Heart of Darkness

the woods made a background. There was no en-

  closure 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 dis-

  appeared. Of course the forest surrounded all that.

  The river-bank was clear, and on the waterside I saw

  a white man under a hat like a cartwheel 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 at-

  tacked,' screamed the manager. 'I know -- I know. It's

  all right,' yelled back the other, as cheerful as you

  please. 'Come along. It's all right. I am glad.'

  "His aspect reminded me of something I had seen

  -- something funny I had seen somewhere. As I

  manoeuvred to get alongside, I was asking myself,

  'What does this fellow look like?' Suddenly I got it.

  He looked like a harlequin. His clothes had been

  made of some stuff that was brown holland probably,

  but it was covered with patches all over, with bright

  patches, blue, red, and yellow -- patches on the back,

  patches on the front, patches on elbows, on knees;

  coloured binding around his jacket, scarlet edging at

  the bottom of his trousers; and the sunshine made

  him look extremely gay and wonderfully neat withal,

  because you could see how beautifully all this patching

  had been done. A beardless, boyish face, very fair, no

  features to speak of, nose peeling, little blue eyes,

  smiles and frowns chasing each other over that open

  countenance like sunshine and shadow on a wind-

  swept plain. 'Look out, captain!' he cried; 'there's a

  snag lodged in here last night.' What! Another snag?

  I confess I swore shamefully. I had nearly holed my

  cripple, to finish off that charming trip. The harlequin

  on the bank turned his little pug-nose up to me. 'You

  English?' he asked, all smiles. 'Are you?' I shouted

  from the wheel. The smiles vanished, and he shook

  his head as if sorry for my disappointment. Then he

  brightened up. 'Never mind!' he cried encouragingly.

  'Are we in time?' I asked. 'He is up there,' he replied,

  with a toss of the head up the hill, and becoming

  gloomy all of a sudden. His face was like the autumn

  sky, overcast one moment and bright the next.

  "When the manager, escorted by the pilgrims, all

  of them armed to the teeth, had gone to the house

  this chap came on board. 'I say, I don't like this.

  These natives are in the bush,' I said. He assured me

  earnestly it was all right. 'They are simple people,' he

  added; 'well, I am glad you came. It took me all my

  time to keep them off.' 'But you said it was all right,'

  I cried. 'Oh, they meant no harm,' he said; and as I

  stared he corrected himself, 'Not exactly.' Then viva-

  ciously, 'My faith, your pilot-house wants a clean-up!'

  In the next breath he advised me to keep enough

  steam on the boiler to blow the whistle in case of

  any trouble. 'One good screech will do more for you

  than all your rifles. They are simple people,' he

  repeated. He rattled away at such a rate he quite over-

  whelmed me. He seemed to be trying to make up for

  lots of silence, and actually hinted, laughing, that

  such was the case. 'Don't you talk with Mr. Kurtz?' I

  said. 'You don't talk with that man -- you listen to him,'

  he exclaimed with severe exaltation. 'But now --' He

  waved his arm, and in the twinkling of an eye was in

  the uttermost depths of despondency. In a moment he

  came up again with a jump, possessed himself of both

  my hands, shook them continuously, while he

  gabbled: 'Brother sailor . . . honour . . . pleasure

  . . delight . . .introduce myself . . . Russian . . .

  son of an arch-priest . . . Government of Tambov

  . . What? Tobacco! English tobacco; the excellent

  English tobacco! Now, that's brotherly. Smoke?

  Where's a sailor that does not smoke?'

