Серце темряви

           Ihadtakenhimforapainterwhowroteforthepapers,orelseforajournalistwhocouldpaint—buteventhecousin(whotooksnuffduringtheinterview)couldnottellmewhathehadbeen—exactly.Hewasauniversalgenius—onthatpointIagreedwiththeoldchap,whothereuponblewhisnosenoisilyintoalargecottonhandkerchiefandwithdrewinsenileagitation,bearingoffsomefamilylettersandmemorandawithoutimportance.Ultimatelyajournalistanxioustoknowsomethingofthefateofhis‘dearcolleague’turnedup.ThisvisitorinformedmeKurtz’spropersphereoughttohavebeenpolitics‘onthepopularside.’Hehadfurrystraighteyebrows,bristlyhaircroppedshort,aneyeglassonabroadribbon,and,becomingexpansive,confessedhisopinionthatKurtzreallycouldn’twriteabit—‘butheavens!howthatmancouldtalk.Heelectrifiedlargemeetings.Hehadfaith—don’tyousee?—hehadthefaith.Hecouldgethimselftobelieveanything—anything.Hewouldhavebeenasplendidleaderofanextremeparty.’‘Whatparty?’Iasked.‘Anyparty,’answeredtheother.‘Hewasan—an—extremist.’DidInotthinkso?Iassented.DidIknow,heasked,withasuddenflashofcuriosity,‘whatitwasthathadinducedhimtogooutthere?’‘Yes,’saidI,andforthwithhandedhimthefamousReportforpublication,ifhethoughtfit.Heglancedthroughithurriedly,mumblingallthetime,judged‘itwoulddo,’andtookhimselfoffwiththisplunder.