"One evening as I was lying flat on the deck of my
steamboat, I heard voices approaching — and there were
the nephew and the uncle strolling along the bank. I
laid my head on my arm again, and had nearly lost myself
in a doze, when somebody said in my ear, as it
were: 'I am as harmless as a little child, but I don't like
to be dictated to. Am I the manager — or am I not? I
was ordered to send him there. It's incredible.' . . . I
became aware that the two were standing on the shore
alongside the forepart of the steamboat, just below my
head. I did not move; it did not occur to me to move: I
was sleepy. 'It IS unpleasant,' grunted the uncle. 'He has
asked the Administration to be sent there,' said the other,
'with the idea of showing what he could do; and I was
instructed accordingly. Look at the influence that man
must have. Is it not frightful?' They both agreed it was
frightful, then made several bizarre remarks: 'Make rain
and fine weather — one man — the Council — by the nose'
— bits of absurd sentences that got the better of my
drowsiness, so that I had pretty near the whole of my
wits about me when the uncle said, 'The climate may do
away with this difficulty for you. Is he alone there?'
'Yes,' answered the manager; 'he sent his assistant down
the river with a note to me in these terms: "Clear this
poor devil out of the country, and don't bother sending
more of that sort. I had rather be alone than have the
kind of men you can dispose of with me." It was more
than a year ago. Can you imagine such impudence!' 'Anything
since then?' asked the other hoarsely. 'Ivory,' jerked
the nephew; 'lots of it — prime sort — lots — most annoying,
from him.' 'And with that?' questioned the heavy
rumble. 'Invoice,' was the reply fired out, so to speak.
Then silence. They had been talking about Kurtz.
"I was broad awake by this time, but, lying perfectly at
ease, remained still, having no inducement to change my
position. 'How did that ivory come all this way?' growled
the elder man, who seemed very vexed. The other explained
that it had come with a fleet of canoes in charge
of an English half-caste clerk Kurtz had with him; that
Kurtz had apparently intended to return himself, the station
being by that time bare of goods and stores, but
after coming three hundred miles, had suddenly decided
to go back, which he started to do alone in a small dugout
with four paddlers, leaving the half-caste to continue
down the river with the ivory. The two fellows there
seemed astounded at anybody attempting such a thing.
They were at a loss for an adequate motive. As to me, I
seemed to see Kurtz for the first time. It was a distinct
glimpse: the dugout, four paddling savages, and the lone
white man turning his back suddenly on the headquarters,
on relief, on thoughts of home — perhaps; setting his face
towards the depths of the wilderness, towards his empty
and desolate station. I did not know the motive. Perhaps
he was just simply a fine fellow who stuck to his work
for its own sake. His name, you understand, had not been
pronounced once. He was 'that man.' The half-caste, who,
as far as I could see, had conducted a difficult trip with
great prudence and pluck, was invariably alluded to as
'that scoundrel.' The 'scoundrel' had reported that the
'man' had been very ill — had recovered imperfectly. . . .
The two below me moved away then a few paces, and
strolled back and forth at some little distance. I heard:
'Military post — doctor — two hundred miles — quite alone
now — unavoidable delays — nine months — no news —
strange rumours.' They approached again, just as the
manager was saying, 'No one, as far as I know, unless a
species of wandering trader — a pestilential fellow, snapping
ivory from the natives.' Who was it they were talking
about now? I gathered in snatches that this was some
man supposed to be in Kurtz's district, and of whom the
manager did not approve. 'We will not be free from unfair
competition till one of these fellows is hanged for an
example,' he said. 'Certainly,' grunted the other; 'get him
hanged! Why not? Anything — anything can be done in
this country. That's what I say; nobody here, you understand,
HERE, can endanger your position. And why? You
stand the climate — you outlast them all. The danger is in
Europe; but there before I left I took care to — ' They
moved off and whispered, then their voices rose again.
'The extraordinary series of delays is not my fault. I did
my best.' The fat man sighed. 'Very sad.' 'And the
pestiferous absurdity of his talk,' continued the other; 'he
bothered me enough when he was here. "Each station
should be like a beacon on the road towards better
things, a centre for trade of course, but also for
humanizing, improving, instructing." Conceive you — that ass!
And he wants to be manager! No, it's — ' Here he got
choked by excessive indignation, and I lifted my head
the least bit. I was surprised to see how near they were —
right under me. I could have spat upon their hats. They
were looking on the ground, absorbed in thought. The
manager was switching his leg with a slender twig: his
sagacious relative lifted his head. 'You have been well
since you came out this time?' he asked. The other gave a
start. 'Who? I? Oh! Like a charm — like a charm. But
the rest — oh, my goodness! All sick. They die so quick,
too, that I haven't the time to send them out of the
country — it's incredible!' 'Hm'm. Just so,' grunted the
uncle. 'Ah! my boy, trust to this — I say, trust to this.' I
saw him extend his short flipper of an arm for a gesture
that took in the forest, the creek, the mud, the river —
seemed to beckon with a dishonouring flourish before the
sunlit face of the land a treacherous appeal to the lurking
death, to the hidden evil, to the profound darkness of its
heart. It was so startling that I leaped to my feet and
looked back at the edge of the forest, as though I had
expected an answer of some sort to that black display of
confidence. You know the foolish notions that come to
one sometimes. The high stillness confronted these two
figures with its ominous patience, waiting for the passing
away of a fantastic invasion.
"They swore aloud together — out of sheer fright, I
believe — then pretending not to know anything of my
existence, turned back to the station. The sun was low; and
leaning forward side by side, they seemed to be tugging
painfully uphill their two ridiculous shadows of unequal
length, that trailed behind them slowly over the tall grass
without bending a single blade.
"In a few days the Eldorado Expedition went into the
patient wilderness, that closed upon it as the sea closes
over a diver. Long afterwards the news came that all
the donkeys were dead. I know nothing as to the fate
of the less valuable animals. They, no doubt, like the
rest of us, found what they deserved. I did not inquire. I
was then rather excited at the prospect of meeting Kurtz
very soon. When I say very soon I mean it comparatively.
It was just two months from the day we left the creek
when we came to the bank below Kurtz's station.
"Going up that river was like traveling back to the
earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted
on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty
stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air
was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in
the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches of the water-
way ran on, deserted, into the gloom of over-shadowed
distances. On silvery sand-banks hippos and alligators
sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters
flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your
way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted
all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till
you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from
everything you had known once — somewhere — far away
— in another existence perhaps. There were moments
when one's past came back to one, as it will sometimes
when you have not a moment to spare for yourself; but it
came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered
with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of
this strange world of plants, and water, and
silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least
resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable
force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at
you with a vengeful aspect. I got used to it afterwards; I
did not see it any more; I had no time. I had to keep
guessing at the channel; I had to discern, mostly by
inspiration, the signs of hidden banks; I watched for sunken
stones; I was learning to clap my teeth smartly before
my heart flew out, when I shaved by a fluke some infernal
sly old snag that would have ripped the life out
of the tin-pot steamboat and drowned all the pilgrims; I
had to keep a lookout for the signs of dead wood we could
cut up in the night for next day's steaming. When
you have to attend to things of that sort, to the mere
incidents of the surface, the reality — the reality, I tell you
— fades. The inner truth is hidden — luckily, luckily. But
I felt it all the same; I felt often its mysterious stillness
watching me at my monkey tricks, just as it watches you
fellows performing on your respective tight-ropes for
— what is it? half-a-crown a tumble — "
"Try to be civil, Marlow," growled a voice, and I knew
there was at least one listener awake besides myself.
"I beg your pardon. I forgot the heartache which makes
up the rest of the price. And indeed what does the price
matter, if the trick be well done? You do your tricks
very well. And I didn't do badly either, since I managed
not to sink that steamboat on my first trip. It's a wonder
to me yet. Imagine a blindfolded man set to drive a van
over a bad road. I sweated and shivered over that business
considerably, I can tell you. After all, for a seaman,
to scrape the bottom of the thing that's supposed
to float all the time under his care is the unpardonable
sin. No one may know of it, but you never forget the
thump — eh? A blow on the very heart. You remember it,
you dream of it, you wake up at night and think of it
— years after — and go hot and cold all over. I don't
pretend to say that steamboat floated all the time. More
than once she had to wade for a bit, with twenty cannibals
splashing around and pushing. We had enlisted some
of these chaps on the way for a crew. Fine fellows —
cannibals — in their place. They were men one could
work with, and I am grateful to them. And, after all, they
did not eat each other before my face: they had brought
along a provision of hippo-meat which went rotten, and
made the mystery of the wilderness stink in my nostrils.
Phoo! I can sniff it now. I had the manager on board
and three or four pilgrims with their staves — all
complete. Sometimes we came upon a station close by the
bank, clinging to the skirts of the unknown, and the white
men rushing out of a tumble-down hovel, with great
gestures of joy and surprise and welcome, seemed very
strange — had the appearance of being held there captive
by a spell. The word ivory would ring in the air for a
while — and on we went again into the silence, along
empty reaches, round the still bends, between the high
walls of our winding way, reverberating in hollow claps
the ponderous beat of the stern-wheel. Trees, trees,
millions of trees, massive, immense, running up high; and
at their foot, hugging the bank against the stream, crept
the little begrimed steamboat, like a sluggish beetle
crawling on the floor of a lofty portico. It made you feel
very small, very lost, and yet it was not altogether
depressing,
that feeling. After all, if you were small, the grimy
beetle crawled on — which was just what you wanted it
to do. Where the pilgrims imagined it crawled to I don't
know. To some place where they expected to get something.
I bet! For me it crawled towards Kurtz — exclusively;
but when the steam-pipes started leaking we
crawled very slow. The reaches opened before us and
closed behind, as if the forest had stepped leisurely
across the water to bar the way for our return. We
penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness.
It was very quiet there. At night sometimes the roll of
drums behind the curtain of trees would run up the river
and remain sustained faintly, as if hovering in the air
high over our heads, till the first break of day. Whether
it meant war, peace, or prayer we could not tell. The
dawns were heralded by the descent of a chill stillness;
the wood-cutters slept, their fires burned low; the snapping
of a twig would make you start. We were wanderers
on a prehistoric earth, on an earth that wore the aspect
of an unknown planet. We could have fancied ourselves
the first of men taking possession of an accursed inheritance,
to be subdued at the cost of profound anguish and
of excessive toil. But suddenly, as we struggled round
a bend, there would be a glimpse of rush walls, of peaked
grass-roofs, a burst of yells, a whirl of black limbs, a
mass of hands clapping, of feet stamping, of bodies swaying,
of eyes rolling, under the droop of heavy and motionless
foliage. The steamer toiled along slowly on the
edge of a black and incomprehensible frenzy. The pre-historic man was cursing us, praying to us, welcoming us
— who could tell? We were cut off from the comprehension
of our surroundings; we glided past like phantoms,
wondering and secretly appalled, as sane men would
be before an enthusiastic outbreak in a madhouse. We
could not understand because we were too far and could
not remember because we were travelling in the night
of first ages, of those ages that are gone, leaving hardly
a sign — and no memories.
"The earth seemed unearthly. We are accustomed to
look upon the shackled form of a conquered monster,
but there — there you could look at a thing monstrous
and free. It was unearthly, and the men were — No,
they were not inhuman. Well, you know, that was the
worst of it — this suspicion of their not being inhuman.
It would come slowly to one. They howled and leaped,
and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was
just the thought of their humanity — like yours — the
thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate
uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough; but if you
were man enough you would admit to yourself that there
was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the
terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there
being a meaning in it which you — you so remote from the
night of first ages — could comprehend. And why not? The
mind of man is capable of anything — because everything
is in it, all the past as well as all the future. What
was there after all? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valour,
rage — who can tell? — but truth — truth stripped of its
cloak of time. Let the fool gape and shudder — the man
knows, and can look on without a wink. But he must at
least be as much of a man as these on the shore. He must
meet that truth with his own true stuff — with his own in-born strength. Principles won't do. Acquisitions, clothes,
pretty rags — rags that would fly off at the first good
shake. No; you want a deliberate belief. An appeal to me
in this fiendish row — is there? Very well; I hear; I
admit, but I have a voice, too, and for good or evil mine
is the speech that cannot be silenced. Of course, a fool,
what with sheer fright and fine sentiments, is always safe.
Who's that grunting? You wonder I didn't go ashore for
a howl and a dance? Well, no — I didn't. Fine sentiments,
you say? Fine sentiments, be hanged! I had no time. I
had to mess about with white-lead and strips of woolen
blanket helping to put bandages on those leaky steam-pipes — I tell you. I had to watch the steering, and
circumvent those snags, and get the tin-pot along by hook or
by crook. There was surface-truth enough in these things
to save a wiser man. And between whiles I had to look
after the savage who was fireman. He was an improved
specimen; he could fire up a vertical boiler. He was
there below me, and, upon my word, to look at him was
as edifying as seeing a dog in a parody of breeches and a
feather hat, walking on his hind-legs. A few months of
training had done for that really fine chap. He squinted
at the steam-gauge and at the water-gauge with an
evident effort of intrepidity — and he had filed teeth, too,
the poor devil, and the wool of his pate shaved into queer
patterns, and three ornamental scars on each of his cheeks.
He ought to have been clapping his hands and stamping
his feet on the bank, instead of which he was hard at
work, a thrall to strange witchcraft, full of improving
knowledge. He was useful because he had been
instructed; and what he knew was this — that should the
water in that transparent thing disappear, the evil spirit
inside the boiler would get angry through the greatness of
his thirst, and take a terrible vengeance. So he sweated
and fired up and watched the glass fearfully (with an
impromptu charm, made of rags, tied to his arm, and a
piece of polished bone, as big as a watch, stuck flatways
through his lower lip), while the wooded banks slipped
past us slowly, the short noise was left behind, the
interminable miles of silence — and we crept on, towards
Kurtz. But the snags were thick, the water was treacherous
and shallow, the boiler seemed indeed to have a sulky
devil in it, and thus neither that fireman nor I had any
time to peer into our creepy thoughts.
