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Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 157 to 162 Final Episode

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157 of 162 
 
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 who 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 any one 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 
 
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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 or 
something. And indeed I don’t know whether he had not 
been a pauper 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 soughing 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 
 
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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 of all 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. 
You and I—’ 
‘‘We shall always remember him,’ I said hastily. 
‘‘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. 
 
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‘‘And his example,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Men 
looked up to him— his goodness shone 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.’ 
‘‘His end,’ said I, with dull anger stirring in me, ‘was in 
every way worthy of his life.’ 
‘‘And I was not with him,’ she murmured. My anger 
subsided before a feeling of infinite pity. 
‘‘Everything that could be done—’ I mumbled. 
 
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‘‘Ah, but I believed in him more than any one 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—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 heart-broken 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. ‘Don’t you 
understand I loved him—I loved him—I loved him!’ 
‘I pulled myself together and spoke slowly. 
‘‘The last word he pronounced was—your name.’ 
 
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‘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; she had hidden her face in her hands. 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….’ 
Marlow 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 offing was barred by a 
black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to 
the uttermost ends of the earth flowed sombre under an 
overcast sky— seemed to lead into the heart of an 
immense darkness.</div>
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Horror Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 157 to 162 Final Episode

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Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 151 to 156

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 Download Complete Heart of The Darkness Free E book <a href="http://dollarupload.com/dl/ec8cd" target="_blank">Here</a> 151 of 162 and to this day I am 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 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 Heart of Darkness 152 of 162 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 would do,’ and took himself off with this 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 ycan be made to lie, too, yet one felt that no manipulation of light and pose could have conveyed the delicate shade of truthfulness upon those features. She seemed ready to listen without mental reservation, without suspicion, without a thought for herself. I concluded I would go and give her back her portrait and those letters myself. Curiosity? Yes; and also some other feeling perhaps. All that had been Kurtz’s 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 Heart of Darkness 153 of 162 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 in 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 worshippers, 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 heart 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 Heart of Darkness 154 of 162 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. H’m. It is a difficult case. What do you think I ought to do—resist? Eh? 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 drawingroom 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 shone in indistinct curves. The tall marble fireplace had a cold and Heart of Darkness 155 of 162 monumental whiteness. A grand piano stood massively in a corner; with dark gleams on the flat surfaces like a sombre 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 seemed 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 perceived she was one of those creatures that are not the playthings of Time. For her he had died only Heart of Darkness 156 of 162 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. Do you understand? 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,’ she said. ‘It was impossible to know him and not to admire him. Was it?’ ‘‘He was a remarkable man,’ I said, unsteadily. Then before the appealing fixity of her gaze, that seemed to </div>
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Horror Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 151 to 156

Heart of Darkness Heart of Darkness D ownload Complete Heart of The Darkness Free E book Here 151 of 162 and to this day ...

Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 144 to 150

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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 a duty.’ 
‘His was an impenetrable darkness. I looked at him as 
you peer down at a man who is 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 a 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 tremulously, ‘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 
 
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again. Oh, I wasn’t touched. I was fascinated. It was as 
though a veil had been rent. I saw on that ivory face the 
expression of sombre 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: 
‘‘The horror! The 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: 
‘‘Mistah Kurtz—he dead.’ 
‘All the pilgrims rushed out to see. I remained, and 
went on with my dinner. I believe I was considered 
brutally callous. However, I did not eat much. There was 
 
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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 Kurtz there 
and then. I did not. I remained to dream the nightmare 
out to the end, and to show my loyalty to Kurtz 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 tepid scepticism, 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 
 
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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 Kurtz 
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 could 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 
candour, it had conviction, it had a vibrating note of 
revolt in its whisper, it had the appalling face of a glimpsed 
truth—the strange commingling 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 for the evanescence of all things—even 
of this pain itself. No! It is 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</div>
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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 satisfactions. 
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 resenting 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 pretence, 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</div>
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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 had no 
particular desire to enlighten them, but I had some 
difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces 
so full of stupid importance. I dareway 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 admit 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 
suavely 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 spectacled man. He</div>
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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 postscriptum 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 lank grey hair flowing over a 
greasy coat-collar. I had no reason to doubt his statement;</div>
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Horror Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 144 to 150

Heart of Darkness Heart of Darkness D ownload Complete Heart of Darkness Ebook Here 144 of 162 eyes, and I withdre...

Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 137 to 143

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  137 of 162 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. ‘And now for this stupid scoundrel—’ ‘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 Heart of Darkness 138 of 162 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, and 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 Heart of Darkness 139 of 162 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 it 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, and 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 under me as though I had carried half a ton on my back down that hill. And yet I had only supported him, his bony arm clasped round my neck—and he was not much heavier than a child. ‘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 down stream, and two thousand eyes followed the evolutions of the splashing, thumping, fierce riverdemon beating the water with its terrible tail and breathing black smoke into the air. In front of the first rank, along the river, three men, plastered with bright red Heart of Darkness 140 of 162 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 shook towards the fierce riverdemon a bunch of black feathers, a mangy skin with a pendent tail—something that looked a dried gourd; 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 shout 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 colourless lips that a moment after twitched convulsively. ‘Do I not?’ he said Heart of Darkness 141 of 162 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 some one on deck disconsolately. 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 red chaps 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 sombre 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 Heart of Darkness 142 of 162 comprehensive and satisfied glance: the ‘affair’ had come off as well as could be wished. I saw the time approaching when I would be left alone of the party of ‘unsound method.’ The pilgrims looked upon me with disfavour. 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 discoursed. 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! The wastes of his weary brain were haunted by shadowy images now—images of wealth and fame revolving obsequiously round his unextinguishable gift of noble and lofty expression. 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 with primitive emotions, avid of lying fame, of sham distinction, of all the appearances of success and power. Heart of Darkness 143 of 162 ‘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 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 wring 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 shoe-string. ‘Keep this for me,’ he said. ‘This noxious fool’ (meaning the manager) ‘is capable of prying into my boxes when I am not looking.’ In the afternoon I saw him. He was lying on his back with closed </div>
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Horror Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 137 to 143

Heart of Darkness Heart of Darkness 137 of 162 thing. ‘You will be lost,’ I said—’utterly lost.’ One gets sometimes such a fl...

Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 131 to 136

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  131 of 162 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 near by.’ ‘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 seaman 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. Oh, I had an awful time of it this last month.’ ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘He is all right now.’ ‘Ye-e-es,’ he muttered, not very convinced apparently. ‘Thanks,’ said I; ‘I shall keep my eyes open.’ ‘But 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. I am off. Could you give me a few Martini-Henry cartridges?’ I Heart of Darkness 132 of 162 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 sandalwise under his bare feet. I rooted out an old pair, at which he looked with admiration before tucking it under his left arm. One of his pockets (bright red) was bulging with cartridges, from the other (dark blue) peeped ‘Towson’s 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!’ ‘Good-bye,’ said I. He shook hands and vanished in the night. Sometimes I ask 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 starred darkness, real enough to make me get up for the purpose of having a look round. On the hill a big fire Heart of Darkness 133 of 162 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 Heart of Darkness</div>
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  134 of 162 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 any one 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 exultation with which I Heart of Darkness 135 of 162 said to myself, ‘He can’t walk—he is crawling on allfours— 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 drubbing. I don’t know. I had some imbecile thoughts. 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 Winchesters held to the hip. I thought I would never get back to the steamer, and imagined 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 wide semicircle (I verily believe chuckling to myself) so as to get in front of that stir, of that motion I had seen—if indeed I had seen anything. I was circumventing Kurtz as though it had been a boyish game. Heart of Darkness 136 of 162 ‘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 vapour 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 vigour 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. A black figure stood up, strode on long black legs, waving long black arms, across the glow. 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 </div>
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Horror Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 131 to 136

Heart of Darkness Heart of Darkness 131 of 162 some excuse. What’s to stop them? There’s a military post three hundred mile...

Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 124 to 130

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  124 of 162 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 astir, 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 bearers 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 shot-guns, a heavy rifle, and a light revolvercarbine— 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 Heart of Darkness</div>
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  125 of 162 know. We had brought his belated correspondence, and a lot of torn envelopes and open letters littered his bed. His hand roamed feebly amongst these papers. I was struck by the fire of his eyes and the composed languor of his expression. 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 moment 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 the 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, Heart of Darkness 126 of 162 and near the river two bronze figures, leaning on tall spears, stood in the sunlight under fantastic head-dresses 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 cloths, treading the earth proudly, with a slight jingle and flash of barbarous ornaments. She carried her head high; her hair was done in the shape of a helmet; she had brass leggings to the knee, brass wire gauntlets to the elbow, a crimson spot on her tawny cheek, innumerable necklaces of glass beads on her neck; 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. Her face had Heart of Darkness 127 of 162 a tragic and fierce aspect of wild sorrow and of dumb pain mingled with the fear of some struggling, half-shaped resolve. 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 bared 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 have been risking my life every day for the Heart of Darkness 128 of 162 last fortnight to keep her out of the house. She got in one day and kicked up a row about those 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. Ah, 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. You with your little peddling notions—you are interfering with me. I will return. I….’ ‘The manager came out. He did me the honour 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 Heart of Darkness 129 of 162 vigorous action. Cautiously, cautiously—that’s my principle. We must be cautious yet. The district is closed to us for a time. Deplorable! 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 exulted. ‘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 Mr. 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 favour 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. Heart of Darkness 130 of 162 ‘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 conceal— 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 regard to 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</div>
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Horror Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 124 to 130

Heart of Darkness Heart of Darkness 124 of 162 was as true as everything else in his life— and death. He looked at least se...

Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 117 to 123

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Heart of Darkness 
 
Download Complete Heart of The Darknee Free Ebook <a href="http://dollarupload.com/dl/ec8cd" target="_blank">Here</a> 
 
117 of 162 
 
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, 
 
Heart of Darkness 
 
118 of 162 
 
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 
 
Heart of Darkness 
 
119 of 162 
 
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 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 vultures 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 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 
 
Heart of Darkness 
 
120 of 162 
 
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 
 
Heart of Darkness 
 
121 of 162 
 
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 veriest 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. Those 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 
 
Heart of Darkness 
 
122 of 162 
 
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 groaned. ‘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 splendour, with a murky and overshadowed bend 
above 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 waded waist-deep in the grass, in a compact 
body, bearing an improvised stretcher in their midst. 
 
Heart of Darkness 
123 of 162 
 
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, halfway to the 
steamer, as if petrified. I saw the man on the stretcher sit 
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 dishonouring 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</div>
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Horror Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 117 to 123

Heart of Darkness Heart of Darkness D ownload Complete Heart of The Darknee Free Ebook Here 117 of 162 leave him. I had...

Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 109 to 16

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Heart of Darkness 109 of 162 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 Heart of Darkness 110 of 162 harm,’ he said; and as I stared he corrected himself, ‘Not exactly.’ Then vivaciously, ‘My faith, your pilot-house wants a clean-up!’ In the next breath he advised me to keep enough steam on the boiler to blow the whistle in case of any trouble. ‘One good screech will do more for you than all your rifles. They are simple people,’ he repeated. He rattled away at such a rate he quite overwhelmed me. He seemed to be trying to make up for lots of silence, and actually hinted, laughing, that such was the case. ‘Don’t you talk with Mr. Kurtz?’ I said. ‘You don’t talk with that man—you listen to him,’ he exclaimed with severe exaltation. ‘But now—’ He waved his arm, and in the twinkling of an eye was in the 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; Heart of Darkness 111 of 162 was now reconciled with the arch-priest. He made a point of that. ‘But when one is young one must see things, gather experience, ideas; enlarge the mind.’ ‘Here!’ I interrupted. ‘You can never tell! Here I met Mr. Kurtz,’ he said, youthfully solemn and reproachful. I held my tongue after that. It appears he had persuaded a Dutch trading-house on the coast to fit him out with stores and goods, and had started for the interior with a light heart and no more idea of what would happen to him than a baby. He had been wandering about that river for nearly two years alone, cut off from everybody and everything. ‘I am not so young as I look. I am twenty-five,’ he said. ‘At first old Van Shuyten would tell me to go to the devil,’ he narrated with keen enjoyment; ‘but I stuck to him, and talked and talked, till at last he got afraid I would talk the hind-leg off his favourite dog, so he gave me some cheap things and a few guns, and told me he hoped he would never see my face again. Good old Dutchman, Van Shuyten. I’ve sent him one small lot of ivory a year ago, so that he can’t call me a little thief when I get back. I hope he got it. And for the rest I don’t care. I had some wood stacked for you. That was my old house. Did you see?’ ‘I gave him Towson’s book. He made as though he would kiss me, but restrained himself. ‘The only book I Heart of Darkness 112 of 162 had left, and I thought I had lost it,’ he said, looking at it ecstatically. ‘So many accidents happen to a man going about alone, you know. Canoes get upset sometimes—and sometimes you’ve got to clear out so quick when the people get angry.’ He thumbed the pages. ‘You made notes in Russian?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘I thought they were written in cipher,’ I said. He laughed, then became serious. ‘I had lots of trouble to keep these people off,’ he said. ‘Did they want to kill you?’ I asked. ‘Oh, no!’ he cried, and checked himself. ‘Why did they attack us?’ I pursued. He hesitated, then said shamefacedly, ‘They don’t want him to go.’ ‘Don’t they?’ I said curiously. He nodded a nod full of mystery and wisdom. ‘I tell you,’ he cried, ‘this man has enlarged my mind.’ He opened his arms wide, staring at me with his little blue eyes that were perfectly round.’ Heart of Darkness 113 of 162 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 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. ‘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 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 Heart of Darkness 114 of 162 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 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.’ Heart of Darkness 115 of 162 ‘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 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 Heart of Darkness 116 of 162 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 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! 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 </div>
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Horror Heart of Darkness 3 Episode 109 to 16

