Heart of Darkness 2 Episode 102 to 108

 Heart of Darkness 2 Episode 102 to 108

Heart of Darkness

102 of 162

that’s difficult enough. Mind, I am not trying to excuse or
even explain—I am trying to account to myself for—for—
Mr. Kurtz—for the shade of Mr. Kurtz. This initiated
wraith from the back of Nowhere honoured me with its
amazing confidence before it vanished altogether. This was
because it could speak English to me. The original Kurtz
had been educated partly in England, and—as he was good
enough to say himself—his sympathies were in the right
place. His mother was half-English, his father was half-
French. All Europe contributed to the making of Kurtz;
and by and by I learned that, most appropriately, the
International Society for the Suppression of Savage
Customs had intrusted him with the making of a report,
for its future guidance. And he had written it, too. I’ve
seen it. I’ve read it. It was eloquent, vibrating with
eloquence, but too high-strung, I think. Seventeen pages
of close writing he had found time for! But this must have
been before his—let us say—nerves, went wrong, and
caused him to preside at certain midnight dances ending
with unspeakable rites, which—as far as I reluctantly
gathered from what I heard at various times—were offered
up to him— do you understand?—to Mr. Kurtz himself.
But it was a beautiful piece of writing. The opening
paragraph, however, in the light of later information,

Heart of Darkness

103 of 162

strikes me now as ominous. He began with the argument
that we whites, from the point of development we had
arrived at, ‘must necessarily appear to them [savages] in the
nature of supernatural beings— we approach them with
the might of a deity,’ and so on, and so on. ‘By the simple
exercise of our will we can exert a power for good
practically unbounded,’ etc., etc. From that point he
soared and took me with him. The peroration was
magnificent, though difficult to remember, you know. It
gave me the notion of an exotic Immensity ruled by an
august Benevolence. It made me tingle with enthusiasm.
This was the unbounded power of eloquence—of
words—of burning noble words. There were no practical
hints to interrupt the magic current of phrases, unless a
kind of note at the foot of the last page, scrawled evidently
much later, in an unsteady hand, may be regarded as the
exposition of a method. It was very simple, and at the end
of that moving appeal to every altruistic sentiment it
blazed at you, luminous and terrifying, like a flash of
lightning in a serene sky: ‘Exterminate all the brutes!’ The
curious part was that he had apparently forgotten all about
that valuable postscriptum, because, later on, when he in a
sense came to himself, he repeatedly entreated me to take
good care of ‘my pamphlet’ (he called it), as it was sure to

Heart of Darkness

104 of 162

have in the future a good influence upon his career. I had
full information about all these things, and, besides, as it
turned out, I was to have the care of his memory. I’ve
done enough for it to give me the indisputable right to lay
it, if I choose, for an everlasting rest in the dust-bin of
progress, amongst all the sweepings and, figuratively
speaking, all the dead cats of civilization. But then, you
see, I can’t choose. He won’t be forgotten. Whatever he
was, he was not common. He had the power to charm or
frighten rudimentary souls into an aggravated witch-dance
in his honour; he could also fill the small souls of the
pilgrims with bitter misgivings: he had one devoted friend
at least, and he had conquered one soul in the world that
was neither rudimentary nor tainted with self-seeking. No;
I can’t forget him, though I am not prepared to affirm the
fellow was exactly worth the life we lost in getting to him.
I missed my late helmsman awfully— I missed him even
while his body was still lying in the pilot-house. Perhaps
you will think it passing strange this regret for a savage
who was no more account than a grain of sand in a black
Sahara. Well, don’t you see, he had done something, he
had steered; for months I had him at my back— a help—
an instrument. It was a kind of partnership. He steered for
me—I had to look after him, I worried about his

Heart of Darkness

105 of 162

deficiencies, and thus a subtle bond had been created, of
which I only became aware when it was suddenly broken.
And the intimate profundity of that look he gave me
when he received his hurt remains to this day in my
memory— like a claim of distant kinship affirmed in a
supreme moment.
‘Poor fool! If he had only left that shutter alone. He
had no restraint, no restraint—just like Kurtz—a tree
swayed by the wind. As soon as I had put on a dry pair of
slippers, I dragged him out, after first jerking the spear out
of his side, which operation I confess I performed with my
eyes shut tight. His heels leaped together over the little
doorstep; his shoulders were pressed to my breast; I
hugged him from behind desperately. Oh! he was heavy,
heavy; heavier than any man on earth, I should imagine.
Then without more ado I tipped him overboard. The
current snatched him as though he had been a wisp of
grass, and I saw the body roll over twice before I lost sight
of it for ever. All the pilgrims and the manager were then
congregated on the awning-deck about the pilot-house,
chattering at each other like a flock of excited magpies,
and there was a scandalized murmur at my heartless
promptitude. What they wanted to keep that body
hanging about for I can’t guess. Embalm it, maybe. But I

Heart of Darkness

106 of 162

had also heard another, and a very ominous, murmur on
the deck below. My friends the wood-cutters were
likewise scandalized, and with a better show of reason—
though I admit that the reason itself was quite
inadmissible. Oh, quite! I had made up my mind that if
my late helmsman was to be eaten, the fishes alone should
have him. He had been a very second-rate helmsman
while alive, but now he was dead he might have become a
first-class temptation, and possibly cause some startling
trouble. Besides, I was anxious to take the wheel, the man
in pink pyjamas showing himself a hopeless duffer at the
business.
‘This I did directly the simple funeral was over. We
were going half-speed, keeping right in the middle of the
stream, and I listened to the talk about me. They had
given up Kurtz, they had given up the station; Kurtz was
dead, and the station had been burnt—and so on—and so
on. The red-haired pilgrim was beside himself with the
thought that at least this poor Kurtz had been properly
avenged. ‘Say! We must have made a glorious slaughter of
them in the bush. Eh? What do you think? Say?’ He
positively danced, the bloodthirsty little gingery beggar.
And he had nearly fainted when he saw the wounded
man! I could not help saying, ‘You made a glorious lot of

Heart of Darkness

107 of 162

smoke, anyhow.’ I had seen, from the way the tops of the
bushes rustled and flew, that almost all the shots had gone
too high. You can’t hit anything unless you take aim and
fire from the shoulder; but these chaps fired from the hip
with their eyes shut. The retreat, I maintained—and I was
right—was caused by the screeching of the steam whistle.
Upon this they forgot Kurtz, and began to howl at me
with indignant protests.
‘The manager stood by the wheel murmuring
confidentially about the necessity of getting well away
down the river before dark at all events, when I saw in the
distance a clearing on the riverside and the outlines of
some sort of building. ‘What’s this?’ I asked. He clapped
his hands in wonder. ‘The station!’ he cried. I edged in at
once, still going half-speed.
‘Through my glasses I saw the slope of a hill
interspersed with rare trees and perfectly free from
undergrowth. A long decaying building on the summit
was half buried in the high grass; the large holes in the
peaked roof gaped black from afar; the jungle and the
woods made a background. There was no enclosure or
fence of any kind; but there had been one apparently, for
near the house half-a-dozen slim posts remained in a row,
roughly trimmed, and with their upper ends ornamented

Heart of Darkness

108 of 162

with round carved balls. The rails, or whatever there had
been between, had disappeared. Of course the forest
surrounded all that. The river-bank was clear, and on the
waterside I saw a white man under a hat like a cart-wheel
beckoning persistently with his whole arm. Examining the
edge of the forest above and below, I was almost certain I
could see movements—human forms gliding here and
there. I steamed past prudently, then stopped the engines
and let her drift down. The man on the shore began to
shout, urging us to land. ‘We have been attacked,’
screamed the manager. ‘I know—I know. It’s all right,’
yelled back the other, as cheerful as you please. ‘Come
along. It’s all right. I am glad.’
‘His aspect reminded me of something I had seen—
something funny I had seen somewhere. As I manoeuvred
to get alongside, I was asking myself, ‘What does this
fellow look like?’ Suddenly I got it. He looked like a
harlequin. His clothes had been made of some stuff that
was brown holland probably, but it was covered with
patches all over, with bright patches, blue, red, and
yellow—patches on the back, patches on the front, patches
on elbows, on knees; coloured binding around his jacket,
scarlet edging at the bottom of his trousers; and the
sunshine made him look extremely gay and wonderfully