Lord Jim

’I don’t think he could do more than perhaps look upon that straight path.  He seemed to have been puzzled by what he saw, for he interrupted himself in his narrative more than once to exclaim, “He nearly slipped from me there.  I could not make him out.  Who was he?” And after glaring at me wildly he would go on, jubilating and sneering.  To me the conversation of these two across the creek appears now as the deadliest kind of duel on which Fate looked on with her cold-eyed knowledge of the end.  No, he didn’t turn Jim’s soul inside out, but I am much mistaken if the spirit so utterly out of his reach had not been made to taste to the full the bitterness of that contest.  These were the emissaries with whom the world he had renounced was pursuing him in his retreat—­white men from “out there” where he did not think himself good enough to live.  This was all that came to him—­a menace, a shock, a danger to his work.  I suppose it is this sad, half-resentful, half-resigned feeling, piercing through the few words Jim said now and then, that puzzled Brown so much in the reading of his character.  Some great men owe most of their greatness to the ability of detecting in those they destine for their tools the exact quality of strength that matters for their work; and Brown, as though he had been really great, had a satanic gift of finding out the best and the weakest spot in his victims.  He admitted to me that Jim wasn’t of the sort that can be got over by truckling, and accordingly he took care to show himself as a man confronting without dismay ill-luck, censure, and disaster.  The smuggling of a few guns was no great crime, he pointed out.  As to coming to Patusan, who had the right to say he hadn’t come to beg?  The infernal people here let loose at him from both banks without staying to ask questions.  He made the point brazenly, for, in truth, Dain Waris’s energetic action had prevented the greatest calamities; because Brown told me distinctly that, perceiving the size of the place, he had resolved instantly in his mind that as soon as he had gained a footing he would set fire right and left, and begin by shooting down everything living in sight, in order to cow and terrify the population.  The disproportion of forces was so great that this was the only way giving him the slightest chance of attaining his ends—­he argued in a fit of coughing.  But he didn’t tell Jim this.  As to the hardships and starvation they had gone through, these had been very real; it was enough to look at his band.  He made, at the sound of a shrill whistle, all his men appear standing in a row on the logs in full view, so that Jim could see them.  For the killing of the man, it had been done—­well, it had—­but was not this war, bloody war—­in a corner? and the fellow had been killed cleanly, shot through the chest, not like that poor devil of his lying now in the creek.  They had to listen to him dying for six hours, with his entrails torn with slugs.  At any rate this was a life for a life. . . .  And all this was said with the weariness, with the recklessness of a man spurred on and on by ill-luck till he cares not where he runs.  When he asked Jim, with a sort of brusque despairing frankness, whether he himself—­straight now—­didn’t understand that when “it came to saving one’s life in the dark, one didn’t care who else went—­three, thirty, three hundred people”—­it was as if a demon had been whispering advice in his ear.  “I made him wince,” boasted Brown to me.  “He very soon left off coming the righteous over me.  He just stood there with nothing to say, and looking as black as thunder—­not at me—­on the ground.”  He asked Jim whether he had nothing fishy in his life to remember that he was so damnedly hard upon a man trying to get out of a deadly hole by the first means that came to hand—­and so on, and so on.  And there ran through the rough talk a vein of subtle reference to their common blood, an assumption of common experience; a sickening suggestion of common guilt, of secret knowledge that was like a bond of their minds and of their hearts.

’At last Brown threw himself down full length and watched Jim out of the corners of his eyes.  Jim on his side of the creek stood thinking and switching his leg.  The houses in view were silent, as if a pestilence had swept them clean of every breath of life; but many invisible eyes were turned, from within, upon the two men with the creek between them, a stranded white boat, and the body of the third man half sunk in the mud.  On the river canoes were moving again, for Patusan was recovering its belief in the stability of earthly institutions since the return of the white lord.  The right bank, the platforms of the houses, the rafts moored along the shores, even the roofs of bathing-huts, were covered with people that, far away out of earshot and almost out of sight, were straining their eyes towards the knoll beyond the Rajah’s stockade.  Within the wide irregular ring of forests, broken in two places by the sheen of the river, there was a silence.  “Will you promise to leave the coast?” Jim asked.  Brown lifted and let fall his hand, giving everything up as it were—­accepting the inevitable.  “And surrender your arms?” Jim went on.  Brown sat up and glared across.  “Surrender our arms!  Not till you come to take them out of our stiff hands.  You think I am gone crazy with funk?  Oh no!  That and the rags I stand in is all I have got in the world, besides a few more breechloaders on board; and I expect to sell the lot in Madagascar, if I ever get so far—­begging my way from ship to ship.”

’Jim said nothing to this.  At last, throwing away the switch he held in his hand, he said, as if speaking to himself, “I don’t know whether I have the power.” . . .  “You don’t know!  And you wanted me just now to give up my arms!  That’s good, too,” cried Brown; “Suppose they say one thing to you, and do the other thing to me.”  He calmed down markedly.  “I dare say you have the power, or what’s the meaning of all this talk?” he continued.  “What did you come down here for?  To pass the time of day?”

’”Very well,” said Jim, lifting his head suddenly after a long silence.  “You shall have a clear road or else a clear fight.”  He turned on his heel and walked away.

’Brown got up at once, but he did not go up the hill till he had seen Jim disappear between the first houses.  He never set his eyes on him again.  On his way back he met Cornelius slouching down with his head between his shoulders.  He stopped before Brown.  “Why didn’t you kill him?” he demanded in a sour, discontented voice.  “Because I could do better than that,” Brown said with an amused smile.  “Never! never!” protested Cornelius with energy.  “Couldn’t.  I have lived here for many years.”  Brown looked up at him curiously.  There were many sides to the life of that place in arms against him; things he would never find out.  Cornelius slunk past dejectedly in the direction of the river.  He was now leaving his new friends; he accepted the disappointing course of events with a sulky obstinacy which seemed to draw more together his little yellow old face; and as he went down he glanced askant here and there, never giving up his fixed idea.

