Lord Jim

’The defeated Sherif Ali fled the country without making another stand, and when the miserable hunted villagers began to crawl out of the jungle back to their rotting houses, it was Jim who, in consultation with Dain Waris, appointed the headmen.  Thus he became the virtual ruler of the land.  As to old Tunku Allang, his fears at first had known no bounds.  It is said that at the intelligence of the successful storming of the hill he flung himself, face down, on the bamboo floor of his audience-hall, and lay motionless for a whole night and a whole day, uttering stifled sounds of such an appalling nature that no man dared approach his prostrate form nearer than a spear’s length.  Already he could see himself driven ignominiously out of Patusan, wandering abandoned, stripped, without opium, without his women, without followers, a fair game for the first comer to kill.  After Sherif Ali his turn would come, and who could resist an attack led by such a devil?  And indeed he owed his life and such authority as he still possessed at the time of my visit to Jim’s idea of what was fair alone.  The Bugis had been extremely anxious to pay off old scores, and the impassive old Doramin cherished the hope of yet seeing his son ruler of Patusan.  During one of our interviews he deliberately allowed me to get a glimpse of this secret ambition.  Nothing could be finer in its way than the dignified wariness of his approaches.  He himself—­he began by declaring—­had used his strength in his young days, but now he had grown old and tired. . . .  With his imposing bulk and haughty little eyes darting sagacious, inquisitive glances, he reminded one irresistibly of a cunning old elephant; the slow rise and fall of his vast breast went on powerful and regular, like the heave of a calm sea.  He too, as he protested, had an unbounded confidence in Tuan Jim’s wisdom.  If he could only obtain a promise!  One word would be enough! . . .  His breathing silences, the low rumblings of his voice, recalled the last efforts of a spent thunderstorm.

’I tried to put the subject aside.  It was difficult, for there could be no question that Jim had the power; in his new sphere there did not seem to be anything that was not his to hold or to give.  But that, I repeat, was nothing in comparison with the notion, which occurred to me, while I listened with a show of attention, that he seemed to have come very near at last to mastering his fate.  Doramin was anxious about the future of the country, and I was struck by the turn he gave to the argument.  The land remains where God had put it; but white men—­he said—­they come to us and in a little while they go.  They go away.  Those they leave behind do not know when to look for their return.  They go to their own land, to their people, and so this white man too would. . . .  I don’t know what induced me to commit myself at this point by a vigorous “No, no.”  The whole extent of this indiscretion became apparent when Doramin, turning full upon me his face, whose expression, fixed in rugged deep folds, remained unalterable, like a huge brown mask, said that this was good news indeed, reflectively; and then wanted to know why.

’His little, motherly witch of a wife sat on my other hand, with her head covered and her feet tucked up, gazing through the great shutter-hole.  I could only see a straying lock of grey hair, a high cheek-bone, the slight masticating motion of the sharp chin.  Without removing her eyes from the vast prospect of forests stretching as far as the hills, she asked me in a pitying voice why was it that he so young had wandered from his home, coming so far, through so many dangers?  Had he no household there, no kinsmen in his own country?  Had he no old mother, who would always remember his face? . . .

’I was completely unprepared for this.  I could only mutter and shake my head vaguely.  Afterwards I am perfectly aware I cut a very poor figure trying to extricate myself out of this difficulty.  From that moment, however, the old nakhoda became taciturn.  He was not very pleased, I fear, and evidently I had given him food for thought.  Strangely enough, on the evening of that very day (which was my last in Patusan) I was once more confronted with the same question, with the unanswerable why of Jim’s fate.  And this brings me to the story of his love.

’I suppose you think it is a story that you can imagine for yourselves.  We have heard so many such stories, and the majority of us don’t believe them to be stories of love at all.  For the most part we look upon them as stories of opportunities:  episodes of passion at best, or perhaps only of youth and temptation, doomed to forgetfulness in the end, even if they pass through the reality of tenderness and regret.  This view mostly is right, and perhaps in this case too. . . .  Yet I don’t know.  To tell this story is by no means so easy as it should be—­were the ordinary standpoint adequate.  Apparently it is a story very much like the others:  for me, however, there is visible in its background the melancholy figure of a woman, the shadow of a cruel wisdom buried in a lonely grave, looking on wistfully, helplessly, with sealed lips.  The grave itself, as I came upon it during an early morning stroll, was a rather shapeless brown mound, with an inlaid neat border of white lumps of coral at the base, and enclosed within a circular fence made of split saplings, with the bark left on.  A garland of leaves and flowers was woven about the heads of the slender posts—­and the flowers were fresh.

