Heart of Darkness

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 hid-

  den -- 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 perform-

  ing 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 un-

  known, 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 appear-

  ance 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 pon-

  derous 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 alto-

  gether 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 im-

  agined 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 snap-

  ping of a twig would make you start. We were wan-

  derers 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 ac-

  cursed inheritance, to be subdued at the cost of pro-

  found 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 clap-

  ping, 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 prehis-

  toric man was cursing us, praying to us, welcoming us

  -- who could tell? We were cut off from the compre-

  hension 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 mon-

  ster, but there -- there you could look at a thing mon-

  strous 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 frank-

  ness 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 i
ts 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 inborn strength. Princi-

  ples 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 fiend-

  ish 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 steampipes -- 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 hindlegs. A few months of

  training had done for that really fine chap. He

  squinted at the steam-gauge and at the water-guage

  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 orna-

  mental 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 trans-

  parent 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 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 inter-

  minable miles of silence -- and we crept on, towards

  Kurtz. But the snags were thick, the water was treach-

  erous 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

  woodpile. 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 de-

  ciphered 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 dis-

  mantled; 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 extraordi-

  nary 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 dia-

  grams 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, lumi-

  nous 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 deli-

  cious sensation of having come upon something unmis-

  takably real. Such a book being there was wonderful

  enough but still more astounding were the notes pen-

  cilled 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 worry-

  ing noise, and when I lifted my eyes I saw the wood-

  pile was gone, and the manager, aided by all the pil-

  grims, 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 man-

  ager, 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 as-

  sumed 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 lan-

  guidly, 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

  t
o 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 ap-

  proach cautiously were to be followed, we must ap-

  proach 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 immo-

  bility sat on the banks. The living trees, lashed to-

  gether 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 sud-

  denly, 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 run-

  ning 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 mourn-

  ful uproar arise. It culminated in a hurried outbreak

  of almost intolerably escessive 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 py-

  jamas tucked into his socks. Two others remained

  open-mouthed a whole minute, then dashed into the

  little cabin, to rush out incontinently and stand dart-

  ing 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