"Some fifty miles below the Inner Station we came
upon a hut of reeds, an inclined and melancholy pole,
with the unrecognizable tatters of what had been a flag
of some sort flying from it, and a neatly stacked wood-pile. This was unexpected. We came to the bank, and on
the stack of firewood found a flat piece of board with
some faded pencil-writing on it. When deciphered it said:
'Wood for you. Hurry up. Approach cautiously.' There
was a signature, but it was illegible — not Kurtz — a much
longer word. 'Hurry up.' Where? Up the river? 'Approach
cautiously.' We had not done so. But the warning could
not have been meant for the place where it could be only
found after approach. Something was wrong above. But
what — and how much? That was the question. We commented
adversely upon the imbecility of that telegraphic
style. The bush around said nothing, and would not let
us look very far, either. A torn curtain of red twill hung in
the doorway of the hut, and flapped sadly in our faces. The
dwelling was dismantled; but we could see a white man
had lived there not very long ago. There remained a
rude table — a plank on two posts; a heap of rubbish reposed
in a dark corner, and by the door I picked up a
book. It had lost its covers, and the pages had been
thumbed into a state of extremely dirty softness; but the
back had been lovingly stitched afresh with white cotton
thread, which looked clean yet. It was an extraordinary
find. Its title was, AN INQUIRY INTO SOME POINTS OF
SEAMANSHIP, by a man Towser, Towson — some such name —
Master in his Majesty's Navy. The matter looked dreary
reading enough, with illustrative diagrams and repulsive
tables of figures, and the copy was sixty years old. I
handled this amazing antiquity with the greatest possible
tenderness, lest it should dissolve in my hands. Within,
Towson or Towser was inquiring earnestly into the breaking
strain of ships' chains and tackle, and other such
matters. Not a very enthralling book; but at the first
glance you could see there a singleness of intention, an
honest concern for the right way of going to work, which
made these humble pages, thought out so many years
ago, luminous with another than a professional light. The
simple old sailor, with his talk of chains and purchases,
made me forget the jungle and the pilgrims in a delicious
sensation of having come upon something unmistakably
real. Such a book being there was wonderful
enough; but still more astounding were the notes pencilled
in the margin, and plainly referring to the text. I
couldn't believe my eyes! They were in cipher! Yes, it
looked like cipher. Fancy a man lugging with him a book
of that description into this nowhere and studying it — and
making notes — in cipher at that! It was an extravagant
mystery.
"I had been dimly aware for some time of a worrying
noise, and when I lifted my eyes I saw the wood-pile was
gone, and the manager, aided by all the pilgrims, was
shouting at me from the riverside. I slipped the book into
my pocket. I assure you to leave off reading was like
tearing myself away from the shelter of an old and solid
friendship.
"I started the lame engine ahead. 'It must be this
miserable trader-this intruder,' exclaimed the manager,
looking back malevolently at the place we had left. 'He must
be English,' I said. 'It will not save him from getting
into trouble if he is not careful,' muttered the manager
darkly. I observed with assumed innocence that no man
was safe from trouble in this world.
"The current was more rapid now, the steamer seemed
at her last gasp, the stern-wheel flopped languidly, and I
caught myself listening on tiptoe for the next beat of the
boat, for in sober truth I expected the wretched thing to
give up every moment. It was like watching the last flickers
of a life. But still we crawled. Sometimes I would pick
out a tree a little way ahead to measure our progress towards
Kurtz by, but I lost it invariably before we got
abreast. To keep the eyes so long on one thing was too
much for human patience. The manager displayed a
beautiful resignation. I fretted and fumed and took to
arguing with myself whether or no I would talk openly
with Kurtz; but before I could come to any conclusion
it occurred to me that my speech or my silence, indeed
any action of mine, would be a mere futility. What did it
matter what any one knew or ignored? What did it matter
who was manager? One gets sometimes such a flash
of insight. The essentials of this affair lay deep under
the surface, beyond my reach, and beyond my power of
meddling.
"Towards the evening of the second day we judged
ourselves about eight miles from Kurtz's station. I wanted
to push on; but the manager looked grave, and told me
the navigation up there was so dangerous that it would
be advisable, the sun being very low already, to wait where
we were till next morning. Moreover, he pointed out that
if the warning to approach cautiously were to be followed,
we must approach in daylight — not at dusk or in the
dark. This was sensible enough. Eight miles meant nearly
three hours' steaming for us, and I could also see suspicious
ripples at the upper end of the reach. Nevertheless, I was
annoyed beyond expression at the delay, and
most unreasonably, too, since one night more could not
matter much after so many months. As we had plenty
of wood, and caution was the word, I brought up in the
middle of the stream. The reach was narrow, straight,
with high sides like a railway cutting. The dusk came
gliding into it long before the sun had set. The current
ran smooth and swift, but a dumb immobility sat on the
banks. The living trees, lashed together by the creepers
and every living bush of the undergrowth, might have
been changed into stone, even to the slenderest twig,
to the lightest leaf. It was not sleep — it seemed unnatural,
like a state of trance. Not the faintest sound of any kind
could be heard. You looked on amazed, and began to
suspect yourself of being deaf — then the night came
suddenly, and struck you blind as well. About three in the
morning some large fish leaped, and the loud splash made
me jump as though a gun had been fired. When the sun
rose there was a white fog, very warm and clammy, and
more blinding than the night. It did not shift or drive;
it was just there, standing all round you like something
solid. At eight or nine, perhaps, it lifted as a shutter
lifts. We had a glimpse of the towering multitude
of trees, of the immense matted jungle, with the blazing
little ball of the sun hanging over it — all perfectly still —
and then the white shutter came down again, smoothly,
as if sliding in greased grooves. I ordered the chain,
which we had begun to heave in, to be paid out again. Before
it stopped running with a muffled rattle, a cry, a very
loud cry, as of infinite desolation, soared slowly in the
opaque air. It ceased. A complaining clamour, modulated
in savage discords, filled our ears. The sheer unexpectedness
of it made my hair stir under my cap. I don't know
how it struck the others: to me it seemed as though the
mist itself had screamed, so suddenly, and apparently
from all sides at once, did this tumultuous and mournful
uproar arise. It culminated in a hurried outbreak of almost
intolerably excessive shrieking, which stopped short,
leaving us stiffened in a variety of silly attitudes, and
obstinately listening to the nearly as appalling and excessive
silence. 'Good God! What is the meaning — ' stammered at my
elbow one of the pilgrims — a little fat man,
with sandy hair and red whiskers, who wore sidespring
boots, and pink pyjamas tucked into his socks. Two
others remained open-mouthed a while minute, then
dashed into the little cabin, to rush out incontinently and
stand darting scared glances, with Winchesters at 'ready'
in their hands. What we could see was just the steamer
we were on, her outlines blurred as though she had been
on the point of dissolving, and a misty strip of water,
perhaps two feet broad, around her — and that was all.
The rest of the world was nowhere, as far as our eyes
and ears were concerned. Just nowhere. Gone, disappeared;
swept off without leaving a whisper or a shadow
behind.