Heart of Darkness Heart of Darkness 109 of 162 neat withal, because you could see how beautifully all this patching had been do...

100 WEST BY 53 NORTH

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                      THIS IS A SHAREWARE TRIAL PROJECT                                           IT IS NOT "FREEWARE" WE NEED YOUR SUPPORT TO CONTINUE   100 WEST BY 53 NORTH      by       Jim Prentice           Copyright 1990, Jim Prentice, Brandon, Manitoba, CANADA           North of 53. A magic phrase. Spoken, mumbled or thought      inwardly by thousands of souls venturing northward. An      imaginary line, shown only on maps and labelled 53 degrees.      It's presence indicated to highway travellers by road side      signs.           A division of territory as distinct in the mind as any      international border.           If you have not been "North of 53", you have not been      north!           Travellers and writers, poets and pilots, have      contributed to the lore of the north. The rigors of life in      the bush are told in tales of man eating mosquitoes, of      murderous hordes of black flies, of the lumps of flesh      carried away by the giant bull dog flies.           The stories of record breaking trout, walleye, and pike      are legion. There are tales of sights and sounds heard deep      in the spruce forests:           The crashing of moose, tearing through brush and      breaking down trees. The drumming of grouse. The incessant      hum of insects. The cackling quackery of ducks feeding on      quiet ponds and placid bays.           Once heard, the intermittent song of the loon is never      forgotten. It's voice the signature of authenticity of a      northern scene.           If the wildlife in the northern bush land seems      different than found elsewhere, so is the life of man. It      takes a special breed of person to live in the north. The      farther one travels, the more this becomes apparent. The      Southerner, whether on his first or fiftieth trip north of      53, never really becomes aware of the implications of      northern living.           Generally, the owners of "cottages" on southern lakes      have more amenities at hand for a weekend of "roughing it"      than most northern dwellers have on a year round basis.           The modern cabin on a lake shore near a large      metropolitan center is equipped with electric service, a      telephone, paved roads, natural gas pipelines, and cable      television.           Nearby are services that provide food, fuel, repairs,      and entertainment. Drivein theaters and fast food chains      abound. Waterfront businesses have docks built for those      arriving by boat to do their shopping, laundry, or to      transfer suitcases from the family car. The local merchants      deliver goods to the cabin by road or by water.      Entrepreneurs make a businesss of servicing and maintaining      cabins during the owners absence in the off seasons.           Most of these "cottages", whether on the lake shore, or      located five well paved streets from the water, rival the      homes of many city dwellers. These lake side communities,      although seasonal, differ little from the urban living from      which they offer escape.           Look at an average northern community. Study and      compare the standards with those of urban areas and their      nearby lake side retreats.           There are no local bus services. If the car doesn't      start you either walk, or call a taxi. Yes, most areas do      have a taxi service of one kind or another. Even if it's a      ride in the back of some one's pick up truck.           Mail delivery is unknown. A pleasant stroll in      midsummer is contrasted by an ordeal in life threatening      conditions during winter.           House to house delivery of milk and bread is      nonexistent. Perhaps newspapers are delivered, but it      requires a family effort, especially in winter.           Bus, rail and scheduled air services to nearby      settlements is severely restricted, if available at all.      Many small taxi companies exist because of the large fares      collected in the transport of natives to and from the      reserves.           Although diminishing in recent years, the bushpilot and      charter aircraft still play a large role in northern      transportation.           The pilots of these small aircraft learn to live with      conditions that would keep their southern colleagues on the      ground.           In summer they fly float equipped aircraft. They are      busy hauling trappers, fishermen, freight, fish, furs, and      supplies to and from the reserves, fish camps, traplines,      logging areas, and small settlements.           In the fall, when the ice is too thin for skis, yet too      thick for floats, they change the aircraft to wheel      equipment. Changing to skis when ice conditions permit.           