Серце темряви

           IfIhadheardhimtalk,onlytwodaysago,Iwouldn’tdarehintatsuchathing...Ihadtakenupmybinocularswhilewetalked,andwaslookingattheshore,sweepingthelimitoftheforestateachsideandatthebackofthehouse.Theconsciousnessoftherebeingpeopleinthatbush,sosilent,soquiet—assilentandquietastheruinedhouseonthehill—mademeuneasy.Therewasnosignonthefaceofnatureofthisamazingtalethatwasnotsomuchtoldassuggestedtomeindesolateexclamations,completedbyshrugs,ininterruptedphrases,inhintsendingindeepsighs.Thewoodswereunmoved,likeamask—heavy,likethecloseddoorofaprison—theylookedwiththeirairofhiddenknowledge,ofpatientexpectation,ofunapproachablesilence.TheRussianwasexplainingtomethatitwasonlylatelythatMr.Kurtzhadcomedowntotheriver,bringingalongwithhimallthefightingmenofthatlaketribe.Hehadbeenabsentforseveralmonths—gettinghimselfadored,Isuppose—andhadcomedownunexpectedly,withtheintentiontoallappearanceofmakingaraideitheracrosstheriverordownstream.Evidentlytheappetiteformoreivoryhadgotthebetterofthe—whatshallIsay?—lessmaterialaspirations.Howeverhehadgotmuchworsesuddenly.‘Iheardhewaslyinghelpless,andsoIcameup—tookmychance,’saidtheRussian.‘Oh,heisbad,verybad.’Idirectedmyglasstothehouse.