"I went forward, and ordered the chain to be hauled
in short, so as to be ready to trip the anchor and move
the steamboat at once if necessary. 'Will they attack?'
whispered an awed voice. 'We will be all butchered in this
fog,' murmured another. The faces twitched with the
strain, the hands trembled slightly, the eyes forgot to
wink. It was very curious to see the contrast of expressions
of the white men and of the black fellows of our
crew, who were as much strangers to that part of the
river as we, though their homes were only eight hundred
miles away. The whites, of course greatly discomposed,
had besides a curious look of being painfully shocked by
such an outrageous row. The others had an alert, naturally
interested expression; but their faces were essentially
quiet, even those of the one or two who grinned as
they hauled at the chain. Several exchanged short,
grunting phrases, which seemed to settle the matter to their
satisfaction. Their headman, a young, broad-chested
black, severely draped in dark-blue fringed cloths, with
fierce nostrils and his hair all done up artfully in oily
ringlets, stood near me. 'Aha!' I said, just for good
fellowship's sake. 'Catch 'im,' he snapped, with a bloodshot
widening of his eyes and a flash of sharp teeth — 'catch
'im. Give 'im to us.' 'To you, eh?' I asked; 'what would
you do with them?' 'Eat 'im!' he said curtly, and, leaning
his elbow on the rail, looked out into the fog in a dignified
and profoundly pensive attitude. I would no doubt
have been properly horrified, had it not occurred to me
that he and his chaps must be very hungry: that they
must have been growing increasingly hungry for at least
this month past. They had been engaged for six months
(I don't think a single one of them had any clear idea of
time, as we at the end of countless ages have. They still
belonged to the beginnings of time — had no inherited experience
to teach them as it were), and of course, as long
as there was a piece of paper written over in accordance
with some farcical law or other made down the river, it
didn't enter anybody's head to trouble how they would
live. Certainly they had brought with them some rotten
hippo-meat, which couldn't have lasted very long, anyway,
even if the pilgrims hadn't, in the midst of a shocking
hullabaloo, thrown a considerable quantity of it over-board. It looked like a high-handed proceeding; but it
was really a case of legitimate self-defence. You can't
breathe dead hippo waking, sleeping, and eating, and at
the same time keep your precarious grip on existence.
Besides that, they had given them every week three
pieces of brass wire, each about nine inches long; and the
theory was they were to buy their provisions with that
currency in riverside villages. You can see how THAT
worked. There were either no villages, or the people were
hostile, or the director, who like the rest of us fed out of
tins, with an occasional old he-goat thrown in, didn't want
to stop the steamer for some more or less recondite reason.
So, unless they swallowed the wire itself, or made
loops of it to snare the fishes with, I don't see what good
their extravagant salary could be to them. I must say it
was paid with a regularity worthy of a large and honourable
trading company. For the rest, the only thing to
eat — though it didn't look eatable in the least — I saw in
their possession was a few lumps of some stuff like half-cooked dough, of a dirty lavender colour, they kept
wrapped in leaves, and now and then swallowed a piece
of, but so small that it seemed done more for the looks
of the thing than for any serious purpose of sustenance.
Why in the name of all the gnawing devils of hunger
they didn't go for us — they were thirty to five — and have
a good tuck-in for once, amazes me now when I think of
it. They were big powerful men, with not much capacity
to weigh the consequences, with courage, with strength,
even yet, though their skins were no longer glossy and
their muscles no longer hard. And I saw that something
restraining, one of those human secrets that baffle
probability, had come into play there. I looked at them with
a swift quickening of interest — not because it occurred to
me I might be eaten by them before very long, though I
own to you that just then I perceived — in a new light, as
it were — how unwholesome the pilgrims looked, and I
hoped, yes, I positively hoped, that my aspect was not
so — what shall I say? — so — unappetizing: a touch of fantastic
vanity which fitted well with the dream-sensation
that pervaded all my days at that time. Perhaps I had a
little fever, too. One can't live with one's finger
everlastingly on one's pulse. I had often 'a little fever,' or
a little touch of other things — the playful paw-strokes of the
wilderness, the preliminary trifling before the more serious
onslaught which came in due course. Yes; I looked
at them as you would on any human being, with a curiosity
of their impulses, motives, capacities, weaknesses,
when brought to the test of an inexorable physical necessity.
Restraint! What possible restraint? Was it superstition,
disgust, patience, fear — or some kind of primitive
honour? No fear can stand up to hunger, no patience can
wear it out, disgust simply does not exist where hunger
is; and as to superstition, beliefs, and what you may call
principles, they are less than chaff in a breeze. Don't you
know the devilry of lingering starvation, its exasperating
torment, its black thoughts, its sombre and brooding ferocity?
Well, I do. It takes a man all his inborn strength
to fight hunger properly. It's really easier to face
bereavement, dishonour, and the perdition of one's soul —
than this kind of prolonged hunger. Sad, but true. And
these chaps, too, had no earthly reason for any kind of
scruple. Restraint! I would just as soon have expected
restraint from a hyena prowling amongst the corpses of a
battlefield. But there was the fact facing me — the fact
dazzling, to be seen, like the foam on the depths of the
sea, like a ripple on an unfathomable enigma, a mystery
greater — when I thought of it — than the curious,
inexplicable note of desperate grief in this savage clamour
that had swept by us on the river-bank, behind the blind
whiteness of the fog.
"Two pilgrims were quarrelling in hurried whispers as
to which bank. 'Left.' "no, no; how can you? Right, right,
of course.' 'It is very serious,' said the manager's voice
behind me; 'I would be desolated if anything should happen
to Mr. Kurtz before we came up.' I looked at him,
and had not the slightest doubt he was sincere. He was
just the kind of man who would wish to preserve appearances.
That was his restraint. But when he muttered
something about going on at once, I did not even take
the trouble to answer him. I knew, and he knew, that it
was impossible. Were we to let go our hold of the bottom,
we would be absolutely in the air — in space. We
wouldn't be able to tell where we were going to — whether
up or down stream, or across — till we fetched against
one bank or the other — and then we wouldn't know at
first which it was. Of course I made no move. I had no
mind for a smash-up. You couldn't imagine a more deadly
place for a shipwreck. Whether we drowned at once or not,
we were sure to perish speedily in one way or another. 'I
authorize you to take all the risks,' he said, after a short
silence. 'I refuse to take any,' I said shortly; which was
just the answer he expected, though its tone might have
surprised him. 'Well, I must defer to your judgment. You
are captain,' he said with marked civility. I turned my
shoulder to him in sign of my appreciation, and looked
into the fog. How long would it last? It was the most
hopeless lookout. The approach to this Kurtz grubbing
for ivory in the wretched bush was beset by as many dangers
as though he had been an enchanted princess sleeping in a
fabulous castle. 'Will they attack, do you think?'
asked the manager, in a confidential tone.
"I did not think they would attack, for several obvious
reasons. The thick fog was one. If they left the bank in
their canoes they would get lost in it, as we would be if
we attempted to move. Still, I had also judged the jungle
of both banks quite impenetrable — and yet eyes were in
it, eyes that had seen us. The riverside bushes were
certainly very thick; but the undergrowth behind was
evidently penetrable. However, during the short lift I had
seen no canoes anywhere in the reach — certainly not
abreast of the steamer. But what made the idea of attack
inconceivable to me was the nature of the noise —
of the cries we had heard. They had not the fierce
character boding immediate hostile intention. Unexpected,
wild, and violent as they had been, they had given me an
irresistible impression of sorrow. The glimpse of the
steamboat had for some reason filled those savages with
unrestrained grief. The danger, if any, I expounded, was
from our proximity to a great human passion let loose.