Winter flying presents problems that most pilots never      hear of. Temperatures exceeding 40 below zero, blowing snow,      ice crystals, and whiteouts. All these challenge the pilot      in their daily work. The preheating of engines to coax them      to life. The problem of congealed oil in propeller pitch      mechanisms, and fueling with super cooled gasoline are      regular chores.           The ski-equipped aircraft must be tied down with ropes      that are frozen into holes in the four foot ice. The skis      must be lifted or run onto boards or poles to prevent them      freezing into the ice.           Pilots and passengers must wear heavy arctic clothing      as few aircraft have cabin heat systems capable of coping      with the cold. Aircraft batteries are removed at the end of      each day of flying to ensure maximum efficiency the next      day. Wings and engines are covered to stop the ingress of      snow and the build up of frost on the flight surfaces.      Gasoline fueled blow-pots are often carried to provide      engine preheat to ensure starting. The oil in these engines      gets so thick at minus 40 to 50 degrees that the engine      cannot be turned. This writer has done chin-ups on the      propeller of a coldsoaked Cessna which flew the next day      after preheating.           The northern airports lack any degree of services in      comparison to those farther south. Fuel is usually available      if you can locate the operator. Some of the larger      communities may have a pay telephone at the airstrip, but      the normal procedure is to buzz the town on arrival. This      lets the people know you are landing and usually someone      will head out to the strip to meet you.           Unless you are a regular customer, all transactions for      fuel and oil are on a cash basis. Cheques are nearly useless      in a village without a bank. Credit to a stranger is      foolhardy.           During the grip of winter, the snowmobile is the major      mode of transport in all but the largest of settlements. In      many places that do have roads in winter, vehicles are left      running 24 hours a day. If allowed to get cold, it may take      many hours of effort to restart balky engines.           Most northern residents enjoy the winter months. The      change  in seasons brings on a change in activities. The      boats and motors are stored away with the lawnmowers and      garden chairs. The snowmobiles are tuned up, ice-fishing      shacks are towed onto lakes and rivers. The blades of gas-      powered ice augers are sharpened. The fishermen flock to      their favorite spots and drill holes through ice up to four      feet thick.           Whether in the comfort of a shack with a woodburning      stove glowing in the center, or huddled on the ice in the      lee of a snowmobile, they normally take a good catch.      Walleye, trout, pike, tullibee and whitefish as well as      perch, burbot, catfish and bass are plentiful. The most      popular bait is minnows, some use sucker-belly, or net bags      of trout eggs. Others use metal spoons or large bucktail      flies, lead-headed jigging lures, or just snelled hooks. As      in summer, the best bait is whatever the fish are taking at      the time.           Moose hunting is another favorite sport, especially in      the colder weather when the moose are on the move for food      and warmth. The hunter faces problems similar to the pilot      with his equipment. The extreme temperatures require that      his snowmachine be kept in top condition if it is to start      after a day of hunting. Once started it must be dependable.      A life and death situation could develop if the machine      breaks down while 40 or 50 miles from home.           Even his rifle requires special care. A bolt covered      with heavy grease will freeze solid in the cold. The firing      pin may not move when struck by the hammer. Many a moose and      bear lived to face another day because a hunter's weapon      failed to operate.           Other outdoor activities include cross country skiing,      snowmobiling, and racing dog teams. These sports are      included in the many winter festivals held each year.           As spring arrives, the winter equipment is stored away      and once again the boats and motors are brought out. Wagers      are made on the time and date of the break up of river ice.      The snow blowers, shovels, and skidoo suits are replaced      with lawn mowers, rakes, and bathing suits.           The pussy willows blossom. The ducks and geese return      from their winter feeding grounds in the southern U.S.A..      The frogs begin to croak and the first battalions of      mosquitoes are hatched.           From the winter lows of 40 below zero, the mercury      climbs upward. The summer highs reach the 90's, sometimes      100 degrees. A fantastic differential of 140 degrees between      seasons.           Through the seasons, day to day life continues. The      sport and commercial fishing, the trapping and hunting. The      road building, home construction, and landscaping. The      pilots fly passengers and freight. They fly patrols on      hundreds of miles of hydro-electric transmission lines and      forest fire patrols. At regular intervals they carry      conservationists doing animal census. They transport tanks      of baby fish to restock the lakes. The seriously ill or      injured are taken to medical centers by MEDEVAC flights.           