"LORD JIM\n\nBY JOSEPH CONRAD\n\n\n\nAUTHOR'S NOTE\n\n\nWhen this novel first appeared in book form a notion got about that\nI had been bolted away with. Some reviewers maintained that the work\nstarting as a short story had got beyond the writer's control. One or\ntwo discovered internal evidence of the fact, which seemed to amuse\nthem. They pointed out the limitations of the narrative form. They\nargued that no man could have been expected to talk all that time, and\nother men to listen so long. It was not, they said, very credible.\n\nAfter thinking it over for something like sixteen years, I am not so\nsure about that. Men have been known, both in the tropics and in\nthe temperate zone, to sit up half the night 'swapping yarns'. This,\nhowever, is but one yarn, yet with interruptions affording some measure\nof relief; and in regard to the listeners' endurance, the postulate\nmust be accepted that the story was interesting. It is the necessary\npreliminary assumption. If I hadn't believed that it was interesting I\ncould never have begun to write it. As to the mere physical possibility\nwe all know that some speeches in Parliament have taken nearer six than\nthree hours in delivery; whereas all that part of the book which is\nMarlow's narrative can be read through aloud, I should say, in less than\nthree hours. Besides--though I have kept strictly all such insignificant\ndetails out of the tale--we may presume that there must have been\nrefreshments on that night, a glass of mineral water of some sort to\nhelp the narrator on.\n\nBut, seriously, the truth of the matter is, that my first thought was\nof a short story, concerned only with the pilgrim ship episode; nothing\nmore. And that was a legitimate conception. After writing a few pages,\nhowever, I became for some reason discontented and I laid them aside for\na time. I didn't take them out of the drawer till the late Mr. William\nBlackwood suggested I should give something again to his magazine.\n\nIt was only then that I perceived that the pilgrim ship episode was a\ngood starting-point for a free and wandering tale; that it was an event,\ntoo, which could conceivably colour the whole 'sentiment of existence'\nin a simple and sensitive character. But all these preliminary moods\nand stirrings of spirit were rather obscure at the time, and they do not\nappear clearer to me now after the lapse of so many years.\n\nThe few pages I had laid aside were not without their weight in the\nchoice of subject. But the whole was re-written deliberately. When I sat\ndown to it I knew it would be a long book, though I didn't foresee that\nit would spread itself over thirteen numbers of Maga.\n\nI have been asked at times whether this was not the book of mine I liked\nbest. I am a great foe to favouritism in public life, in private life,\nand even in the delicate relationship of an author to his works. As a\nmatter of principle I will have no favourites; but I don't go so far\nas to feel grieved and annoyed by the preference some people give to\nmy Lord Jim. I won't even say that I 'fail to understand . . .' No! But\nonce I had occasion to be puzzled and surprised.\n\nA friend of mine returning from Italy had talked with a lady there who\ndid not like the book. I regretted that, of course, but what surprised\nme was the ground of her dislike. 'You know,' she said, 'it is all so\nmorbid.'\n\nThe pronouncement gave me food for an hour's anxious thought. Finally\nI arrived at the conclusion that, making due allowances for the subject\nitself being rather foreign to women's normal sensibilities, the lady\ncould not have been an Italian. I wonder whether she was European at\nall? In any case, no Latin temperament would have perceived anything\nmorbid in the acute consciousness of lost honour. Such a consciousness\nmay be wrong, or it may be right, or it may be condemned as artificial;\nand, perhaps, my Jim is not a type of wide commonness. But I can\nsafely assure my readers that he is not the product of coldly perverted\nthinking. He's not a figure of Northern Mists either. One sunny morning,\nin the commonplace surroundings of an Eastern roadstead, I saw his form\npass by--appealing--significant--under a cloud--perfectly silent. Which\nis as it should be. It was for me, with all the sympathy of which I was\ncapable, to seek fit words for his meaning. He was 'one of us'.\n\nJ.C.\n\n1917.\n\n\nLORD JIM\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\n\nHe was an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built, and he\nadvanced straight at you with a slight stoop of the shoulders, head\nforward, and a fixed from-under stare which made you think of a charging\nbull. His voice was deep, loud, and his manner displayed a kind of\ndogged self-assertion which had nothing aggressive in it. It seemed\na necessity, and it was directed apparently as much at himself as at\nanybody else. He was spotlessly neat, apparelled in immaculate white\nfrom shoes to hat, and in the various Eastern ports where he got his\nliving as ship-chandler's water-clerk he was very popular.\n\nA water-clerk need not pass an examination in anything under the sun,\nbut he must have Ability in the abstract and demonstrate it practically.\nHis work consists in racing under sail, steam, or oars against other\nwater-clerks for any ship about to anchor, greeting her captain\ncheerily, forcing upon him a card--the business card of the\nship-chandler--and on his first visit on shore piloting him firmly but\nwithout ostentation to a vast, cavern-like shop which is full of things\nthat are eaten and drunk on board ship; where you can get everything\nto make her seaworthy and beautiful, from a set of chain-hooks for her\ncable to a book of gold-leaf for the carvings of her stern; and where\nher commander is received like a brother by a ship-chandler he has never\nseen before. There is a cool parlour, easy-chairs, bottles, cigars,\nwriting implements, a copy of harbour regulations, and a warmth of\nwelcome that melts the salt of a three months' passage out of a seaman's\nheart. The connection thus begun is kept up, as long as the ship remains\nin harbour, by the daily visits of the water-clerk. To the captain he\nis faithful like a friend and attentive like a son, with the patience\nof Job, the unselfish devotion of a woman, and the jollity of a boon\ncompanion. Later on the bill is sent in. It is a beautiful and humane\noccupation. Therefore good water-clerks are scarce. When a water-clerk\nwho possesses Ability in the abstract has also the advantage of having\nbeen brought up to the sea, he is worth to his employer a lot of money\nand some humouring. Jim had always good wages and as much humouring\nas would have bought the fidelity of a fiend. Nevertheless, with black\ningratitude he would throw up the job suddenly and depart. To his\nemployers the reasons he gave were obviously inadequate. They said\n'Confounded fool!' as soon as his back was turned. This was their\ncriticism on his exquisite sensibility.\n\nTo the white men in the waterside business and to the captains of ships\nhe was just Jim--nothing more. He had, of course, another name, but he\nwas anxious that it should not be pronounced. His incognito, which had\nas many holes as a sieve, was not meant to hide a personality but a\nfact. When the fact broke through the incognito he would leave\nsuddenly the seaport where he happened to be at the time and go to\nanother--generally farther east. He kept to seaports because he was a\nseaman in exile from the sea, and had Ability in the abstract, which is\ngood for no other work but that of a water-clerk. He retreated in good\norder towards the rising sun, and the fact followed him casually but\ninevitably. Thus in the course of years he was known successively in\nBombay, in Calcutta, in Rangoon, in Penang, in Batavia--and in each of\nthese halting-places was just Jim the water-clerk. Afterwards, when his\nkeen perception of the Intolerable drove him away for good from seaports\nand white men, even into the virgin forest, the Malays of the jungle\nvillage, where he had elected to conceal his deplorable faculty, added a\nword to the monosyllable of his incognito. They called him Tuan Jim: as\none might say--Lord Jim.\n\nOriginally he came from a parsonage. Many commanders of fine\nmerchant-ships come from these abodes of piety and peace. Jim's father\npossessed such certain knowledge of the Unknowable as made for the\nrighteousness of people in cottages without disturbing the ease of mind\nof those whom an unerring Providence enables to live in mansions. The\nlittle church on a hill had the mossy greyness of a rock seen through a\nragged screen of leaves. It had stood there for centuries, but the trees\naround probably remembered the laying of the first stone. Below, the\nred front of the rectory gleamed with a warm tint in the midst of\ngrass-plots, flower-beds, and fir-trees, with an orchard at the back,\na paved stable-yard to the left, and the sloping glass of greenhouses\ntacked along a wall of bricks. The living had belonged to the family for\ngenerations; but Jim was one of five sons, and when after a course of\nlight holiday literature his vocation for the sea had declared itself,\nhe was sent at once to a 'training-ship for officers of the mercantile\nmarine.'\n\nHe learned there a little trigonometry and how to cross top-gallant\nyards. He was generally liked. He had the third place in navigation\nand pulled stroke in the first cutter. Having a steady head with an\nexcellent physique, he was very smart aloft. His station was in the\nfore-top, and often from there he looked down, with the contempt of a\nman destined to shine in the midst of dangers, at the peaceful multitude\nof roofs cut in two by the brown tide of the stream, while scattered\non the outskirts of the surrounding plain the factory chimneys rose\nperpendicular against a grimy sky, each slender like a pencil, and\nbelching out smoke like a volcano. He could see the big ships departing,\nthe broad-beamed ferries constantly on the move, the little boats\nfloating far below his feet, with the hazy splendour of the sea in the\ndistance, and the hope of a stirring life in the world of adventure.