Log 5

On the journey back to civilization, it appears that Kurtz is not doing very well at all. Whenever the man opens his mouth, something nonsensical is said; just little snippets of poems and writings that are somehow stashed away in his memory somehow, and random thoughts about life and riches. And once again, my problems are worsened by an inconveniently timed break down of the steamer. The Manager from the central station seems to be more confident and self-important now that Kurtz is on the ship and almost ready to go, which causes him to treat myself as lesser than him as well. The audacity!
However, a dying Kurtz has noticed this as well, and entrusted to me his papers. I am not surprised that evidence of his existence and accomplishments are his top priorities when staring death in the face!

Kurtz's prediction was correct; a few days later, he began to finally pass. His last words were poetic, and yet mad at the same time: "The horror! The horror!" Resolving that I would not wish to witness his death, I escaped the room afterwards. Though I could not stop dwelling on these words! It seems fitting that such a man would be able to summarize what I have witnessed these past months in the heart of Africa in so few words.

Almost as if his passing were a curse, I fell deathly ill from the physical strain of repairing the ship and being exposed to the elements soon afterwards, and returned to my Aunt. When finally in fair health (externally, might I add) I was approached by a man of the Company looking for the papers that Kurtz had previously entrusted to me. Of course I denied these to him, and instead set out to search for his betrothed, reasoning that she would have better use for and are more deserving of them than any others.

 I found the woman still mourning his loss after so long; her loyalty is nothing short of admirable. She is so in love with his memory that she asks me of his last words. How was I supposed to tell this sheltered soul that the man that she knew was a completely different soul at the time of his death? I told the woman that he said nothing but her name.

It seems that the Kurtz who gave me those papers was a completely different man than the bourgeois, musical, humanitarian man that his relatives had left behind. Perhaps it is best if that is the way that his memory is kept.