Other flights carry fishermen, and tourists.      Prospectors vie with geologists, botanists, biologists,      entomologists, and surveyors. All use the aircraft to see,      touch, smell, measure and record the wonders of the north.           The opening day of each hunting or fishing season is      heralded by the arrival of recreational vehicles of all      types. Trailers and vans, motorhomes and 4X4's arrive daily.      They carry or tow boats and motors, bicycles, motorcycles,      and ATVs. The "first-timers" fill the private and provincial      government campgrounds. The more experienced and      adventuresome travel logging roads and bush trails to              favorite lakes, rivers, and streams.           In town, the streets and parking lots are crammed with      vehicles and equipment.           Gasoline, food, booze, and fishing equipment are sold      in great quantities.           The hotels are full. Reservations were made months in      advance, some were made prior to leaving the year before.           For a few short weeks, during the prime spring fishing      period, every available camping spot is occupied.           As the summer wears on, the sportsmen recede and      tourists take their place. The cycle repeats annually.           Each year a number of travellers arrive in privately      owned aircraft. Piper Cub to Beechcraft. Taildragger to      bizjet. Most have been here before, to some it is a new      experience.           To a southern pilot, a trip north can be unnerving.      Accustomed to flying over a network of roads and railroad      tracks, always in contact with an airport or navigation aid,      they are seldom prepared for the realities of northern      flight.           Airports are hundreds of miles apart. In most cases      there are no roads or railways for navigation. At lower      altitudes, voice contact with an airport is an exception      rather than the rule.           Flight plans of course are mandatory. Map reading is      difficult. There are so many lakes, many of them the same      basic shape that a sharp eye must be kept on the map.           For seaplanes, the ever present danger of logs, rocks,      and reefs is amplified by the distance from civilization.      Flights must be carefully planned around suitable refueling      facilities.           The pilot of a private seaplane is in his own element      here. The pleasure of landing on a remote lake, its quiet      green waters undisturbed by others, is indescribable.               After securing the aircraft and setting up camp, the      true beauty of the north can be enjoyed.           Waters teeming with fish, are surrounded by wildlife of      all types. The smells of wood smoke and coffee mingling with      the sound of fresh fish sizzling in the frypan.            The songs of bird life. The cry of the loon. The      evening wail of coyotes and wolves. The whistle of wings as      ducks, geese, ravens, hawks, and eagles travel down the      shoreline. On the lakes are the wakes of passing beaver and      muskrat. The occasional warning smack of a beaver's tail on      the water as he senses danger.           The varied hues of trees, evergreen and deciduous. The      colors of windflowers. The taste of fresh wild strawberries,      raspberries, and blueberries.           The excitement of an evening sky dancing with a      dazzling display as the Aurora Borealis appears. The      "Northern Lights" are surrounded by stars, incredibly      brilliant against the black, smog free heavens.           Thoughts in the night.... Lying in your tent you hear      rustling noises. A twig snaps. Mouse or rabbit? Moose or      bear? Is the food secure? You visualize the food bundle,      securely tied to a tree branch, high above the ground.           The wind is rising, you can hear small waves breaking      on the shore. Is the airplane alright? Should you go and      check it?           What will the fishing be like in the morning? Will you      get another chance to land the big Walleye that you lost to      day. Or a bigger one?           A lone mosquito buzzes your ear. Somehow he has      penetrated the netting of your tent.           The cry of a loon is the last thing you hear. You sleep      peacefully until the songs of early morning bird life      announce the start of a new day.           But for the constant buzz-sting-slap of insect warfare,      you might be in heaven.           Far to the south, your friends and neighbors are also      facing a new day.           Howling dogs. Screaming kids. Squealing tires. The wail      of police and fire sirens. The reek of diesel fumes from      passing trucks and busses. Telephones jangle and typewriters      clatter. The work piles up.            Dissatisfied customers grumble. The boss looms      threateningly.           