman.IsaidIcouldseethatverywell,butwhatIwanted was a certain quantity of rivets—and rivets were what really Mr. Kurtzwanted,ifhehadonlyknownit.Nowletterswenttothecoasteveryweek.. . . 'Mydearsir,'hecried,'Iwritefromdictation.'Idemandedrivets.Therewasaway—foranintelligentman.Hechangedhismanner;becameverycold,andsuddenlybeganto talkaboutahippopotamus;wonderedwhethersleepingonboard thesteamer (Istucktomysalvagenightandday)Iwasn'tdisturbed.Therewasanoldhippothathad thebadhabitofgettingouton thebankandroamingatnightover thestationgrounds.Thepilgrimsusedtoturnoutinabodyandemptyeveryrifletheycouldlayhandsonathim.Someevenhadsatupo'nights forhim.All thisenergywaswasted,though.'Thatanimalhasacharmedlife,'hesaid;'butyoucansaythisonlyof brutes in this country. No man—you apprehend me?—no man here bears acharmed life.' He stood there for a moment in the moonlight with his delicatehookednosesetalittleaskew,andhismicaeyesglitteringwithoutawink,then,witha curt Good night, he strode off. I could see he was disturbed and considerablypuzzled,whichmademefeelmorehopefulthanIhadbeenfordays.Itwasagreatcomforttoturnfromthatchaptomyinfluentialfriend,thebattered,twisted,ruined,tin-pot steamboat. I clambered on board. She rang under my feet like an emptyHuntley & Palmer biscuit-tin kicked along a gutter; she was nothing so solid inmake,andratherlessprettyinshape,butIhadexpendedenoughhardworkonhertomakeme love her.No influential friendwould have servedmebetter. She hadgivenmeachancetocomeoutabit—tofindoutwhatIcoulddo.No,Idon't likework.Ihadratherlazeaboutandthinkofallthefinethingsthatcanbedone.Idon'tlike work—no man does—but I like what is in the work,—the chance to findyourself.Yourown reality—foryourself, not for others—whatnootherman caneverknow.Theycanonlyseethemereshow,andnevercantellwhatitreallymeans.

"Iwasnotsurprisedtoseesomebodysittingaft,onthedeck,withhislegsdanglingoverthemud.YouseeIratherchummedwiththefewmechanicstherewereinthatstation,whomtheotherpilgrimsnaturallydespised—onaccountoftheirimperfectmanners, I suppose. This was the foreman—a boiler-maker by trade—a goodworker.Hewas a lank, bony, yellow-facedman,withbig intense eyes.His aspectwasworried,andhisheadwasasbaldasthepalmofmyhand;buthishairinfallingseemed to have stuck to his chin, and had prospered in the new locality, for hisbeardhungdowntohiswaist.Hewasawidowerwithsixyoungchildren(hehadlefttheminchargeofasisterofhistocomeoutthere),andthepassionofhislifewas pigeon-flying.Hewas an enthusiast and a connoisseur.Hewould rave aboutpigeons.Afterworkhoursheusedsometimestocomeoverfromhishutforatalkabouthischildrenandhispigeons;atwork,whenhehadtocrawlinthemudunderthe bottomof the steamboat, hewould tie up that beard of his in a kind ofwhiteserviettehebroughtforthepurpose.Ithadloopstogooverhisears.Intheeveninghecouldbeseensquattedon thebankrinsing thatwrapper in thecreekwithgreatcare,thenspreadingitsolemnlyonabushtodry.

"Islappedhimonthebackandshouted,'Weshallhaverivets!'Hescrambledtohisfeetexclaiming 'No!Rivets!'as thoughhecouldn'tbelievehisears.Then ina lowvoice,'You...eh?'Idon'tknowwhywebehavedlikelunatics.Iputmyfingertotheside ofmy nose and noddedmysteriously. 'Good for you!' he cried, snapped hisfingersabovehishead,liftingonefoot.Itriedajig.Wecaperedontheirondeck.Afrightfulclattercameoutofthathulk,andthevirginforestontheotherbankofthecreeksentitbackinathunderingrolluponthesleepingstation.Itmusthavemadesome of the pilgrims sit up in their hovels. A dark figure obscured the lighteddoorway of themanager's hut, vanished, then, a second or so after, the doorwayitselfvanishedtoo.Westopped,andthesilencedrivenawaybythestampingofourfeetflowedbackagainfromtherecessesoftheland.Thegreatwallofvegetation,an exuberant and entangled mass of trunks, branches, leaves, boughs, festoons,motionlessinthemoonlight,waslikeariotinginvasionofsoundlesslife,arollingwaveofplants,piledup,crested,readytotoppleoverthecreek,tosweepeverylittlemanofusoutofhislittleexistence.Anditmovednot.Adeadenedburstofmightysplashes and snorts reached us from afar, as though an ichthyosaurus had beentaking a bath of glitter in the great river. 'After all,' said the boiler-maker in areasonabletone,'whyshouldn'twegettherivets?'Whynot,indeed!Ididnotknowofanyreasonwhyweshouldn't.'They'llcomeinthreeweeks,'Isaidconfidently.

"Buttheydidn't.Insteadofrivetstherecameaninvasion,aninfliction,avisitation.Itcame in sections during the next three weeks, each section headed by a donkeycarryingawhitemaninnewclothesandtanshoes,bowingfromthatelevationrightand left to the impressedpilgrims.Aquarrelsomebandof footsore sulkyniggerstrodontheheelsofthedonkeys;alotoftents,camp-stools,tinboxes,whitecases,brown baleswould be shot down in the courtyard, and the air ofmysterywoulddeepenalittleoverthemuddleofthestation.Fivesuchinstallmentscame,withtheirabsurd air of disorderly flight with the loot of innumerable outfit shops andprovision stores, that, one would think, they were lugging, after a raid, into thewilderness for equitable division. It was an inextricablemess of things decent inthemselvesbutthathumanfollymadelooklikethespoilsofthieving.

"Thisdevotedbandcalled itself theEldoradoExploringExpedition, and Ibelievetheyweresworntosecrecy.Theirtalk,however,wasthetalkofsordidbuccaneers:it was reckless without hardihood, greedy without audacity, and cruel withoutcourage; therewas not an atom of foresight or of serious intention in thewholebatchofthem,andtheydidnotseemawarethesethingsarewantedfortheworkoftheworld.To tear treasureoutof thebowelsof the landwas theirdesire,withnomoremoralpurposeatthebackofitthanthereisinburglarsbreakingintoasafe.Whopaid the expenses of the noble enterprise I don't know;but the uncle of ourmanagerwasleaderofthatlot.

"Inexteriorheresembledabutcherinapoorneighborhood,andhiseyeshadalookofsleepycunning.Hecarriedhisfatpaunchwithostentationonhisshortlegs,andduring the timehisgang infested the stationspoke tonoonebuthisnephew.Youcouldseethesetworoamingaboutalldaylongwiththeirheadsclosetogetherinaneverlastingconfab.

"I had given upworryingmyself about the rivets.One's capacity for that kind offollyismorelimitedthanyouwouldsuppose.IsaidHang!—andletthingsslide.Ihadplentyoftimeformeditation,andnowandthenIwouldgivesomethoughttoKurtz. Iwasn't very interested in him.No. Still, Iwas curious to seewhether thisman,whohadcomeoutequippedwithmoralideasofsomesort,wouldclimbtothetopafterall,andhowhewouldsetabouthisworkwhenthere."

II

"One evening as I was lying flat on the deck of my steamboat, I heard voicesapproaching—and therewere thenephewand theunclestrollingalong thebank. I

laid my head on my arm again, and had nearly lost myself in a doze, whensomebodysaidinmyear,as itwere: 'Iamasharmlessasa littlechild,butIdon'tlike tobedictated to.AmI themanager—oramInot? Iwasordered tosendhimthere. It's incredible.' . . . I became aware that the twowere standingon the shorealongsidetheforepartofthesteamboat,justbelowmyhead.Ididnotmove;itdidnotoccurtometomove:Iwassleepy. 'Itisunpleasant,'gruntedtheuncle. 'HehasaskedtheAdministrationtobesentthere,'saidtheother, 'withtheideaofshowingwhathecoulddo;andIwasinstructedaccordingly.Lookattheinfluencethatmanmusthave.Isitnotfrightful?'Theybothagreeditwasfrightful,thenmadeseveralbizarre remarks: 'Make rain and fine weather—one man—the Council—by thenose'—bitsofabsurd sentences thatgot thebetterofmydrowsiness, so that Ihadprettynearthewholeofmywitsaboutmewhentheunclesaid,'Theclimatemaydoawaywiththisdifficultyforyou.Ishealonethere?''Yes,'answeredthemanager;'hesenthisassistantdowntheriverwithanotetomeintheseterms:"Clearthispoordeviloutofthecountry,anddon'tbothersendingmoreofthatsort.Ihadratherbealone thanhave thekindofmenyoucandisposeofwithme." Itwasmore thanayearago.Canyouimaginesuchimpudence!''Anythingsincethen?'askedtheother,hoarsely. 'Ivory,' jerkedthenephew; 'lotsof it—primesort—lots—mostannoying,from him.' 'And with that?' questioned the heavy rumble. 'Invoice,' was the replyfiredout,sotospeak.Thensilence.TheyhadbeentalkingaboutKurtz.

"Iwasbroadawakebythistime,but,lyingperfectlyatease,remainedstill,havingno inducement to change my position. 'How did that ivory come all this way?'growled the elder man, who seemed very vexed. The other explained that it hadcomewithafleetofcanoesinchargeofanEnglishhalf-casteclerkKurtzhadwithhim;thatKurtzhadapparently intendedtoreturnhimself, thestationbeingbythattimebareofgoodsandstores,butaftercomingthreehundredmiles,hadsuddenlydecided to go back, which he started to do alone in a small dug-out with fourpaddlers, leavingthehalf-castetocontinuedowntheriverwiththeivory.Thetwofellowsthereseemedastoundedatanybodyattemptingsuchathing.Theywereatalossforanadequatemotive.Astome,IseemedtoseeKurtzforthefirsttime.Itwasa distinct glimpse: the dug-out, four paddling savages, and the lone white manturning his back suddenly on the headquarters, on relief, on thoughts of home—perhaps;settinghisfacetowardsthedepthsofthewilderness,towardshisemptyanddesolatestation.Ididnotknowthemotive.Perhapshewasjustsimplyafinefellowwho stuck to hiswork for its own sake.His name, you understand, had not beenpronouncedonce.Hewas'thatman.'Thehalf-caste,who,asfarasIcouldsee,hadconductedadifficulttripwithgreatprudenceandpluck,wasinvariablyalludedtoas'thatscoundrel.'The 'scoundrel'hadreported that the 'man'hadbeenvery ill—hadrecovered imperfectly. . . .The twobelowmemoved away then a fewpaces, andstrolledbackandforthatsomelittledistance.Iheard:'Militarypost—doctor—two

hundred miles—quite alone now—unavoidable delays—nine months—no news—strangerumors.'Theyapproachedagain,justasthemanagerwassaying, 'Noone,as far as I know, unless a species of wandering trader—a pestilential fellow,snapping ivory from the natives.' Who was it they were talking about now? IgatheredinsnatchesthatthiswassomemansupposedtobeinKurtz'sdistrict,andofwhomthemanagerdidnotapprove. 'Wewillnotbe free fromunfaircompetitiontilloneofthesefellowsishangedforanexample,'hesaid. 'Certainly,'gruntedtheother; 'gethimhanged!Whynot?Anything—anythingcanbedoneinthiscountry.That'swhat Isay;nobodyhere,youunderstand,here,canendangeryourposition.Andwhy?Youstandtheclimate—yououtlastthemall.ThedangerisinEurope;buttherebeforeIleftItookcareto—'Theymovedoffandwhispered,thentheirvoicesroseagain. 'Theextraordinaryseriesofdelays isnotmyfault. Ididmypossible.'Thefatmansighed,'Verysad.''Andthepestiferousabsurdityofhistalk,'continuedtheother;'hebotheredmeenoughwhenhewashere."Eachstationshouldbelikeabeaconontheroadtowardsbetterthings,acenterfortradeofcourse,butalsoforhumanizing, improving, instructing."Conceiveyou—that ass!Andhewants to bemanager!No, it's—'Herehegotchokedbyexcessive indignation,andI liftedmyhead the least bit. I was surprised to see how near they were—right under me. Icould have spat upon their hats. They were looking on the ground, absorbed inthought. The manager was switching his leg with a slender twig: his sagaciousrelativeliftedhishead.'Youhavebeenwellsinceyoucameoutthistime?'heasked.Theothergaveastart.'Who?I?Oh!Likeacharm—likeacharm.Buttherest—oh,mygoodness!Allsick.Theydiesoquick,too,thatIhaven'tthetimetosendthemoutof thecountry—it's incredible!' 'H'm. Just so,'grunted theuncle. 'Ah!myboy,trusttothis—Isay,trusttothis.'Isawhimextendhisshortflipperofanarmforagesturethattookintheforest,thecreek,themud,theriver,—seemedtobeckonwithadishonoringflourishbeforethesunlitfaceofthelandatreacherousappealtothelurking death, to the hidden evil, to the profound darkness of its heart. It was sostartlingthatIleapedtomyfeetandlookedbackattheedgeoftheforest,asthoughIhadexpectedananswerofsomesorttothatblackdisplayofconfidence.Youknowthefoolishnotionsthatcometoonesometimes.Thehighstillnessconfrontedthesetwo figureswith itsominouspatience,waiting for thepassingawayof a fantasticinvasion.

"Theysworealoudtogether—outofsheerfright,Ibelieve—thenpretendingnottoknow anything ofmy existence, turned back to the station.The sunwas low; andleaningforwardsidebyside, theyseemedtobetuggingpainfullyuphill their tworidiculousshadowsofunequallength,thattrailedbehindthemslowlyoverthetallgrasswithoutbendingasingleblade.

"InafewdaystheEldoradoExpeditionwentintothepatientwilderness,thatclosed

upon it as the seaclosesoveradiver.Longafterwards thenewscame that all thedonkeysweredead.Iknownothingastothefateofthelessvaluableanimals.They,nodoubt,liketherestofus,foundwhattheydeserved.Ididnotinquire.Iwasthenratherexcitedat theprospectofmeetingKurtzverysoon.WhenIsayverysoonImeanitcomparatively.ItwasjusttwomonthsfromthedayweleftthecreekwhenwecametothebankbelowKurtz'sstation.

"Goingupthatriverwasliketravelingbacktotheearliestbeginningsoftheworld,whenvegetationriotedontheearthandthebigtreeswerekings.Anemptystream,agreat silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish.Therewasnojoyinthebrillianceofsunshine.Thelongstretchesofthewaterwayranon,deserted,intothegloomofovershadoweddistances.Onsilverysandbankshipposandalligatorssunnedthemselvessidebyside.Thebroadeningwatersflowedthroughamobofwoodedislands;youlostyourwayonthatriverasyouwouldinadesert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till youthought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had knownonce—somewhere—faraway—inanotherexistenceperhaps.Thereweremomentswhenone'spastcamebacktoone,asitwillsometimeswhenyouhavenotamomentto spare to yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream,rememberedwithwonderamongsttheoverwhelmingrealitiesofthisstrangeworldof plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the leastresemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over aninscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect. I got used to itafterwards; Ididnot see it anymore; Ihadno time. Ihad tokeepguessingat thechannel;Ihadtodiscern,mostlybyinspiration,thesignsofhiddenbanks;Iwatchedforsunkenstones;Iwaslearningtoclapmyteethsmartlybeforemyheartflewout,whenIshavedbyaflukesomeinfernalslyoldsnagthatwouldhaverippedthelifeoutofthetin-potsteamboatanddrownedallthepilgrims;Ihadtokeepalook-outfor the signs of deadwoodwe could cut up in the night for next day's steaming.Whenyouhavetoattendtothingsofthatsort,tothemereincidentsofthesurface,thereality—thereality,Itellyou—fades.Theinnertruthishidden—luckily,luckily.But I felt it all the same; I felt often its mysterious stillness watching me at mymonkeytricks,justasitwatchesyoufellowsperformingonyourrespectivetight-ropesfor—whatisit?half-a-crownatumble—"

"Trytobecivil,Marlow,"growledavoice,andIknewtherewasatleastonelistenerawakebesidesmyself.

