ve 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 approached 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, et cetera, et cetera. 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 unagust 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 post-scriptum, 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 dustbin 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 honor. 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 a count than a grain of sand in a black Sahara. Well, don't you see, he had done something. He had steered.  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 shudder alone. He had no restraint, no restraint, just like Kurtz, a tree swayed by the wind.  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, 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 forever. 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 scandalised murmur at my heartless promptitude. What they wanted to keep that body hanging about for, I can't guess. Embalment, maybe? But I had also heard another and a very ominous murmur on the deck below. My friends, the woodcutters, were likewise scandalised, 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 fishers 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 caused some startling trouble. Besides, I was anxious to take the wheel, the man in pink pajamas 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 burned, 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 gingerly 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 retreats I maintained, and I was right, was caused by the screeching of the steam-wistle. 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 undergrowth. A long decaying building on the summit was half-buried in the high grass. The large holes in the peaked roof gaped black from afar. The jungle and the woods made a background. There was no enclosure or fence of any kind, but there had been one apparently, for near the house half a dozen slim posts remained in a row, roughly trimmed and with their upper ends ornamented with round carved balls. The rails, or whatever there had been between, had disappeared. Of course the forest surrounded all that. The river bank was clear, and on the water-side 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 maneuvered to get alongside, I was asking myself, what does this fellow look like? Suddenly I got it. It looked like a harlequin.  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 windswept plain. Look out, Captain! he recried. There's a snag lodged in here last night. What? Another snag? I confess I swore, shamefully. I had nearly hold my cripple to finish off that charming trip. The harlequin on the back 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. The 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 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 exultation. But now he waved his arm, and in the twinkling of an eye was in the outermost depths of despondency. In a moment he came up again with a jump, possessed himself of both my hands, shook them continuously, while he gabbed, Brother Sayler, honour, pleasure, delight, introduce myself, Russian, son of an arch-priest, government of time-bath, what? Tobacco? English tobacco, the excellent English tobacco. Now that's brotherly. Smoke? Where's a Sayler that does not smoke? The pipe soothed him, and gradually I made out he had run away from school and 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 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 Schijten would tell me to go to the devil. He narrated with keen enjoyment. But I stuck to him 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 Schijten. 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 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 shame facedly. They don't want him to go. Don't they? I said curiously. He nodded a nod full of mystery and wisdom.   End of Chapter 2. Part 1 of Chapter 3 of Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Bob Neufeld. 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.  Ever mind, plenty time, I can manage.  The glamour of youth enveloped his partly 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 becombed near each other and lay rubbing sides at last. I suppose Kurtz wanted an audience, because on a certain occasion, when it camped 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, then the headman of my woodcutters, lounging nearby, 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 the 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.  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, but 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, forgot himself amongst these people, forgot 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 and 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 downstream. Evidently the appetite for more ivory had got the better of the, what shall I say, the 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 forest 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, either remarkable in the ruinous aspect of the place.  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 vulgers, 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, these 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'd 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 various 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. These 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 ground. 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 splendor, with a murky and overshadowed bend over 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 waited 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, half-way to the steamer, as if petrified. I saw the man on the stretcher set 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 dishonoring 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 a stir, 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 bearish 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 shotguns, 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. He had brought his belated correspondence, and a lot of torn envelopes and open letters littered his bed. His hand roamed feebly amongst his papers.  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 moments 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 a 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 headdresses 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 clothes, treading the earth proudly with a slight jingle and flash of barbarous ornaments.  Her hair was done in the shape of a helmet.  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.  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 bare 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 had 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 these 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. Oh, 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.  I will return. I— The manager came out. He did me the honor 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 close to us for a time. 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 exalted, 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 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 favor 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 conceive 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 regarded 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 nearby. 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 seamen, 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. I had an awful time of it this last month. Very well, I said. He is all right now. Yes, he muttered. Not very convinced, apparently. Thanks, said I. I shall keep my eyes open. Won't get 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 off. 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, sandal-wise, under his bare feet. I rooted out an old pair, at which he looked with admiration before tucking it under his left arm.  From the other, dark blue, peeped thousands 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! Goodbye! said I. He shook hands and vanished in the night. Sometimes I asked 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 star 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 anyone 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 exaltation 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 drumming. I don't know. I had some imbecile thought. 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 Winchester's held to the ship. I thought I would never get back to the steamer and imagine 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 great semicircle.  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 vapor 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 vigor 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.  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.  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. 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 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, 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 unto me as though I had carried half a ton of my back down the hill. And yet I had only supported him. His bony arm clasped round my neck. He was not much heavier than a child. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 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 downstream, 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 the 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 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 shot 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 colorless lips that a moment after twitched convulsively. "'Do!' 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 someone on deck, disconsolently. 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 redchaps 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 somber 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 he could have wished. I saw the time approaching when I would be left alone of the party of unsound method. The pilgrims looked upon me with disfavor. 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 disgorced. 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.  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 of 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 that 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 ring 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 shoestring. Keep this for me, he said. This noxious fool, meaning the manager, is capable of prying into my boxes when I'm 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 my duty. His was an impenetrable darkness. I looked at him as you peered down at a man who was 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 the 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 tremblesly, 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 ruined. I saw on that ivory face the expression of somber 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. A horror! A 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, Mr. Cutts! He dead! All the pilgrims rushed out to sea. 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 Cutts there and then. I did not. I remained to dream the nightmare out to the end, and to show my loyalty to Cutts 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 tappered skepticism, 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 Cutts 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 would 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 candor. It had conviction. It had a vibrating note of revolt in its whisper. It had the appalling face of a glimpsed truth. The strange co-mingling 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 with the evanescence of all things, even of this pain itself. No, it was 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 satisfaction. 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, presenting 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 pretense, 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 dare say 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 admits 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 swavly 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 spectacle 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 post-scriptum 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 blank gray hair flowing over a greasy coat-collar. I had no reason to doubt his statement, and to this day I was 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 in 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, it would do, and took himself off with his 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 these features. She seemed ready to listen without mental reservation, without suspicion, without a thought for herself. I concluded I would go back and give her back her portrait and those letters myself. Curiosity? Yes, and some other feeling, perhaps. All that had been curses 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 and 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 worshipers, 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 hearts 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. It's a difficult case. What do you think I ought to do? Resist? 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 shown 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 somber 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 seems 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 perceive 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.  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, he said. It was impossible to know him and not 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 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 anyone 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 for something. And, indeed, I don't know whether he had not been a popper 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 sowing 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 all of 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.  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. Man looked up to him, his goodness shown 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.  And I was not with him, she murmured. My anger subsided before a feeling of infinite pity. Everything that could be done, I mumbled. But I believed in him more than anyone 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 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 heartbroken 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.  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.  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. Marlowe 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 offering was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky, seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness. End of Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad