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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
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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;
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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
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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
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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
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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
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‘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
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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
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
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