Сердце тьмы

           Eightmilesmeantnearlythreehours’steamingforus,andIcouldalsoseesuspiciousripplesattheupperendofthereach.Nevertheless,Iwasannoyedbeyondexpressionatthedelay,andmostunreasonably,too,sinceonenightmorecouldnotmattermuchaftersomanymonths.Aswehadplentyofwood,andcautionwastheword,Ibroughtupinthemiddleofthestream.Thereachwasnarrow,straight,withhighsideslikearailwaycutting.Theduskcameglidingintoitlongbeforethesunhadset.Thecurrentransmoothandswift,butadumbimmobilitysatonthebanks.Thelivingtrees,lashedtogetherbythecreepersandeverylivingbushoftheundergrowth,mighthavebeenchangedintostone,eventotheslenderesttwig,tothelightestleaf.Itwasnotsleep—itseemedunnatural,likeastateoftrance.Notthefaintestsoundofanykindcouldbeheard.Youlookedonamazed,andbegantosuspectyourselfofbeingdeaf—thenthenightcamesuddenly,andstruckyoublindaswell.Aboutthreeinthemorningsomelargefishleaped,andtheloudsplashmademejumpasthoughagunhadbeenfired.Whenthesunrosetherewasawhitefog,verywarmandclammy,andmoreblindingthanthenight.Itdidnotshiftordrive;itwasjustthere,standingallroundyoulikesomethingsolid.Ateightornine,perhaps,itliftedasashutterlifts.