"Ibegyourpardon.Iforgottheheartachewhichmakesuptherestoftheprice.Andindeedwhatdoesthepricematter,ifthetrickbewelldone?Youdoyourtricksverywell.AndIdidn'tdobadlyeither,sinceImanagednottosinkthatsteamboatonmy

firsttrip.It'sawondertomeyet.Imagineablindfoldedmansettodriveavanoverabad road. I sweated and shivered over that business considerably, I can tell you.Afterall,foraseaman,toscrapethebottomofthethingthat'ssupposedtofloatallthe time under his care is the unpardonable sin.No onemay knowof it, but youneverforgetthethump—eh?Ablowontheveryheart.Yourememberit,youdreamof it, youwake up at night and think of it—years after—and go hot and cold allover. Idon'tpretendtosaythatsteamboatfloatedall the time.More thanonceshehadtowadeforabit,withtwentycannibalssplashingaroundandpushing.Wehadenlisted some of these chaps on theway for a crew. Fine fellows—cannibals—intheirplace.Theyweremenonecouldworkwith,and Iamgrateful to them.And,after all, they did not eat each other before my face: they had brought along aprovisionofhippo-meatwhichwentrotten,andmadethemysteryofthewildernessstinkinmynostrils.Phoo!Icansniffitnow.Ihadthemanageronboardandthreeorfourpilgrimswiththeirstaves—allcomplete.Sometimeswecameuponastationclosebythebank,clingingtotheskirtsoftheunknown,andthewhitemenrushingoutofatumble-downhovel,withgreatgesturesofjoyandsurpriseandwelcome,seemed very strange,—had the appearance of being held there captive by a spell.Theword ivorywouldring in theair forawhile—andonwewentagain into thesilence,alongempty reaches, round thestillbends,between thehighwallsofourwindingway,reverberatinginhollowclapstheponderousbeatof thestern-wheel.Trees,trees,millionsoftrees,massive,immense,runninguphigh;andattheirfoot,hugging the bank against the stream, crept the little begrimed steamboat, like asluggishbeetlecrawlingonthefloorofaloftyportico.Itmadeyoufeelverysmall,verylost,andyetitwasnotaltogetherdepressing,thatfeeling.Afterall,ifyouweresmall,thegrimybeetlecrawledon—whichwasjustwhatyouwantedittodo.Wherethe pilgrims imagined it crawled to I don't know. To some place where theyexpectedtogetsomething,Ibet!FormeitcrawledtowardKurtz—exclusively;butwhen the steam-pipes started leaking we crawled very slow. The reaches openedbeforeusandclosedbehind,asiftheforesthadsteppedleisurelyacrossthewatertobar the way for our return. We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart ofdarkness. Itwasveryquiet there.Atnightsometimes the rollofdrumsbehind thecurtainoftreeswouldrunuptheriverandremainsustainedfaintly,asifhoveringin the air high over our heads, till the first break of day.Whether it meant war,peace,orprayerwecouldnottell.Thedawnswereheraldedbythedescentofachillstillness;thewoodcuttersslept,theirfiresburnedlow;thesnappingofatwigwouldmakeyoustart.Wewerewanderersonaprehistoricearth,onanearththatworetheaspect of an unknown planet. We could have fancied ourselves the first of mentakingpossessionofanaccursedinheritance,tobesubduedatthecostofprofoundanguish and of excessive toil. But suddenly, aswe struggled round a bend, therewouldbeaglimpseofrushwalls,ofpeakedgrass-roofs,aburstofyells,awhirlof

blacklimbs,amassofhandsclapping,offeetstamping,ofbodiesswaying,ofeyesrolling,underthedroopofheavyandmotionlessfoliage.Thesteamertoiledalongslowly on the edge of a black and incomprehensible frenzy. The prehistoricmanwascursingus,prayingtous,welcomingus—whocouldtell?Wewerecutofffromthecomprehensionofoursurroundings;weglidedpastlikephantoms,wonderingand secretly appalled, as sanemenwould be before an enthusiastic outbreak in amadhouse. We could not understand, because we were too far and could notremember,becausewewere traveling in thenightof firstages,of thoseages thataregone,leavinghardlyasign—andnomemories.

"Theearthseemedunearthly.Weareaccustomedtolookupontheshackledformofaconqueredmonster,butthere—thereyoucouldlookatathingmonstrousandfree.Itwasunearthly,and themenwere—No, theywerenot inhuman.Well,youknow,thatwastheworstof it—thissuspicionof theirnotbeinginhuman.Itwouldcomeslowlytoone.Theyhowled,andleaped,andspun,andmadehorridfaces;butwhatthrilledyouwasjustthethoughtoftheirhumanity—likeyours—thethoughtofyourremotekinshipwiththiswildandpassionateuproar.Ugly.Yes,itwasuglyenough;butifyouweremanenoughyouwouldadmittoyourselfthattherewasinyoujustthe faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dimsuspicionoftherebeingameaninginitwhichyou—yousoremotefromthenightof first ages—could comprehend. Andwhy not? Themind ofman is capable ofanything—becauseeverythingisinit,allthepastaswellasallthefuture.Whatwasthereafterall?Joy,fear,sorrow,devotion,valor,rage—whocantell?—buttruth—truthstrippedofitscloakoftime.Letthefoolgapeandshudder—themanknows,andcanlookonwithoutawink.Buthemustatleastbeasmuchofamanastheseonthe shore. He must meet that truth with his own true stuff—with his own inbornstrength. Principles? Principles won't do. Acquisitions, clothes, pretty rags—ragsthatwouldflyoffatthefirstgoodshake.No;youwantadeliberatebelief.Anappealtomeinthisfiendishrow—isthere?Verywell;Ihear;Iadmit,butIhaveavoicetoo,and forgoodorevilmine is thespeech thatcannotbesilenced.Ofcourse,afool,whatwithsheerfrightandfinesentiments,isalwayssafe.Who'sthatgrunting?Youwonder I didn't go ashore for a howl and a dance?Well, no—I didn't. Finesentiments,yousay?Finesentiments,behanged!Ihadnotime.Ihadtomessaboutwithwhite-leadandstripsofwoolenblankethelpingtoputbandagesonthoseleakysteam-pipes—Itellyou.Ihadtowatchthesteering,andcircumventthosesnags,andgetthetin-potalongbyhookorbycrook.Therewassurface-truthenoughinthesethingstosaveawiserman.AndbetweenwhilesIhadtolookafterthesavagewhowasfireman.Hewasanimprovedspecimen;hecouldfireupaverticalboiler.Hewastherebelowme,and,uponmyword,tolookathimwasasedifyingasseeingadog in a parody of breeches and a feather hat, walking on his hind-legs. A fewmonthsoftraininghaddoneforthatreallyfinechap.Hesquintedatthesteam-gauge

andatthewater-gaugewithanevidenteffortofintrepidity—andhehadfiledteethtoo, thepoordevil, and thewoolofhispate shaved intoqueerpatterns,and threeornamentalscarsoneachofhischeeks.Heoughttohavebeenclappinghishandsandstampinghisfeetonthebank,insteadofwhichhewashardatwork,athralltostrangewitchcraft,fullofimprovingknowledge.Hewasusefulbecausehehadbeeninstructed;andwhatheknewwasthis—thatshouldthewaterinthattransparentthingdisappear,theevilspiritinsidetheboilerwouldgetangrythroughthegreatnessofhisthirst,andtakeaterriblevengeance.Sohesweatedandfiredupandwatchedtheglassfearfully(withanimpromptucharm,madeofrags,tiedtohisarm,andapieceofpolishedbone,asbigasawatch,stuckflatwaysthroughhislowerlip),whilethewooded banks slipped past us slowly, the short noise was left behind, theinterminablemilesofsilence—andwecrepton,towardsKurtz.Butthesnagswerethick, thewaterwas treacherous and shallow, the boiler seemed indeed to have asulkydevil in it,and thusneither that firemannor Ihadany time topeer intoourcreepythoughts.

"SomefiftymilesbelowtheInnerStationwecameuponahutofreeds,aninclinedandmelancholy pole, with the unrecognizable tatters of what had been a flag ofsomesort flyingfromit,andaneatlystackedwoodpile.Thiswasunexpected.Wecame to the bank, and on the stack of firewood found a flat piece of boardwithsomefadedpencil-writingonit.Whendeciphereditsaid:'Woodforyou.Hurryup.Approach cautiously.' There was a signature, but it was illegible—not Kurtz—amuchlongerword.'Hurryup.'Where?Uptheriver?'Approachcautiously.'Wehadnotdoneso.Butthewarningcouldnothavebeenmeantfortheplacewhereitcouldbe only found after approach. Something was wrong above. But what—and howmuch?Thatwasthequestion.Wecommentedadverselyupontheimbecilityofthattelegraphicstyle.Thebusharoundsaidnothing,andwouldnotletuslookveryfar,either.Atorncurtainofredtwillhunginthedoorwayofthehut,andflappedsadlyinourfaces.Thedwellingwasdismantled;butwecouldseeawhitemanhadlivedtherenotverylongago.Thereremainedarudetable—aplankontwoposts;aheapofrubbishreposedinadarkcorner,andbythedoorIpickedupabook.Ithadlostitscovers,andthepageshadbeenthumbedintoastateofextremelydirtysoftness;but the back had been lovingly stitched afresh with white cotton thread, whichlookedcleanyet. Itwas anextraordinary find. Its titlewas, 'An Inquiry into somePointsofSeamanship,'byamanTower,Towson—somesuchname—MasterinhisMajesty's Navy. The matter looked dreary reading enough, with illustrativediagramsandrepulsivetablesoffigures,andthecopywassixtyyearsold.Ihandledthisamazingantiquitywiththegreatestpossibletenderness,lestitshoulddissolveinmy hands. Within, Towson or Towser was inquiring earnestly into the breakingstrain of ships' chains and tackle, and other suchmatters. Not a very enthrallingbook;butatthefirstglanceyoucouldseethereasinglenessofintention,anhonest

concern for the right way of going to work, which made these humble pages,thoughtoutsomanyyearsago,luminouswithanotherthanaprofessionallight.Thesimpleoldsailor,withhistalkofchainsandpurchases,mademeforgetthejungleand the pilgrims in a delicious sensation of having come upon somethingunmistakably real.Suchabookbeing therewaswonderfulenough;but stillmoreastoundingwerethenotespenciledinthemargin,andplainlyreferringtothetext.Icouldn'tbelievemyeyes!Theywere incipher!Yes, it looked likecipher.Fancyamanluggingwithhimabookofthatdescriptionintothisnowhereandstudyingit—andmakingnotes—incipheratthat!Itwasanextravagantmystery.

"Ihadbeendimlyawareforsometimeofaworryingnoise,andwhenIliftedmyeyesIsawthewood-pilewasgone,andthemanager,aidedbyallthepilgrims,wasshoutingatmefromtheriver-side.Islippedthebookintomypocket.Iassureyouto leaveoff readingwas like tearingmyself away from the shelter of anold andsolidfriendship.

"I started the lame engine ahead. 'It must be thismiserable trader—this intruder,'exclaimedthemanager,lookingbackmalevolentlyattheplacewehadleft.'HemustbeEnglish,'Isaid.'Itwillnotsavehimfromgettingintotroubleifheisnotcareful,'muttered themanagerdarkly. Iobservedwithassumedinnocence thatnomanwassafefromtroubleinthisworld.

"The currentwasmore rapidnow, the steamer seemedat her last gasp, the stern-wheelfloppedlanguidly,andIcaughtmyselflisteningontiptoeforthenextbeatoftheboat,forinsobertruthIexpectedthewretchedthingtogiveupeverymoment.Itwaslikewatchingthelastflickersofalife.Butstillwecrawled.SometimesIwouldpickouta treea littlewayahead tomeasureourprogress towardsKurtzby,but Ilostitinvariablybeforewegotabreast.Tokeeptheeyessolongononethingwastoo much for human patience. The manager displayed a beautiful resignation. Ifretted and fumed and took to arguing with myself whether or no I would talkopenlywithKurtz;butbeforeIcouldcometoanyconclusionitoccurredtomethatmyspeechormysilence,indeedanyactionofmine,wouldbeamerefutility.Whatdiditmatterwhatanyonekneworignored?Whatdiditmatterwhowasmanager?One gets sometimes such a flash of insight.The essentials of this affair lay deepunderthesurface,beyondmyreach,andbeyondmypowerofmeddling.

"Towards the evening of the second day we judged ourselves about eight milesfromKurtz's station. Iwanted topushon;but themanager lookedgrave,and toldme the navigation up there was so dangerous that it would be advisable, the sunbeing very low already, to wait where we were till next morning.Moreover, hepointedoutthatifthewarningtoapproachcautiouslyweretobefollowed,wemust

approachindaylight—notatdusk,orinthedark.Thiswassensibleenough.Eightmilesmeant nearly three hours' steaming for us, and I could also see suspiciousripplesattheupperendofthereach.Nevertheless,Iwasannoyedbeyondexpressionat the delay, and most unreasonably too, since one night more could not mattermuchaftersomanymonths.Aswehadplentyofwood,andcautionwastheword,Ibroughtup in themiddleof thestream.Thereachwasnarrow,straight,withhighsideslikearailwaycutting.Theduskcameglidingintoit longbeforethesunhadset.Thecurrentransmoothandswift,butadumbimmobilitysatonthebanks.Theliving trees, lashed together by the creepers and every living bush of theundergrowth,mighthavebeenchangedintostone,eventotheslenderesttwig,tothelightest leaf. Itwas not sleep—it seemed unnatural, like a state of trance.Not thefaintest sound of any kind could be heard. You looked on amazed, and began tosuspectyourselfofbeingdeaf—thenthenightcamesuddenly,andstruckyoublindas well. About three in themorning some large fish leaped, and the loud splashmademejumpasthoughagunhadbeenfired.Whenthesunrosetherewasawhitefog,verywarmandclammy, andmoreblinding than thenight. It didnot shift ordrive;itwasjustthere,standingallroundyoulikesomethingsolid.Ateightornine,perhaps, it lifted as a shutter lifts.Wehadaglimpseof the toweringmultitudeoftrees,of the immensemattedjungle,with theblazinglittleballof thesunhangingoverit—allperfectlystill—andthenthewhiteshuttercamedownagain,smoothly,asifslidingingreasedgrooves.Iorderedthechain,whichwehadbeguntoheavein,tobepaidoutagain.Beforeitstoppedrunningwithamuffledrattle,acry,averyloud cry, as of infinite desolation, soared slowly in the opaque air. It ceased. Acomplaining clamor, modulated in savage discords, filled our ears. The sheerunexpectednessofitmademyhairstirundermycap.Idon'tknowhowitstrucktheothers: tome it seemed as though themist itself had screamed, so suddenly, andapparentlyfromallsidesatonce,didthistumultuousandmournfuluproararise.Itculminated inahurriedoutbreakofalmost intolerablyexcessiveshrieking,whichstopped short, leaving us stiffened in a variety of silly attitudes, and obstinatelylistening to thenearlyasappallingandexcessivesilence. 'GoodGod!What is themeaning—?' stammered atmy elbow one of the pilgrims,—a little fatman, withsandyhairandredwhiskers,whoworeside-springboots,andpinkpyjamastuckedintohissocks.Twoothersremainedopen-mouthedawholeminute,thendashedintothe little cabin, to rush out incontinently and stand darting scared glances, withWinchesters at 'ready' in their hands.Whatwe could seewas just the steamerwewereon,heroutlinesblurredasthoughshehadbeenonthepointofdissolving,andamistystripofwater,perhapstwofeetbroad,aroundher—andthatwasall.Therestof the world was nowhere, as far as our eyes and ears were concerned. Justnowhere. Gone, disappeared; swept off without leaving a whisper or a shadowbehind.