Even extreme grief may ultimately vent itself in violence
— but more generally takes the form of apathy. . . .
"You should have seen the pilgrims stare! They had
no heart to grin, or even to revile me: but I believe they
thought me gone mad — with fright, maybe. I delivered a
regular lecture. My dear boys, it was no good bothering.
Keep a lookout? Well, you may guess I watched the fog
for the signs of lifting as a cat watches a mouse; but for
anything else our eyes were of no more use to us than if
we had been buried miles deep in a heap of cotton-wool.
It felt like it, too — choking, warm, stifling. Besides, all
I said, though it sounded extravagant, was absolutely true
to fact. What we afterwards alluded to as an attack was
really an attempt at repulse. The action was very far
from being aggressive — it was not even defensive, in the
usual sense: it was undertaken under the stress of
desperation, and in its essence was purely protective.
"It developed itself, I should say, two hours after the
fog lifted, and its commencement was at a spot, roughly
speaking, about a mile and a half below Kurtz's station.
We had just floundered and flopped round a bend, when
I saw an islet, a mere grassy hummock of bright green,
in the middle of the stream. It was the only thing of the
kind; but as we opened the reach more, I perceived it
was the head of a long sand-bank, or rather of a chain of
shallow patches stretching down the middle of the river.
They were discoloured, just awash, and the whole lot was
seen just under the water, exactly as a man's backbone
is seen running down the middle of his back under the
skin. Now, as far as I did see, I could go to the right or to
the left of this. I didn't know either channel, of course.
The banks looked pretty well alike, the depth appeared
the same; but as I had been informed the station was on
the west side, I naturally headed for the western passage.
"No sooner had we fairly entered it than I became
aware it was much narrower than I had supposed. To
the left of us there was the long uninterrupted shoal, and
to the right a high, steep bank heavily overgrown with
bushes. Above the bush the trees stood in serried ranks.
The twigs overhung the current thickly, and from distance
to distance a large limb of some tree projected rigidly
over the stream. It was then well on in the afternoon,
the face of the forest was gloomy, and a broad strip of
shadow had already fallen on the water. In this shadow
we steamed up — very slowly, as you may imagine. I
sheered her well inshore — the water being deepest near
the bank, as the sounding-pole informed me.
"One of my hungry and forbearing friends was sounding
in the bows just below me. This steamboat was
exactly like a decked scow. On the deck, there were two
little teakwood houses, with doors and windows. The
boiler was in the fore-end, and the machinery right astern.
Over the whole there was a light roof, supported on
stanchions. The funnel projected through that roof, and
in front of the funnel a small cabin built of light planks
served for a pilot-house. It contained a couch, two camp-stools, a loaded Martini-Henry leaning in one corner, a
tiny table, and the steering-wheel. It had a wide door in
front and a broad shutter at each side. All these were always
thrown open, of course. I spent my days perched up
there on the extreme fore-end of that roof, before the
door. At night I slept, or tried to, on the couch. An
athletic black belonging to some coast tribe and educated by
my poor predecessor, was the helmsman. He sported a
pair of brass earrings, wore a blue cloth wrapper from
the waist to the ankles, and thought all the world of himself.
He was the most unstable kind of fool I had ever
seen. He steered with no end of a swagger while you
were by; but if he lost sight of you, he became instantly
the prey of an abject funk, and would let that cripple of a
steamboat get the upper hand of him in a minute.
"I was looking down at the sounding-pole, and feeling
much annoyed to see at each try a little more of it stick
out of that river, when I saw my poleman give up on the
business suddenly, and stretch himself flat on the deck,
without even taking the trouble to haul his pole in. He
kept hold on it though, and it trailed in the water. At
the same time the fireman, whom I could also see below
me, sat down abruptly before his furnace and ducked his
head. I was amazed. Then I had to look at the river
mighty quick, because there was a snag in the fairway.
Sticks, little sticks, were flying about — thick: they were
whizzing before my nose, dropping below me, striking
behind me against my pilot-house. All this time the
river, the shore, the woods, were very quiet — perfectly
quiet. I could only hear the heavy splashing thump of
the stern-wheel and the patter of these things. We cleared
the snag clumsily. Arrows, by Jove! We were being shot
at! I stepped in quickly to close the shutter on the land-side. That fool-helmsman, his hands on the spokes, was
lifting his knees high, stamping his feet, champing his
mouth, like a reined-in horse. Confound him! And we
were staggering within ten feet of the bank. I had to lean
right out to swing the heavy shutter, and I saw a face
amongst the leaves on the level with my own, looking at
me very fierce and steady; and then suddenly, as though a
veil had been removed from my eyes, I made out, deep
in the tangled gloom, naked breasts, arms, legs, glaring
eyes — the bush was swarming with human limbs in movement,
glistening. of bronze colour. The twigs shook,
swayed, and rustled, the arrows flew out of them, and
then the shutter came to. 'Steer her straight,' I said to the
helmsman. He held his head rigid, face forward; but his
eyes rolled, he kept on lifting and setting down his feet
gently, his mouth foamed a little. 'Keep quiet!' I said in
a fury. I might just as well have ordered a tree not to
sway in the wind. I darted out. Below me there was a
great scuffle of feet on the iron deck; confused exclamations;
a voice screamed, 'Can you turn back?' I caught
sight of a V-shaped ripple on the water ahead. What?
Another snag! A fusillade burst out under my feet. The
pilgrims had opened with their Winchesters, and were
simply squirting lead into that bush. A deuce of a lot of
smoke came up and drove slowly forward. I swore at it.
Now I couldn't see the ripple or the snag either. I stood
in the doorway, peering, and the arrows came in swarms.
They might have been poisoned, but they looked as
though they wouldn't kill a cat. The bush began to howl.
Our wood-cutters raised a warlike whoop; the report of a
rifle just at my back deafened me. I glanced over my
shoulder, and the pilot-house was yet full of noise and
smoke when I made a dash at the wheel. The fool-nigger
had dropped everything, to throw the shutter open and
let off that Martini-Henry. He stood before the wide
opening, glaring, and I yelled at him to come back, while
I straightened the sudden twist out of that steamboat.
There was no room to turn even if I had wanted to, the
snag was somewhere very near ahead in that confounded
smoke, there was no time to lose, so I just crowded her
into the bank — right into the bank, where I knew the
water was deep.
"We tore slowly along the overhanging bushes in a
whirl of broken twigs and flying leaves. The fusillade
below stopped short, as I had foreseen it would when the
squirts got empty. I threw my head back to a glinting
whizz that traversed the pilot-house, in at one shutter-
hole and out at the other. Looking past that mad helmsman,
who was shaking the empty rifle and yelling at the
shore, I saw vague forms of men running bent double,
leaping, gliding, distinct, incomplete, evanescent. Something
big appeared in the air before the shutter, the rifle
went overboard, and the man stepped back swiftly, looked
at me over his shoulder in an extraordinary, profound,
familiar manner, and fell upon my feet. The side of his
head hit the wheel twice, and the end of what appeared a
long cane clattered round and knocked over a little camp-stool. It looked as though after wrenching that thing from
somebody ashore he had lost his balance in the effort.
