Read & Download Heart of darkness By Joseph Conrad pdf, Epub, Kindle

Read & Download Heart of darkness By Joseph Conrad pdf, Epub, Kindle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Do you understand this?’ I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘The horror! The horror!’

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

“‘Mistah Kurtz–he dead.’

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

“And then they very nearly buried me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘His words will remain,’ I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I pulled myself together and spoke slowly.

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

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

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

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