They jostle in line for a bus, then for coffee, then      for lunch. They fight traffic to get home.           The neighbor's dog has left a deposit on the lawn. The      children's toys are cluttering the driveway.           They sit down to a TV dinner and discuss your crazy      fishing trip.           The day to day life in the north does have it's      problems; if you happen to own a car for which there is no      local dealer, you may have to order parts from hundreds of      miles away and have them shipped in by bus or plane.      Meanwhile the car sits. The same applies to appliances,      tools, and so on.           There may not be a TV repairman in town. You must send      the set out for repairs, or, buy a new one. By mail order of      course. Providing your community has a TV station to begin      with.           Most northern communities have only one radio station.      The CBC. Some are augmented by local programming.           Other services may be difficult to obtain. For example,      a veterinarian may visit weekly, or monthly, or not at all.      Medical facilities are usually present to some extent, but      any serious illness or injury may require a MEDEVAC flight      to a distant city.           Fresh meat and produce become more of a problem in the      more remote areas. If road or rail service exists the      problem is not too acute. However, in many communities, the      only access is by air. In this event the shipment of      perishable commodities is dependant on space available on      the aircraft. The subsequent prices reflect the added cost      of the product.           On the subject of costs, heating a home with propane      may be five to seven times the cost of natural gas as in      southern homes. Food, gasoline, clothing, and appliances,      are considerably more expensive in the north. Of course the      more remote the location the higher the price.           On a trip into the high arctic a few years ago the      prices ran like this:           Hotel bed $100.00 per night,  per man           Breakfast (2 eggs, 2 toast,             2 bacon, and 2 coffee)             $12.00           Avgas $7.00 per gallon           But then, when you are 250 miles north of the arctic      circle, you expect to pay higher prices.           Why then, do people live in the north?           For the natives it is a matter of ancestry. For many      whites it is also ancestry. To some, they were born there.      Their parents having moved north for employment reasons.           Some are transients, following construction jobs and      other seasonal employment. Others, working for large      corporations or government, are transferred north as a job      requirement.           Life in the north is definitely different. A person      accustomed to life in a large city may  not endure the      rigors involved. They give it up and move south.           Many people, such as myself, move north for an extended      period. In our case it was 10 years. We adapted to the way      of life. We enjoyed the hunting and fishing.           Owning our own aircraft, we were able to travel more      independently than our neighbors. We enjoyed all the great      outdoors had to offer. We learned to adjust to the lack of      night life, and other amenities.           When 10 years had passed, and our children were adults,      we took stock of our situation.           We were stuck in a rut. The same rut that most of the      townspeople were in. Our lives centered around hunting,      fishing, the Post Office, and the TV set.           We decided it was a case of moving now, or possibly      remaining in the north for the rest of our lives.           We left in February of 1984!           We miss the delicious fresh fish from cold clear lakes.      We miss the taste of thick moose steaks, moosemeat sausages,      fresh smoked lake trout, and pancakes with fresh, wild      blueberries. We miss the freedom afforded by a short flight      to a secluded lake shore.           The fishing and hunting within 10 miles of our northern      home was superb. The friendship and camaraderie of our      neighbors was great.           We are happy to have had the opportunity to experience      northern life. But, as we approached the midpoint of our      lives, we wanted to return to civilization. To pick up where      we had left off. To enjoy the supermarkets, and shopping      malls, the fancy restaurants, and gourmet foods. We wanted      to be closer to the center of things, a few hours drive from      a major city rather than an all day trip.           We returned to old friends, and new neighbors. New      stores, and home mail delivery. Lower prices. Broader      choices. More to do and see. More TV channels. Several radio      stations, and newspapers.           We can drive east or west besides north and south. We      can dance to live music and eat in restaurants of many      nationalities.           In short, we are back to civilization       THE END          214 </div>
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