\n\nOn the lower deck in the babel of two hundred voices he would forget\nhimself, and beforehand live in his mind the sea-life of light\nliterature. He saw himself saving people from sinking ships, cutting\naway masts in a hurricane, swimming through a surf with a line; or as a\nlonely castaway, barefooted and half naked, walking on uncovered reefs\nin search of shellfish to stave off starvation. He confronted savages on\ntropical shores, quelled mutinies on the high seas, and in a small boat\nupon the ocean kept up the hearts of despairing men--always an example\nof devotion to duty, and as unflinching as a hero in a book.\n\n'Something's up. Come along.'\n\nHe leaped to his feet. The boys were streaming up the ladders. Above\ncould be heard a great scurrying about and shouting, and when he got\nthrough the hatchway he stood still--as if confounded.\n\nIt was the dusk of a winter's day. The gale had freshened since noon,\nstopping the traffic on the river, and now blew with the strength of a\nhurricane in fitful bursts that boomed like salvoes of great guns firing\nover the ocean. The rain slanted in sheets that flicked and subsided,\nand between whiles Jim had threatening glimpses of the tumbling tide,\nthe small craft jumbled and tossing along the shore, the motionless\nbuildings in the driving mist, the broad ferry-boats pitching\nponderously at anchor, the vast landing-stages heaving up and down and\nsmothered in sprays. The next gust seemed to blow all this away. The\nair was full of flying water. There was a fierce purpose in the gale, a\nfurious earnestness in the screech of the wind, in the brutal tumult of\nearth and sky, that seemed directed at him, and made him hold his breath\nin awe. He stood still. It seemed to him he was whirled around.\n\nHe was jostled. 'Man the cutter!' Boys rushed past him. A coaster\nrunning in for shelter had crashed through a schooner at anchor, and one\nof the ship's instructors had seen the accident. A mob of boys clambered\non the rails, clustered round the davits. 'Collision. Just ahead of us.\nMr. Symons saw it.' A push made him stagger against the mizzen-mast, and\nhe caught hold of a rope. The old training-ship chained to her moorings\nquivered all over, bowing gently head to wind, and with her scanty\nrigging humming in a deep bass the breathless song of her youth at sea.\n'Lower away!' He saw the boat, manned, drop swiftly below the rail,\nand rushed after her. He heard a splash. 'Let go; clear the falls!' He\nleaned over. The river alongside seethed in frothy streaks. The cutter\ncould be seen in the falling darkness under the spell of tide and wind,\nthat for a moment held her bound, and tossing abreast of the ship.\nA yelling voice in her reached him faintly: 'Keep stroke, you young\nwhelps, if you want to save anybody! Keep stroke!' And suddenly she\nlifted high her bow, and, leaping with raised oars over a wave, broke\nthe spell cast upon her by the wind and tide.\n\nJim felt his shoulder gripped firmly. 'Too late, youngster.' The captain\nof the ship laid a restraining hand on that boy, who seemed on the\npoint of leaping overboard, and Jim looked up with the pain of conscious\ndefeat in his eyes. The captain smiled sympathetically. 'Better luck\nnext time. This will teach you to be smart.'\n\nA shrill cheer greeted the cutter. She came dancing back half full of\nwater, and with two exhausted men washing about on her bottom boards.\nThe tumult and the menace of wind and sea now appeared very contemptible\nto Jim, increasing the regret of his awe at their inefficient menace.\nNow he knew what to think of it. It seemed to him he cared nothing for\nthe gale. He could affront greater perils. He would do so--better than\nanybody. Not a particle of fear was left. Nevertheless he brooded apart\nthat evening while the bowman of the cutter--a boy with a face like\na girl's and big grey eyes--was the hero of the lower deck. Eager\nquestioners crowded round him. He narrated: 'I just saw his head\nbobbing, and I dashed my boat-hook in the water. It caught in his\nbreeches and I nearly went overboard, as I thought I would, only old\nSymons let go the tiller and grabbed my legs--the boat nearly swamped.\nOld Symons is a fine old chap. I don't mind a bit him being grumpy with\nus. He swore at me all the time he held my leg, but that was only his\nway of telling me to stick to the boat-hook. Old Symons is awfully\nexcitable--isn't he? No--not the little fair chap--the other, the big\none with a beard. When we pulled him in he groaned, \"Oh, my leg! oh,\nmy leg!\" and turned up his eyes. Fancy such a big chap fainting like\na girl. Would any of you fellows faint for a jab with a boat-hook?--I\nwouldn't. It went into his leg so far.' He showed the boat-hook, which\nhe had carried below for the purpose, and produced a sensation. 'No,\nsilly! It was not his flesh that held him--his breeches did. Lots of\nblood, of course.'\n\nJim thought it a pitiful display of vanity. The gale had ministered to\na heroism as spurious as its own pretence of terror. He felt angry with\nthe brutal tumult of earth and sky for taking him unawares and checking\nunfairly a generous readiness for narrow escapes. Otherwise he was\nrather glad he had not gone into the cutter, since a lower achievement\nhad served the turn. He had enlarged his knowledge more than those who\nhad done the work. When all men flinched, then--he felt sure--he alone\nwould know how to deal with the spurious menace of wind and seas. He\nknew what to think of it. Seen dispassionately, it seemed contemptible.\nHe could detect no trace of emotion in himself, and the final effect of\na staggering event was that, unnoticed and apart from the noisy crowd of\nboys, he exulted with fresh certitude in his avidity for adventure, and\nin a sense of many-sided courage.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\n\nAfter two years of training he went to sea, and entering the regions so\nwell known to his imagination, found them strangely barren of adventure.\nHe made many voyages. He knew the magic monotony of existence between\nsky and water: he had to bear the criticism of men, the exactions of the\nsea, and the prosaic severity of the daily task that gives bread--but\nwhose only reward is in the perfect love of the work. This reward eluded\nhim. Yet he could not go back, because there is nothing more enticing,\ndisenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea. Besides, his\nprospects were good. He was gentlemanly, steady, tractable, with a\nthorough knowledge of his duties; and in time, when yet very young, he\nbecame chief mate of a fine ship, without ever having been tested by\nthose events of the sea that show in the light of day the inner worth of\na man, the edge of his temper, and the fibre of his stuff; that reveal\nthe quality of his resistance and the secret truth of his pretences, not\nonly to others but also to himself.\n\nOnly once in all that time he had again a glimpse of the earnestness in\nthe anger of the sea. That truth is not so often made apparent as people\nmight think. There are many shades in the danger of adventures and\ngales, and it is only now and then that there appears on the face of\nfacts a sinister violence of intention--that indefinable something which\nforces it upon the mind and the heart of a man, that this complication\nof accidents or these elemental furies are coming at him with a purpose\nof malice, with a strength beyond control, with an unbridled cruelty\nthat means to tear out of him his hope and his fear, the pain of his\nfatigue and his longing for rest: which means to smash, to destroy, to\nannihilate all he has seen, known, loved, enjoyed, or hated; all that is\npriceless and necessary--the sunshine, the memories, the future; which\nmeans to sweep the whole precious world utterly away from his sight by\nthe simple and appalling act of taking his life.\n\nJim, disabled by a falling spar at the beginning of a week of which his\nScottish captain used to say afterwards, 'Man! it's a pairfect meeracle\nto me how she lived through it!' spent many days stretched on his back,\ndazed, battered, hopeless, and tormented as if at the bottom of an\nabyss of unrest. He did not care what the end would be, and in his lucid\nmoments overvalued his indifference. The danger, when not seen, has\nthe imperfect vagueness of human thought. The fear grows shadowy; and\nImagination, the enemy of men, the father of all terrors, unstimulated,\nsinks to rest in the dullness of exhausted emotion. Jim saw nothing\nbut the disorder of his tossed cabin. He lay there battened down in the\nmidst of a small devastation, and felt secretly glad he had not to go on\ndeck. But now and again an uncontrollable rush of anguish would grip\nhim bodily, make him gasp and writhe under the blankets, and then the\nunintelligent brutality of an existence liable to the agony of such\nsensations filled him with a despairing desire to escape at any cost.\nThen fine weather returned, and he thought no more about It.\n\nHis lameness, however, persisted, and when the ship arrived at an\nEastern port he had to go to the hospital. His recovery was slow, and he\nwas left behind.\n\nThere were only two other patients in the white men's ward: the purser\nof a gunboat, who had broken his leg falling down a hatchway; and a kind\nof railway contractor from a neighbouring province, afflicted by\nsome mysterious tropical disease, who held the doctor for an ass, and\nindulged in secret debaucheries of patent medicine which his Tamil\nservant used to smuggle in with unwearied devotion. They told each other\nthe story of their lives, played cards a little, or, yawning and in\npyjamas, lounged through the day in easy-chairs without saying a word.\nThe hospital stood on a hill, and a gentle breeze entering through the\nwindows, always flung wide open, brought into the bare room the softness\nof the sky, the languor of the earth, the bewitching breath of the\nEastern waters. There were perfumes in it, suggestions of infinite\nrepose, the gift of endless dreams. Jim looked every day over the\nthickets of gardens, beyond the roofs of the town, over the fronds of\npalms growing on the shore, at that roadstead which is a thoroughfare\nto the East,--at the roadstead dotted by garlanded islets, lighted by\nfestal sunshine, its ships like toys, its brilliant activity resembling\na holiday pageant, with the eternal serenity of the Eastern sky overhead\nand the smiling peace of the Eastern seas possessing the space as far as\nthe horizon.