Mr. Kurtz⁠—for the shade of Mr. Kurtz. This initiated wraith from the back of Nowhere honoured me with its amazing confidence before it vanished altogether. This was because it could speak English to me. The original Kurtz had been educated partly in England, and⁠—as he was good enough to say himself⁠—his sympathies were in the right place. His mother was half-English, his father was half-French. All Europe contributed to the making of Kurtz; and by and by I learned that, most appropriately, the International Society for the Suppression of Savage Customs had entrusted him with the making of a report, for its future guidance. And he had written it, too. I’ve seen it. I’ve read it. It was eloquent, vibrating with eloquence, but too high-strung, I think. Seventeen pages of close writing he had found time for! But this must have been before his⁠—let us say⁠—nerves, went wrong, and caused him to preside at certain midnight dances ending with unspeakable rites, which⁠—as far as I reluctantly gathered from what I heard at various times⁠—were offered up to him⁠—do you understand?⁠—to Mr.