’Thus, whether the shadow is of my imagination or not, I can at all events point out the significant fact of an unforgotten grave.  When I tell you besides that Jim with his own hands had worked at the rustic fence, you will perceive directly the difference, the individual side of the story.  There is in his espousal of memory and affection belonging to another human being something characteristic of his seriousness.  He had a conscience, and it was a romantic conscience.  Through her whole life the wife of the unspeakable Cornelius had no other companion, confidant, and friend but her daughter.  How the poor woman had come to marry the awful little Malacca Portuguese—­after the separation from the father of her girl—­and how that separation had been brought about, whether by death, which can be sometimes merciful, or by the merciless pressure of conventions, is a mystery to me.  From the little which Stein (who knew so many stories) had let drop in my hearing, I am convinced that she was no ordinary woman.  Her own father had been a white; a high official; one of the brilliantly endowed men who are not dull enough to nurse a success, and whose careers so often end under a cloud.  I suppose she too must have lacked the saving dullness—­and her career ended in Patusan.  Our common fate . . . for where is the man—­I mean a real sentient man—­who does not remember vaguely having been deserted in the fullness of possession by some one or something more precious than life? . . . our common fate fastens upon the women with a peculiar cruelty.  It does not punish like a master, but inflicts lingering torment, as if to gratify a secret, unappeasable spite.  One would think that, appointed to rule on earth, it seeks to revenge itself upon the beings that come nearest to rising above the trammels of earthly caution; for it is only women who manage to put at times into their love an element just palpable enough to give one a fright—­an extra-terrestrial touch.  I ask myself with wonder—­how the world can look to them—­whether it has the shape and substance we know, the air we breathe!  Sometimes I fancy it must be a region of unreasonable sublimities seething with the excitement of their adventurous souls, lighted by the glory of all possible risks and renunciations.  However, I suspect there are very few women in the world, though of course I am aware of the multitudes of mankind and of the equality of sexes—­in point of numbers, that is.  But I am sure that the mother was as much of a woman as the daughter seemed to be.  I cannot help picturing to myself these two, at first the young woman and the child, then the old woman and the young girl, the awful sameness and the swift passage of time, the barrier of forest, the solitude and the turmoil round these two lonely lives, and every word spoken between them penetrated with sad meaning.  There must have been confidences, not so much of fact, I suppose, as of innermost feelings—­regrets—­fears—­warnings, no doubt:  warnings that the younger did not fully understand till the elder was dead—­and Jim came along.  Then I am sure she understood much—­not everything—­the fear mostly, it seems.  Jim called her by a word that means precious, in the sense of a precious gem—­jewel.  Pretty, isn’t it?  But he was capable of anything.  He was equal to his fortune, as he—­after all—­must have been equal to his misfortune.  Jewel he called her; and he would say this as he might have said “Jane,” don’t you know—­with a marital, homelike, peaceful effect.  I heard the name for the first time ten minutes after I had landed in his courtyard, when, after nearly shaking my arm off, he darted up the steps and began to make a joyous, boyish disturbance at the door under the heavy eaves.  “Jewel!  O Jewel!  Quick!  Here’s a friend come,” . . . and suddenly peering at me in the dim verandah, he mumbled earnestly, “You know—­this—­no confounded nonsense about it—­can’t tell you how much I owe to her—­and so—­you understand—­I—­exactly as if . . .”  His hurried, anxious whispers were cut short by the flitting of a white form within the house, a faint exclamation, and a child-like but energetic little face with delicate features and a profound, attentive glance peeped out of the inner gloom, like a bird out of the recess of a nest.  I was struck by the name, of course; but it was not till later on that I connected it with an astonishing rumour that had met me on my journey, at a little place on the coast about 230 miles south of Patusan River.  Stein’s schooner, in which I had my passage, put in there, to collect some produce, and, going ashore, I found to my great surprise that the wretched locality could boast of a third-class deputy-assistant resident, a big, fat, greasy, blinking fellow of mixed descent, with turned-out, shiny lips.  