no idea how effective such a . . . a . . . faculty
can be. He had no genius for organizing, for initiative,
or for order even. That was evident in such things as
the deplorable state of the station. He had no learn-
ing, and no intelligence. His position had come to him
-- why? Perhaps because he was never ill . . . He
had served three terms of three years out there . . .
Because triumphant health in the general rout of con-
stitutions is a kind of power in itself. When he went
home on leave he rioted on a large scale -- pompously.
Jack ashore -- with a difference -- in externals only.
This one could gather from his casual talk. He origi-
nated nothing, he could keep the routine going --
that's all. But he was great. He was great by this little
thing that it was impossible to tell what could control
such a man. He never gave that secret away. Perhaps
there was nothing within him. Such a suspicion made
one pause -- for out there there were no external
checks. Once when various tropical diseases had laid
low almost every 'agent' in the station, he was heard
to say, 'Men who come out here should have no en-
trails.' He sealed the utterance with that smile of his,
as though it had been a door opening into a darkness
he had in his keeping. You fancied you had seen
things -- but the seal was on. When annoyed at meal-
times by the constant quarrels of the white men about
precedence, he ordered an immense round table to be
made, for which a special house had to be built. This
was the station's mess-room. Where he sat was the
first place -- the rest were nowhere. One felt this to be
his unalterable conviction. He was neither civil nor
uncivil. He was quiet. He allowed his 'boy' -- an over-
fed young negro from the coast -- to treat the white
men, under his very eyes, with provoking insolence.
"He began to speak as soon as he saw me. I had
been very long on the road. He could not wait. Had
to start without me. The up-river stations had to be
relieved. There had been so many delays already that
he did not know who was dead and who was alive, and
how they got on -- and so on, and so on. He paid no
attention to my explanation, and, playing with a stick
of sealing-wax, repeated several times that the situa-
tion was 'very grave, very grave.' There were ru-
mours that a very important station was in jeopardy,
and its chief, Mr. Kurtz, was ill. Hoped it was not
true. Mr. Kurtz was . . . I felt weary and irritable.
Hang Kurtz, I thought. I interrupted him by saying
I had heard of Mr. Kurtz on the coast. 'Ah! So they
talk of him down there,' he murmured to himself.
Then he began again, assuring me Mr. Kurtz was the
best agent he had, an exceptional man, of the greatest
importance to the Company; therefore I could under-
stand his anxiety. He was, he said, 'very, very uneasy.'
Certainly he fidgeted on his chair a good deal, ex-
claimed, 'Ah, Mr. Kurtz!' broke the stick of sealing-
wax and seemed dumfounded by the accident. Next
thing he wanted to know 'how long it would take to'
. . I interrupted him again. Being hungry, you
know, and kept on my feet too, I was getting savage.
'How can I tell?' I said. 'I haven't even seen the
wreck yet -- some months, no doubt.' All this talk
seemed to me so futile. 'Some months,' he said. "Well,
let us say three months before we can make a start.
Yes. That ought to do the affair.' I flung out of his
hut (he lived all alone in a clay hut with a sort of
verandah) muttering to myself my opinion of him.
He was a chattering idiot. Afterwards I took it back
when it was borne in upon me startlingly with what
extreme nicety he had estimated the time requisite for
the 'affair.'
"I went to work the next day, turning, so to speak,
my back on that station. In that way only it seemed to
me I could keep my hold on the redeeming facts of
life. Still, one must look about sometimes; and then I
saw this station, these men strolling aimlessly about in
the sunshine of the yard. I asked myself sometimes
what it all meant. They wandered here and there with
their absurd long staves in their hands, like a lot of
faithless pilgrims bewitched inside a rotten fence. The
word 'ivory' rang in the air, was whispered, was
sighed. You would think they were praying to it. A
taint of imbecile rapacity blew through it all, like a
whiff from some corpse. By Jove! I've never seen
anything so unreal in my life. And outside, the silent
wilderness surrounding this cleared speck on the earth
struck me as something great and invincible, like evil
or truth, waiting patiently for the passing away of this
fantastic invasion.
"Oh, these months! Well, never mind. Various
things happened. One evening a grass shed full of
calico, cotton prints, beads, and I don't know what
else, burst into a blaze so suddenly that you would
have thought the earth had opened to let an avenging
fire consume all that trash. I was smoking my pipe
quietly by my dismantled steamer, and saw them all
cutting capers in the light, with their arms lifted high,
when the stout man with moustaches came tearing
down to the river, a tin pail in his hand, assured me
that everybody was 'behaving splendidly, splendidly,'
dipped about a quart of water and tore back again. I
noticed there was a hole in the bottom of his pail.
"I strolled up. There was no hurry. You see the
thing had gone off like a box of matches. It had been
hopeless from the very first. The flame had leaped
high, driven everybody back, lighted up everything --
and collapsed. The shed was already a heap of embers
glowing fiercely. A nigger was being beaten near by.
They said he had caused the fire in some way; be that
as it may, he was screeching most horribly. I saw him,
later, for several days, sitting in a bit of shade looking
very sick and trying to recover himself: afterwards he
arose and went out -- and the wilderness without a
sound took him into its bosom again. As I approached
the glow from the dark I found myself at the back of
two men, talking. I heard the name of Kurtz pro-
nounced, then the words, 'take advantage of this un-
fortunate accident.' One of the men was the manager. I
wished him a good evening. 'Did you ever see anything
like it -- eh? it is incredible,' he said, and walked off.
The other man remained. He was a first-class agent,
young, gentlemanly, a bit reserved, with a forked
little beard and a hooked nose. He was stand-offish
with the other agents, and they on their side said he
was the manager's spy upon them. As to me, I had
hardly ever spoken to him before. We got into talk,
and by and by we strolled away from the hissing ruins.
Then he asked
me to his room, which was in the main
building of the station. He struck a match, and I
perceived that this young aristocrat had not only a
silver-mounted dressing-case but also a whole candle
all to himself. Just at that time the manager was the
only man supposed to have any right to candles.
Native mats covered the clay walls; a collection of
spears, assegais, shields, knives was hung up in tro-
phies. The business intrusted to this fellow was the
making of bricks -- so I had been informed; but there
wasn't a fragment of a brick anywhere in the station,
and he could not make bricks without something, I
don't know what -- straw maybe. Anyway, it could not
be found there and as it was not likely to be sent from
Europe, it did not appear clear to me what he was
waiting for. An act of special creation perhaps. How-
ever, they were all waiting all the sixteen or twenty
pilgrims of them -- for something; and upon my word
it did not seem an uncongenial occupation, from the
way they took it, though the only thing that ever
came to them was disease -- as far as I could see. They
beguiled the time by backbiting and intriguing against
each other in a foolish kind of way. There was an air
of plotting about that station, but nothing came of it,
of course. It was as unreal as everything else -- as the
philanthropic pretence of the whole concern, as their
talk, as their government, as their show of work. The
only real feeling was a desire to get appointed to a
trading-post where ivory was to be had, so that they
could earn percentages. They intrigued and slandered
and hated each other only on that account -- but as to
effectually lifting a little finger -- oh, no. By heavens!
there is something after all in the world allowing one
man to steal a horse while another must not look at a
halter. Steal a horse straight out. Very well. He has
done it. Perhaps he can ride. But there is a way of
looking at a halter that would provoke the most chari-
table of saints into a kick.
"I had no idea why he wanted to be sociable, but as
we chatted in there it suddenly ocurred to me the
fellow was trying to get at something -- in fact, pump-
ing me. He alluded constantly to Europe, to the peo-
ple I was supposed to know there -- putting leading
questions as to my acquaintances in the sepulchral city,
and so on. His little eyes glittered like mica discs --
with curiosity -- though he tried to keep up a bit of
superciliousness. At first I was astonished, but very
soon I became awfully curious to see what he would
find out from me. I couldn't possibly imagine what I
had in me to make it worth his while. It was very pretty
to see how he baffled himself, for in truth my body was
full only of chills, and my head had nothing in it but
that wretched steamboat business. It was evident he
took me for a perfectly shameless prevaricator. At last
he got angry, and, to conceal a movement of furious
annoyance, he yawned. I rose. Then I noticed a small
sketch in oils, on a panel, representing a woman,
draped and blindfolded, carrying a lighted torch. The
background was sombre -- almost black. The move-
ment of the woman was stately, and the effect of the
torchlight on the face was sinister.
"It arrested me, and he stood by civilly, holding an
empty half-pint champagne bottle (medical comforts)
with the candle stuck in it. To my question he said
Mr. Kurtz had painted this -- in this very station more
than a year ago -- while waiting for means to go to his
trading-post. 'Tell me, pray,' said I, 'who is this Mr.
Kurtz?'
" 'The chief of the Inner Station,' he answered in a
short tone, looking away. 'Much obliged,' I said,
laughing. 'And you are the brickmaker of the Central
Station. Every one knows that.' He was silent for a
while. 'He is a prodigy,' he said at last. 'He is an
emissary of pity and science and progress, and devil
knows what else. We want,' he began to declaim sud-
denly, 'for the guidance of the cause intrusted to us by
Europe, so to speak, higher intelligence, wide sympa-
thies, a singleness of purpose.' 'Who says that?' I
asked. 'Lots of them,' he replied. 'Some even write
that; and so he comes here, a special being, as you
ought to know.' 'Why ought I to know?' I inter-
rupted, really surprised. He paid no attention. 'Yes.
Today he is chief of the best station, next year he will
be assistant-manager, two years more and . . . but I
daresay you know what he will be in two years' time.
You are of the new gang -- the gang of virtue. The
same people who sent him specially also recom-
mended you. Oh, don't say no. I've my own eyes to
trust.' Light dawned upon me. My dear aunt's influ-
ential acquaintances were producing an unexpected
effect upon that young man. I nearly burst into a
laugh. 'Do you read the Company's confidential cor-
respondence?' I asked. He hadn't a word to say. It
was great fun. 'When Mr. Kurtz,' I continued, se-
verely, 'is General Manager, you won't have the op-
portunity.'
"He blew the candle out suddenly, and we went
outside. The moon had risen. Black figures strolled
about listlessly, pouring water on the glow, whence
proceeded a sound of hissing; steam ascended in the
moonlight, the beaten nigger groaned somewhere.
'What a row the brute makes!' said the indefatigable
man with the moustaches, appearing near us. 'Serve
him right. Transgression -- punishment -- bang! Piti-
less, pitiless. That's the only way. This will prevent
all conflagrations for the future. I was just telling the
manager . . .' He noticed my companion, and be-
came crestfallen all at once. 'Not in bed yet,' he said,
with a kind of servile heartiness; 'it's so natural. Ha!
Danger -- agitation.' He vanished. I went on to the
riverside, and the other followed me. I heard a scath-
ing murmur at my ear, 'Heap of muffs -- go to.' The
pilgrims could be seen in knots gesticulating, discuss-
ing. Several had still their staves in their hands. I
verily believe they took these sticks to bed with them.
Beyond the fence the forest stood up spectrally in the
moonlight, and through the dim stir, through the
faint sounds of that lamentable courtyard, the silence
of the land went home to one's very heart -- its mys-
tery, its greatness, the amazing reality of its concealed
life. The hurt nigger moaned feebly somewhere near
by, and then fetched a deep sigh that made me mend
my pace away from there. I felt a hand introducing
itself under my arm. 'My dear sir,' said the fellow, 'I
don't want to be misunderstood, and especially by
you, who will see Mr. Kurtz long before I can have
that pleasure. I wouldn't like him to get a false idea
/>
of my disposition....'
"I let him run on, this papier-mache Mephistophe-
les, and it seemed to me that if I tried I could poke
my forefinger through him, and would find nothing
inside but a little loose dirt, maybe. He, don't you see,
had been planning to be assistant-manager by and by
under the present man, and I could see that the com-
ing of that Kurtz had upset them both not a little. He
talked precipitately, and I did not try to stop him. I
had my shoulders against the wreck of my steamer,
hauled up on the slope like a carcass of some big river
animal. The smell of mud, of primeval mud, by Jove!
was in my nostrils, the high stillness of primeval for-
est was before my eyes; there were shiny patches on
the black creek. The moon had spread over every-
thing a thin layer of silver -- over the rank grass, over
the mud, upon the wall of matted vegetation standing
higher than the wall of a temple, over the great river
I could see through a sombre gap glittering, glitter-
ing, as it flowed broadly by without a murmur. All
this was great, expectant, mute, while the man jab-
bered about himself. I wondered whether the stillness
on the face of the immensity looking at us two were
meant as an appeal or as a menace. What were we who
had strayed in here? Could we handle that dumb
thing, or would it handle us? I felt how big, how
confoundedly big, was that thing that couldn't talk,
and perhaps was deaf as well. What was in there? I
could see a little ivory coming out from there, and I
had heard Mr. Kurtz was in there. I had heard
enough about it, too -- God knows! Yet somehow it
didn't bring any image with it -- no more than if I had
been told an angel or a fiend was in there. I believed
it in the same way one of you might believe there are
inhabitants in the planet Mars. I knew once a Scotch
sailmaker who was certain, dead sure, there were peo-
ple in Mars. If you asked him for some idea how they
looked and behaved, he would get shy and mutter
something about 'walking on all-fours.' If you as
much as smiled, he would -- though a man of sixty --
offer to fight you. I would not have gone so far as to
fight for Kurtz, but I went for him near enough to
lie. You know I hate, detest, and can't bear a lie, not
because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simply
because it appalls me. There is a taint of death, a
flavour of mortality in lies which is exactly what I
hate and detest in the world -- what I want to forget.
It makes me miserable and sick, like biting something
rotten would do. Temperament, I suppose. Well, I
went near enough to it by letting the young fool there
believe anything he liked to imagine as to my influ-
ence in Europe. I became in an instant as much of a
pretence as the rest of the bewitched pilgrims. This
simply because I had a notion it somehow would be of
help to that Kurtz whom at the time I did not see
you understand. He was just a word for me. I did
not see the man in the name any more than you
do. Do you see him? Do you see the story? Do you
see anything? It seems to me I am trying to tell you
a dream -- making a vain attempt, because no relation
of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that com-
mingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in
a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being
captured by the incredible which is of the very essence
of dreams...."
He was silent for a while.
". . . No, it is impossible; it is impossible to con-
vey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's ex-
istence -- that which makes its truth, its meaning its
subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We
live, as we dream alone...."
He paused again again if reflecting, then added:
"Of course in this you fellows see more than I
could then. You see me, whom you know. . . ."
It had become so pitch dark that we listeners could
hardly see one another. For a long time already he,
sitting apart, had been no more to us than a voice.
There was not a word from anybody. The others
might have been asleep, but I was awake. I listened, I
listened on the watch for the sentence, for the word,
that would give me the clue to the faint uneasi-
ness inspired by this narrative that seemed to shape
itself without human lips in the heavy night-air of the
river.
". . . Yes -- I let him run on," Marlow began
again, "and think what he pleased about the powers
that were behind me. I did! And there was nothing
Heart of Darkness Page 4