Серце темряви

           Kurtzhadpaintedthis—inthisverystationmorethanayearago—whilewaitingformeanstogotohistradingpost.‘Tellme,pray,’saidI,‘whoisthisMr.Kurtz?’

           "‘ThechiefoftheInnerStation,’heansweredinashorttone,lookingaway.‘Muchobliged,’Isaid,laughing.‘AndyouarethebrickmakeroftheCentralStation.Everyoneknowsthat.’Hewassilentforawhile.‘Heisaprodigy,’hesaidatlast.‘Heisanemissaryofpityandscienceandprogress,anddevilknowswhatelse.Wewant,’hebegantodeclaimsuddenly,‘fortheguidanceofthecauseintrustedtousbyEurope,sotospeak,higherintelligence,widesympathies,asinglenessofpurpose.’‘Whosaysthat?’Iasked.‘Lotsofthem,’hereplied.‘Someevenwritethat;andsoHEcomeshere,aspecialbeing,asyououghttoknow.’‘WhyoughtItoknow?’Iinterrupted,reallysurprised.Hepaidnoattention.‘Yes.Todayheischiefofthebeststation,nextyearhewillbeassistant-manager,twoyearsmoreand...butIdare-sayyouknowwhathewillbeintwoyears’time.Youareofthenewgang—thegangofvirtue.Thesamepeoplewhosenthimspeciallyalsorecommendedyou.Oh,don’tsayno.I’vemyowneyestotrust.’Lightdawneduponme.Mydearaunt’sinfluentialacquaintanceswereproducinganunexpectedeffectuponthatyoungman.Inearlyburstintoalaugh.‘DoyoureadtheCompany’sconfidentialcorrespondence?’Iasked.Hehadn’tawordtosay.Itwasgreatfun.‘WhenMr.