"Iwentforward,andorderedthechaintobehauledinshort,soastobereadytotripthe anchor and move the steamboat at once if necessary. 'Will they attack?'whisperedanawedvoice.'Wewillallbebutcheredinthisfog,'murmuredanother.The faces twitchedwith the strain, the hands trembled slightly, the eyes forgot towink.Itwasverycurioustoseethecontrastofexpressionsofthewhitemenandoftheblackfellowsofourcrew,whowereasmuchstrangerstothatpartoftheriveras we, though their homes were only eight hundred miles away. The whites, ofcoursegreatlydiscomposed,hadbesidesacuriouslookofbeingpainfullyshockedbysuchanoutrageousrow.Theothershadanalert,naturallyinterestedexpression;buttheirfaceswereessentiallyquiet,eventhoseoftheoneortwowhogrinnedastheyhauledat thechain.Severalexchangedshort,gruntingphrases,whichseemedto settle the matter to their satisfaction. Their headman, a young, broad-chestedblack,severelydrapedindark-bluefringedcloths,withfiercenostrilsandhishairall done up artfully in oily ringlets, stood near me. 'Aha!' I said, just for goodfellowship'ssake.'Catch'im,'hesnapped,withabloodshotwideningofhiseyesandaflashofsharpteeth—'catch'im.Give'imtous.''Toyou,eh?'Iasked;'whatwouldyou do with them?' 'Eat 'im!' he said curtly, and, leaning his elbow on the rail,lookedout into the fog inadignifiedandprofoundlypensiveattitude. Iwouldnodoubthavebeenproperlyhorrified,haditnotoccurredtomethatheandhischapsmustbeveryhungry:thattheymusthavebeengrowingincreasinglyhungryforatleastthismonthpast.Theyhadbeenengagedforsixmonths(Idon'tthinkasingleoneofthemhadanyclearideaoftime,asweattheendofcountlessageshave.Theystillbelongedtothebeginningsoftime—hadnoinheritedexperiencetoteachthemas itwere), and of course, as long as therewas a piece of paperwritten over inaccordance with some farcical law or other made down the river, it didn't enteranybody's head to trouble how they would live. Certainly they had brought withthemsomerottenhippo-meat,whichcouldn'thavelastedverylong,anyway,evenifthe pilgrims hadn't, in themidst of a shocking hullabaloo, thrown a considerablequantityofitoverboard.Itlookedlikeahigh-handedproceeding;butitwasreallyacaseoflegitimateself-defense.Youcan'tbreathedeadhippowaking,sleeping,andeating, andat the same timekeepyourprecariousgriponexistence.Besides that,theyhadgiventhemeveryweekthreepiecesofbrasswire,eachaboutnineincheslong; and the theorywas theywere to buy their provisionswith that currency inriver-sidevillages.Youcanseehowthatworked.Therewereeithernovillages,orthepeoplewerehostile,orthedirector,wholiketherestofusfedoutoftins,withanoccasionaloldhe-goatthrownin,didn'twanttostopthesteamerforsomemoreorlessreconditereason.So,unlesstheyswallowedthewireitself,ormadeloopsofittosnarethefisheswith,Idon'tseewhatgoodtheirextravagantsalarycouldbetothem. I must say it was paid with a regularity worthy of a large and honorabletradingcompany.Fortherest,theonlythingtoeat—thoughitdidn'tlookeatablein

theleast—Isawintheirpossessionwasafewlumpsofsomestufflikehalf-cookeddough, of a dirty lavender color, they keptwrapped in leaves, and now and thenswallowedapieceof, but so small that it seemeddonemore for the looksof thething than for any serious purpose of sustenance. Why in the name of all thegnawingdevilsofhungertheydidn'tgoforus—theywerethirtytofive—andhaveagoodtuckinforonce,amazesmenowwhenIthinkofit.Theywerebigpowerfulmen, with not much capacity to weigh the consequences, with courage, withstrength,evenyet, though their skinswereno longerglossyand theirmusclesnolongerhard.AndIsawthatsomethingrestraining,oneofthosehumansecretsthatbaffleprobability,hadcomeintoplaythere.Ilookedatthemwithaswiftquickeningof interest—not because it occurred tome Imight be eaten by them before verylong,thoughIowntoyouthatjustthenIperceived—inanewlight,asitwere—howunwholesome the pilgrims looked, and I hoped, yes, I positively hoped, that myaspectwasnotso—whatshallIsay?—so—unappetizing:atouchoffantasticvanitywhich fittedwellwith the dream-sensation that pervaded allmy days at that time.Perhaps I had a little fever too. One can't livewith one's finger everlastingly onone'spulse.Ihadoften 'a littlefever,'ora little touchofother things—theplayfulpaw-strokes of the wilderness, the preliminary trifling before the more seriousonslaughtwhich came in due course.Yes; I looked at them as youwould on anyhuman being, with a curiosity of their impulses,motives, capacities, weaknesses,when brought to the test of an inexorable physical necessity. Restraint! Whatpossible restraint? Was it superstition, disgust, patience, fear—or some kind ofprimitivehonor?Nofearcanstanduptohunger,nopatiencecanwearitout,disgustsimplydoesnotexistwherehungeris;andastosuperstition,beliefs,andwhatyoumaycallprinciples,theyarelessthanchaffinabreeze.Don'tyouknowthedevilryoflingeringstarvation,itsexasperatingtorment,itsblackthoughts,itssomberandbroodingferocity?Well,Ido.Ittakesamanallhisinbornstrengthtofighthungerproperly.It'sreallyeasiertofacebereavement,dishonor,andtheperditionofone'ssoul—thanthiskindofprolongedhunger.Sad,buttrue.Andthesechapstoohadnoearthlyreasonforanykindofscruple.Restraint!Iwouldjustassoonhaveexpectedrestraintfromahyenaprowlingamongstthecorpsesofabattlefield.Buttherewasthefactfacingme—thefactdazzling,tobeseen,likethefoamonthedepthsofthesea,likearippleonanunfathomableenigma,amysterygreater—whenIthoughtofit—thanthecurious,inexplicablenoteofdesperategriefinthissavageclamorthathadsweptbyusontheriver-bank,behindtheblindwhitenessofthefog.

"Twopilgrimswerequarrelinginhurriedwhispersastowhichbank.'Left.''No,no;howcanyou?Right,right,ofcourse.' 'Itisveryserious,'saidthemanager'svoicebehindme;'IwouldbedesolatedifanythingshouldhappentoMr.Kurtzbeforewecameup.'Ilookedathim,andhadnottheslightestdoubthewassincere.Hewasjustthekindofmanwhowouldwishtopreserveappearances.Thatwashisrestraint.But

whenhemutteredsomethingaboutgoingonatonce,Ididnoteventakethetroubletoanswerhim.Iknew,andheknew,that itwasimpossible.Wereweto letgoourholdofthebottom,wewouldbeabsolutelyintheair—inspace.Wewouldn'tbeableto tell wherewewere going to—whether up or down stream, or across—till wefetchedagainstonebankortheother,—andthenwewouldn'tknowatfirstwhichitwas. Of course I made no move. I had no mind for a smash-up. You couldn'timagineamoredeadlyplaceforashipwreck.Whetherdrownedatonceornot,weweresuretoperishspeedilyinonewayoranother. 'Iauthorizeyoutotakeall therisks,'hesaid,afterashortsilence. 'Irefusetotakeany,'Isaidshortly;whichwasjusttheanswerheexpected,thoughitstonemighthavesurprisedhim.'Well,Imustdefertoyourjudgment.Youarecaptain,'hesaid,withmarkedcivility.Iturnedmyshoulder to him in sign of my appreciation, and looked into the fog. How longwould it last? It was the most hopeless look-out. The approach to this Kurtzgrubbingforivoryinthewretchedbushwasbesetbyasmanydangersasthoughhehadbeenanenchantedprincess sleeping ina fabulouscastle. 'Will theyattack,doyouthink?'askedthemanager,inaconfidentialtone.

"Ididnot think theywouldattack, forseveralobviousreasons.The thickfogwasone.Iftheyleftthebankintheircanoestheywouldgetlostinit,aswewouldbeifwe attempted to move. Still, I had also judged the jungle of both banks quiteimpenetrable—andyeteyeswereinit,eyesthathadseenus.Theriver-sidebusheswere certainly very thick; but the undergrowth behind was evidently penetrable.However, during the short lift I had seen no canoes anywhere in the reach—certainlynotabreastofthesteamer.Butwhatmadetheideaofattackinconceivabletomewasthenatureofthenoise—ofthecrieswehadheard.Theyhadnotthefiercecharacter boding of immediate hostile intention.Unexpected,wild, and violent astheyhadbeen,theyhadgivenmeanirresistibleimpressionofsorrow.Theglimpseofthesteamboathadforsomereasonfilledthosesavageswithunrestrainedgrief.Thedanger,ifany,Iexpounded,wasfromourproximitytoagreathumanpassionlet loose. Even extreme grief may ultimately vent itself in violence—but moregenerallytakestheformofapathy....

"You should have seen the pilgrims stare! They had no heart to grin, or even torevileme;butIbelievetheythoughtmegonemad—withfright,maybe.Ideliveredaregularlecture.Mydearboys,itwasnogoodbothering.Keepalook-out?Well,youmayguessIwatchedthefogforthesignsofliftingasacatwatchesamouse;butforanythingelseoureyeswereofnomoreusetousthanifwehadbeenburiedmiles deep in a heap of cotton-wool. It felt like it too—choking, warm, stifling.Besides,allIsaid,thoughitsoundedextravagant,wasabsolutelytruetofact.Whatweafterwardsalludedtoasanattackwasreallyanattemptatrepulse.Theactionwasveryfarfrombeingaggressive—itwasnotevendefensive,intheusualsense:itwas

undertakenunderthestressofdesperation,andinitsessencewaspurelyprotective.

"It developed itself, I should say, two hours after the fog lifted, and itscommencement was at a spot, roughly speaking, about a mile and a half belowKurtz's station.We had just floundered and flopped round a bend,when I saw anislet,ameregrassyhummockofbrightgreen,inthemiddleofthestream.Itwastheonlythingofthekind;butasweopenedthereachmore,Iperceiveditwastheheadof a long sandbank, or rather of a chain of shallow patches stretching down themiddleof theriver.Theywerediscolored, justawash,and thewhole lotwasseenjustunderthewater,exactlyasaman'sbackboneisseenrunningdownthemiddleofhisbackundertheskin.Now,asfarasIdidsee,Icouldgototherightortotheleftofthis.Ididn'tknoweitherchannel,ofcourse.Thebankslookedprettywellalike,thedepthappearedthesame;butasIhadbeeninformedthestationwasonthewestside,Inaturallyheadedforthewesternpassage.

"NosoonerhadwefairlyentereditthanIbecameawareitwasmuchnarrowerthanIhadsupposed.Totheleftofustherewasthelonguninterruptedshoal,andtotheright ahigh, steepbankheavilyovergrownwithbushes.Above thebush the treesstoodinserriedranks.Thetwigsoverhungthecurrentthickly,andfromdistancetodistancealargelimbofsometreeprojectedrigidlyoverthestream.Itwasthenwellonintheafternoon,thefaceoftheforestwasgloomy,andabroadstripofshadowhadalreadyfallenonthewater.Inthisshadowwesteamedup—veryslowly,asyoumayimagine.Isheeredherwellinshore—thewaterbeingdeepestnearthebank,asthesounding-poleinformedme.

"Oneofmyhungryandforbearingfriendswassoundinginthebowsjustbelowme.This steamboatwas exactly like a decked scow.On the deck therewere two littleteak-woodhouses,withdoorsandwindows.Theboilerwasinthefore-end,andthemachinery right astern. Over the whole there was a light roof, supported onstanchions.Thefunnelprojectedthroughthatroof,andinfrontofthefunnelasmallcabinbuiltoflightplanksservedforapilot-house.Itcontainedacouch,twocamp-stools,aloadedMartini-Henryleaninginonecorner,atinytable,andthesteering-wheel. Ithadawidedoor in frontandabroadshutterateachside.All thesewerealways thrown open, of course. I spentmy days perched up there on the extremefore-endofthatroof,beforethedoor.AtnightIslept,ortriedto,onthecouch.Anathleticblackbelongingtosomecoasttribe,andeducatedbymypoorpredecessor,wasthehelmsman.Hesportedapairofbrassearrings,woreablueclothwrapperfromthewaisttotheankles,andthoughtalltheworldofhimself.HewasthemostunstablekindoffoolIhadeverseen.Hesteeredwithnoendofaswaggerwhileyouwereby;butifhelostsightofyou,hebecameinstantlythepreyofanabjectfunk,andwouldletthatcrippleofasteamboatgettheupperhandofhiminaminute.

"Iwaslookingdownatthesounding-pole,andfeelingmuchannoyedtoseeateachtry a littlemore of it stick out of that river,when I sawmypolemangive up thebusiness suddenly, and stretch himself flat on the deck, without even taking thetroubletohaulhispolein.Hekeptholdonitthough,andittrailedinthewater.Atthe same time the fireman, whom I could also see belowme, sat down abruptlybeforehisfurnaceandduckedhishead.Iwasamazed.ThenIhadtolookattherivermighty quick, because there was a snag in the fairway. Sticks, little sticks, wereflying about—thick: they were whizzing before my nose, dropping below me,striking behindme against my pilot-house. All this time the river, the shore, thewoods, were very quiet—perfectly quiet. I could only hear the heavy splashingthumpofthestern-wheelandthepatterofthesethings.Weclearedthesnagclumsily.Arrows,byJove!Wewerebeingshotat!Isteppedinquicklytoclosetheshutteronthe land side.That fool-helmsman, his hands on the spokes,was lifting his kneeshigh,stampinghisfeet,champinghismouth,likeareined-inhorse.Confoundhim!Andwewerestaggeringwithintenfeetofthebank.Ihadtoleanrightouttoswingthe heavy shutter, and I saw a face amongst the leaves on the levelwithmyown,lookingatmeveryfierceandsteady;andthensuddenly,asthoughaveilhadbeenremovedfrommyeyes,Imadeout,deepinthetangledgloom,nakedbreasts,arms,legs, glaring eyes,—the bush was swarming with human limbs in movement,glistening,ofbronzecolor.Thetwigsshook,swayed,andrustled,thearrowsflewoutofthem,andthentheshuttercameto.'Steerherstraight,'Isaidtothehelmsman.He held his head rigid, face forward; but his eyes rolled, he kept on lifting andsettingdownhisfeetgently,hismouthfoamedalittle.'Keepquiet!'Isaidinafury.Imightjustaswellhaveorderedatreenottoswayinthewind.Idartedout.Belowme there was a great scuffle of feet on the iron deck; confused exclamations; avoice screamed, 'Can you turn back?' I caught shape of aV-shaped ripple on thewaterahead.What?Anothersnag!Afusilladeburstoutundermyfeet.ThepilgrimshadopenedwiththeirWinchesters,andweresimplysquirtingleadintothatbush.Adeuceof a lot of smoke cameup anddrove slowly forward. I swore at it.Now Icouldn't see the rippleor the snageither. I stood in thedoorway,peering,and thearrowscameinswarms.Theymighthavebeenpoisoned,buttheylookedasthoughtheywouldn'tkillacat.Thebushbegantohowl.Ourwood-cuttersraisedawarlikewhoop; the report of a rifle just at my back deafened me. I glanced over myshoulder,andthepilot-housewasyetfullofnoiseandsmokewhenImadeadashatthewheel.Thefool-niggerhaddroppedeverything,tothrowtheshutteropenandletoff thatMartini-Henry.Hestoodbefore thewideopening,glaring,and Iyelledathimtocomeback,whileIstraightenedthesuddentwistoutofthatsteamboat.Therewas no room to turn even if I hadwanted to, the snagwas somewhere very nearahead in thatconfoundedsmoke, therewasno time to lose, so I justcrowdedherintothebank—rightintothebank,whereIknewthewaterwasdeep.

"Wetoreslowlyalongtheoverhangingbushesinawhirlofbrokentwigsandflyingleaves. The fusillade below stopped short, as I had foreseen it would when thesquirtsgotempty.Ithrewmyheadbacktoaglintingwhizzthattraversedthepilot-house,inatoneshutter-holeandoutattheother.Lookingpastthatmadhelmsman,whowasshakingtheemptyrifleandyellingattheshore,Isawvagueformsofmenrunningbent double, leaping, gliding, distinct, incomplete, evanescent.Somethingbig appeared in the air before the shutter, the rifle went overboard, and themansteppedbackswiftly,lookedatmeoverhisshoulderinanextraordinary,profound,familiarmanner,andfelluponmyfeet.Thesideofhisheadhitthewheeltwice,andthe end of what appeared a long cane clattered round and knocked over a littlecamp-stool. It lookedas thoughafterwrenchingthat thingfromsomebodyashorehehadlosthisbalanceintheeffort.Thethinsmokehadblownaway,wewereclearof the snag, and looking ahead I could see that in another hundred yards or so Iwouldbefreetosheeroff,awayfromthebank;butmyfeetfeltsoverywarmandwetthatIhadtolookdown.Themanhadrolledonhisbackandstaredstraightupatme;bothhishandsclutchedthatcane.Itwastheshaftofaspearthat,eitherthrownor lungedthroughtheopening,hadcaughthimin theside justbelowtheribs; thebladehadgoneinoutofsight,aftermakingafrightfulgash;myshoeswerefull;apoolofbloodlayverystill,gleamingdark-redunderthewheel;hiseyesshonewithan amazing luster. The fusillade burst out again. He looked at me anxiously,grippingthespearlikesomethingprecious,withanairofbeingafraidIwouldtrytotakeitawayfromhim.Ihadtomakeanefforttofreemyeyesfromhisgazeandattendtothesteering.WithonehandIfeltabovemyheadforthelineofthesteam-whistle, and jerked out screech after screech hurriedly. The tumult of angry andwarlikeyellswascheckedinstantly,andthenfromthedepthsofthewoodswentoutsuchatremulousandprolongedwailofmournfulfearandutterdespairasmaybeimagined to follow the flight of the last hope from the earth. There was a greatcommotion in thebush; theshowerofarrowsstopped,afewdroppingshotsrangoutsharply—thensilence,inwhichthelanguidbeatofthestern-wheelcameplainlytomyears.Iputthehelmharda-starboardatthemomentwhenthepilgriminpinkpyjamas,veryhotandagitated,appearedinthedoorway.'Themanagersendsme—'hebeganinanofficialtone,andstoppedshort. 'GoodGod!'hesaid,glaringatthewoundedman.

"Wetwowhitesstoodoverhim,andhislustrousandinquiringglanceenvelopedusboth.Ideclareitlookedasthoughhewouldpresentlyputtoussomequestioninanunderstandable language; but he diedwithout uttering a sound,withoutmoving alimb, without twitching a muscle. Only in the very last moment, as though inresponse to some signwe could not see, to somewhisperwe could not hear, hefrowned heavily, and that frown gave to his black death-mask an inconceivablysomber,brooding,andmenacingexpression.The lusterof inquiringglancefaded

swiftlyintovacantglassiness.'Canyousteer?'Iaskedtheagenteagerly.Helookedverydubious;butImadeagrabathisarm,andheunderstoodatonceImeanthimtosteerwhether or no. To tell you the truth, Iwasmorbidly anxious to changemyshoes and socks. 'He is dead,' murmured the fellow, immensely impressed. 'Nodoubtaboutit,'saidI,tugginglikemadattheshoe-laces.'And,bytheway,IsupposeMr.Kurtzisdeadaswellbythistime.'