\n\nDirectly he could walk without a stick, he descended into the town to\nlook for some opportunity to get home. Nothing offered just then, and,\nwhile waiting, he associated naturally with the men of his calling in\nthe port. These were of two kinds. Some, very few and seen there but\nseldom, led mysterious lives, had preserved an undefaced energy with the\ntemper of buccaneers and the eyes of dreamers. They appeared to live\nin a crazy maze of plans, hopes, dangers, enterprises, ahead of\ncivilisation, in the dark places of the sea; and their death was the\nonly event of their fantastic existence that seemed to have a reasonable\ncertitude of achievement. The majority were men who, like himself,\nthrown there by some accident, had remained as officers of country\nships. They had now a horror of the home service, with its harder\nconditions, severer view of duty, and the hazard of stormy oceans. They\nwere attuned to the eternal peace of Eastern sky and sea. They\nloved short passages, good deck-chairs, large native crews, and the\ndistinction of being white. They shuddered at the thought of hard work,\nand led precariously easy lives, always on the verge of dismissal,\nalways on the verge of engagement, serving Chinamen, Arabs,\nhalf-castes--would have served the devil himself had he made it easy\nenough. They talked everlastingly of turns of luck: how So-and-so got\ncharge of a boat on the coast of China--a soft thing; how this one had\nan easy billet in Japan somewhere, and that one was doing well in the\nSiamese navy; and in all they said--in their actions, in their looks, in\ntheir persons--could be detected the soft spot, the place of decay, the\ndetermination to lounge safely through existence.\n\nTo Jim that gossiping crowd, viewed as seamen, seemed at first more\nunsubstantial than so many shadows. But at length he found a fascination\nin the sight of those men, in their appearance of doing so well on\nsuch a small allowance of danger and toil. In time, beside the original\ndisdain there grew up slowly another sentiment; and suddenly, giving up\nthe idea of going home, he took a berth as chief mate of the Patna.\n\nThe Patna was a local steamer as old as the hills, lean like a\ngreyhound, and eaten up with rust worse than a condemned water-tank. She\nwas owned by a Chinaman, chartered by an Arab, and commanded by a sort\nof renegade New South Wales German, very anxious to curse publicly\nhis native country, but who, apparently on the strength of Bismarck's\nvictorious policy, brutalised all those he was not afraid of, and wore a\n'blood-and-iron' air,' combined with a purple nose and a red moustache.\nAfter she had been painted outside and whitewashed inside, eight hundred\npilgrims (more or less) were driven on board of her as she lay with\nsteam up alongside a wooden jetty.\n\nThey streamed aboard over three gangways, they streamed in urged by\nfaith and the hope of paradise, they streamed in with a continuous tramp\nand shuffle of bare feet, without a word, a murmur, or a look back; and\nwhen clear of confining rails spread on all sides over the deck, flowed\nforward and aft, overflowed down the yawning hatchways, filled the inner\nrecesses of the ship--like water filling a cistern, like water flowing\ninto crevices and crannies, like water rising silently even with the\nrim. Eight hundred men and women with faith and hopes, with affections\nand memories, they had collected there, coming from north and south\nand from the outskirts of the East, after treading the jungle paths,\ndescending the rivers, coasting in praus along the shallows, crossing in\nsmall canoes from island to island, passing through suffering, meeting\nstrange sights, beset by strange fears, upheld by one desire. They\ncame from solitary huts in the wilderness, from populous campongs, from\nvillages by the sea. At the call of an idea they had left their forests,\ntheir clearings, the protection of their rulers, their prosperity,\ntheir poverty, the surroundings of their youth and the graves of their\nfathers. They came covered with dust, with sweat, with grime, with\nrags--the strong men at the head of family parties, the lean old men\npressing forward without hope of return; young boys with fearless eyes\nglancing curiously, shy little girls with tumbled long hair; the timid\nwomen muffled up and clasping to their breasts, wrapped in loose ends of\nsoiled head-cloths, their sleeping babies, the unconscious pilgrims of\nan exacting belief.\n\n'Look at dese cattle,' said the German skipper to his new chief mate.\n\nAn Arab, the leader of that pious voyage, came last. He walked slowly\naboard, handsome and grave in his white gown and large turban. A string\nof servants followed, loaded with his luggage; the Patna cast off and\nbacked away from the wharf.\n\nShe was headed between two small islets, crossed obliquely the\nanchoring-ground of sailing-ships, swung through half a circle in the\nshadow of a hill, then ranged close to a ledge of foaming reefs. The\nArab, standing up aft, recited aloud the prayer of travellers by sea.\nHe invoked the favour of the Most High upon that journey, implored His\nblessing on men's toil and on the secret purposes of their hearts; the\nsteamer pounded in the dusk the calm water of the Strait; and far astern\nof the pilgrim ship a screw-pile lighthouse, planted by unbelievers on\na treacherous shoal, seemed to wink at her its eye of flame, as if in\nderision of her errand of faith.\n\nShe cleared the Strait, crossed the bay, continued on her way through\nthe 'One-degree' passage. She held on straight for the Red Sea under a\nserene sky, under a sky scorching and unclouded, enveloped in a fulgor\nof sunshine that killed all thought, oppressed the heart, withered all\nimpulses of strength and energy. And under the sinister splendour of\nthat sky the sea, blue and profound, remained still, without a stir,\nwithout a ripple, without a wrinkle--viscous, stagnant, dead. The\nPatna, with a slight hiss, passed over that plain, luminous and smooth,\nunrolled a black ribbon of smoke across the sky, left behind her on the\nwater a white ribbon of foam that vanished at once, like the phantom of\na track drawn upon a lifeless sea by the phantom of a steamer.\n\nEvery morning the sun, as if keeping pace in his revolutions with the\nprogress of the pilgrimage, emerged with a silent burst of light exactly\nat the same distance astern of the ship, caught up with her at noon,\npouring the concentrated fire of his rays on the pious purposes of the\nmen, glided past on his descent, and sank mysteriously into the sea\nevening after evening, preserving the same distance ahead of her\nadvancing bows. The five whites on board lived amidships, isolated from\nthe human cargo. The awnings covered the deck with a white roof from\nstem to stern, and a faint hum, a low murmur of sad voices, alone\nrevealed the presence of a crowd of people upon the great blaze of the\nocean. Such were the days, still, hot, heavy, disappearing one by one\ninto the past, as if falling into an abyss for ever open in the wake\nof the ship; and the ship, lonely under a wisp of smoke, held on her\nsteadfast way black and smouldering in a luminous immensity, as if\nscorched by a flame flicked at her from a heaven without pity.\n\nThe nights descended on her like a benediction.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\n\nA marvellous stillness pervaded the world, and the stars, together with\nthe serenity of their rays, seemed to shed upon the earth the assurance\nof everlasting security. The young moon recurved, and shining low in the\nwest, was like a slender shaving thrown up from a bar of gold, and the\nArabian Sea, smooth and cool to the eye like a sheet of ice, extended\nits perfect level to the perfect circle of a dark horizon. The propeller\nturned without a check, as though its beat had been part of the scheme\nof a safe universe; and on each side of the Patna two deep folds of\nwater, permanent and sombre on the unwrinkled shimmer, enclosed within\ntheir straight and diverging ridges a few white swirls of foam bursting\nin a low hiss, a few wavelets, a few ripples, a few undulations that,\nleft behind, agitated the surface of the sea for an instant after the\npassage of the ship, subsided splashing gently, calmed down at last\ninto the circular stillness of water and sky with the black speck of the\nmoving hull remaining everlastingly in its centre.\n\nJim on the bridge was penetrated by the great certitude of unbounded\nsafety and peace that could be read on the silent aspect of nature like\nthe certitude of fostering love upon the placid tenderness of a mother's\nface. Below the roof of awnings, surrendered to the wisdom of white men\nand to their courage, trusting the power of their unbelief and the iron\nshell of their fire-ship, the pilgrims of an exacting faith slept\non mats, on blankets, on bare planks, on every deck, in all the dark\ncorners, wrapped in dyed cloths, muffled in soiled rags, with their\nheads resting on small bundles, with their faces pressed to bent\nforearms: the men, the women, the children; the old with the young, the\ndecrepit with the lusty--all equal before sleep, death's brother.\n\nA draught of air, fanned from forward by the speed of the ship, passed\nsteadily through the long gloom between the high bulwarks, swept over\nthe rows of prone bodies; a few dim flames in globe-lamps were hung\nshort here and there under the ridge-poles, and in the blurred circles\nof light thrown down and trembling slightly to the unceasing vibration\nof the ship appeared a chin upturned, two closed eyelids, a dark hand\nwith silver rings, a meagre limb draped in a torn covering, a head bent\nback, a naked foot, a throat bared and stretched as if offering itself\nto the knife. The well-to-do had made for their families shelters with\nheavy boxes and dusty mats; the poor reposed side by side with all they\nhad on earth tied up in a rag under their heads; the lone old men slept,\nwith drawn-up legs, upon their prayer-carpets, with their hands over\ntheir ears and one elbow on each side of the face; a father, his\nshoulders up and his knees under his forehead, dozed dejectedly by a\nboy who slept on his back with tousled hair and one arm commandingly\nextended; a woman covered from head to foot, like a corpse, with a piece\nof white sheeting, had a naked child in the hollow of each arm; the\nArab's belongings, piled right aft, made a heavy mound of broken\noutlines, with a cargo-lamp swung above, and a great confusion of\nvague forms behind: gleams of paunchy brass pots, the foot-rest of a\ndeck-chair, blades of spears, the straight scabbard of an old sword\nleaning against a heap of pillows, the spout of a tin coffee-pot. The\npatent log on the taffrail periodically rang a single tinkling stroke\nfor every mile traversed on an errand of faith. Above the mass of\nsleepers a faint and patient sigh at times floated, the exhalation of a\ntroubled dream; and short metallic clangs bursting out suddenly in the\ndepths of the ship, the harsh scrape of a shovel, the violent slam of a\nfurnace-door, exploded brutally, as if the men handling the mysterious\nthings below had their breasts full of fierce anger: while the slim high\nhull of the steamer went on evenly ahead, without a sway of her bare\nmasts, cleaving continuously the great calm of the waters under the\ninaccessible serenity of the sky.