Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad (top 10 books to read TXT) 📕

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 fiend-like 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 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 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 had 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 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 river-demon 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 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 river-demon a bunch of black feathers, a mangy skin with a pendent tail—something that looked like 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 response 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 colorless lips that a moment after twitched convulsively.

`Do I not?’ he said 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 someone 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 somber 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 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 disfavor. 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 mold 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.

“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 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