"For the moment that was the dominant thought. There was a sense of extremedisappointment, as though I had found out I had been striving after somethingaltogetherwithoutasubstance.Icouldn'thavebeenmoredisgustedifIhadtraveledallthiswayforthesolepurposeoftalkingwithMr.Kurtz.Talkingwith....Iflungoneshoeoverboard,andbecameawarethatthatwasexactlywhatIhadbeenlookingforward to—a talk with Kurtz. I made the strange discovery that I had neverimaginedhimasdoing,youknow,butasdiscoursing.Ididn'tsaytomyself,'NowIwillneverseehim,'or 'NowIwillnevershakehimby thehand,'but, 'NowIwillneverhearhim.'Themanpresentedhimselfasavoice.NotofcoursethatIdidnotconnecthimwithsomesortofaction.Hadn'tIbeentoldinallthetonesofjealousyandadmirationthathehadcollected,bartered,swindled,orstolenmoreivorythanall theotheragents together?Thatwasnot thepoint.Thepointwas inhisbeingagifted creature, and that of all his gifts the one that stood out pre-eminently, thatcarriedwithitasenseofrealpresence,washisabilitytotalk,hiswords—thegiftofexpression, the bewildering, the illuminating, the most exalted and the mostcontemptible,thepulsatingstreamoflight,orthedeceitfulflowfromtheheartofanimpenetrabledarkness.

"Theothershoewentflyinguntothedevil-godofthatriver.Ithought,'ByJove!it'sallover.Wearetoolate;hehasvanished—thegifthasvanished,bymeansofsomespear,arrow,orclub.Iwillneverhear thatchapspeakafterall,'—andmysorrowhadastartlingextravaganceofemotion,evensuchasIhadnoticedinthehowlingsorrowofthesesavagesinthebush.Icouldn'thavefeltmoreoflonelydesolationsomehow,hadIbeenrobbedofabelieforhadmissedmydestinyinlife....Whydoyousighinthisbeastlyway,somebody?Absurd?Well,absurd.GoodLord!mustn'tamanever—Here,givemesometobacco."...

Therewasapauseofprofoundstillness,thenamatchflared,andMarlow'sleanfaceappeared,worn,hollow,withdownwardfoldsanddroppedeyelids,withanaspectof concentratedattention; andashe tookvigorousdrawsathispipe, it seemed toretreat and advance out of the night in the regular flicker of the tiny flame. Thematchwentout.

"Absurd!"hecried. "This is theworstof trying to tell. . . .Hereyouall are, each

mooredwithtwogoodaddresses,likeahulkwithtwoanchors,abutcherroundonecorner, a policeman roundanother, excellent appetites, and temperaturenormal—youhear—normalfromyear'sendtoyear'send.Andyousay,Absurd!Absurdbe—exploded!Absurd!Mydearboys,whatcanyouexpectfromamanwhooutofsheernervousnesshad just flungoverboardapairofnewshoes.NowI thinkof it, it isamazingIdidnotshedtears.Iam,uponthewhole,proudofmyfortitude.Iwascutto thequickat the ideaofhaving lost the inestimableprivilegeof listening to thegiftedKurtz.OfcourseIwaswrong.Theprivilegewaswaitingforme.Ohyes, Iheardmorethanenough.AndIwasright,too.Avoice.Hewasverylittlemorethanavoice.AndIheard—him—it—thisvoice—othervoices—allofthemweresolittlemore than voices—and the memory of that time itself lingers around me,impalpable, likeadyingvibrationofone immense jabber,silly,atrocious,sordid,savage, or simplymean,without anykindof sense.Voices, voices—even thegirlherself—now—"

Hewassilentforalongtime.

"Ilaidtheghostofhisgiftsatlastwithalie,"hebegansuddenly."Girl!What?DidImention agirl?Oh, she is outof it—completely.They—thewomen, Imean—areoutofit—shouldbeoutofit.Wemusthelpthemtostayinthatbeautifulworldoftheirown,lestoursgetsworse.Oh,shehadtobeoutofit.YoushouldhaveheardthedisinterredbodyofMr.Kurtzsaying,'MyIntended.'Youwouldhaveperceiveddirectly thenhowcompletely shewasout of it.And the lofty frontal boneofMr.Kurtz!Theysay thehairgoesongrowingsometimes,but this—ahspecimen,wasimpressivelybald.Thewildernesshadpattedhimon thehead,and,behold, itwaslike aball—an ivoryball; it hadcaressedhim, and—lo!—hehadwithered; it hadtaken him, loved him, embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his flesh, andsealed his soul to its own by the inconceivable ceremonies of some devilishinitiation.Hewasitsspoiledandpamperedfavorite.Ivory?Ishouldthinkso.Heapsof it, stacksof it.Theoldmudshantywasburstingwith it.Youwould think therewasnot a single tusk left either aboveorbelow theground in thewhole country.'Mostlyfossil,'themanagerhadremarkeddisparagingly.ItwasnomorefossilthanIam;but theycall it fossilwhenit isdugup. Itappears theseniggersdobury thetuskssometimes—butevidently theycouldn'tburythisparceldeepenoughtosavethegiftedMr.Kurtzfromhisfate.Wefilledthesteamboatwithit,andhadtopilealoton thedeck.Thushecouldseeandenjoyas longashecouldsee,because theappreciationofthisfavorhadremainedwithhimtothelast.Youshouldhaveheardhimsay, 'My ivory.'Ohyes, I heardhim. 'My Intended,my ivory,my station,myriver,my—'everythingbelongedtohim.Itmademeholdmybreathinexpectationofhearingthewildernessburstintoaprodigiouspealoflaughterthatwouldshakethefixedstarsintheirplaces.Everythingbelongedtohim—butthatwasatrifle.The

thingwastoknowwhathebelongedto,howmanypowersofdarknessclaimedhimfor their own. That was the reflection that made you creepy all over. It wasimpossible—itwasnotgoodforoneeither—tryingtoimagine.Hehadtakenahighseat amongst the devils of the land—Imean literally. You can't understand. Howcould you?—with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by kind neighborsreadytocheeryouortofallonyou,steppingdelicatelybetweenthebutcherandthepoliceman,intheholyterrorofscandalandgallowsandlunaticasylums—howcanyouimaginewhatparticularregionofthefirstagesaman'suntrammeledfeetmaytake him into by theway of solitude—utter solitudewithout a policeman—by theway of silence, utter silence,where nowarning voice of a kind neighbor can beheard whispering of public opinion? These little things make all the greatdifference.Whentheyaregoneyoumustfallbackuponyourowninnatestrength,uponyourowncapacityforfaithfulness.Ofcourseyoumaybetoomuchofafoolto go wrong—too dull even to know you are being assaulted by the powers ofdarkness.Itakeit,nofoolevermadeabargainforhissoulwiththedevil:thefoolistoomuchofafool,orthedeviltoomuchofadevil—Idon'tknowwhich.Oryoumaybe such a thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf andblind toanythingbutheavenlysightsandsounds.Thentheearthforyouisonlyastandingplace—andwhethertobelikethisisyourlossoryourgainIwon'tpretendtosay.Butmostofusareneitheronenortheother.Theearthforusisaplacetolivein,wherewemustputupwithsights,withsounds,withsmellstoo,byJove!—breathedeadhippo, so to speak, andnotbecontaminated.And there,don'tyou see?Yourstrengthcomesin,thefaithinyourabilityforthediggingofunostentatiousholestoburythestuffin—yourpowerofdevotion,nottoyourself,buttoanobscure,back-breakingbusiness.And that'sdifficult enough.Mind, I amnot trying toexcuseorevenexplain—Iamtryingtoaccounttomyselffor—for—Mr.Kurtz—fortheshadeofMr.Kurtz.This initiatedwraithfromthebackofNowherehonoredmewith itsamazingconfidencebeforeitvanishedaltogether.ThiswasbecauseitcouldspeakEnglishtome.TheoriginalKurtzhadbeeneducatedpartlyinEngland,and—ashewas good enough to say himself—his sympathies were in the right place. Hismotherwashalf-English,hisfatherwashalf-French.AllEuropecontributedtothemakingofKurtz;andby-and-byIlearnedthat,mostappropriately,theInternationalSocietyfortheSuppressionofSavageCustomshadintrustedhimwiththemakingofareport,foritsfutureguidance.Andhehadwrittenittoo.I'veseenit.I'vereadit.It was eloquent, vibrating with eloquence, but too high-strung, I think. Seventeenpagesofclosewritinghehadfoundtimefor!Butthismusthavebeenbeforehis—let us say—nerves, went wrong, and caused him to preside at certain midnightdancesendingwithunspeakablerites,which—asfarasIreluctantlygatheredfromwhat I heard at various times—were offered up to him—do you understand?—toMr.Kurtzhimself.Butitwasabeautifulpieceofwriting.Theopeningparagraph,

however, in the light of later information, strikesme now as ominous.He beganwiththeargumentthatwewhites,fromthepointofdevelopmentwehadarrivedat,'mustnecessarilyappeartothem[savages]inthenatureofsupernaturalbeings—weapproach themwith themight asof adeity,' and soon, and soon. 'By the simpleexerciseofourwillwecanexertapowerforgoodpracticallyunbounded,'&c.,&c.Fromthatpointhesoaredandtookmewithhim.Theperorationwasmagnificent,though difficult to remember, you know. It gave me the notion of an exoticImmensityruledbyanaugustBenevolence.Itmademetinglewithenthusiasm.Thiswastheunboundedpowerofeloquence—ofwords—ofburningnoblewords.Therewerenopracticalhints to interrupt themagiccurrentofphrases,unlessakindofnoteatthefootofthelastpage,scrawledevidentlymuchlater,inanunsteadyhand,mayberegardedastheexpositionofamethod.Itwasverysimple,andattheendofthat moving appeal to every altruistic sentiment it blazed at you, luminous andterrifying,likeaflashoflightninginaserenesky:'Exterminateallthebrutes!'Thecurious part was that he had apparently forgotten all about that valuablepostscriptum,because, lateron,whenheinasensecametohimself,herepeatedlyentreatedmetotakegoodcareof'mypamphlet'(hecalledit),asitwassuretohaveinthefutureagoodinfluenceuponhiscareer.Ihadfullinformationaboutallthesethings,and,besides,asitturnedout,Iwastohavethecareofhismemory.I'vedoneenough for it to give me the indisputable right to lay it, if I choose, for aneverlasting rest in the dust-bin of progress, amongst all the sweepings and,figuratively speaking, all the dead cats of civilization. But then, you see, I can'tchoose.Hewon'tbe forgotten.Whateverhewas,hewasnotcommon.Hehad thepowertocharmorfrightenrudimentarysoulsintoanaggravatedwitch-danceinhishonor;hecouldalsofill thesmallsoulsofthepilgrimswithbittermisgivings:hehadonedevotedfriendatleast,andhehadconqueredonesoulintheworldthatwasneither rudimentarynor taintedwith self-seeking.No; I can't forgethim, though Iamnotpreparedtoaffirmthefellowwasexactlyworththelifewelostingettingtohim. Imissedmy latehelmsmanawfully,—Imissedhimevenwhilehisbodywasstilllyinginthepilot-house.Perhapsyouwillthinkitpassingstrangethisregretfora savagewhowasnomore account than agrainof sand in ablackSahara.Well,don'tyousee,hehaddonesomething,hehadsteered;formonthsIhadhimatmyback—ahelp—aninstrument.Itwasakindofpartnership.Hesteeredforme—Ihadtolookafterhim,Iworriedabouthisdeficiencies,andthusasubtlebondhadbeencreated, of which I only became aware when it was suddenly broken. And theintimateprofundityof that lookhegavemewhenhe receivedhishurt remains tothis day in my memory—like a claim of distant kinship affirmed in a suprememoment.

"Poorfool!Ifhehadonlyleftthatshutteralone.Hehadnorestraint,norestraint—just likeKurtz—a tree swayedby thewind.As soonas Ihadputonadrypairof

slippers, I dragged him out, after first jerking the spear out of his side, whichoperationIconfessIperformedwithmyeyesshut tight.Hisheels leapedtogetherover the little door-step; his shoulders were pressed tomy breast; I hugged himfrombehinddesperately.Oh!hewasheavy,heavy;heavierthananymanonearth,Ishould imagine. Then without more ado I tipped him overboard. The currentsnatchedhimas thoughhehadbeenawispofgrass,andIsawthebodyrollovertwicebeforeIlostsightofitforever.Allthepilgrimsandthemanagerwerethencongregatedontheawning-deckaboutthepilot-house,chatteringateachotherlikea flock of excitedmagpies, and therewas a scandalizedmurmur atmy heartlesspromptitude.What theywanted to keep that body hanging about for I can't guess.Embalmit,maybe.ButIhadalsoheardanother,andaveryominous,murmuronthedeck below. My friends the wood-cutters were likewise scandalized, and with abettershowofreason—thoughIadmitthatthereasonitselfwasquiteinadmissible.Oh, quite! I hadmade upmymind that ifmy late helmsmanwas to be eaten, thefishesaloneshouldhavehim.Hehadbeenaverysecond-ratehelmsmanwhilealive,butnowhewasdeadhemighthavebecomea first-class temptation, andpossiblycause somestartling trouble.Besides, Iwasanxious to take thewheel, theman inpinkpyjamasshowinghimselfahopelessdufferatthebusiness.

"ThisIdiddirectlythesimplefuneralwasover.Weweregoinghalf-speed,keepingrightinthemiddleofthestream,andIlistenedtothetalkaboutme.TheyhadgivenupKurtz, they had given up the station;Kurtzwas dead, and the station had beenburnt—andsoon—andsoon.Thered-hairedpilgrimwasbesidehimselfwiththethoughtthatatleastthispoorKurtzhadbeenproperlyrevenged.'Say!Wemusthavemadeaglorious slaughterof them in thebush.Eh?Whatdoyou think?Say?'Hepositivelydanced,thebloodthirstylittlegingerybeggar.Andhehadnearlyfaintedwhenhesawthewoundedman!Icouldnothelpsaying,'Youmadeagloriouslotofsmoke,anyhow.' Ihadseen, from theway the topsof thebushes rustledand flew,thatalmostall theshotshadgone toohigh.Youcan'thitanythingunlessyou takeaimandfire fromtheshoulder;but thesechapsfiredfromthehipwith theireyesshut.The retreat, Imaintained—and Iwas right—wascausedby thescreechingofthe steam-whistle. Upon this they forgot Kurtz, and began to howl at me withindignantprotests.

"Themanagerstoodbythewheelmurmuringconfidentiallyaboutthenecessityofgettingwellawaydowntheriverbeforedarkatallevents,whenIsawinthedistanceaclearingontheriver-sideandtheoutlinesofsomesortofbuilding.'What'sthis?'Iasked.Heclappedhishands inwonder. 'The station!' he cried. I edged in atonce,stillgoinghalf-speed.

"Through my glasses I saw the slope of a hill interspersed with rare trees and

perfectlyfreefromundergrowth.Alongdecayingbuildingonthesummitwashalfburiedinthehighgrass;thelargeholesinthepeakedroofgapedblackfromafar;thejungleandthewoodsmadeabackground.Therewasnoinclosureorfenceofanykind;but therehadbeenoneapparently, fornear thehousehalf-a-dozenslimposts remained ina row, roughly trimmed,andwith theirupperendsornamentedwith round carved balls. The rails, or whatever there had been between, haddisappeared.Ofcoursetheforestsurroundedallthat.Theriver-bankwasclear,andon the water-side I saw a white man under a hat like a cart-wheel beckoningpersistentlywithhiswholearm.Examiningtheedgeoftheforestaboveandbelow,IwasalmostcertainIcouldseemovements—humanformsglidinghereandthere.Isteamedpastprudently,thenstoppedtheenginesandletherdriftdown.Themanontheshorebegantoshout,urgingus to land. 'Wehavebeenattacked,'screamedthemanager. 'I know—Iknow. It's all right,' yelledback theother, as cheerful asyouplease.'Comealong.It'sallright.Iamglad.'

"His aspect reminded me of something I had seen—something funny I had seensomewhere.AsImaneuveredtogetalongside,Iwasaskingmyself,'Whatdoesthisfellowlooklike?'SuddenlyIgotit.Helookedlikeaharlequin.Hisclotheshadbeenmade of some stuff that was brown holland probably, but it was covered withpatches all over,withbright patches, blue, red, andyellow,—patcheson theback,patches on front, patches on elbows, on knees; colored binding round his jacket,scarlet edging at the bottom of his trousers; and the sunshine made him lookextremelygayandwonderfullyneatwithal,becauseyoucouldseehowbeautifullyall thispatchinghadbeendone.Abeardless,boyish face,very fair,no features tospeakof,nosepeeling,littleblueeyes,smilesandfrownschasingeachotheroverthat open countenance like sunshine and shadowonawindsweptplain. 'Lookout,captain!'hecried; 'there'sasnag lodged inhere lastnight.'What!Anothersnag?Iconfess I swore shamefully. I had nearly holed my cripple, to finish off thatcharmingtrip.Theharlequinonthebankturnedhis littlepugnoseuptome. 'YouEnglish?' he asked, all smiles. 'Are you?' I shouted from the wheel. The smilesvanished, and he shook his head as if sorry for my disappointment. Then hebrightenedup.'Nevermind!'hecriedencouragingly.'Areweintime?'Iasked.'Heisupthere,'hereplied,withatossoftheheadupthehill,andbecominggloomyallofasudden.Hisfacewasliketheautumnsky,overcastonemomentandbrightthenext.