\n\nJim paced athwart, and his footsteps in the vast silence were loud to\nhis own ears, as if echoed by the watchful stars: his eyes, roaming\nabout the line of the horizon, seemed to gaze hungrily into the\nunattainable, and did not see the shadow of the coming event. The only\nshadow on the sea was the shadow of the black smoke pouring heavily from\nthe funnel its immense streamer, whose end was constantly dissolving in\nthe air. Two Malays, silent and almost motionless, steered, one on each\nside of the wheel, whose brass rim shone fragmentarily in the oval\nof light thrown out by the binnacle. Now and then a hand, with black\nfingers alternately letting go and catching hold of revolving spokes,\nappeared in the illumined part; the links of wheel-chains ground heavily\nin the grooves of the barrel. Jim would glance at the compass, would\nglance around the unattainable horizon, would stretch himself till his\njoints cracked, with a leisurely twist of the body, in the very excess\nof well-being; and, as if made audacious by the invincible aspect of the\npeace, he felt he cared for nothing that could happen to him to the end\nof his days. From time to time he glanced idly at a chart pegged\nout with four drawing-pins on a low three-legged table abaft the\nsteering-gear case. The sheet of paper portraying the depths of the sea\npresented a shiny surface under the light of a bull's-eye lamp lashed to\na stanchion, a surface as level and smooth as the glimmering surface of\nthe waters. Parallel rulers with a pair of dividers reposed on it; the\nship's position at last noon was marked with a small black cross, and\nthe straight pencil-line drawn firmly as far as Perim figured the course\nof the ship--the path of souls towards the holy place, the promise of\nsalvation, the reward of eternal life--while the pencil with its sharp\nend touching the Somali coast lay round and still like a naked ship's\nspar floating in the pool of a sheltered dock. 'How steady she goes,'\nthought Jim with wonder, with something like gratitude for this high\npeace of sea and sky. At such times his thoughts would be full of\nvalorous deeds: he loved these dreams and the success of his imaginary\nachievements. They were the best parts of life, its secret truth, its\nhidden reality. They had a gorgeous virility, the charm of vagueness,\nthey passed before him with an heroic tread; they carried his soul away\nwith them and made it drunk with the divine philtre of an unbounded\nconfidence in itself. There was nothing he could not face. He was so\npleased with the idea that he smiled, keeping perfunctorily his eyes\nahead; and when he happened to glance back he saw the white streak of\nthe wake drawn as straight by the ship's keel upon the sea as the black\nline drawn by the pencil upon the chart.\n\nThe ash-buckets racketed, clanking up and down the stoke-hold\nventilators, and this tin-pot clatter warned him the end of his watch\nwas near. He sighed with content, with regret as well at having to\npart from that serenity which fostered the adventurous freedom of his\nthoughts. He was a little sleepy too, and felt a pleasurable languor\nrunning through every limb as though all the blood in his body had\nturned to warm milk. His skipper had come up noiselessly, in pyjamas and\nwith his sleeping-jacket flung wide open. Red of face, only half awake,\nthe left eye partly closed, the right staring stupid and glassy, he hung\nhis big head over the chart and scratched his ribs sleepily. There was\nsomething obscene in the sight of his naked flesh. His bared breast\nglistened soft and greasy as though he had sweated out his fat in his\nsleep. He pronounced a professional remark in a voice harsh and dead,\nresembling the rasping sound of a wood-file on the edge of a plank; the\nfold of his double chin hung like a bag triced up close under the hinge\nof his jaw. Jim started, and his answer was full of deference; but\nthe odious and fleshy figure, as though seen for the first time in a\nrevealing moment, fixed itself in his memory for ever as the incarnation\nof everything vile and base that lurks in the world we love: in our own\nhearts we trust for our salvation, in the men that surround us, in the\nsights that fill our eyes, in the sounds that fill our ears, and in the\nair that fills our lungs.\n\nThe thin gold shaving of the moon floating slowly downwards had lost\nitself on the darkened surface of the waters, and the eternity beyond\nthe sky seemed to come down nearer to the earth, with the augmented\nglitter of the stars, with the more profound sombreness in the lustre of\nthe half-transparent dome covering the flat disc of an opaque sea. The\nship moved so smoothly that her onward motion was imperceptible to the\nsenses of men, as though she had been a crowded planet speeding through\nthe dark spaces of ether behind the swarm of suns, in the appalling and\ncalm solitudes awaiting the breath of future creations. 'Hot is no name\nfor it down below,' said a voice.\n\nJim smiled without looking round. The skipper presented an unmoved\nbreadth of back: it was the renegade's trick to appear pointedly unaware\nof your existence unless it suited his purpose to turn at you with a\ndevouring glare before he let loose a torrent of foamy, abusive jargon\nthat came like a gush from a sewer. Now he emitted only a sulky grunt;\nthe second engineer at the head of the bridge-ladder, kneading with\ndamp palms a dirty sweat-rag, unabashed, continued the tale of his\ncomplaints. The sailors had a good time of it up here, and what was the\nuse of them in the world he would be blowed if he could see. The poor\ndevils of engineers had to get the ship along anyhow, and they could\nvery well do the rest too; by gosh they--'Shut up!' growled the German\nstolidly. 'Oh yes! Shut up--and when anything goes wrong you fly to\nus, don't you?' went on the other. He was more than half cooked, he\nexpected; but anyway, now, he did not mind how much he sinned, because\nthese last three days he had passed through a fine course of training\nfor the place where the bad boys go when they die--b'gosh, he\nhad--besides being made jolly well deaf by the blasted racket below.\nThe durned, compound, surface-condensing, rotten scrap-heap rattled and\nbanged down there like an old deck-winch, only more so; and what made\nhim risk his life every night and day that God made amongst the refuse\nof a breaking-up yard flying round at fifty-seven revolutions, was more\nthan _he_ could tell. He must have been born reckless, b'gosh.\nHe . . . 'Where did you get drink?' inquired the German, very savage; but\nmotionless in the light of the binnacle, like a clumsy effigy of a\nman cut out of a block of fat. Jim went on smiling at the retreating\nhorizon; his heart was full of generous impulses, and his thought was\ncontemplating his own superiority. 'Drink!' repeated the engineer with\namiable scorn: he was hanging on with both hands to the rail, a shadowy\nfigure with flexible legs. 'Not from you, captain. You're far too mean,\nb'gosh. You would let a good man die sooner than give him a drop of\nschnapps. That's what you Germans call economy. Penny wise, pound\nfoolish.' He became sentimental. The chief had given him a four-finger\nnip about ten o'clock--'only one, s'elp me!'--good old chief; but as to\ngetting the old fraud out of his bunk--a five-ton crane couldn't do\nit. Not it. Not to-night anyhow. He was sleeping sweetly like a little\nchild, with a bottle of prime brandy under his pillow. From the thick\nthroat of the commander of the Patna came a low rumble, on which the\nsound of the word schwein fluttered high and low like a capricious\nfeather in a faint stir of air. He and the chief engineer had been\ncronies for a good few years--serving the same jovial, crafty, old\nChinaman, with horn-rimmed goggles and strings of red silk plaited into\nthe venerable grey hairs of his pigtail. The quay-side opinion in the\nPatna's home-port was that these two in the way of brazen peculation\n'had done together pretty well everything you can think of.' Outwardly\nthey were badly matched: one dull-eyed, malevolent, and of soft fleshy\ncurves; the other lean, all hollows, with a head long and bony like the\nhead of an old horse, with sunken cheeks, with sunken temples, with an\nindifferent glazed glance of sunken eyes. He had been stranded out East\nsomewhere--in Canton, in Shanghai, or perhaps in Yokohama; he probably\ndid not care to remember himself the exact locality, nor yet the cause\nof his shipwreck. He had been, in mercy to his youth, kicked quietly\nout of his ship twenty years ago or more, and it might have been so much\nworse for him that the memory of the episode had in it hardly a trace\nof misfortune. Then, steam navigation expanding in these seas and men\nof his craft being scarce at first, he had 'got on' after a sort. He\nwas eager to let strangers know in a dismal mumble that he was 'an old\nstager out here.' When he moved, a skeleton seemed to sway loose in his\nclothes; his walk was mere wandering, and he was given to wander thus\naround the engine-room skylight, smoking, without relish, doctored\ntobacco in a brass bowl at the end of a cherrywood stem four feet long,\nwith the imbecile gravity of a thinker evolving a system of philosophy\nfrom the hazy glimpse of a truth. He was usually anything but free with\nhis private store of liquor; but on that night he had departed from his\nprinciples, so that his second, a weak-headed child of Wapping, what\nwith the unexpectedness of the treat and the strength of the stuff,\nhad become very happy, cheeky, and talkative. The fury of the New South\nWales German was extreme; he puffed like an exhaust-pipe, and Jim,\nfaintly amused by the scene, was impatient for the time when he could\nget below: the last ten minutes of the watch were irritating like a\ngun that hangs fire; those men did not belong to the world of heroic\nadventure; they weren't bad chaps though. Even the skipper himself . . .