The thin smoke had blown away, we were clear of the
snag, and looking ahead I could see that in another hundred
yards or so I would be free to sheer off, away from
the bank; but my feet felt so very warm and wet that I
had to look down. The man had rolled on his back
and stared straight up at me; both his hands clutched
that cane. It was the shaft of a spear that, either thrown
or lunged through the opening, had caught him in the
side, just below the ribs; the blade had gone in out of
sight, after making a frightful gash; my shoes were full;
a pool of blood lay very still, gleaming dark-red under the
wheel; his eyes shone with an amazing lustre. The fusillade
burst out again. He looked at me anxiously, gripping
the spear like something precious, with an air of being
afraid I would try to take it away from him. I had to
make an effort to free my eyes from his gaze and attend
to the steering. With one hand I felt above my head for
the line of the steam whistle, and jerked out screech after
screech hurriedly. The tumult of angry and warlike yells
was checked instantly, and then from the depths of the
woods went out such a tremulous and prolonged wail of
mournful fear and utter despair as may be imagined to
follow the flight of the last hope from the earth. There
was a great commotion in the bush; the shower of arrows
stopped, a few dropping shots rang out sharply —
then silence, in which the languid beat of the stern-wheel
came plainly to my ears. I put the helm hard a-starboard
at the moment when the pilgrim in pink pyjamas, very hot
and agitated, appeared in the doorway. 'The manager
sends me — ' he began in an official tone, and stopped
short. 'Good God!' he said, glaring at the wounded man.
"We two whites stood over him, and his lustrous and
inquiring glance enveloped us both. I declare it looked
as though he would presently put to us some questions
in an understandable language; but he died without uttering
a sound, without moving a limb, without twitching
a muscle. Only in the very last moment, as though in
response to some sign we could not see, to some whisper
we could not hear, he frowned heavily, and that frown
gave to his black death-mask an inconceivably sombre,
brooding, and menacing expression. The lustre of inquiring
glance faded swiftly into vacant glassiness. 'Can you
steer?' I asked the agent eagerly. He looked very dubious;
but I made a grab at his arm, and he understood
at once I meant him to steer whether or no. To tell you
the truth, I was morbidly anxious to change my shoes
and socks. 'He is dead,' murmured the fellow, immensely
impressed. 'No doubt about it,' said I, tugging like mad
at the shoe-laces. 'And by the way, I suppose Mr. Kurtz
is dead as well by this time.'
"For the moment that was the dominant thought. There
was a sense of extreme disappointment, as though I had
found out I had been striving after something altogether
without a substance. I couldn't have been more disgusted
if I had travelled all this way for the sole purpose of
talking with Mr. Kurtz. Talking with . . . I flung one shoe
overboard, and became aware that that was exactly what
I had been looking forward to — a talk with Kurtz. I
made the strange discovery that I had never imagined
him as doing, you know, but as discoursing. I didn't
say to myself, 'Now I will never see him,' or 'Now I will
never shake him by the hand,' but, 'Now I will never
hear him.' The man presented himself as a voice. Not
of course that I did not connect him with some sort
of action. Hadn't I been told in all the tones of jealousy
and admiration that he had collected, bartered, swindled,
or stolen more ivory than all the other agents together?
That was not the point. The point was in his being a
gifted creature, and that of all his gifts the one that stood
out preeminently, that carried with it a sense of real
presence, was his ability to talk, his words — the gift of
expression, the bewildering, the illuminating, the most
exalted and the most contemptible, the pulsating stream
of light, or the deceitful flow from the heart of an
impenetrable darkness.
"The other shoe went flying unto the devil-god of that
river. I thought, 'By Jove! it's all over. We are too late; he
has vanished — the gift has vanished, by means of some
spear, arrow, or club. I will never hear that chap speak
after all' — and my sorrow had a startling extravagance of
emotion, even such as I had noticed in the howling sorrow
of these savages in the bush. I couldn't have felt
more of lonely desolation somehow, had I been robbed
of a belief or had missed my destiny in life. . . . Why
do you sigh in this beastly way, somebody? Absurd? Well,
absurd. Good Lord! mustn't a man ever — Here, give me
some tobacco." . . .
There was a pause of profound stillness, then a match
flared, and Marlow's lean face appeared, worn, hollow,
with downward folds and dropped eyelids, with an aspect
of concentrated attention; and as he took vigorous draws
at his pipe, it seemed to retreat and advance out of the
night in the regular flicker of tiny flame. The match
went out.
"Absurd!" he cried. "This is the worst of trying to
tell. . . . Here you all are, each moored with two good
addresses, like a hulk with two anchors, a butcher
round one corner, a policeman round another, excellent
appetites, and temperature normal — you hear — normal
from year's end to year's end. And you say, Absurd!
Absurd be — exploded! Absurd! My dear boys, what can you
expect from a man who out of sheer nervousness had just
flung overboard a pair of new shoes! Now I think of it,
it is amazing I did not shed tears. I am, upon the whole,
proud of my fortitude. I was cut to the quick at the idea
of having lost the inestimable privilege of listening to the
gifted Kurtz. Of course I was wrong. The privilege was
waiting for me. Oh, yes, I heard more than enough. And
I was right, too. A voice. He was very little more than a
voice. And I heard — him — it — this voice — other voices
— all of them were so little more than voices — and the
memory of that time itself lingers around me, impalpable,
like a dying vibration of one immense jabber, silly,
atrocious, sordid, savage, or simply mean, without any kind
of sense. Voices, voices — even the girl herself — now — "
He was silent for a long time.
"I laid the ghost of his gifts at last with a lie," he
began, suddenly. "Girl! What? Did I mention a girl? Oh,
she is out of it — completely. They — the women, I mean —
are out of it — should be out of it. We must help them
to stay in that beautiful world of their own, lest ours
gets worse. Oh, she had to be out of it. You should have
heard the disinterred body of Mr. Kurtz saying, 'My
Intended.' You would have perceived directly then how
completely she was out of it. And the lofty frontal bone
of Mr. Kurtz! They say the hair goes on growing sometimes,
but this — ah — specimen, was impressively bald.
The wilderness had patted him on the head, and, behold,
it was like a ball — an ivory ball; it had caressed him,
and — lo! — he had withered; it had taken him, loved him,
embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his flesh,
and sealed his soul to its own by the inconceivable ceremonies
of some devilish initiation. He was its spoiled and
pampered favourite. Ivory? I should think so. Heaps of it,
stacks of it. The old mud shanty was bursting with it.