  "The pipe soothed him, and gradually I made out

  he had run away from school, had gone to sea in a

  Russian ship; ran away again; served some time in

  English ships; was now reconciled with the arch-

  priest. He made a point of that. 'But when one is

  young one must see things, gather experience, ideas;

  enlarge the mind.' 'Here!' I interrupted. 'You can

  never tell! Here I met Mr. Kurtz,' he said, youth

  fully solemn and reproachful. I held my tongue after

  that. It appears he had persuaded a Dutch trading-

  house on the coast to fit him out with stores and goods,

  and had started for the interior with a light heart

  and no more idea of what would happen to him than

  a baby. He had been wandering about that river for

  nearly two years alone, cut off from everybody and

  everything. 'I am not so young as I look. I am twenty-

  five,' he said. 'At first old Van Shuyten would tell me

  to go to the devil,' he narrated with keen enjoyment;

  'but I stuck to him, and talked and talked, till at last

  he got afraid I would talk the hind-leg off his favour-

  ite dog, so he gave me some cheap things and a few

  guns, and told me he hoped he would never see my

  face again. Good old Dutchman, Van Shuyten. I've

  sent him one small lot of ivory a year ago, so that he

  can't call me a little thief when I get back. I hope he

  got it. And for the rest I don't care. I had some wood

  stacked for you. That was my old house. Did you see?'

  "I gave him Towson's book. He made as though he

  would kiss me, but restrained himself. 'The only book

  I had left, and I thought I had lost it,' he said, looking

  at it ecstatically. 'So many accidents happen to a man

  going about alone, you know. Canoes get upset some-

  times -- and sometimes you've got to clear out so quick

  when the people get angry.' He thumbed the pages.

  'You made notes in Russian?' I asked. He nodded. 'I

  thought they were written in cipher,' I said. He

  laughed, then became serious. 'I had lots of trouble

  to keep these people off,' he said. 'Did they want to

  kill you?' I asked. 'Oh, no!' he cried, and checked

  himself. 'Why did they attack us?' I pursued. He

  hesitated, then said shamefacedly, 'They don't want

  him to go.' 'Don't they?' I said curiously. He nodded

  a nod full of mystery and wisdom. 'I tell you,' he

  cried, 'this man has enlarged my mind.' He opened

  his arms wide, staring at me with his little blue eyes

  that were perfectly round."

  III

  "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 alto-

  gether bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It

  was inconceivable how he had existed, how he had

  succeeded in getting so far, how he had managed to

  remain -- why he did not instantly disappear. 'I went

  a little farther,' he said, 'then still a little farther --

  till I had gone so far that I don't know how I'll ever

  get back. Never mind. Plenty time. I can manage.

  You take Kurtz away quick -- quick -- I tell you.' The

  glamour of youth enveloped his parti-coloured rags,

  his destitution, his loneliness, the essential desolation

  of his futile wanderings. For months -- for years -- his

  life hadn't been worth a day's purchase; and there he

  was gallantly, thoughtlessly alive, to all appearance

  indestructible solely by the virtue of his few years and

  of his unreflecting audacity. I was seduced into some-

  thing 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, un-

  calculating, 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 ac-

  cepted it with a sort of eager fatalism. I must say that

  to me it appeared about the most dangerous thing in

  every way he had come upon so far.

  "They had come together unavoidably, like two

  ships becalmed near each other, and lay rubbing sides

  at last. I suppose Kurtz wanted an audience, because

  on a certain occasion, when encamped in the forest,

  they had talked all night, or more probably Kurtz

  had talked. 'We talked of everything,' he said, quite

  transported at the recollection. 'I forgot there was

  such a thing as sleep. The night did not seem to last

  an hour. Everything! Everything! . . . Of love,

  too.' 'Ah, he talked to you of love!' I said, much

  amused. 'It isn't what you think,' he cried, almost

  passionately. 'It was in general. He made me see

  things -- things.'

  "He threw his arms up. We were on deck at the

  time, and the headman of my wood cutters, lounging

  near by, turned upon him his heavy and glittering

  eyes. I looked around, and I don't know why, but I

  assure you that never, never before, did this land,

  this river, this jungle, the very arch of this blazing

  sky, appear to me so hopeless and so dark, so impene-

  trable to human thought, so pitiless to human weak-

  ness. '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? ex-

  ploring 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 reluc-

  tance to speak of Kurtz. The man filled his life, occu-

  pied his thoughts, swayed his emotions. 'What can

  you expect?' he burst out; 'he came to them with

  thunder and lightning, you know -- and they had never

  seen anything like it -- and very terrible. He could be

  very terrible. You can't judge Mr. Kurtz as you

  would an ordinary man. No, no, no! Now -- just to

  give you an idea -- I don't mind telling you, he wanted

  to shoot me, too, one day -- but I don't judge him.'