\nHis gorge rose at the mass of panting flesh from which issued\ngurgling mutters, a cloudy trickle of filthy expressions; but he was\ntoo pleasurably languid to dislike actively this or any other thing. The\nquality of these men did not matter; he rubbed shoulders with them, but\nthey could not touch him; he shared the air they breathed, but he was\ndifferent. . . . Would the skipper go for the engineer? . . . The life\nwas easy and he was too sure of himself--too sure of himself to . . .\nThe line dividing his meditation from a surreptitious doze on his feet\nwas thinner than a thread in a spider's web.\n\nThe second engineer was coming by easy transitions to the consideration\nof his finances and of his courage.\n\n'Who's drunk? I? No, no, captain! That won't do. You ought to know by\nthis time the chief ain't free-hearted enough to make a sparrow drunk,\nb'gosh. I've never been the worse for liquor in my life; the stuff ain't\nmade yet that would make _me_ drunk. I could drink liquid fire against\nyour whisky peg for peg, b'gosh, and keep as cool as a cucumber. If I\nthought I was drunk I would jump overboard--do away with myself, b'gosh.\nI would! Straight! And I won't go off the bridge. Where do you expect\nme to take the air on a night like this, eh? On deck amongst that vermin\ndown there? Likely--ain't it! And I am not afraid of anything you can\ndo.'\n\nThe German lifted two heavy fists to heaven and shook them a little\nwithout a word.\n\n'I don't know what fear is,' pursued the engineer, with the enthusiasm\nof sincere conviction. 'I am not afraid of doing all the bloomin' work\nin this rotten hooker, b'gosh! And a jolly good thing for you that there\nare some of us about the world that aren't afraid of their lives, or\nwhere would you be--you and this old thing here with her plates like\nbrown paper--brown paper, s'elp me? It's all very fine for you--you\nget a power of pieces out of her one way and another; but what about\nme--what do I get? A measly hundred and fifty dollars a month and\nfind yourself. I wish to ask you respectfully--respectfully, mind--who\nwouldn't chuck a dratted job like this? 'Tain't safe, s'elp me, it\nain't! Only I am one of them fearless fellows . . .'\n\nHe let go the rail and made ample gestures as if demonstrating in\nthe air the shape and extent of his valour; his thin voice darted in\nprolonged squeaks upon the sea, he tiptoed back and forth for the better\nemphasis of utterance, and suddenly pitched down head-first as though he\nhad been clubbed from behind. He said 'Damn!' as he tumbled; an instant\nof silence followed upon his screeching: Jim and the skipper staggered\nforward by common accord, and catching themselves up, stood very stiff\nand still gazing, amazed, at the undisturbed level of the sea. Then they\nlooked upwards at the stars.\n\nWhat had happened? The wheezy thump of the engines went on. Had the\nearth been checked in her course? They could not understand; and\nsuddenly the calm sea, the sky without a cloud, appeared formidably\ninsecure in their immobility, as if poised on the brow of yawning\ndestruction. The engineer rebounded vertically full length and collapsed\nagain into a vague heap. This heap said 'What's that?' in the muffled\naccents of profound grief. A faint noise as of thunder, of thunder\ninfinitely remote, less than a sound, hardly more than a vibration,\npassed slowly, and the ship quivered in response, as if the thunder had\ngrowled deep down in the water. The eyes of the two Malays at the wheel\nglittered towards the white men, but their dark hands remained closed\non the spokes. The sharp hull driving on its way seemed to rise a few\ninches in succession through its whole length, as though it had become\npliable, and settled down again rigidly to its work of cleaving the\nsmooth surface of the sea. Its quivering stopped, and the faint noise\nof thunder ceased all at once, as though the ship had steamed across a\nnarrow belt of vibrating water and of humming air.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\n\nA month or so afterwards, when Jim, in answer to pointed questions,\ntried to tell honestly the truth of this experience, he said, speaking\nof the ship: 'She went over whatever it was as easy as a snake crawling\nover a stick.' The illustration was good: the questions were aiming at\nfacts, and the official Inquiry was being held in the police court of an\nEastern port. He stood elevated in the witness-box, with burning cheeks\nin a cool lofty room: the big framework of punkahs moved gently to and\nfro high above his head, and from below many eyes were looking at him\nout of dark faces, out of white faces, out of red faces, out of faces\nattentive, spellbound, as if all these people sitting in orderly rows\nupon narrow benches had been enslaved by the fascination of his voice.\nIt was very loud, it rang startling in his own ears, it was the only\nsound audible in the world, for the terribly distinct questions that\nextorted his answers seemed to shape themselves in anguish and pain\nwithin his breast,--came to him poignant and silent like the\nterrible questioning of one's conscience. Outside the court the sun\nblazed--within was the wind of great punkahs that made you shiver, the\nshame that made you burn, the attentive eyes whose glance stabbed. The\nface of the presiding magistrate, clean shaved and impassible, looked at\nhim deadly pale between the red faces of the two nautical assessors. The\nlight of a broad window under the ceiling fell from above on the heads\nand shoulders of the three men, and they were fiercely distinct in the\nhalf-light of the big court-room where the audience seemed composed of\nstaring shadows. They wanted facts. Facts! They demanded facts from him,\nas if facts could explain anything!\n\n'After you had concluded you had collided with something floating awash,\nsay a water-logged wreck, you were ordered by your captain to go forward\nand ascertain if there was any damage done. Did you think it likely from\nthe force of the blow?' asked the assessor sitting to the left. He had\na thin horseshoe beard, salient cheek-bones, and with both elbows on\nthe desk clasped his rugged hands before his face, looking at Jim with\nthoughtful blue eyes; the other, a heavy, scornful man, thrown back in\nhis seat, his left arm extended full length, drummed delicately with his\nfinger-tips on a blotting-pad: in the middle the magistrate upright in\nthe roomy arm-chair, his head inclined slightly on the shoulder, had his\narms crossed on his breast and a few flowers in a glass vase by the side\nof his inkstand.\n\n'I did not,' said Jim. 'I was told to call no one and to make no noise\nfor fear of creating a panic. I thought the precaution reasonable. I\ntook one of the lamps that were hung under the awnings and went forward.\nAfter opening the forepeak hatch I heard splashing in there. I lowered\nthen the lamp the whole drift of its lanyard, and saw that the forepeak\nwas more than half full of water already. I knew then there must be a\nbig hole below the water-line.' He paused.\n\n'Yes,' said the big assessor, with a dreamy smile at the blotting-pad;\nhis fingers played incessantly, touching the paper without noise.\n\n'I did not think of danger just then. I might have been a little\nstartled: all this happened in such a quiet way and so very suddenly. I\nknew there was no other bulkhead in the ship but the collision bulkhead\nseparating the forepeak from the forehold. I went back to tell the\ncaptain. I came upon the second engineer getting up at the foot of the\nbridge-ladder: he seemed dazed, and told me he thought his left arm was\nbroken; he had slipped on the top step when getting down while I was\nforward. He exclaimed, \"My God! That rotten bulkhead'll give way in a\nminute, and the damned thing will go down under us like a lump of lead.\"\nHe pushed me away with his right arm and ran before me up the ladder,\nshouting as he climbed. His left arm hung by his side. I followed up in\ntime to see the captain rush at him and knock him down flat on his back.\nHe did not strike him again: he stood bending over him and speaking\nangrily but quite low. I fancy he was asking him why the devil he didn't\ngo and stop the engines, instead of making a row about it on deck. I\nheard him say, \"Get up! Run! fly!\" He swore also. The engineer slid down\nthe starboard ladder and bolted round the skylight to the engine-room\ncompanion which was on the port side. He moaned as he ran. . . .'\n\nHe spoke slowly; he remembered swiftly and with extreme vividness; he\ncould have reproduced like an echo the moaning of the engineer for\nthe better information of these men who wanted facts. After his first\nfeeling of revolt he had come round to the view that only a meticulous\nprecision of statement would bring out the true horror behind the\nappalling face of things. The facts those men were so eager to know had\nbeen visible, tangible, open to the senses, occupying their place in\nspace and time, requiring for their existence a fourteen-hundred-ton\nsteamer and twenty-seven minutes by the watch; they made a whole that\nhad features, shades of expression, a complicated aspect that could be\nremembered by the eye, and something else besides, something invisible,\na directing spirit of perdition that dwelt within, like a malevolent\nsoul in a detestable body. He was anxious to make this clear. This\nhad not been a common affair, everything in it had been of the utmost\nimportance, and fortunately he remembered everything. He wanted to go on\ntalking for truth's sake, perhaps for his own sake also; and while his\nutterance was deliberate, his mind positively flew round and round the\nserried circle of facts that had surged up all about him to cut him off\nfrom the rest of his kind: it was like a creature that, finding itself\nimprisoned within an enclosure of high stakes, dashes round and round,\ndistracted in the night, trying to find a weak spot, a crevice, a place\nto scale, some opening through which it may squeeze itself and escape.