"When themanager, escortedby thepilgrims, all of themarmed to the teeth, hadgonetothehouse,thischapcameonboard.'Isay,Idon'tlikethis.Thesenativesareinthebush,'Isaid.Heassuredmeearnestlyitwasallright.'Theyaresimplepeople,'headded;'well,Iamgladyoucame.Ittookmeallmytimetokeepthemoff.' 'Butyousaiditwasallright,'Icried.'Oh,theymeantnoharm,'hesaid;andasIstaredhecorrectedhimself,'Notexactly.'Thenvivaciously,'Myfaith,yourpilot-housewants

acleanup!'Inthenextbreathheadvisedmetokeepenoughsteamontheboilertoblow thewhistle in caseof any trouble. 'Onegood screechwill domore foryouthanallyourrifles.Theyaresimplepeople,'herepeated.Herattledawayatsucharate he quite overwhelmed me. He seemed to be trying to make up for lots ofsilence,andactuallyhinted,laughing,thatsuchwasthecase.'Don'tyoutalkwithMr.Kurtz?'Isaid. 'Youdon't talkwiththatman—youlistentohim,'heexclaimedwithsevereexaltation.'Butnow—'Hewavedhisarm,andinthetwinklingofaneyewasintheuttermostdepthsofdespondency.Inamomenthecameupagainwithajump,possessedhimself of bothmyhands, shook themcontinuously,while he gabbled:'Brothersailor...honor...pleasure...delight...introducemyself...Russian...son of an arch-priest . . . Government of Tambov . . . What? Tobacco! Englishtobacco; the excellent English tobacco! Now, that's brotherly. Smoke?Where's asailorthatdoesnotsmoke?'

"Thepipesoothedhim,andgraduallyImadeouthehadrunawayfromschool,hadgonetoseainaRussianship;ranawayagain;servedsometimeinEnglishships;wasnowreconciledwiththearch-priest.Hemadeapointofthat. 'Butwhenoneisyoung onemust see things, gather experience, ideas; enlarge themind.' 'Here!' Iinterrupted. 'You can never tell! Here I have met Mr. Kurtz,' he said, youthfullysolemnandreproachful.Iheldmytongueafterthat.ItappearshehadpersuadedaDutch trading-house on the coast to fit him out with stores and goods, and hadstartedfortheinteriorwithalightheart,andnomoreideaofwhatwouldhappentohimthanababy.Hehadbeenwanderingaboutthatriverfornearlytwoyearsalone,cutofffromeverybodyandeverything. 'IamnotsoyoungasIlook.Iamtwenty-five,'hesaid.'AtfirstoldVanShuytenwouldtellmetogotothedevil,'henarratedwith keen enjoyment; 'but I stuck to him, and talked and talked, till at last he gotafraid Iwould talk the hind-leg off his favorite dog, so he gaveme some cheapthings and a few guns, and toldme he hoped hewould never seemy face again.GoodoldDutchman,VanShuyten.I'vesenthimonesmalllotofivoryayearago,sothathecan'tcallmealittlethiefwhenIgetback.Ihopehegotit.AndfortherestIdon'tcare.Ihadsomewoodstackedforyou.Thatwasmyoldhouse.Didyousee?'

"IgavehimTowson'sbook.Hemadeas thoughhewouldkissme,but restrainedhimself. 'TheonlybookIhadleft,andIthoughtIhadlostit,'hesaid,lookingatitecstatically. 'So many accidents happen to a man going about alone, you know.Canoesgetupsetsometimes—andsometimesyou'vegottoclearoutsoquickwhenthepeoplegetangry.'Hethumbedthepages. 'YoumadenotesinRussian?'Iasked.Henodded. 'I thoughttheywerewrittenincipher,'Isaid.Helaughed,thenbecameserious.'Ihadlotsoftroubletokeepthesepeopleoff,'hesaid.'Didtheywanttokillyou?' I asked. 'Oh no!' he cried, and checked himself. 'Why did they attack us?' Ipursued.Hehesitated, then said shamefacedly, 'Theydon'twant him to go.' 'Don't

they?'Isaid,curiously.Henoddedanodfullofmysteryandwisdom.'Itellyou,'hecried,'thismanhasenlargedmymind.'Heopenedhisarmswide,staringatmewithhislittleblueeyesthatwereperfectlyround."

III

"Ilookedathim,lostinastonishment.Therehewasbeforeme,inmotley,asthoughhehadabscondedfromatroupeofmimes,enthusiastic,fabulous.Hisveryexistencewas improbable, inexplicable, and altogether bewildering. He was an insolubleproblem.Itwasinconceivablehowhehadexisted,howhehadsucceededingettingsofar,howhehadmanagedtoremain—whyhedidnotinstantlydisappear.'Iwentalittle farther,' he said, 'then still a little farther—till I had gone so far that I don'tknowhowI'llevergetback.Nevermind.Plentytime.Icanmanage.YoutakeKurtzawayquick—quick—I tellyou.'Theglamourofyouthenvelopedhisparticoloredrags,hisdestitution,hisloneliness,theessentialdesolationofhisfutilewanderings.Formonths—foryears—his lifehadn'tbeenworthaday'spurchase; and therehewas gallantly, thoughtlessly alive, to all appearance indestructible solely by thevirtue of his few years and of his unreflecting audacity. I was seduced intosomething like admiration—like envy.Glamoururgedhimon,glamourkepthimunscathed.Hesurelywantednothingfromthewildernessbutspacetobreatheinandto push on through. His need was to exist, and to move onwards at the greatestpossible risk, and with a maximum of privation. If the absolutely pure,uncalculating,unpracticalspiritofadventurehadeverruledahumanbeing,itruledthisbe-patchedyouth.Ialmostenviedhimthepossessionof thismodestandclearflame.Itseemedtohaveconsumedallthoughtofselfsocompletely,that,evenwhilehewastalkingtoyou,youforgot that itwashe—themanbeforeyoureyes—whohadgonethroughthesethings.IdidnotenvyhimhisdevotiontoKurtz,though.Hehadnotmeditated over it. It came to him, and he accepted itwith a sort of eagerfatalism.Imustsaythattomeitappearedaboutthemostdangerousthingineverywayhehadcomeuponsofar.

"Theyhadcometogetherunavoidably,liketwoshipsbecalmedneareachother,andlayrubbingsidesatlast.IsupposeKurtzwantedanaudience,becauseonacertainoccasion,whenencampedintheforest,theyhadtalkedallnight,ormoreprobablyKurtz had talked. 'We talked of everything,' he said, quite transported at therecollection.'Iforgottherewassuchathingassleep.Thenightdidnotseemtolast

anhour.Everything!Everything!. . .Oflovetoo.' 'Ah,hetalkedtoyouoflove!'Isaid,muchamused.'Itisn'twhatyouthink,'hecried,almostpassionately.'Itwasingeneral.Hemademeseethings—things.'

"Hethrewhisarmsup.Wewereondeckatthetime,andtheheadmanofmywood-cutters, loungingnearby, turneduponhimhisheavyandglitteringeyes. I lookedaround, and I don't knowwhy, but I assure you that never, never before, did thisland, this river, this jungle, the very arch of this blazing sky, appear to me sohopeless and so dark, so impenetrable to human thought, so pitiless to humanweakness.'And,eversince,youhavebeenwithhim,ofcourse?'Isaid.

"Onthecontrary.Itappearstheirintercoursehadbeenverymuchbrokenbyvariouscauses.Hehad, ashe informedmeproudly,managed tonurseKurtz through twoillnesses (he alluded to it as you would to some risky feat), but as a rule Kurtzwanderedalone,farinthedepthsoftheforest.'Veryoftencomingtothisstation,Ihad to wait days and days before he would turn up,' he said. 'Ah, it was worthwaitingfor!—sometimes.''Whatwashedoing?exploringorwhat?'Iasked.'Ohyes,ofcourse;'hehaddiscoveredlotsofvillages,alaketoo—hedidnotknowexactlyinwhatdirection;itwasdangeroustoinquiretoomuch—butmostlyhisexpeditionshad been for ivory. 'But he had no goods to trade with by that time,' I objected.'There'sagoodlotofcartridgesleftevenyet,'heanswered,lookingaway.'Tospeakplainly,he raided thecountry,' I said.Henodded. 'Not alone, surely!'Hemutteredsomethingaboutthevillagesroundthatlake.'Kurtzgotthetribetofollowhim,didhe?' Isuggested.Hefidgeteda little. 'Theyadoredhim,'hesaid.Thetoneof thesewordswassoextraordinarythatI lookedathimsearchingly.Itwascurioustoseehis mingled eagerness and reluctance to speak of Kurtz. Theman filled his life,occupiedhisthoughts,swayedhisemotions.'Whatcanyouexpect?'heburstout;'hecame to them with thunder and lightning, you know—and they had never seenanything like it—andvery terrible.Hecouldbevery terrible.Youcan't judgeMr.Kurtzasyouwouldanordinaryman.No,no,no!Now—justtogiveyouanidea—Idon'tmindtellingyou,hewantedtoshootmetoooneday—butIdon'tjudgehim.''Shoot you!' I cried. 'What for?' 'Well, I had a small lot of ivory the chief of thatvillagenearmyhousegaveme.You see Iused to shootgame for them.Well,hewantedit,andwouldn'thearreason.HedeclaredhewouldshootmeunlessIgavehimtheivoryandthenclearedoutofthecountry,becausehecoulddoso,andhadafancyfor it,and therewasnothingonearth topreventhimkillingwhomhe jollywellpleased.Anditwastruetoo.Igavehimtheivory.WhatdidIcare!ButIdidn'tclear out.No, no. I couldn't leave him. I had to be careful, of course, tillwe gotfriendlyagainforatime.Hehadhissecondillnessthen.AfterwardsIhadtokeepoutoftheway;butIdidn'tmind.Hewaslivingforthemostpartinthosevillagesonthe lake.When he came down to the river, sometimes he would take tome, and

sometimesitwasbetterformetobecareful.Thismansufferedtoomuch.Hehatedallthis,andsomehowhecouldn'tgetaway.WhenIhadachanceIbeggedhimtotryand leavewhile therewas time; Ioffered togobackwithhim.Andhewould sayyes,andthenhewouldremain;gooffonanotherivoryhunt;disappearforweeks;forgethimselfamongstthesepeople—forgethimself—youknow.''Why!he'smad,'Isaid.Heprotestedindignantly.Mr.Kurtzcouldn'tbemad.IfIhadheardhimtalk,only two days ago, I wouldn't dare hint at such a thing. . . . I had taken up mybinocularswhilewetalkedandwaslookingattheshore,sweepingthelimitoftheforestateachsideandat thebackof thehouse.Theconsciousnessof therebeingpeopleinthatbush,sosilent,soquiet—assilentandquietastheruinedhouseonthehill—mademeuneasy.Therewasnosignonthefaceofnatureofthisamazingtalethatwasnotsomuchtoldassuggestedtomeindesolateexclamations,completedbyshrugs, in interrupted phrases, in hints ending in deep sighs. The woods wereunmoved, likeamask—heavy, likethecloseddoorofaprison—theylookedwiththeir air of hidden knowledge, of patient expectation, of unapproachable silence.TheRussianwasexplaining tome that itwasonly lately thatMr.Kurtzhadcomedowntotheriver,bringingalongwithhimallthefightingmenofthatlaketribe.Hehad been absent for severalmonths—getting himself adored, I suppose—and hadcome down unexpectedly, with the intention to all appearance of making a raideither across the riverordownstream.Evidently theappetite formore ivoryhadgotthebetterofthe—whatshallIsay?—lessmaterialaspirations.Howeverhehadgotmuchworsesuddenly. 'Iheardhewas lyinghelpless,andso Icameup—tookmy chance,' said theRussian. 'Oh, he is bad, very bad.' I directedmyglass to thehouse.Therewerenosignsoflife,buttherewastheruinedroof,thelongmudwallpeepingabovethegrass,withthreelittlesquarewindow-holes,notwoofthesamesize;allthisbroughtwithinreachofmyhand,asitwere.AndthenImadeabrusquemovement,andoneof theremainingpostsof thatvanishedfence leapedup in thefield ofmy glass. You remember I told you I had been struck at the distance bycertain attempts at ornamentation, rather remarkable in the ruinous aspect of theplace.NowIhadsuddenlyanearerview,anditsfirstresultwastomakemethrowmyheadbackasifbeforeablow.ThenIwentcarefullyfromposttopostwithmyglass,andIsawmymistake.Theseroundknobswerenotornamentalbutsymbolic;theywereexpressiveandpuzzling, strikinganddisturbing—food for thought andalso for the vultures if there had been any looking down from the sky; but at alleventsforsuchantsaswereindustriousenoughtoascendthepole.Theywouldhavebeenevenmore impressive, thoseheadson the stakes, if their faceshadnotbeenturnedtothehouse.Onlyone,thefirstIhadmadeout,wasfacingmyway.Iwasnotso shockedasyoumay think.The startback Ihadgivenwas reallynothingbutamovement of surprise. I had expected to see a knob of wood there, you know. IreturneddeliberatelytothefirstIhadseen—andthereitwas,black,dried,sunken,

withclosedeyelids,—aheadthatseemedtosleepatthetopofthatpole,and,withtheshrunkendrylipsshowinganarrowwhitelineoftheteeth,wassmilingtoo,smilingcontinuouslyatsomeendlessandjocosedreamofthateternalslumber.

"Iamnotdisclosinganytradesecrets.InfactthemanagersaidafterwardsthatMr.Kurtz'smethodshadruinedthedistrict. Ihavenoopiniononthatpoint,butIwantyou clearly to understand that therewas nothing exactly profitable in these headsbeingthere.TheyonlyshowedthatMr.Kurtzlackedrestraintinthegratificationofhis various lusts, that there was something wanting in him—some small matterwhich, when the pressing need arose, could not be found under his magnificenteloquence. Whether he knew of this deficiency himself I can't say. I think theknowledgecametohimatlast—onlyattheverylast.Butthewildernesshadfoundhimoutearly,andhadtakenonhimaterriblevengeanceforthefantasticinvasion.Ithinkithadwhisperedtohimthingsabouthimselfwhichhedidnotknow,thingsofwhichhe hadno conception till he took counselwith this great solitude—and thewhisperhadprovedirresistiblyfascinating.Itechoedloudlywithinhimbecausehewashollowatthecore....Iputdowntheglass,andtheheadthathadappearednearenough to be spoken to seemed at once to have leaped away from me intoinaccessibledistance.

"The admirer ofMr. Kurtzwas a bit crestfallen. In a hurried, indistinct voice hebegantoassuremehehadnotdaredtotakethese—say,symbols—down.Hewasnotafraid of the natives; they would not stir till Mr. Kurtz gave the word. Hisascendencywasextraordinary.Thecampsofthesepeoplesurroundedtheplace,andthechiefscameeverydaytoseehim.Theywouldcrawl.. . . 'Idon'twanttoknowanythingoftheceremoniesusedwhenapproachingMr.Kurtz,'Ishouted.Curious,thisfeelingthatcameovermethatsuchdetailswouldbemoreintolerablethanthoseheads drying on the stakes underMr.Kurtz'swindows.After all, thatwas only asavage sight, while I seemed at one bound to have been transported into somelightless region of subtle horrors, where pure, uncomplicated savagery was apositive relief, being something that had a right to exist—obviously—in thesunshine.Theyoungmanlookedatmewithsurprise.IsupposeitdidnotoccurtohimMr.Kurtzwasnoidolofmine.HeforgotIhadn'theardanyofthesesplendidmonologueson,whatwasit?onlove,justice,conductoflife—orwhatnot.Ifithadcome to crawling beforeMr.Kurtz, he crawled asmuch as the veriest savage ofthem all. I had no idea of the conditions, he said: these heads were the heads ofrebels. I shocked him excessively by laughing. Rebels! What would be the nextdefinition Iwas to hear?There had been enemies, criminals,workers—and thesewererebels.Thoserebelliousheadslookedverysubduedtomeontheirsticks.'Youdon'tknowhowsuchalifetriesamanlikeKurtz,'criedKurtz'slastdisciple.'Well,andyou?' Isaid. 'I! I! Iamasimpleman. Ihavenogreat thoughts. Iwantnothing

fromanybody.Howcanyoucomparemeto . . .?'Hisfeelingsweretoomuchforspeech, and suddenly he broke down. 'I don't understand,' he groaned. 'I've beendoingmybesttokeephimalive,andthat'senough.Ihadnohandinallthis.Ihavenoabilities.Therehasn'tbeenadropofmedicineoramouthfulofinvalidfoodformonths here. He was shamefully abandoned. A man like this, with such ideas.Shamefully!Shamefully!I—I—haven'tsleptforthelasttennights....'

"Hisvoicelostitselfinthecalmoftheevening.Thelongshadowsoftheforesthadslippeddownhillwhilewetalked,hadgonefarbeyondtheruinedhovel,beyondthesymbolicrowofstakes.Allthiswasinthegloom,whilewedowntherewereyetinthesunshine,andthestretchoftheriverabreastoftheclearingglitteredinastillanddazzlingsplendor,withamurkyandover-shadowedbendaboveandbelow.Notalivingsoulwasseenontheshore.Thebushesdidnotrustle.