  'Shoot you!' I cried 'What for?' 'Well, I had a small

  lot of ivory the chief of that village near my house

  gave me. You see I used to shoot game for them.

  Well, he wanted it, and wouldn't hear reason. He

  declared he would shoot me unless I gave him the

  ivory and then cleared out of the country, because

  he could do so, and had a fancy for it, and there was

  nothing on earth to prevent him killing whom he

  jolly well pleased. And it was true, too. I gave him

  the ivory. What did I care! But I didn't clear out.

  No, no. I couldn't leave him. I had to be careful,

  of course, till we got friendly again for a time. He

  had his second illness then. Afterwards I had to

  keep out of the way; but I didn't mind. He was

  living for the most part in those villages on the lake.

  When he came down to the river, sometimes he would

  take to me, and sometimes it was better for me to be

  careful. This man suffered too much. He hated all

  this, and somehow he couldn't get away. When I had

  a chance I begged him to try and leave while there was

  time; I offered to go back with him. And he would

  say yes, and then he would remain; go off on another

  ivory hunt; disappear for weeks; forget himself

  amongst these people -- forget himself -- you know.'

  'Why! he's mad,' I said. He protested indignantly.

  Mr. Kurtz couldn't be mad. If I had heard him talk,

  only two days ago, I wouldn't dare hint at such a

  thing. . . . I had taken up my binoculars while we

  talked, and was looking at the shore, sweeping the

  limit of the forest at each side and at the back of the

  house. The consciousness of there being people in that

  bush, so silent, so quiet -- as silent and quiet as the

  ruined house on the hill -- made me uneasy. There was

  no sign on the face of nature of this amazing tale that

  was not so much told as suggested to me in desolate

  exclamations, completed by shrugs, in interrupted

  phrases, in hints ending in deep sighs. The woods

  were unmoved, like a
mask -- heavy, like the closed

  door of a prison -- they looked with their air of hidden

  knowledge, of patient expectation, of unapproachable

  silence. The Russian was explaining to me that it was

  only lately that Mr. Kurtz had come down to the

  river, bringing along with him all the fighting men

  of that lake tribe. He had been absent for several

  months -- getting himself adored, I suppose -- and had

  come down unexpectedly, with the intention to all

  appearance of making a raid either across the river or

  down stream. Evidently the appetite for more ivory

  had got the better of the -- what shall I say? -- less

  material aspirations. However he had got much worse

  suddenly. 'I heard he was lying helpless, and so I

  came up -- took my chance,' said the Russian. 'Oh, he

  is bad, very bad.' I directed my glass to the house.

  There were no signs of life, but there was the ruined

  roof, the long mud wall peeping above the grass,

  with three little square window-holes, no two of the

  same size; all this brought within reach of my hand,

  as it were. And then I made a brusque movement, and

  one of the remaining posts of that vanished fence

  leaped up in the field of my glass. You remember I

  told you I had been struck at the distance by certain

  attempts at ornamentation, rather remarkable in the

  ruinous aspect of the place. Now I had suddenly a

  nearer view, and its first result was to make me throw

  my head back as if before a blow. Then I went care-

  fully 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 vul-

  tures if there had been any looking down from the

  sky; but at all events for such ants as were industrious

  enough to ascend the pole. They would have been

  even more impressive, those heads on the stakes, if

  their faces had not been turned to the house. Only

  one, the first I had made out, was facing my way. I

  was not so shocked as you may think. The start back

  I had given was really nothing but a movement of

  surprise. I had expected to see a knob of wood there,

  you know. I returned deliberately to the first I had

  seen -- and there it was, black, dried, sunken, with

  dosed 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 re-

  straint 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 his 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 fas-

  cinating. 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 extraor-

  dinary. The camps of the 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 a]l, 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,