\nThis awful activity of mind made him hesitate at times in his\nspeech. . . .\n\n'The captain kept on moving here and there on the bridge; he seemed calm\nenough, only he stumbled several times; and once as I stood speaking to\nhim he walked right into me as though he had been stone-blind. He made\nno definite answer to what I had to tell. He mumbled to himself; all I\nheard of it were a few words that sounded like \"confounded steam!\" and\n\"infernal steam!\"--something about steam. I thought . . .'\n\nHe was becoming irrelevant; a question to the point cut short his\nspeech, like a pang of pain, and he felt extremely discouraged and\nweary. He was coming to that, he was coming to that--and now, checked\nbrutally, he had to answer by yes or no. He answered truthfully by a\ncurt 'Yes, I did'; and fair of face, big of frame, with young, gloomy\neyes, he held his shoulders upright above the box while his soul writhed\nwithin him. He was made to answer another question so much to the point\nand so useless, then waited again. His mouth was tastelessly dry, as\nthough he had been eating dust, then salt and bitter as after a drink\nof sea-water. He wiped his damp forehead, passed his tongue over parched\nlips, felt a shiver run down his back. The big assessor had dropped his\neyelids, and drummed on without a sound, careless and mournful; the eyes\nof the other above the sunburnt, clasped fingers seemed to glow with\nkindliness; the magistrate had swayed forward; his pale face hovered\nnear the flowers, and then dropping sideways over the arm of his chair,\nhe rested his temple in the palm of his hand. The wind of the punkahs\neddied down on the heads, on the dark-faced natives wound about in\nvoluminous draperies, on the Europeans sitting together very hot and in\ndrill suits that seemed to fit them as close as their skins, and holding\ntheir round pith hats on their knees; while gliding along the walls the\ncourt peons, buttoned tight in long white coats, flitted rapidly to and\nfro, running on bare toes, red-sashed, red turban on head, as noiseless\nas ghosts, and on the alert like so many retrievers.\n\nJim's eyes, wandering in the intervals of his answers, rested upon a\nwhite man who sat apart from the others, with his face worn and clouded,\nbut with quiet eyes that glanced straight, interested and clear. Jim\nanswered another question and was tempted to cry out, 'What's the good\nof this! what's the good!' He tapped with his foot slightly, bit his\nlip, and looked away over the heads. He met the eyes of the white man.\nThe glance directed at him was not the fascinated stare of the others.\nIt was an act of intelligent volition. Jim between two questions forgot\nhimself so far as to find leisure for a thought. This fellow--ran the\nthought--looks at me as though he could see somebody or something past\nmy shoulder. He had come across that man before--in the street perhaps.\nHe was positive he had never spoken to him. For days, for many days,\nhe had spoken to no one, but had held silent, incoherent, and endless\nconverse with himself, like a prisoner alone in his cell or like a\nwayfarer lost in a wilderness. At present he was answering questions\nthat did not matter though they had a purpose, but he doubted whether\nhe would ever again speak out as long as he lived. The sound of his own\ntruthful statements confirmed his deliberate opinion that speech was\nof no use to him any longer. That man there seemed to be aware of his\nhopeless difficulty. Jim looked at him, then turned away resolutely, as\nafter a final parting.\n\nAnd later on, many times, in distant parts of the world, Marlow showed\nhimself willing to remember Jim, to remember him at length, in detail\nand audibly.\n\nPerhaps it would be after dinner, on a verandah draped in motionless\nfoliage and crowned with flowers, in the deep dusk speckled by fiery\ncigar-ends. The elongated bulk of each cane-chair harboured a silent\nlistener. Now and then a small red glow would move abruptly, and\nexpanding light up the fingers of a languid hand, part of a face in\nprofound repose, or flash a crimson gleam into a pair of pensive eyes\novershadowed by a fragment of an unruffled forehead; and with the very\nfirst word uttered Marlow's body, extended at rest in the seat, would\nbecome very still, as though his spirit had winged its way back into the\nlapse of time and were speaking through his lips from the past.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\n\n'Oh yes. I attended the inquiry,' he would say, 'and to this day I\nhaven't left off wondering why I went. I am willing to believe each of\nus has a guardian angel, if you fellows will concede to me that each of\nus has a familiar devil as well. I want you to own up, because I don't\nlike to feel exceptional in any way, and I know I have him--the devil,\nI mean. I haven't seen him, of course, but I go upon circumstantial\nevidence. He is there right enough, and, being malicious, he lets me in\nfor that kind of thing. What kind of thing, you ask? Why, the inquiry\nthing, the yellow-dog thing--you wouldn't think a mangy, native tyke\nwould be allowed to trip up people in the verandah of a magistrate's\ncourt, would you?--the kind of thing that by devious, unexpected, truly\ndiabolical ways causes me to run up against men with soft spots, with\nhard spots, with hidden plague spots, by Jove! and loosens their tongues\nat the sight of me for their infernal confidences; as though, forsooth,\nI had no confidences to make to myself, as though--God help me!--I\ndidn't have enough confidential information about myself to harrow my\nown soul till the end of my appointed time. And what I have done to be\nthus favoured I want to know. I declare I am as full of my own concerns\nas the next man, and I have as much memory as the average pilgrim in\nthis valley, so you see I am not particularly fit to be a receptacle of\nconfessions. Then why? Can't tell--unless it be to make time pass away\nafter dinner. Charley, my dear chap, your dinner was extremely good, and\nin consequence these men here look upon a quiet rubber as a tumultuous\noccupation. They wallow in your good chairs and think to themselves,\n\"Hang exertion. Let that Marlow talk.\"\n\n'Talk? So be it. And it's easy enough to talk of Master Jim, after a\ngood spread, two hundred feet above the sea-level, with a box of decent\ncigars handy, on a blessed evening of freshness and starlight that would\nmake the best of us forget we are only on sufferance here and got to\npick our way in cross lights, watching every precious minute and every\nirremediable step, trusting we shall manage yet to go out decently in\nthe end--but not so sure of it after all--and with dashed little help to\nexpect from those we touch elbows with right and left. Of course there\nare men here and there to whom the whole of life is like an after-dinner\nhour with a cigar; easy, pleasant, empty, perhaps enlivened by some\nfable of strife to be forgotten before the end is told--before the end\nis told--even if there happens to be any end to it.\n\n'My eyes met his for the first time at that inquiry. You must know\nthat everybody connected in any way with the sea was there, because the\naffair had been notorious for days, ever since that mysterious cable\nmessage came from Aden to start us all cackling. I say mysterious,\nbecause it was so in a sense though it contained a naked fact, about\nas naked and ugly as a fact can well be. The whole waterside talked\nof nothing else. First thing in the morning as I was dressing in my\nstate-room, I would hear through the bulkhead my Parsee Dubash jabbering\nabout the Patna with the steward, while he drank a cup of tea,\nby favour, in the pantry. No sooner on shore I would meet some\nacquaintance, and the first remark would be, \"Did you ever hear of\nanything to beat this?\" and according to his kind the man would smile\ncynically, or look sad, or let out a swear or two. Complete strangers\nwould accost each other familiarly, just for the sake of easing their\nminds on the subject: every confounded loafer in the town came in for\na harvest of drinks over this affair: you heard of it in the harbour\noffice, at every ship-broker's, at your agent's, from whites, from\nnatives, from half-castes, from the very boatmen squatting half naked on\nthe stone steps as you went up--by Jove! There was some indignation, not\na few jokes, and no end of discussions as to what had become of them,\nyou know. This went on for a couple of weeks or more, and the opinion\nthat whatever was mysterious in this affair would turn out to be tragic\nas well, began to prevail, when one fine morning, as I was standing\nin the shade by the steps of the harbour office, I perceived four men\nwalking towards me along the quay. I wondered for a while where that\nqueer lot had sprung from, and suddenly, I may say, I shouted to myself,\n\"Here they are!\"\n\n'There they were, sure enough, three of them as large as life, and one\nmuch larger of girth than any living man has a right to be, just landed\nwith a good breakfast inside of them from an outward-bound Dale Line\nsteamer that had come in about an hour after sunrise. There could be no\nmistake; I spotted the jolly skipper of the Patna at the first glance:\nthe fattest man in the whole blessed tropical belt clear round that good\nold earth of ours. Moreover, nine months or so before, I had come\nacross him in Samarang. His steamer was loading in the Roads, and he was\nabusing the tyrannical institutions of the German empire, and soaking\nhimself in beer all day long and day after day in De Jongh's back-shop,\ntill De Jongh, who charged a guilder for every bottle without as much\nas the quiver of an eyelid, would beckon me aside, and, with his little\nleathery face all puckered up, declare confidentially, \"Business is\nbusiness, but this man, captain, he make me very sick. Tfui!\"\n\n'I was looking at him from the shade. He was hurrying on a little in\nadvance, and the sunlight beating on him brought out his bulk in a\nstartling way. He made me think of a trained baby elephant walking\non hind-legs. He was extravagantly gorgeous too--got up in a soiled\nsleeping-suit, bright green and deep orange vertical stripes, with a\npair of ragged straw slippers on his bare feet, and somebody's cast-off\npith hat, very dirty and two sizes too small for him, tied up with a\nmanilla rope-yarn on the top of his big head. You understand a man like\nthat hasn't the ghost of a chance when it comes to borrowing clothes.