"Suddenlyroundthecornerofthehouseagroupofmenappeared,asthoughtheyhadcomeup from theground.Theywadedwaist-deep in thegrass, in a compactbody,bearingan improvisedstretcher in theirmidst. Instantly, in theemptinessofthe landscape,acryarosewhoseshrillnesspierced thestillair likeasharparrowflyingstraight to theveryheartof the land;and,as ifbyenchantment, streamsofhumanbeings—ofnakedhumanbeings—withspearsintheirhands,withbows,withshields,withwildglancesandsavagemovements,werepouredintotheclearingbythedark-facedandpensiveforest.Thebushesshook, thegrassswayedfora time,andtheneverythingstoodstillinattentiveimmobility.

"'Now, if he does not say the right thing to them we are all done for,' said theRussianatmyelbow.Theknotofmenwiththestretcherhadstoppedtoo,half-waytothesteamer,asifpetrified.Isawthemanonthestretchersitup,lankandwithanupliftedarm,abovetheshouldersofthebearers.'Letushopethatthemanwhocantalksowellofloveingeneralwillfindsomeparticularreasontospareusthistime,'Isaid.Iresentedbitterlytheabsurddangerofoursituation,asiftobeatthemercyof that atrocious phantom had been a dishonoring necessity. I could not hear asound,butthroughmyglassesIsawthethinarmextendedcommandingly,thelowerjaw moving, the eyes of that apparition shining darkly far in its bony head thatnoddedwithgrotesquejerks.Kurtz—Kurtz—thatmeansshortinGerman—don'tit?Well, thenamewasas trueaseverythingelse inhis life—anddeath.He lookedatleast seven feet long.His covering had fallen off, and his body emerged from itpitiful and appalling as from awinding-sheet. I could see the cage of his ribs allastir, the bones of his armwaving. It was as though an animated image of deathcarved out of old ivory had been shaking its handwithmenaces at amotionlesscrowdofmenmadeofdarkandglitteringbronze.Isawhimopenhismouthwide—itgavehimaweirdlyvoraciousaspect,asthoughhehadwantedtoswallowallthe

air,alltheearth,allthemenbeforehim.Adeepvoicereachedmefaintly.Hemusthave been shouting. He fell back suddenly. The stretcher shook as the bearersstaggered forward again, and almost at the same time I noticed that the crowdofsavageswasvanishingwithoutanyperceptiblemovementofretreat,asiftheforestthathadejectedthesebeingssosuddenlyhaddrawntheminagainas thebreath isdrawninalongaspiration.

"Some of the pilgrims behind the stretcher carried his arms—two shot-guns, aheavy rifle, and a light revolver-carbine—the thunderbolts of that pitiful Jupiter.Themanagerbentoverhimmurmuringashewalkedbesidehishead.Theylaidhimdowninoneof the littlecabins—justaroomforabed-placeandacamp-stoolortwo, you know. We had brought his belated correspondence, and a lot of tornenvelopesandopen letters litteredhisbed.Hishandroamedfeeblyamongst thesepapers. I was struck by the fire of his eyes and the composed languor of hisexpression.Itwasnotsomuchtheexhaustionofdisease.Hedidnotseeminpain.Thisshadowlookedsatiatedandcalm,asthoughforthemomentithadhaditsfillofalltheemotions.

"He rustled one of the letters, and looking straight in my face said, 'I am glad.'Somebodyhadbeenwritingtohimaboutme.Thesespecialrecommendationswereturningupagain.Thevolumeoftoneheemittedwithouteffort,almostwithoutthetroubleofmovinghis lips, amazedme.Avoice!avoice! Itwasgrave,profound,vibrating, while the man did not seem capable of a whisper. However, he hadenoughstrengthinhim—factitiousnodoubt—toverynearlymakeanendofus,asyoushallheardirectly.

"Themanagerappearedsilentlyinthedoorway;Isteppedoutatonceandhedrewthecurtainafterme.TheRussian,eyedcuriouslybythepilgrims,wasstaringattheshore.Ifollowedthedirectionofhisglance.

"Darkhumanshapescouldbemadeout in thedistance, flitting indistinctlyagainstthegloomyborderoftheforest,andneartherivertwobronzefigures,leaningontallspears,stoodinthesunlightunderfantasticheaddressesofspottedskins,warlikeandstillinstatuesquerepose.Andfromrighttoleftalongthelightedshoremovedawildandgorgeousapparitionofawoman.

"Shewalkedwithmeasuredsteps,drapedinstripedandfringedcloths,treadingtheearthproudly,withaslightjingleandflashofbarbarousornaments.Shecarriedherheadhigh;herhairwasdoneintheshapeofahelmet;shehadbrassleggingstotheknee, brass wire gauntlets to the elbow, a crimson spot on her tawny cheek,innumerablenecklacesofglassbeadsonherneck;bizarrethings,charms,giftsof

witch-men,thathungabouther,glitteredandtrembledateverystep.Shemusthavehadthevalueofseveralelephanttusksuponher.Shewassavageandsuperb,wild-eyed andmagnificent; therewas something ominous and stately in her deliberateprogress.Andinthehushthathadfallensuddenlyuponthewholesorrowfulland,theimmensewilderness,thecolossalbodyofthefecundandmysteriouslifeseemedto look at her, pensive, as though it had been looking at the image of its owntenebrousandpassionatesoul.

"Shecameabreastofthesteamer,stoodstill,andfacedus.Herlongshadowfelltothewater'sedge.Herfacehadatragicandfierceaspectofwildsorrowandofdumbpain mingled with the fear of some struggling, half-shaped resolve. She stoodlookingatuswithouta stir and like thewilderness itself,withanairofbroodingover an inscrutable purpose. A whole minute passed, and then she made a stepforward. There was a low jingle, a glint of yellow metal, a sway of fringeddraperies,andshestoppedas ifherhearthadfailedher.Theyoungfellowbymysidegrowled.Thepilgrimsmurmuredatmyback.Shelookedatusallasifherlifehaddependedupon theunswervingsteadinessofherglance.Suddenlysheopenedher bared arms and threw them up rigid above her head, as though in anuncontrollabledesiretotouchthesky,andatthesametimetheswiftshadowsdartedouton theearth, sweptaroundon the river,gathering the steamer intoa shadowyembrace.Aformidablesilencehungoverthescene.

"Sheturnedawayslowly,walkedon,followingthebank,andpassedintothebushestotheleft.Onceonlyhereyesgleamedbackatusintheduskofthethicketsbeforeshedisappeared.

"'IfshehadofferedtocomeaboardIreallythinkIwouldhavetriedtoshoother,'saidthemanofpatches,nervously.'Ihadbeenriskingmylifeeverydayforthelastfortnighttokeepheroutofthehouse.ShegotinonedayandkickeduparowaboutthosemiserableragsIpickedupinthestoreroomtomendmyclotheswith.Iwasn'tdecent.Atleastitmusthavebeenthat,forshetalkedlikeafurytoKurtzforanhour,pointingatmenowandthen.Idon'tunderstandthedialectofthistribe.Luckilyforme,IfancyKurtzfelttooillthatdaytocare,ortherewouldhavebeenmischief.Idon'tunderstand....No—it'stoomuchforme.Ah,well,it'sallovernow.'

"AtthismomentIheardKurtz'sdeepvoicebehindthecurtain,'Saveme!—savetheivory, you mean. Don't tell me. Save me! Why, I've had to save you. You areinterruptingmy plans now. Sick! Sick!Not so sick as youwould like to believe.Nevermind. I'll carrymy ideas out yet—Iwill return. I'll show youwhat can bedone. You with your little peddling notions—you are interfering with me. I willreturn.I...'

"Themanagercameout.Hedidmethehonortotakemeunderthearmandleadmeaside. 'He is very low, very low,' he said.He considered it necessary to sigh, butneglectedtobeconsistentlysorrowful.'Wehavedoneallwecouldforhim—haven'twe?Butthereisnodisguisingthefact,Mr.KurtzhasdonemoreharmthangoodtotheCompany.Hedidnotseethetimewasnotripeforvigorousaction.Cautiously,cautiously—that'smyprinciple.Wemustbecautiousyet.Thedistrictisclosedtousforatime.Deplorable!Uponthewhole,thetradewillsuffer.Idon'tdenythereisaremarkable quantity of ivory—mostly fossil. We must save it, at all events—butlookhowprecariousthepositionis—andwhy?Becausethemethodisunsound.''Doyou,' said I, looking at the shore, 'call it "unsoundmethod"?' 'Without doubt,' heexclaimed, hotly. 'Don't you?' . . . 'No method at all,' I murmured after a while.'Exactly,'heexulted.'Ianticipatedthis.Showsacompletewantofjudgment.Itismydutytopointitoutintheproperquarter.''Oh,'saidI,'thatfellow—what'shisname?—the brickmaker,willmake a readable report for you.'He appeared confoundedfor amoment. It seemed tome Ihadneverbreathedanatmosphere sovile, and Iturnedmentally toKurtzforrelief—positivelyforrelief. 'NeverthelessI thinkMr.Kurtzisaremarkableman,'Isaidwithemphasis.Hestarted,droppedonmeacoldheavyglance, saidveryquietly, 'Hewas,' and turnedhis backonme.Myhouroffavorwasover;Ifoundmyself lumpedalongwithKurtzasapartisanofmethodsforwhichthetimewasnotripe:Iwasunsound!Ah!butitwassomethingtohaveatleastachoiceofnightmares.

"Ihadturnedtothewildernessreally,nottoMr.Kurtz,who,Iwasreadytoadmit,wasasgoodasburied.AndforamomentitseemedtomeasifIalsowereburiedinavastgravefullofunspeakablesecrets.Ifeltanintolerableweightoppressingmybreast,thesmellofthedampearth,theunseenpresenceofvictoriouscorruption,thedarkness of an impenetrable night. . . . TheRussian tappedme on the shoulder. Iheardhimmumbling and stammering something about 'brother seaman—couldn'tconceal—knowledgeofmatters thatwould affectMr.Kurtz's reputation.' Iwaited.ForhimevidentlyMr.Kurtzwasnotinhisgrave;IsuspectthatforhimMr.Kurtzwasoneof the immortals. 'Well!' said Iat last, 'speakout.As ithappens, IamMr.Kurtz'sfriend—inaway.'

"He stated with a good deal of formality that had we not been 'of the sameprofession,' he would have kept the matter to himself without regard toconsequences.'Hesuspectedtherewasanactiveill-willtowardshimonthepartofthesewhitementhat—''Youareright,'Isaid,rememberingacertainconversationIhadoverheard.'Themanagerthinksyououghttobehanged.'Heshowedaconcernatthisintelligencewhichamusedmeatfirst.'Ihadbettergetoutofthewayquietly,'hesaid,earnestly.'IcandonomoreforKurtznow,andtheywouldsoonfindsomeexcuse.What'stostopthem?There'samilitarypostthreehundredmilesfromhere.'

'Well, uponmyword,' said I, 'perhaps you had better go if you have any friendsamongstthesavagesnearby.''Plenty,'hesaid.'Theyaresimplepeople—andIwantnothing,youknow.'Hestoodbitinghislips,then:'Idon'twantanyharmtohappentothesewhiteshere,butofcourseIwasthinkingofMr.Kurtz'sreputation—butyouareabrotherseamanand—''Allright,'saidI,afteratime.'Mr.Kurtz'sreputationissafewithme.'IdidnotknowhowtrulyIspoke.

"Heinformedme,loweringhisvoice,thatitwasKurtzwhohadorderedtheattacktobemadeonthesteamer.'Hehatedsometimestheideaofbeingtakenaway—andthenagain....ButIdon'tunderstandthesematters.Iamasimpleman.Hethoughtitwould scareyouaway—thatyouwouldgive itup, thinkinghimdead. I couldnotstophim.Oh,Ihadanawfultimeofitthislastmonth.''Verywell,'Isaid.'Heisallrightnow.''Ye-e-es,'hemuttered,notveryconvincedapparently.'Thanks,'saidI;'Ishallkeepmyeyesopen.' 'Butquiet—eh?'heurged, anxiously. 'Itwouldbeawfulforhis reputation if anybodyhere—' I promised a completediscretionwithgreatgravity.'Ihaveacanoeandthreeblackfellowswaitingnotveryfar.Iamoff.CouldyougivemeafewMartini-Henrycartridges?'Icould,anddid,withpropersecrecy.Hehelpedhimself,withawinkatme,toahandfulofmytobacco.'Betweensailors—youknow—goodEnglishtobacco.'Atthedoorofthepilot-househeturnedround—' I say,haven'tyouapairof shoesyoucouldspare?'He raisedone leg. 'Look.'Thesolesweretiedwithknottedstringssandal-wiseunderhisbarefeet.Irootedoutanoldpair,atwhichhelookedwithadmirationbeforetuckingitunderhisleftarm.Oneofhispockets (bright red)wasbulgingwithcartridges, fromtheother (darkblue) peeped 'Towson's Inquiry,'&c.,&c.He seemed to think himself excellentlywell equipped for a renewed encounterwith thewilderness. 'Ah! I'll never, nevermeetsuchamanagain.Yououghttohaveheardhimrecitepoetry—hisowntooitwas,hetoldme.Poetry!'Herolledhiseyesattherecollectionofthesedelights.'Oh,heenlargedmymind!' 'Goodby,'saidI.Heshookhandsandvanishedinthenight.SometimesIaskmyselfwhetherIhadeverreallyseenhim—whetheritwaspossibletomeetsuchaphenomenon!...

"WhenIwokeupshortlyaftermidnighthiswarningcametomymindwithitshintofdangerthatseemed,inthestarreddarkness,realenoughtomakemegetupforthe purpose of having a look round. On the hill a big fire burned, illuminatingfitfullyacrookedcornerofthestation-house.Oneoftheagentswithapicketofafewofourblacks, armed for thepurpose,waskeepingguardover the ivory;butdeepwithintheforest,redgleamsthatwavered, thatseemedtosinkandrisefromthe ground amongst confused columnar shapes of intense blackness, showed theexact position of the campwhereMr. Kurtz's adorers were keeping their uneasyvigil.Themonotonousbeatingofabigdrumfilledtheairwithmuffledshocksandalingeringvibration.Asteadydroningsoundofmanymenchantingeachtohimself

some weird incantation came out from the black, flat wall of the woods as thehummingofbeescomesoutofahive,andhadastrangenarcoticeffectuponmyhalf-awakesenses.IbelieveIdozedoffleaningovertherail,tillanabruptburstofyells,anoverwhelmingoutbreakofapent-upandmysteriousfrenzy,wokemeupinabewilderedwonder.Itwascutshortallatonce,andthelowdroningwentonwithaneffectofaudibleandsoothingsilence.Iglancedcasuallyintothelittlecabin.Alightwasburningwithin,butMr.Kurtzwasnotthere.

"IthinkIwouldhaveraisedanoutcryifIhadbelievedmyeyes.ButIdidn'tbelievethem at first—the thing seemed so impossible. The fact is I was completelyunnervedbyasheerblankfright,pureabstractterror,unconnectedwithanydistinctshapeofphysicaldanger.Whatmadethisemotionsooverpoweringwas—howshallI define it?—the moral shock I received, as if something altogether monstrous,intolerabletothoughtandodioustothesoul,hadbeenthrustuponmeunexpectedly.This lastedof course themerest fractionof a second, and then theusual senseofcommonplace,deadlydanger, thepossibilityofa suddenonslaughtandmassacre,or something of the kind, which I saw impending, was positively welcome andcomposing.Itpacifiedme,infact,somuch,thatIdidnotraiseanalarm.

"Therewasanagentbuttonedup insideanulsterandsleepingonachairondeckwithinthreefeetofme.Theyellshadnotawakenedhim;hesnoredveryslightly;Ileft him to his slumbers and leaped ashore. I did not betray Mr. Kurtz—it wasorderedIshouldneverbetrayhim—itwaswrittenIshouldbeloyaltothenightmareofmychoice.Iwasanxioustodealwiththisshadowbymyselfalone,—andtothisdayIdon'tknowwhyIwassojealousofsharingwithanyonethepeculiarblacknessofthatexperience.

"As soon as I got on the bank I saw a trail—a broad trail through the grass. IremembertheexultationwithwhichIsaidtomyself,'Hecan'twalk—heiscrawlingon all-fours—I've got him.' The grass was wet with dew. I strode rapidly withclenchedfists.IfancyIhadsomevaguenotionoffallinguponhimandgivinghimadrubbing.Idon'tknow.Ihadsomeimbecilethoughts.Theknittingoldwomanwiththecatobtrudedherselfuponmymemoryasamostimproperpersontobesittingattheotherendofsuchanaffair.IsawarowofpilgrimssquirtingleadintheairoutofWinchestersheldtothehip.IthoughtIwouldnevergetbacktothesteamer,andimaginedmyselflivingaloneandunarmedinthewoodstoanadvancedage.Suchsillythings—youknow.AndIrememberIconfoundedthebeatofthedrumwiththebeatingofmyheart,andwaspleasedatitscalmregularity.