You would think there was not a single tusk left either
above or below the ground in the whole country. 'Mostly
fossil,' the manager had remarked, disparagingly. It was
no more fossil than I am; but they call it fossil when it is
dug up. It appears these niggers do bury the tusks
sometimes — but evidently they couldn't bury this parcel deep
enough to save the gifted Mr. Kurtz from his fate. We
filled the steamboat with it, and had to pile a lot on
the deck. Thus he could see and enjoy as long as he could
see, because the appreciation of this favour had remained
with him to the last. You should have heard him say,
'My ivory.' Oh, yes, I heard him. 'My Intended, my ivory,
my station, my river, my — ' everything belonged to
him. It made me hold my breath in expectation of hearing
the wilderness burst into a prodigious peal of laughter
that would shake the fixed stars in their places. Everything
belonged to him — but that was a trifle. The thing
was to know what he belonged to, how many powers of
darkness claimed him for their own. That was the reflection
that made you creepy all over. It was impossible — it
was not good for one either — trying to imagine. He
had taken a high seat amongst the devils of the land —
I mean literally. You can't understand. How could you?
— with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by
kind neighbours ready to cheer you or to fall on you,
stepping delicately between the butcher and the policeman,
in the holy terror of scandal and gallows and lunatic
asylums — how can you imagine what particular region
of the first ages a man's untrammelled feet may take
him into by the way of solitude — utter solitude without
a policeman — by the way of silence — utter silence, where
no warning voice of a kind neighbour can be heard
whispering of public opinion? These little things make all
the great difference. When they are gone you must fall
back upon your own innate strength, upon your own
capacity for faithfulness. Of course you may be too much
of a fool to go wrong — too dull even to know you are
being assaulted by the powers of darkness. I take it, no
fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil; the
fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a
devil — I don't know which. Or you may be such a thunderingly
exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and
blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds. Then
the earth for you is only a standing place — and whether
to be like this is your loss or your gain I won't pretend
to say. But most of us are neither one nor the other.
The earth for us is a place to live in, where we must put
up with sights, with sounds, with smells, too, by Jove! —
breathe dead hippo, so to speak, and not be contaminated.
And there, don't you see? Your strength comes in,
the faith in your ability for the digging of unostentatious
holes to bury the stuff in — your power of devotion,
not to yourself, but to an obscure, back-breaking business.
And that's difficult enough. Mind, I am not trying to
excuse or even explain — I am trying to account to myself
for — for — Mr. Kurtz — for the shade of Mr. Kurtz.
This initiated wraith from the back of Nowhere honoured
me with its amazing confidence before it vanished
altogether. This was because it could speak English to
me. The original Kurtz had been educated partly in England,
and — as he was good enough to say himself — his
sympathies were in the right place. His mother was half-English, his father was half-French. All Europe contributed
to the making of Kurtz; and by and by I learned
that, most appropriately, the International Society for
the Suppression of Savage Customs had intrusted him
with the making of a report, for its future guidance. And
he had written it, too. I've seen it. I've read it. It was
eloquent, vibrating with eloquence, but too high-strung,
I think. Seventeen pages of close writing he had found
time for! But this must have been before his — let us say
— nerves, went wrong, and caused him to preside at
certain midnight dances ending with unspeakable rites,
which — as far as I reluctantly gathered from what I heard
at various times — were offered up to him — do you
understand? — to Mr. Kurtz himself. But it was a beautiful
piece of writing. The opening paragraph, however, in the
light of later information, strikes me now as ominous.
He began with the argument that we whites, from the
point of development we had arrived at, 'must necessarily
appear to them [savages] in the nature of supernatural
beings — we approach them with the might of a deity,'
and so on, and so on. 'By the simple exercise of our will
we can exert a power for good practically unbounded,'
etc., etc. From that point he soared and took me with
him. The peroration was magnificent, though difficult to
remember, you know. It gave me the notion of an exotic
Immensity ruled by an august Benevolence. It made me
tingle with enthusiasm. This was the unbounded power
of eloquence — of words — of burning noble words. There
were no practical hints to interrupt the magic current
of phrases, unless a kind of note at the foot of the last
page, scrawled evidently much later, in an unsteady hand,
may be regarded as the exposition of a method. It was
very simple, and at the end of that moving appeal to every
altruistic sentiment it blazed at you, luminous and terrifying,
like a flash of lightning in a serene sky: 'Exterminate
all the brutes!' The curious part was that he had
apparently forgotten all about that valuable postscriptum,
because, later on, when he in a sense came to himself,
he repeatedly entreated me to take good care of 'my
pamphlet' (he called it), as it was sure to have in the
future a good influence upon his career. I had full
information about all these things, and, besides, as it
turned out, I was to have the care of his memory. I've done
enough for it to give me the indisputable right to lay it, if
I choose, for an everlasting rest in the dust-bin of progress,
amongst all the sweepings and, figuratively speaking, all the
dead cats of civilization. But then, you see, I
can't choose. He won't be forgotten. Whatever he was,
he was not common. He had the power to charm or
frighten rudimentary souls into an aggravated witch-dance
in his honour; he could also fill the small souls of the
pilgrims with bitter misgivings: he had one devoted
friend at least, and he had conquered one soul in the
world that was neither rudimentary nor tainted with self-seeking. No; I can't forget him, though I am not prepared
to affirm the fellow was exactly worth the life we lost in
getting to him. I missed my late helmsman awfully — I
missed him even while his body was still lying in the
pilot-house. Perhaps you will think it passing strange
this regret for a savage who was no more account than
a grain of sand in a black Sahara. Well, don't you see,
he had done something, he had steered; for months I had
him at my back — a help — an instrument. It was a kind
of partnership. He steered for me — I had to look after
him, I worried about his deficiencies, and thus a subtle
bond had been created, of which I only became aware
when it was suddenly broken. And the intimate profundity
of that look he gave me when he received his hurt
remains to this day in my memory — like a claim of distant
kinship affirmed in a supreme moment.
"Poor fool! If he had only left that shutter alone. He
had no restraint, no restraint — just like Kurtz — a
tree swayed by the wind. As soon as I had put on
a dry pair of slippers, I dragged him out, after first jerking
the spear out of his side, which operation I confess I
performed with my eyes shut tight. His heels leaped together
over the little doorstep; his shoulders were pressed
to my breast; I hugged him from behind desperately.
Oh! he was heavy, heavy; heavier than any man on earth,
I should imagine. Then without more ado I tipped him
overboard. The current snatched him as though he had
been a wisp of grass, and I saw the body roll over twice
before I lost sight of it for ever. All the pilgrims and
the manager were then congregated on the awning-deck
about the pilot-house, chattering at each other like a
flock of excited magpies, and there was a scandalized
murmur at my heartless promptitude. What they wanted to
keep that body hanging about for I can't guess. Embalm
it, maybe. But I had also heard another, and a very
ominous, murmur on the deck below. My friends the
wood-cutters were likewise scandalized, and with a better
show of reason — though I admit that the reason itself
was quite inadmissible. Oh, quite! I had made up my
mind that if my late helmsman was to be eaten, the fishes
alone should have him. He had been a very second-rate
helmsman while alive, but now he was dead he might
have become a first-class temptation, and possibly cause
some startling trouble. Besides, I was anxious to take the
wheel, the man in pink pyjamas showing himself a hopeless
duffer at the business.