\nVery well. On he came in hot haste, without a look right or left, passed\nwithin three feet of me, and in the innocence of his heart went on\npelting upstairs into the harbour office to make his deposition, or\nreport, or whatever you like to call it.\n\n'It appears he addressed himself in the first instance to the principal\nshipping-master. Archie Ruthvel had just come in, and, as his story\ngoes, was about to begin his arduous day by giving a dressing-down to\nhis chief clerk. Some of you might have known him--an obliging little\nPortuguese half-caste with a miserably skinny neck, and always on the\nhop to get something from the shipmasters in the way of eatables--a\npiece of salt pork, a bag of biscuits, a few potatoes, or what not. One\nvoyage, I recollect, I tipped him a live sheep out of the remnant of my\nsea-stock: not that I wanted him to do anything for me--he couldn't,\nyou know--but because his childlike belief in the sacred right to\nperquisites quite touched my heart. It was so strong as to be almost\nbeautiful. The race--the two races rather--and the climate . . .\nHowever, never mind. I know where I have a friend for life.\n\n'Well, Ruthvel says he was giving him a severe lecture--on official\nmorality, I suppose--when he heard a kind of subdued commotion at his\nback, and turning his head he saw, in his own words, something round and\nenormous, resembling a sixteen-hundred-weight sugar-hogshead wrapped in\nstriped flannelette, up-ended in the middle of the large floor space\nin the office. He declares he was so taken aback that for quite an\nappreciable time he did not realise the thing was alive, and sat still\nwondering for what purpose and by what means that object had been\ntransported in front of his desk. The archway from the ante-room was\ncrowded with punkah-pullers, sweepers, police peons, the coxswain and\ncrew of the harbour steam-launch, all craning their necks and almost\nclimbing on each other's backs. Quite a riot. By that time the fellow\nhad managed to tug and jerk his hat clear of his head, and advanced with\nslight bows at Ruthvel, who told me the sight was so discomposing that\nfor some time he listened, quite unable to make out what that apparition\nwanted. It spoke in a voice harsh and lugubrious but intrepid, and\nlittle by little it dawned upon Archie that this was a development of\nthe Patna case. He says that as soon as he understood who it was before\nhim he felt quite unwell--Archie is so sympathetic and easily upset--but\npulled himself together and shouted \"Stop! I can't listen to you. You\nmust go to the Master Attendant. I can't possibly listen to you. Captain\nElliot is the man you want to see. This way, this way.\" He jumped\nup, ran round that long counter, pulled, shoved: the other let him,\nsurprised but obedient at first, and only at the door of the private\noffice some sort of animal instinct made him hang back and snort like\na frightened bullock. \"Look here! what's up? Let go! Look here!\" Archie\nflung open the door without knocking. \"The master of the Patna, sir,\"\nhe shouts. \"Go in, captain.\" He saw the old man lift his head from some\nwriting so sharp that his nose-nippers fell off, banged the door to, and\nfled to his desk, where he had some papers waiting for his signature:\nbut he says the row that burst out in there was so awful that he\ncouldn't collect his senses sufficiently to remember the spelling of\nhis own name. Archie's the most sensitive shipping-master in the two\nhemispheres. He declares he felt as though he had thrown a man to a\nhungry lion. No doubt the noise was great. I heard it down below, and I\nhave every reason to believe it was heard clear across the Esplanade as\nfar as the band-stand. Old father Elliot had a great stock of words and\ncould shout--and didn't mind who he shouted at either. He would have\nshouted at the Viceroy himself. As he used to tell me: \"I am as high as\nI can get; my pension is safe. I've a few pounds laid by, and if they\ndon't like my notions of duty I would just as soon go home as not. I am\nan old man, and I have always spoken my mind. All I care for now is to\nsee my girls married before I die.\" He was a little crazy on that\npoint. His three daughters were awfully nice, though they resembled him\namazingly, and on the mornings he woke up with a gloomy view of their\nmatrimonial prospects the office would read it in his eye and tremble,\nbecause, they said, he was sure to have somebody for breakfast. However,\nthat morning he did not eat the renegade, but, if I may be allowed to\ncarry on the metaphor, chewed him up very small, so to speak, and--ah!\nejected him again.\n\n'Thus in a very few moments I saw his monstrous bulk descend in haste\nand stand still on the outer steps. He had stopped close to me for the\npurpose of profound meditation: his large purple cheeks quivered. He\nwas biting his thumb, and after a while noticed me with a sidelong vexed\nlook. The other three chaps that had landed with him made a little group\nwaiting at some distance. There was a sallow-faced, mean little chap\nwith his arm in a sling, and a long individual in a blue flannel coat,\nas dry as a chip and no stouter than a broomstick, with drooping grey\nmoustaches, who looked about him with an air of jaunty imbecility. The\nthird was an upstanding, broad-shouldered youth, with his hands in his\npockets, turning his back on the other two who appeared to be talking\ntogether earnestly. He stared across the empty Esplanade. A ramshackle\ngharry, all dust and venetian blinds, pulled up short opposite the\ngroup, and the driver, throwing up his right foot over his knee, gave\nhimself up to the critical examination of his toes. The young chap,\nmaking no movement, not even stirring his head, just stared into the\nsunshine. This was my first view of Jim. He looked as unconcerned and\nunapproachable as only the young can look. There he stood, clean-limbed,\nclean-faced, firm on his feet, as promising a boy as the sun ever shone\non; and, looking at him, knowing all he knew and a little more too, I\nwas as angry as though I had detected him trying to get something out of\nme by false pretences. He had no business to look so sound. I thought\nto myself--well, if this sort can go wrong like that . . . and I felt\nas though I could fling down my hat and dance on it from sheer\nmortification, as I once saw the skipper of an Italian barque do because\nhis duffer of a mate got into a mess with his anchors when making a\nflying moor in a roadstead full of ships. I asked myself, seeing him\nthere apparently so much at ease--is he silly? is he callous? He seemed\nready to start whistling a tune. And note, I did not care a rap about\nthe behaviour of the other two. Their persons somehow fitted the tale\nthat was public property, and was going to be the subject of an official\ninquiry. \"That old mad rogue upstairs called me a hound,\" said the\ncaptain of the Patna. I can't tell whether he recognised me--I rather\nthink he did; but at any rate our glances met. He glared--I smiled;\nhound was the very mildest epithet that had reached me through the open\nwindow. \"Did he?\" I said from some strange inability to hold my tongue.\nHe nodded, bit his thumb again, swore under his breath: then lifting his\nhead and looking at me with sullen and passionate impudence--\"Bah! the\nPacific is big, my friendt. You damned Englishmen can do your worst; I\nknow where there's plenty room for a man like me: I am well aguaindt\nin Apia, in Honolulu, in . . .\" He paused reflectively, while without\neffort I could depict to myself the sort of people he was \"aguaindt\"\nwith in those places. I won't make a secret of it that I had been\n\"aguaindt\" with not a few of that sort myself. There are times when\na man must act as though life were equally sweet in any company. I've\nknown such a time, and, what's more, I shan't now pretend to pull a long\nface over my necessity, because a good many of that bad company from\nwant of moral--moral--what shall I say?--posture, or from some other\nequally profound cause, were twice as instructive and twenty times more\namusing than the usual respectable thief of commerce you fellows ask\nto sit at your table without any real necessity--from habit, from\ncowardice, from good-nature, from a hundred sneaking and inadequate\nreasons.\n\n'\"You Englishmen are all rogues,\" went on my patriotic Flensborg or\nStettin Australian. I really don't recollect now what decent little\nport on the shores of the Baltic was defiled by being the nest of that\nprecious bird. \"What are you to shout? Eh? You tell me? You no better\nthan other people, and that old rogue he make Gottam fuss with me.\" His\nthick carcass trembled on its legs that were like a pair of pillars; it\ntrembled from head to foot. \"That's what you English always make--make\na tam' fuss--for any little thing, because I was not born in your\ntam' country. Take away my certificate. Take it. I don't want the\ncertificate. A man like me don't want your verfluchte certificate. I\nshpit on it.\" He spat. \"I vill an Amerigan citizen begome,\" he cried,\nfretting and fuming and shuffling his feet as if to free his ankles from\nsome invisible and mysterious grasp that would not let him get away\nfrom that spot. He made himself so warm that the top of his bullet head\npositively smoked. Nothing mysterious prevented me from going away:\ncuriosity is the most obvious of sentiments, and it held me there to see\nthe effect of a full information upon that young fellow who, hands\nin pockets, and turning his back upon the sidewalk, gazed across the\ngrass-plots of the Esplanade at the yellow portico of the Malabar Hotel\nwith the air of a man about to go for a walk as soon as his friend is\nready. That's how he looked, and it was odious. I waited to see him\noverwhelmed, confounded, pierced through and through, squirming like an\nimpaled beetle--and I was half afraid to see it too--if you understand\nwhat I mean. Nothing more awful than to watch a man who has been found\nout, not in a crime but in a more than criminal weakness. The commonest\nsort of fortitude prevents us from becoming criminals in a legal sense;\nit is from weakness unknown, but perhaps suspected, as in some parts of\nthe world you suspect a deadly snake in every bush--from weakness\nthat may lie hidden, watched or unwatched, prayed against or manfully\nscorned, repressed or maybe ignored more than half a lifetime, not one\nof us is safe. We are snared into doing things for which we get called\nnames, and things for which we get hanged, and yet the spirit may well\nsurvive--survive the condemnation, survive the halter, by Jove! And\nthere are things--they look small enough sometimes too--by which some of\nus are totally and completely undone. I watched the youngster there.