"Ikepttothetrackthough—thenstoppedtolisten.Thenightwasveryclear:adarkbluespace,sparklingwithdewandstarlight,inwhichblackthingsstoodverystill.I

thought I could see a kind of motion ahead of me. I was strangely cocksure ofeverythingthatnight.Iactuallyleftthetrackandraninawidesemicircle(Iverilybelievechuckling tomyself) soas toget in frontof thatstir,of thatmotionIhadseen—if indeed I had seen anything. I was circumventingKurtz as though it hadbeenaboyishgame.

"Icameuponhim,and,ifhehadnotheardmecoming,Iwouldhavefallenoverhimtoo, but he got up in time. He rose, unsteady, long, pale, indistinct, like a vaporexhaledbytheearth,andswayedslightly,mistyandsilentbeforeme;whileatmyback the fires loomed between the trees, and themurmur ofmany voices issuedfrom the forest. I had cut him off cleverly; but when actually confronting him Iseemedtocometomysenses,Isawthedangerinitsrightproportion.Itwasbynomeansover yet.Supposehebegan to shout?Thoughhe couldhardly stand, therewas still plenty of vigor in his voice. 'Go away—hide yourself,' he said, in thatprofoundtone.Itwasveryawful.Iglancedback.Wewerewithinthirtyyardsfromthe nearest fire.A black figure stood up, strode on long black legs,waving longblack arms, across the glow. It had horns—antelope horns, I think—on its head.Some sorcerer, somewitch-man, no doubt: it looked fiend-like enough. 'Do youknowwhatyouaredoing?' Iwhispered. 'Perfectly,'heanswered,raisinghisvoicefor that singleword: it sounded tome far off and yet loud, like a hail through aspeaking-trumpet.'Ifhemakesarowwearelost,'Ithoughttomyself.Thisclearlywasnotacaseforfisticuffs,evenapartfromtheverynaturalaversionIhadtobeatthatShadow—thiswanderingandtormentedthing.'Youwillbelost,'Isaid—'utterlylost.'Onegetssometimessuchaflashofinspiration,youknow.Ididsaytherightthing,thoughindeedhecouldnothavebeenmoreirretrievablylostthanhewasatthisverymoment,whenthefoundationsofourintimacywerebeinglaid—toendure—toendure—eventotheend—evenbeyond.

"'Ihadimmenseplans,'hemutteredirresolutely.'Yes,'saidI;'butifyoutrytoshoutI'llsmashyourheadwith—'Therewasnotastickorastonenear.'Iwillthrottleyouforgood,'Icorrectedmyself.'Iwasonthethresholdofgreatthings,'hepleaded,inavoiceof longing,withawistfulnessof tone thatmademyblood runcold. 'Andnowforthisstupidscoundrel—' 'YoursuccessinEuropeisassuredinanycase,' Iaffirmed,steadily.Ididnotwanttohavethethrottlingofhim,youunderstand—andindeeditwouldhavebeenverylittleuseforanypracticalpurpose.Itriedtobreakthespell—theheavy,mutespellof thewilderness—thatseemedtodrawhimto itspitilessbreastbytheawakeningofforgottenandbrutalinstincts,bythememoryofgratifiedandmonstrouspassions.Thisalone,Iwasconvinced,haddrivenhimouttotheedgeoftheforest,tothebush,towardsthegleamoffires,thethrobofdrums,thedroneofweird incantations; thisalonehadbeguiledhisunlawful soulbeyondtheboundsofpermitted aspirations.And,don't you see, the terrorof theposition

was not in being knocked on the head—though I had a very lively sense of thatdangertoo—butinthis,thatIhadtodealwithabeingtowhomIcouldnotappealinthe name of anything high or low. I had, even like the niggers, to invoke him—himselfhisownexaltedandincredibledegradation.Therewasnothingeitheraboveorbelowhim,andIknewit.Hehadkickedhimselflooseoftheearth.Confoundtheman!hehadkickedtheveryearthtopieces.Hewasalone,andIbeforehimdidnotknowwhetherIstoodonthegroundorfloatedintheair.I'vebeentellingyouwhatwe said—repeating thephraseswepronounced,—butwhat's thegood?Theywerecommoneverydaywords,—thefamiliar,vaguesoundsexchangedoneverywakingday of life. But what of that? They had behind them, to my mind, the terrificsuggestivenessofwordsheardindreams,ofphrasesspokeninnightmares.Soul!Ifanybodyhadeverstruggledwithasoul,Iamtheman.AndIwasn'targuingwithalunaticeither.Believemeornot,hisintelligencewasperfectlyclear—concentrated,it is true,uponhimselfwithhorrible intensity,yetclear;and thereinwasmyonlychance—barring,ofcourse, thekillinghim thereand then,whichwasn't sogood,on account of unavoidable noise. But his soul was mad. Being alone in thewilderness,ithadlookedwithinitself,and,byheavens!Itellyou,ithadgonemad.Ihad—formysins,Isuppose—togothroughtheordealoflookingintoitmyself.Noeloquencecouldhavebeensowitheringtoone'sbeliefinmankindashisfinalburstof sincerity. He struggled with himself, too. I saw it,—I heard it. I saw theinconceivablemystery of a soul that knew no restraint, no faith, and no fear, yetstrugglingblindlywithitself.Ikeptmyheadprettywell;butwhenIhadhimatlaststretched on the couch, I wipedmy forehead, while my legs shook under me asthough I had carried half a ton on my back down that hill. And yet I had onlysupportedhim,hisbonyarmclaspedroundmyneck—andhewasnotmuchheavierthanachild.

"Whennextdayweleftatnoon,thecrowd,ofwhosepresencebehindthecurtainoftreesIhadbeenacutelyconsciousallthetime,flowedoutofthewoodsagain,filledtheclearing,coveredtheslopewithamassofnaked,breathing,quivering,bronzebodies.Isteamedupabit,thenswungdown-stream,andtwothousandeyesfollowedtheevolutionsofthesplashing,thumping,fierceriver-demonbeatingthewaterwithits terrible tail and breathing black smoke into the air. In front of the first rank,alongtheriver,threemen,plasteredwithbrightredearthfromheadtofoot,struttedto and fro restlessly.Whenwe came abreast again, they faced the river, stampedtheir feet, nodded their horned heads, swayed their scarlet bodies; they shooktowards the fierce river-demon a bunch of black feathers, a mangy skin with apendent tail—something that looked like a driedgourd; they shoutedperiodicallytogether strings of amazingwords that resembledno sounds of human language;andthedeepmurmursofthecrowd,interruptedsuddenly,wereliketheresponseofsomesataniclitany.

"WehadcarriedKurtzintothepilot-house:therewasmoreairthere.Lyingonthecouch,hestaredthroughtheopenshutter.Therewasaneddyinthemassofhumanbodies,andthewomanwithhelmetedheadandtawnycheeksrushedouttotheverybrinkofthestream.Sheputoutherhands,shoutedsomething,andallthatwildmobtookuptheshoutinaroaringchorusofarticulated,rapid,breathlessutterance.

"'Doyouunderstandthis?'Iasked.

"Hekeptonlookingoutpastmewithfiery,longingeyes,withamingledexpressionofwistfulnessandhate.Hemadenoanswer,butIsawasmile,asmileofindefinablemeaning,appearonhiscolorlesslipsthatamomentaftertwitchedconvulsively.'DoI not?' he said slowly, gasping, as if the words had been torn out of him by asupernaturalpower.

"Ipulledthestringofthewhistle,andIdidthisbecauseIsawthepilgrimsondeckgettingouttheirrifleswithanairofanticipatingajollylark.Atthesuddenscreechtherewasamovementofabjectterrorthroughthatwedgedmassofbodies.'Don't!Don'tyoufrighten themaway,'criedsomeoneondeckdisconsolately. Ipulled thestringtimeaftertime.Theybrokeandran,theyleaped,theycrouched,theyswerved,theydodgedtheflyingterrorofthesound.Thethreeredchapshadfallenflat,facedown on the shore, as though they had been shot dead. Only the barbarous andsuperbwoman did not somuch as flinch, and stretched tragically her bare armsafterusoverthesomberandglitteringriver.

"Andthenthatimbecilecrowddownonthedeckstartedtheirlittlefun,andIcouldseenothingmoreforsmoke.

"The brown current ran swiftly out of the heart of darkness, bearing us downtowardstheseawith twice thespeedofourupwardprogress;andKurtz's lifewasrunningswiftlytoo,ebbing,ebbingoutofhisheartintotheseaofinexorabletime.Themanagerwasveryplacid,hehadnovitalanxietiesnow,hetookusbothinwithacomprehensiveandsatisfiedglance:the'affair'hadcomeoffaswellascouldbewished. I saw the time approaching when I would be left alone of the party of'unsoundmethod.'Thepilgrimslookeduponmewithdisfavor.Iwas,so tospeak,numberedwiththedead.ItisstrangehowIacceptedthisunforeseenpartnership,thischoiceofnightmaresforceduponmeinthetenebrouslandinvadedbythesemeanandgreedyphantoms.

"Kurtz discoursed.A voice! a voice! It rang deep to the very last. It survived hisstrength to hide in themagnificent folds of eloquence the barren darkness of hisheart.Oh,hestruggled!hestruggled!Thewastesofhiswearybrainwerehaunted

by shadowy images now—images of wealth and fame revolving obsequiouslyround his unextinguishable gift of noble and lofty expression. My Intended, mystation,mycareer,myideas—thesewerethesubjectsfortheoccasionalutterancesofelevatedsentiments.TheshadeoftheoriginalKurtzfrequentedthebedsideofthehollowsham,whosefateitwastobeburiedpresentlyinthemoldofprimevalearth.Butboththediabolicloveandtheunearthlyhateofthemysteriesithadpenetratedfoughtforthepossessionofthatsoulsatiatedwithprimitiveemotions,avidoflyingfame,ofshamdistinction,ofalltheappearancesofsuccessandpower.

"Sometimes he was contemptibly childish. He desired to have kingsmeet him atrailway-stations on his return from some ghastlyNowhere,where he intended toaccomplishgreat things. 'Youshowthemyouhaveinyousomethingthat isreallyprofitable, and then therewill be no limits to the recognition of your ability,' hewouldsay. 'Ofcourseyoumust takecareof themotives—rightmotives—always.'The long reaches that were like one and the same reach,monotonous bends thatwere exactly alike, slipped past the steamer with their multitude of secular treeslooking patiently after this grimy fragment of another world, the forerunner ofchange,ofconquest,oftrade,ofmassacres,ofblessings.Ilookedahead—piloting.'Closetheshutter,'saidKurtzsuddenlyoneday;'Ican'tbeartolookatthis.'Ididso.Therewasasilence. 'Oh,but Iwillwringyourheartyet!'hecriedat the invisiblewilderness.

"Webrokedown—asIhadexpected—andhadtolieupforrepairsattheheadofanisland.ThisdelaywasthefirstthingthatshookKurtz'sconfidence.Onemorninghegavemeapacketof papers and aphotograph,—the lot tied togetherwith a shoe-string. 'Keep this forme,' he said. 'This noxious fool' (meaning themanager) 'iscapableofpryingintomyboxeswhenIamnotlooking.'IntheafternoonIsawhim.Hewaslyingonhisbackwithclosedeyes,andIwithdrewquietly,butIheardhimmutter, 'Live rightly, die, die . . .' I listened. There was nothing more. Was herehearsingsomespeech inhissleep,orwas ita fragmentofaphrase fromsomenewspaperarticle?Hehadbeenwritingforthepapersandmeanttodosoagain,'forthefurtheringofmyideas.It'saduty.'

"Hiswasanimpenetrabledarkness.Ilookedathimasyoupeerdownatamanwhoislyingatthebottomofaprecipicewherethesunnevershines.ButIhadnotmuchtimetogivehim,becauseIwashelpingtheengine-drivertotaketopiecestheleakycylinders, tostraightenabentconnecting-rod,andinothersuchmatters.I livedinan infernal mess of rust, filings, nuts, bolts, spanners, hammers, ratchet-drills—things I abominate, because I don't get onwith them. I tended the little forgewefortunatelyhadaboard;Itoiledwearilyinawretchedscrap-heap—unlessIhadtheshakestoobadtostand.

"One evening coming in with a candle I was startled to hear him say a littletremulously, 'Iamlyinghereinthedarkwaitingfordeath.'Thelightwaswithinafootofhiseyes.Iforcedmyselftomurmur,'Oh,nonsense!'andstoodoverhimasiftransfixed.

"Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never seenbefore,andhopenevertoseeagain.Oh,Iwasn'ttouched.Iwasfascinated.Itwasasthoughaveilhadbeenrent.Isawonthativoryfacetheexpressionofsomberpride,ofruthlesspower,ofcraventerror—ofanintenseandhopelessdespair.Didhelivehis life again in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during thatsuprememomentofcompleteknowledge?Hecriedinawhisperatsomeimage,atsomevision,—hecriedouttwice,acrythatwasnomorethanabreath—

"'Thehorror!Thehorror!'

"I blew the candle out and left the cabin. The pilgrims were dining in themess-room,andItookmyplaceoppositethemanager,wholiftedhiseyestogivemeaquestioningglance,whichIsuccessfullyignored.Heleanedback,serene,withthatpeculiarsmileofhissealingtheunexpresseddepthsofhismeanness.Acontinuousshowerofsmallfliesstreameduponthelamp,uponthecloth,uponourhandsandfaces.Suddenlythemanager'sboyputhis insolentblackheadin thedoorway,andsaidinatoneofscathingcontempt—

"'MistahKurtz—hedead.'

"All the pilgrims rushed out to see. I remained, and went on with my dinner. IbelieveIwasconsideredbrutallycallous.However,Ididnoteatmuch.Therewasalampinthere—light,don'tyouknow—andoutsideitwassobeastly,beastlydark.Iwentnomoreneartheremarkablemanwhohadpronouncedajudgmentupontheadventuresofhissoulonthisearth.Thevoicewasgone.Whatelsehadbeenthere?ButIamofcourseaware thatnextday thepilgrimsburiedsomething inamuddyhole.

"Andthentheyverynearlyburiedme.

"However,asyousee,IdidnotgotojoinKurtzthereandthen.Ididnot.Iremainedtodreamthenightmareouttotheend,andtoshowmyloyaltytoKurtzoncemore.Destiny.Mydestiny!Drollthinglifeis—thatmysteriousarrangementofmercilesslogic for a futilepurpose.Themostyoucanhope from it is someknowledgeofyourself—thatcomestoolate—acropofunextinguishableregrets.Ihavewrestledwith death. It is themost unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an

impalpable grayness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, withoutspectators, without clamor, without glory, without the great desire of victory,withoutthegreatfearofdefeat,inasicklyatmosphereoftepidskepticism,withoutmuchbeliefinyourownright,andstilllessinthatofyouradversary.Ifsuchistheformofultimatewisdom,thenlifeisagreaterriddlethansomeofusthinkittobe.Iwaswithinahair's-breadthofthelastopportunityforpronouncement,andIfoundwithhumiliationthatprobablyIwouldhavenothingtosay.ThisisthereasonwhyIaffirmthatKurtzwasaremarkableman.Hehadsomethingtosay.Hesaidit.SinceIhadpeepedovertheedgemyself,Iunderstandbetterthemeaningofhisstare,thatcouldnot see the flameof thecandle,butwaswideenough toembrace thewholeuniverse,piercingenoughtopenetratealltheheartsthatbeatinthedarkness.Hehadsummedup—hehadjudged.'Thehorror!'Hewasaremarkableman.Afterall,thiswastheexpressionofsomesortofbelief;ithadcandor,ithadconviction,ithadavibratingnoteofrevoltinitswhisper,ithadtheappallingfaceofaglimpsedtruth—the strange commingling of desire and hate. And it is not my own extremity Irememberbest—avisionofgraynesswithoutformfilledwithphysicalpain,andacarelesscontemptfortheevanescenceofallthings—evenofthispainitself.No!ItishisextremitythatIseemtohavelivedthrough.True,hehadmadethatlaststride,hehadsteppedover theedge,while Ihadbeenpermitted todrawbackmyhesitatingfoot.Andperhaps in this is thewholedifference; perhaps all thewisdom, and alltruth,andallsincerity,arejustcompressedintothatinappreciablemomentoftimein which we step over the threshold of the invisible. Perhaps! I like to thinkmysumming-up would not have been a word of careless contempt. Better his cry—muchbetter.Itwasanaffirmation,amoralvictorypaidforbyinnumerabledefeats,by abominable terrors, by abominable satisfactions. But it was a victory! That iswhyIhaveremainedloyaltoKurtztothelast,andevenbeyond,whenalongtimeafter I heard once more, not his own voice, but the echo of his magnificenteloquencethrowntomefromasoulastranslucentlypureasacliffofcrystal.