’Henceforth events move fast without a check, flowing from the very hearts of men like a stream from a dark source, and we see Jim amongst them, mostly through Tamb’ Itam’s eyes.  The girl’s eyes had watched him too, but her life is too much entwined with his:  there is her passion, her wonder, her anger, and, above all, her fear and her unforgiving love.  Of the faithful servant, uncomprehending as the rest of them, it is the fidelity alone that comes into play; a fidelity and a belief in his lord so strong that even amazement is subdued to a sort of saddened acceptance of a mysterious failure.  He has eyes only for one figure, and through all the mazes of bewilderment he preserves his air of guardianship, of obedience, of care.

’His master came back from his talk with the white men, walking slowly towards the stockade in the street.  Everybody was rejoiced to see him return, for while he was away every man had been afraid not only of him being killed, but also of what would come after.  Jim went into one of the houses, where old Doramin had retired, and remained alone for a long time with the head of the Bugis settlers.  No doubt he discussed the course to follow with him then, but no man was present at the conversation.  Only Tamb’ Itam, keeping as close to the door as he could, heard his master say, “Yes.  I shall let all the people know that such is my wish; but I spoke to you, O Doramin, before all the others, and alone; for you know my heart as well as I know yours and its greatest desire.  And you know well also that I have no thought but for the people’s good.”  Then his master, lifting the sheeting in the doorway, went out, and he, Tamb’ Itam, had a glimpse of old Doramin within, sitting in the chair with his hands on his knees, and looking between his feet.  Afterwards he followed his master to the fort, where all the principal Bugis and Patusan inhabitants had been summoned for a talk.  Tamb’ Itam himself hoped there would be some fighting.  “What was it but the taking of another hill?” he exclaimed regretfully.  However, in the town many hoped that the rapacious strangers would be induced, by the sight of so many brave men making ready to fight, to go away.  It would be a good thing if they went away.  Since Jim’s arrival had been made known before daylight by the gun fired from the fort and the beating of the big drum there, the fear that had hung over Patusan had broken and subsided like a wave on a rock, leaving the seething foam of excitement, curiosity, and endless speculation.  Half of the population had been ousted out of their homes for purposes of defence, and were living in the street on the left side of the river, crowding round the fort, and in momentary expectation of seeing their abandoned dwellings on the threatened bank burst into flames.  The general anxiety was to see the matter settled quickly.  Food, through Jewel’s care, had been served out to the refugees.  Nobody knew what their white man would do.  Some remarked that it was worse than in Sherif Ali’s war.  Then many people did not care; now everybody had something to lose.  The movements of canoes passing to and fro between the two parts of the town were watched with interest.  A couple of Bugis war-boats lay anchored in the middle of the stream to protect the river, and a thread of smoke stood at the bow of each; the men in them were cooking their midday rice when Jim, after his interviews with Brown and Doramin, crossed the river and entered by the water-gate of his fort.  The people inside crowded round him, so that he could hardly make his way to the house.  They had not seen him before, because on his arrival during the night he had only exchanged a few words with the girl, who had come down to the landing-stage for the purpose, and had then gone on at once to join the chiefs and the fighting men on the other bank.  People shouted greetings after him.  One old woman raised a laugh by pushing her way to the front madly and enjoining him in a scolding voice to see to it that her two sons, who were with Doramin, did not come to harm at the hands of the robbers.  Several of the bystanders tried to pull her away, but she struggled and cried, “Let me go.  What is this, O Muslims?  This laughter is unseemly.  Are they not cruel, bloodthirsty robbers bent on killing?” “Let her be,” said Jim, and as a silence fell suddenly, he said slowly, “Everybody shall be safe.”  He entered the house before the great sigh, and the loud murmurs of satisfaction, had died out.

’There’s no doubt his mind was made up that Brown should have his way clear back to the sea.  His fate, revolted, was forcing his hand.  He had for the first time to affirm his will in the face of outspoken opposition.  “There was much talk, and at first my master was silent,” Tamb’ Itam said.  “Darkness came, and then I lit the candles on the long table.  The chiefs sat on each side, and the lady remained by my master’s right hand.”

’When he began to speak, the unaccustomed difficulty seemed only to fix his resolve more immovably.  The white men were now waiting for his answer on the hill.  Their chief had spoken to him in the language of his own people, making clear many things difficult to explain in any other speech.  They were erring men whom suffering had made blind to right and wrong.  It is true that lives had been lost already, but why lose more?  He declared to his hearers, the assembled heads of the people, that their welfare was his welfare, their losses his losses, their mourning his mourning.  He looked round at the grave listening faces and told them to remember that they had fought and worked side by side.  They knew his courage . . .  Here a murmur interrupted him . . .  And that he had never deceived them.  For many years they had dwelt together.  He loved the land and the people living in it with a very great love.  He was ready to answer with his life for any harm that should come to them if the white men with beards were allowed to retire.  They were evil-doers, but their destiny had been evil, too.  Had he ever advised them ill?  Had his words ever brought suffering to the people? he asked.  He believed that it would be best to let these whites and their followers go with their lives.  It would be a small gift.  “I whom you have tried and found always true ask you to let them go.”  He turned to Doramin.  The old nakhoda made no movement.  “Then,” said Jim, “call in Dain Waris, your son, my friend, for in this business I shall not lead.”’