I found him lying extended on his back in a cane chair, odiously unbuttoned, with a large green leaf of some sort on the top of his steaming head, and another in his hand which he used lazily as a fan . . .  Going to Patusan?  Oh yes.  Stein’s Trading Company.  He knew.  Had a permission?  No business of his.  It was not so bad there now, he remarked negligently, and, he went on drawling, “There’s some sort of white vagabond has got in there, I hear. . . .  Eh?  What you say?  Friend of yours?  So! . . .  Then it was true there was one of these verdammte—­What was he up to?  Found his way in, the rascal.  Eh?  I had not been sure.  Patusan—­they cut throats there—­no business of ours.”  He interrupted himself to groan.  “Phoo!  Almighty!  The heat!  The heat!  Well, then, there might be something in the story too, after all, and . . .”  He shut one of his beastly glassy eyes (the eyelid went on quivering) while he leered at me atrociously with the other.  “Look here,” says he mysteriously, “if—­do you understand?—­if he has really got hold of something fairly good—­none of your bits of green glass—­understand?—­I am a Government official—­you tell the rascal . . .  Eh?  What?  Friend of yours?” . . .  He continued wallowing calmly in the chair . . .  “You said so; that’s just it; and I am pleased to give you the hint.  I suppose you too would like to get something out of it?  Don’t interrupt.  You just tell him I’ve heard the tale, but to my Government I have made no report.  Not yet.  See?  Why make a report?  Eh?  Tell him to come to me if they let him get alive out of the country.  He had better look out for himself.  Eh?  I promise to ask no questions.  On the quiet—­you understand?  You too—­you shall get something from me.  Small commission for the trouble.  Don’t interrupt.  I am a Government official, and make no report.  That’s business.  Understand?  I know some good people that will buy anything worth having, and can give him more money than the scoundrel ever saw in his life.  I know his sort.”  He fixed me steadfastly with both his eyes open, while I stood over him utterly amazed, and asking myself whether he was mad or drunk.  He perspired, puffed, moaning feebly, and scratching himself with such horrible composure that I could not bear the sight long enough to find out.  Next day, talking casually with the people of the little native court of the place, I discovered that a story was travelling slowly down the coast about a mysterious white man in Patusan who had got hold of an extraordinary gem—­namely, an emerald of an enormous size, and altogether priceless.  The emerald seems to appeal more to the Eastern imagination than any other precious stone.  The white man had obtained it, I was told, partly by the exercise of his wonderful strength and partly by cunning, from the ruler of a distant country, whence he had fled instantly, arriving in Patusan in utmost distress, but frightening the people by his extreme ferocity, which nothing seemed able to subdue.  Most of my informants were of the opinion that the stone was probably unlucky,—­like the famous stone of the Sultan of Succadana, which in the old times had brought wars and untold calamities upon that country.  Perhaps it was the same stone—­one couldn’t say.  Indeed the story of a fabulously large emerald is as old as the arrival of the first white men in the Archipelago; and the belief in it is so persistent that less than forty years ago there had been an official Dutch inquiry into the truth of it.  Such a jewel—­it was explained to me by the old fellow from whom I heard most of this amazing Jim-myth—­a sort of scribe to the wretched little Rajah of the place;—­such a jewel, he said, cocking his poor purblind eyes up at me (he was sitting on the cabin floor out of respect), is best preserved by being concealed about the person of a woman.  Yet it is not every woman that would do.  She must be young—­he sighed deeply—­and insensible to the seductions of love.  He shook his head sceptically.  But such a woman seemed to be actually in existence.  He had been told of a tall girl, whom the white man treated with great respect and care, and who never went forth from the house unattended.  People said the white man could be seen with her almost any day; they walked side by side, openly, he holding her arm under his—­pressed to his side—­thus—­in a most extraordinary way.  This might be a lie, he conceded, for it was indeed a strange thing for any one to do:  on the other hand, there could be no doubt she wore the white man’s jewel concealed upon her bosom.’