"No, they did not bury me, though there is a period of time which I remembermistily, with a shuddering wonder, like a passage through some inconceivableworldthathadnohopeinitandnodesire.Ifoundmyselfbackinthesepulchralcityresenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little moneyfromeachother,todevourtheirinfamouscookery,togulptheirunwholesomebeer,to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed uponmy thoughts.They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretense,becauseIfeltsosuretheycouldnotpossiblyknowthethingsIknew.Theirbearing,which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about theirbusinessintheassuranceofperfectsafety,wasoffensivetomeliketheoutrageousflauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend. I had noparticulardesire toenlighten them,butIhadsomedifficulty inrestrainingmyself

fromlaughingintheirfaces,sofullofstupidimportance.IdaresayIwasnotverywellat that time.I totteredabout thestreets—therewerevariousaffairs tosettle—grinning bitterly at perfectly respectable persons. I admit my behavior wasinexcusable, but thenmy temperaturewas seldom normal in these days.My dearaunt'sendeavorsto'nurseupmystrength'seemedaltogetherbesidethemark.Itwasnotmystrengththatwantednursing,itwasmyimaginationthatwantedsoothing.IkeptthebundleofpapersgivenmebyKurtz,notknowingexactlywhattodowithit.Hismother haddied lately,watchedover, as Iwas told, byhis Intended.A clean-shavedman,withanofficialmannerandwearinggold-rimmedspectacles,calledonme one day and made inquiries, at first circuitous, afterwards suavely pressing,aboutwhathewaspleased todenominatecertain 'documents.' Iwasnot surprised,becauseIhadhadtworowswiththemanageronthesubjectoutthere.Ihadrefusedtogiveupthesmallestscrapoutofthatpackage,andI tookthesameattitudewiththespectacledman.Hebecamedarklymenacingatlast,andwithmuchheatarguedthat 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 beennecessarily extensive and peculiar—owing to his great abilities and to thedeplorable circumstances inwhich he had been placed: therefore'—I assured himMr. Kurtz's knowledge, however extensive, did not bear upon the problems ofcommerceoradministration.Heinvokedthenthenameofscience. 'Itwouldbeanincalculablelossif,'&c.,&c.Iofferedhimthereportonthe'SuppressionofSavageCustoms,' with the postscriptum torn off. He took it up eagerly, but ended bysniffingatitwithanairofcontempt.'Thisisnotwhatwehadarighttoexpect,'heremarked.'Expectnothingelse,'Isaid.'Thereareonlyprivateletters.'Hewithdrewuponsomethreatoflegalproceedings,andIsawhimnomore;butanotherfellow,callinghimselfKurtz'scousin,appearedtwodayslater,andwasanxioustohearallthe details about his dear relative's last moments. Incidentally he gave me tounderstandthatKurtzhadbeenessentiallyagreatmusician.'Therewasthemakingofanimmensesuccess,'saidtheman,whowasanorganist,Ibelieve,withlankgrayhairflowingoveragreasycoat-collar.Ihadnoreasontodoubthisstatement;andtothisdayIamunabletosaywhatwasKurtz'sprofession,whetherheeverhadany—whichwasthegreatestofhistalents.Ihadtakenhimforapainterwhowroteforthepapers, or else for a journalist who could paint—but even the cousin (who tooksnuffduringthe interview)couldnot tellmewhathehadbeen—exactly.Hewasauniversalgenius—onthatpointIagreedwiththeoldchap,whothereuponblewhisnose noisily into a large cotton handkerchief and withdrew in senile agitation,bearing off some family letters andmemorandawithout importance.Ultimately ajournalistanxioustoknowsomethingofthefateofhis 'dearcolleague' turnedup.ThisvisitorinformedmeKurtz'spropersphereoughttohavebeenpolitics'onthepopular side.'He had furry straight eyebrows, bristly hair cropped short, an eye-

glassonabroadribbon,and,becomingexpansive,confessedhisopinionthatKurtzreally couldn't write a bit—'but heavens! how that man could talk! He electrifiedlargemeetings.Hehadfaith—don'tyousee?—hehadthefaith.Hecouldgethimselftobelieveanything—anything.Hewouldhavebeenasplendidleaderofanextremeparty.' 'What party?' I asked. 'Any party,' answered the other. 'He was an—an—extremist.'DidInotthinkso?Iassented.DidIknow,heasked,withasuddenflashofcuriosity, 'what it was that had induced him to go out there?' 'Yes,' said I, andforthwith handed him the famous Report for publication, if he thought fit. Heglancedthroughithurriedly,mumblingallthetime,judged'itwoulddo,'andtookhimselfoffwiththisplunder.

"ThusIwasleftatlastwithaslimpacketoflettersandthegirl'sportrait.Shestruckmeasbeautiful—Imeanshehadabeautifulexpression.Iknowthatthesunlightcanbemade to lie too,yetone felt thatnomanipulationof lightandposecouldhaveconveyedthedelicateshadeoftruthfulnessuponthosefeatures.Sheseemedreadytolistenwithoutmentalreservation,withoutsuspicion,withoutathoughtforherself.Iconcluded I would go and give her back her portrait and those letters myself.Curiosity?Yes;andalsosomeotherfeelingperhaps.AllthathadbeenKurtz'shadpassed out of my hands: his soul, his body, his station, his plans, his ivory, hiscareer.ThereremainedonlyhismemoryandhisIntended—andIwantedtogivethatuptootothepast,inaway,—tosurrenderpersonallyallthatremainedofhimwithme to that oblivion which is the last word of our common fate. I don't defendmyself.Ihadnoclearperceptionofwhat itwasIreallywanted.Perhapsitwasanimpulseofunconsciousloyalty,orthefulfillmentofoneoftheseironicnecessitiesthatlurkinthefactsofhumanexistence.Idon'tknow.Ican'ttell.ButIwent.

"Ithoughthismemorywasliketheothermemoriesofthedeadthataccumulateineveryman'slife,—avagueimpressonthebrainofshadowsthathadfallenonitintheirswiftandfinalpassage;butbeforethehighandponderousdoor,betweenthetallhousesofastreetasstillanddecorousasawell-keptalleyinacemetery,Ihadavisionofhimonthestretcher,openinghismouthvoraciously,asiftodevouralltheearthwithallitsmankind.Helivedthenbeforeme;helivedasmuchashehadeverlived—ashadowinsatiableofsplendidappearances,offrightfulrealities;ashadowdarker than the shadowof thenight, anddrapednobly in the foldsofagorgeouseloquence. The vision seemed to enter the house with me—the stretcher, thephantom-bearers,thewildcrowdofobedientworshipers,thegloomoftheforests,theglitterofthereachbetweenthemurkybends,thebeatofthedrum,regularandmuffled like the beating of a heart—the heart of a conquering darkness. Itwas amoment of triumph for the wilderness, an invading and vengeful rush which, itseemed tome, Iwouldhave tokeepbackalone for the salvationof another soul.And thememory ofwhat 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 brokenphrases came back to me, were heard again in their ominous and terrifyingsimplicity.Irememberedhisabjectpleading,hisabjectthreats,thecolossalscaleofhisviledesires,themeanness,thetorment,thetempestuousanguishofhissoul.AndlateronIseemedtoseehiscollectedlanguidmanner,whenhesaidoneday, 'Thislotofivorynowisreallymine.TheCompanydidnotpayforit.Icollecteditmyselfataverygreatpersonalrisk. Iamafraid theywill try toclaimitas theirs though.H'm. It isadifficultcase.Whatdoyou thinkIought todo—resist?Eh?Iwantnomorethanjustice.'...Hewantednomorethanjustice—nomorethanjustice.Irangthebellbeforeamahoganydooronthefirstfloor,andwhileIwaitedheseemedtostare at me out of the glassy panel—stare with that wide and immense stareembracing,condemning, loathingall theuniverse. I seemed tohear thewhisperedcry,'Thehorror!Thehorror!'

"The dusk was falling. I had to wait in a lofty drawing-room with three longwindowsfromfloortoceilingthatwerelikethreeluminousandbedrapedcolumns.The bent gilt legs and backs of the furniture shone in indistinct curves. The tallmarble fireplace had a cold and monumental whiteness. A grand piano stoodmassively in a corner, with dark gleams on the flat surfaces like a somber andpolishedsarcophagus.Ahighdooropened—closed.Irose.

"Shecameforward,allinblack,withapalehead,floatingtowardsmeinthedusk.Shewasinmourning.Itwasmorethanayearsincehisdeath,morethanayearsincethenewscame;sheseemedasthoughshewouldrememberandmournforever.Shetookbothmyhandsinhersandmurmured,'Ihadheardyouwerecoming.'Inoticedshewasnotveryyoung—Imeannotgirlish.Shehadamaturecapacityforfidelity,forbelief,forsuffering.Theroomseemedtohavegrowndarker,asifall thesadlight of the cloudy evening had taken refuge on her forehead.This fair hair, thispale visage, this pure brow, seemed surrounded by an ashy halo fromwhich thedark eyes lookedout atme.Their glancewas guileless, profound, confident, andtrustful.Shecarriedhersorrowfulheadasthoughshewereproudofthatsorrow,asthoughshewouldsay,'I—Ialoneknowhowtomournforhimashedeserves.'Butwhilewewerestillshakinghands,suchalookofawfuldesolationcameuponherface that I perceived shewasoneof those creatures that arenot theplaythingsofTime. For her he had died only yesterday. And, by Jove! the impression was sopowerful that forme too he seemed to have died only yesterday—nay, this veryminute.Isawherandhiminthesameinstantoftime—hisdeathandhersorrow—Isawher sorrow in theverymomentofhisdeath.Doyouunderstand? I saw themtogether—I heard them together. She had said,with a deep catch of the breath, 'Ihavesurvived;'whilemystrainedearsseemedtoheardistinctly,mingledwithhertoneofdespairing regret, the summing-upwhisperofhis eternal condemnation. I

askedmyselfwhatIwasdoingthere,withasensationofpanicinmyheartasthoughIhadblunderedintoaplaceofcruelandabsurdmysteriesnotfitforahumanbeingtobehold.Shemotionedmetoachair.Wesatdown.Ilaidthepacketgentlyonthelittle table, and sheputherhandover it. . . . 'Youknewhimwell,' shemurmured,afteramomentofmourningsilence.

"'Intimacygrowsquickoutthere,'Isaid.'Iknewhimaswellasitispossibleforonemantoknowanother.'

"'Andyouadmiredhim,'shesaid.'Itwasimpossibletoknowhimandnottoadmirehim.Wasit?'

"'Hewasaremarkableman,'Isaid,unsteadily.Thenbeforetheappealingfixityofher gaze, that seemed to watch for more words on my lips, I went on, 'It wasimpossiblenotto—'

"'Love him,' she finished eagerly, silencingme into an appalled dumbness. 'Howtrue!howtrue!ButwhenyouthinkthatnooneknewhimsowellasI!Ihadallhisnobleconfidence.Iknewhimbest.'

"'Youknewhimbest,'Irepeated.Andperhapsshedid.Butwitheverywordspokentheroomwasgrowingdarker,andonlyherforehead,smoothandwhite,remainedilluminedbytheunextinguishablelightofbeliefandlove.

"'Youwerehis friend,' shewenton. 'His friend,' she repeated, a little louder. 'Youmusthavebeen, ifhehadgivenyouthis,andsentyoutome.IfeelIcanspeaktoyou—and oh! Imust speak. I want you—youwho have heard his last words—toknowIhavebeenworthyofhim....Itisnotpride....Yes!IamproudtoknowIunderstoodhimbetterthananyoneonearth—hetoldmesohimself.AndsincehismotherdiedIhavehadnoone—noone—to—to—'

"Ilistened.Thedarknessdeepened.Iwasnotevensurewhetherhehadgivenmetheright bundle. I rather suspect he wanted me to take care of another batch of hispaperswhich,afterhisdeath,Isawthemanagerexaminingunderthelamp.Andthegirl talked, easing her pain in the certitude ofmy sympathy; she talked as thirstymendrink.IhadheardthatherengagementwithKurtzhadbeendisapprovedbyherpeople.Hewasn't richenoughor something.And indeed Idon'tknowwhetherhehadnotbeenapauperallhislife.Hehadgivenmesomereasontoinferthatitwashisimpatienceofcomparativepovertythatdrovehimoutthere.

"'. . .Whowasnothisfriendwhohadheardhimspeakonce?'shewassaying. 'Hedrewmentowardshimbywhatwasbestinthem.'Shelookedatmewithintensity.'It

isthegiftofthegreat,'shewenton,andthesoundofherlowvoiceseemedtohavetheaccompanimentofalltheothersounds,fullofmystery,desolation,andsorrow,Ihad ever heard—the ripple of the river, the soughing of the trees swayed by thewind,themurmursofwildcrowds,thefaintringofincomprehensiblewordscriedfromafar,thewhisperofavoicespeakingfrombeyondthethresholdofaneternaldarkness.'Butyouhaveheardhim!Youknow!'shecried.

"'Yes,Iknow,'Isaidwithsomethinglikedespairinmyheart,butbowingmyheadbeforethefaiththatwasinher,beforethatgreatandsavingillusionthatshonewithanunearthlyglow in thedarkness, in the triumphantdarkness fromwhich Icouldnothavedefendedher—fromwhichIcouldnotevendefendmyself.

"'Whatalosstome—tous!'—shecorrectedherselfwithbeautifulgenerosity; thenadded in amurmur, 'To theworld.'By the last gleams of twilight I could see theglitterofhereyes,fulloftears—oftearsthatwouldnotfall.

"'Ihavebeenveryhappy—veryfortunate—veryproud,'shewenton.'Toofortunate.Toohappyforalittlewhile.AndnowIamunhappyfor—forlife.'

"Shestoodup;herfairhairseemedtocatchalltheremaininglightinaglimmerofgold.Irosetoo.

"'And of all this,' she went on, mournfully, 'of all his promise, and of all hisgreatness,ofhisgenerousmind,ofhisnobleheart,nothingremains—nothingbutamemory.YouandI—'

"'Weshallalwaysrememberhim,'Isaid,hastily.

"'No!'shecried.'Itisimpossiblethatallthisshouldbelost—thatsuchalifeshouldbesacrificedtoleavenothing—butsorrow.Youknowwhatvastplanshehad.Iknewofthemtoo—Icouldnotperhapsunderstand,—butothersknewofthem.Somethingmustremain.Hiswords,atleast,havenotdied.'

"'Hiswordswillremain,'Isaid.

"'Andhisexample,'shewhisperedtoherself.'Menlookeduptohim,—hisgoodnessshoneineveryact.Hisexample—'

"'True,'Isaid;'hisexampletoo.Yes,hisexample.Iforgotthat.'

"'ButIdonot.Icannot—Icannotbelieve—notyet.IcannotbelievethatIshallneverseehimagain,thatnobodywillseehimagain,never,never,never.'

"Sheputoutherarmsasifafteraretreatingfigure,stretchingthemblackandwithclasped pale hands across the fading and narrow sheen of thewindow.Never seehim!Isawhimclearlyenoughthen.Ishallsee thiseloquentphantomas longasIlive,andIshallseehertoo,atragicandfamiliarShade,resemblinginthisgestureanother one, tragic also, and bedecked with powerless charms, stretching barebrownarmsovertheglitteroftheinfernalstream,thestreamofdarkness.Shesaidsuddenlyverylow,'Hediedashelived.'

"'His end,' said I,withdull anger stirring inme, 'was in everywayworthyofhislife.'

"'And Iwasnotwithhim,' shemurmured.Myanger subsidedbefore a feelingofinfinitepity.

"'Everythingthatcouldbedone—'Imumbled.

"'Ah,butIbelievedinhimmorethananyoneonearth—morethanhisownmother,morethan—himself.Heneededme!Me!Iwouldhavetreasuredeverysigh,everyword,everysign,everyglance.'

"Ifeltlikeachillgriponmychest.'Don't,'Isaid,inamuffledvoice.

"'Forgiveme.I—I—havemournedsolonginsilence—insilence....Youwerewithhim—to the last? I think of his loneliness. Nobody near to understand him as Iwouldhaveunderstood.Perhapsnoonetohear....'

"'Totheveryend,'Isaid,shakily.'Iheardhisverylastwords....'Istoppedinafright.

"'Repeat them,' she said in a heart-broken tone. 'I want—I want—something—something—to—tolivewith.'

"Iwasonthepointofcryingather,'Don'tyouhearthem?'Theduskwasrepeatingthem in a persistent whisper all around us, in a whisper that seemed to swellmenacinglylikethefirstwhisperofarisingwind.'Thehorror!Thehorror!'

"'Hislastword—tolivewith,'shemurmured.'Don'tyouunderstandIlovedhim—Ilovedhim—Ilovedhim!'

"Ipulledmyselftogetherandspokeslowly.

"'Thelastwordhepronouncedwas—yourname.'

"Iheardalightsigh,andthenmyheartstoodstill,stoppeddeadshortbyanexultingand terrible cry, by the cry of inconceivable triumph and of unspeakable pain. 'Iknew it—Iwas sure!' . . . She knew. Shewas sure. I heard herweeping; she hadhiddenherfaceinherhands.ItseemedtomethatthehousewouldcollapsebeforeIcouldescape,thattheheavenswouldfalluponmyhead.Butnothinghappened.Theheavens do not fall for such a trifle.Would they have fallen, I wonder, if I hadrenderedKurtzthatjusticewhichwashisdue?Hadn'thesaidhewantedonlyjustice?ButIcouldn't.Icouldnottellher.Itwouldhavebeentoodark—toodarkaltogether...."

Marlow ceased, and sat apart, indistinct and silent, in the pose of a meditatingBuddha. Nobody moved for a time. "We have lost the first of the ebb," said theDirector, suddenly. I raised my head. The offing was barred by a black bank ofclouds,andthetranquilwaterwayleadingtotheuttermostendsoftheearthflowedsomber under an overcast sky—seemed to lead into the heart of an immensedarkness.

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