"This I did directly the simple funeral was over. We
were going half-speed, keeping right in the middle of the
stream, and I listened to the talk about me. They had
given up Kurtz, they had given up the station; Kurtz was
dead, and the station had been burnt — and so on — and
so on. The red-haired pilgrim was beside himself with
the thought that at least this poor Kurtz had been properly
avenged. 'Say! We must have made a glorious slaughter
of them in the bush. Eh? What do you think? Say?'
He positively danced, the bloodthirsty little gingery
beggar. And he had nearly fainted when he saw the wounded
man! I could not help saying, 'You made a glorious lot
of smoke, anyhow.' I had seen, from the way the tops of
the bushes rustled and flew, that almost all the shots had
gone too high. You can't hit anything unless you take
aim and fire from the shoulder; but these chaps fired
from the hip with their eyes shut. The retreat, I
maintained — and I was right — was caused by the screeching
of the steam whistle. Upon this they forgot Kurtz, and
began to howl at me with indignant protests.
"The manager stood by the wheel murmuring confidentially
about the necessity of getting well away down the river
before dark at all events, when I saw in the distance a
clearing on the riverside and the outlines of some sort
of building. 'What's this?' I asked. He clapped his
hands in wonder. 'The station!' he cried. I edged in at
once, still going half-speed.
"Through my glasses I saw the slope of a hill
interspersed with rare trees and perfectly free from under-growth. A long decaying building on the summit was
half buried in the high grass; the large holes in the peaked
roof gaped black from afar; the jungle and the woods
made a background. There was no enclosure or fence
of any kind; but there had been one apparently, for near
the house half-a-dozen slim posts remained in a row,
roughly trimmed, and with their upper ends ornamented
with round carved balls. The rails, or whatever there had
been between, had disappeared. Of course the forest
surrounded all that. The river-bank was clear, and on the
waterside I saw a white man under a hat like a cart-wheel beckoning persistently with his whole arm. Examining
the edge of the forest above and below, I was almost
certain I could see movements — human forms gliding
here and there. I steamed past prudently, then stopped
the engines and let her drift down. The man on the shore
began to shout, urging us to land. 'We have been attacked,'
screamed the manager. 'I know — I know. It's all
right,' yelled back the other, as cheerful as you please.
'Come along. It's all right. I am glad.'
"His aspect reminded me of something I had seen —
something funny I had seen somewhere. As I manoeuvred
to get alongside, I was asking myself, 'What does this
fellow look like?' Suddenly I got it. He looked like a
harlequin. His clothes had been made of some stuff that
was brown holland probably, but it was covered with
patches all over, with bright patches, blue, red, and
yellow — patches on the back, patches on the front, patches
on elbows, on knees; coloured binding around his jacket,
scarlet edging at the bottom of his trousers; and the sun-shine made him look extremely gay and wonderfully neat
withal, because you could see how beautifully all this
patching had been done. A beardless, boyish face, very
fair, no features to speak of, nose peeling, little blue
eyes, smiles and frowns chasing each other over that open
countenance like sunshine and shadow on a wind-swept
plain. 'Look out, captain!' he cried; 'there's a snag lodged
in here last night.' What! Another snag? I confess I swore
shamefully. I had nearly holed my cripple, to finish off
that charming trip. The harlequin on the bank turned
his little pug-nose up to me. 'You English?' he asked, all
smiles. 'Are you?' I shouted from the wheel. The smiles
vanished, and he shook his head as if sorry for my
disappointment. Then he brightened up. 'Never mind!' he
cried encouragingly. 'Are we in time?' I asked. 'He is up
there,' he replied, with a toss of the head up the hill,
and becoming gloomy all of a sudden. His face was like
the autumn sky, overcast one moment and bright the
next.
"When the manager, escorted by the pilgrims, all of
them armed to the teeth, had gone to the house this chap
came on board. 'I say, I don't like this. These natives
are in the bush,' I said. He assured me earnestly it was
all right. 'They are simple people,' he added; 'well, I am
glad you came. It took me all my time to keep them off.'
'But you said it was all right,' I cried. 'Oh, they meant
no harm,' he said; and as I stared he corrected himself,
'Not exactly.' Then vivaciously, 'My faith, your pilot-house wants a clean-up!' In the next breath he advised
me to keep enough steam on the boiler to blow the whistle
in case of any trouble. 'One good screech will do more
for you than all your rifles. They are simple people,' he
repeated. He rattled away at such a rate he quite
overwhelmed me. He seemed to be trying to make up for lots
of silence, and actually hinted, laughing, that such was
the case. 'Don't you talk with Mr. Kurtz?' I said. 'You
don't talk with that man — you listen to him,' he exclaimed
with severe exaltation. 'But now — ' He waved
his arm, and in the twinkling of an eye was in the utter-most depths of despondency. In a moment he came up
again with a jump, possessed himself of both my hands,
shook them continuously, while he gabbled: 'Brother
sailor . . . honour . . . pleasure . . . delight . . .
introduce
myself . . . Russian . . . son of an arch-priest . . .
Government of Tambov . . . What? Tobacco! English tobacco;
the excellent English tobacco! Now, that's brotherly. Smoke?
Where's a sailor that does not smoke?"
"The pipe soothed him, and gradually I made out he
had run away from school, had gone to sea in a Russian
ship; ran away again; served some time in English ships;
was now reconciled with the arch-priest. He made a point
of that. 'But when one is young one must see things,
gather experience, ideas; enlarge the mind.' 'Here!' I
interrupted. 'You can never tell! Here I met Mr. Kurtz,'
he said, youthfully solemn and reproachful. I held my
tongue after that. It appears he had persuaded a Dutch
trading-house on the coast to fit him out with stores and
goods, and had started for the interior with a light heart
and no more idea of what would happen to him than
a baby. He had been wandering about that river for nearly
two years alone, cut off from everybody and everything.
'I am not so young as I look. I am twenty-five,' he said.
'At first old Van Shuyten would tell me to go to the devil,'
he narrated with keen enjoyment; 'but I stuck to him, and
talked and talked, till at last he got afraid I would talk
the hind-leg off his favourite dog, so he gave me some
cheap things and a few guns, and told me he hoped
he would never see my face again. Good old Dutchman,
Van Shuyten. I've sent him one small lot of ivory a year
ago, so that he can't call me a little thief when I get
back. I hope he got it. And for the rest I don't care.
I had some wood stacked for you. That was my old
house. Did you see?'
"I gave him Towson's book. He made as though he
would kiss me, but restrained himself. 'The only book I
had left, and I thought I had lost it,' he said, looking at
it ecstatically. 'So many accidents happen to a man
going about alone, you know. Canoes get upset sometimes
— and sometimes you've got to clear out so quick when
the people get angry.' He thumbed the pages. 'You made
notes in Russian?' I asked. He nodded. 'I thought they
were written in cipher,' I said. He laughed, then became
serious. 'I had lots of trouble to keep these people off,'
he said. 'Did they want to kill you?' I asked. 'Oh, no!' he
cried, and checked himself. 'Why did they attack us?' I
pursued. He hesitated, then said shamefacedly, 'They don't
want him to go.' 'Don't they?' I said curiously. He nodded
a nod full of mystery and wisdom. 'I tell you,' he cried,
'this man has enlarged my mind.' He opened his arms
wide, staring at me with his little blue eyes that were
perfectly round."