\nI liked his appearance; I knew his appearance; he came from the right\nplace; he was one of us. He stood there for all the parentage of his\nkind, for men and women by no means clever or amusing, but whose very\nexistence is based upon honest faith, and upon the instinct of courage.\nI don't mean military courage, or civil courage, or any special kind of\ncourage. I mean just that inborn ability to look temptations straight in\nthe face--a readiness unintellectual enough, goodness knows, but without\npose--a power of resistance, don't you see, ungracious if you like, but\npriceless--an unthinking and blessed stiffness before the outward and\ninward terrors, before the might of nature and the seductive corruption\nof men--backed by a faith invulnerable to the strength of facts, to the\ncontagion of example, to the solicitation of ideas. Hang ideas! They are\ntramps, vagabonds, knocking at the back-door of your mind, each taking\na little of your substance, each carrying away some crumb of that belief\nin a few simple notions you must cling to if you want to live decently\nand would like to die easy!\n\n'This has nothing to do with Jim, directly; only he was outwardly so\ntypical of that good, stupid kind we like to feel marching right and\nleft of us in life, of the kind that is not disturbed by the vagaries of\nintelligence and the perversions of--of nerves, let us say. He was the\nkind of fellow you would, on the strength of his looks, leave in charge\nof the deck--figuratively and professionally speaking. I say I would,\nand I ought to know. Haven't I turned out youngsters enough in my time,\nfor the service of the Red Rag, to the craft of the sea, to the craft\nwhose whole secret could be expressed in one short sentence, and yet\nmust be driven afresh every day into young heads till it becomes the\ncomponent part of every waking thought--till it is present in every\ndream of their young sleep! The sea has been good to me, but when I\nremember all these boys that passed through my hands, some grown up now\nand some drowned by this time, but all good stuff for the sea, I don't\nthink I have done badly by it either. Were I to go home to-morrow, I bet\nthat before two days passed over my head some sunburnt young chief mate\nwould overtake me at some dock gateway or other, and a fresh deep voice\nspeaking above my hat would ask: \"Don't you remember me, sir? Why!\nlittle So-and-so. Such and such a ship. It was my first voyage.\" And I\nwould remember a bewildered little shaver, no higher than the back of\nthis chair, with a mother and perhaps a big sister on the quay, very\nquiet but too upset to wave their handkerchiefs at the ship that glides\nout gently between the pier-heads; or perhaps some decent middle-aged\nfather who had come early with his boy to see him off, and stays all the\nmorning, because he is interested in the windlass apparently, and stays\ntoo long, and has got to scramble ashore at last with no time at all\nto say good-bye. The mud pilot on the poop sings out to me in a drawl,\n\"Hold her with the check line for a moment, Mister Mate. There's a\ngentleman wants to get ashore. . . . Up with you, sir. Nearly got\ncarried off to Talcahuano, didn't you? Now's your time; easy does\nit. . . . All right. Slack away again forward there.\" The tugs, smoking\nlike the pit of perdition, get hold and churn the old river into fury;\nthe gentleman ashore is dusting his knees--the benevolent steward has\nshied his umbrella after him. All very proper. He has offered his bit of\nsacrifice to the sea, and now he may go home pretending he thinks\nnothing of it; and the little willing victim shall be very sea-sick\nbefore next morning. By-and-by, when he has learned all the little\nmysteries and the one great secret of the craft, he shall be fit to live\nor die as the sea may decree; and the man who had taken a hand in this\nfool game, in which the sea wins every toss, will be pleased to have his\nback slapped by a heavy young hand, and to hear a cheery sea-puppy\nvoice: \"Do you remember me, sir? The little So-and-so.\"\n\n'I tell you this is good; it tells you that once in your life at least\nyou had gone the right way to work. I have been thus slapped, and I have\nwinced, for the slap was heavy, and I have glowed all day long and gone\nto bed feeling less lonely in the world by virtue of that hearty thump.\nDon't I remember the little So-and-so's! I tell you I ought to know the\nright kind of looks. I would have trusted the deck to that youngster on\nthe strength of a single glance, and gone to sleep with both eyes--and,\nby Jove! it wouldn't have been safe. There are depths of horror in that\nthought. He looked as genuine as a new sovereign, but there was some\ninfernal alloy in his metal. How much? The least thing--the least\ndrop of something rare and accursed; the least drop!--but he made\nyou--standing there with his don't-care-hang air--he made you wonder\nwhether perchance he were nothing more rare than brass.\n\n'I couldn't believe it. I tell you I wanted to see him squirm for\nthe honour of the craft. The other two no-account chaps spotted their\ncaptain, and began to move slowly towards us. They chatted together as\nthey strolled, and I did not care any more than if they had not been\nvisible to the naked eye. They grinned at each other--might have been\nexchanging jokes, for all I know. I saw that with one of them it was a\ncase of a broken arm; and as to the long individual with grey moustaches\nhe was the chief engineer, and in various ways a pretty notorious\npersonality. They were nobodies. They approached. The skipper gazed\nin an inanimate way between his feet: he seemed to be swollen to an\nunnatural size by some awful disease, by the mysterious action of an\nunknown poison. He lifted his head, saw the two before him waiting,\nopened his mouth with an extraordinary, sneering contortion of his\npuffed face--to speak to them, I suppose--and then a thought seemed to\nstrike him. His thick, purplish lips came together without a sound, he\nwent off in a resolute waddle to the gharry and began to jerk at the\ndoor-handle with such a blind brutality of impatience that I expected to\nsee the whole concern overturned on its side, pony and all. The driver,\nshaken out of his meditation over the sole of his foot, displayed at\nonce all the signs of intense terror, and held with both hands, looking\nround from his box at this vast carcass forcing its way into his\nconveyance. The little machine shook and rocked tumultuously, and the\ncrimson nape of that lowered neck, the size of those straining thighs,\nthe immense heaving of that dingy, striped green-and-orange back, the\nwhole burrowing effort of that gaudy and sordid mass, troubled one's\nsense of probability with a droll and fearsome effect, like one of those\ngrotesque and distinct visions that scare and fascinate one in a fever.\nHe disappeared. I half expected the roof to split in two, the little box\non wheels to burst open in the manner of a ripe cotton-pod--but it only\nsank with a click of flattened springs, and suddenly one venetian blind\nrattled down. His shoulders reappeared, jammed in the small opening; his\nhead hung out, distended and tossing like a captive balloon, perspiring,\nfurious, spluttering. He reached for the gharry-wallah with vicious\nflourishes of a fist as dumpy and red as a lump of raw meat. He roared\nat him to be off, to go on. Where? Into the Pacific, perhaps. The driver\nlashed; the pony snorted, reared once, and darted off at a gallop.\nWhere? To Apia? To Honolulu? He had 6000 miles of tropical belt to\ndisport himself in, and I did not hear the precise address. A snorting\npony snatched him into \"Ewigkeit\" in the twinkling of an eye, and I\nnever saw him again; and, what's more, I don't know of anybody that ever\nhad a glimpse of him after he departed from my knowledge sitting inside\na ramshackle little gharry that fled round the corner in a white smother\nof dust. He departed, disappeared, vanished, absconded; and absurdly\nenough it looked as though he had taken that gharry with him, for\nnever again did I come across a sorrel pony with a slit ear and a\nlackadaisical Tamil driver afflicted by a sore foot. The Pacific is\nindeed big; but whether he found a place for a display of his talents\nin it or not, the fact remains he had flown into space like a witch on a\nbroomstick. The little chap with his arm in a sling started to run after\nthe carriage, bleating, \"Captain! I say, Captain! I sa-a-ay!\"--but after\na few steps stopped short, hung his head, and walked back slowly. At the\nsharp rattle of the wheels the young fellow spun round where he stood.\nHe made no other movement, no gesture, no sign, and remained facing in\nthe new direction after the gharry had swung out of sight.\n\n'All this happened in much less time than it takes to tell, since I am\ntrying to interpret for you into slow speech the instantaneous effect of\nvisual impressions. Next moment the half-caste clerk, sent by Archie\nto look a little after the poor castaways of the Patna, came upon the\nscene. He ran out eager and bareheaded, looking right and left, and\nvery full of his mission. It was doomed to be a failure as far as the\nprincipal person was concerned, but he approached the others with fussy\nimportance, and, almost immediately, found himself involved in a violent\naltercation with the chap that carried his arm in a sling, and who\nturned out to be extremely anxious for a row. He wasn't going to be\nordered about--\"not he, b'gosh.\" He wouldn't be terrified with a pack\nof lies by a cocky half-bred little quill-driver. He was not going to be\nbullied by \"no object of that sort,\" if the story were true \"ever so\"!\nHe bawled his wish, his desire, his determination to go to bed. \"If you\nweren't a God-forsaken Portuguee,\" I heard him yell, \"you would know\nthat the hospital is the right place for me.\" He pushed the fist of\nhis sound arm under the other's nose; a crowd began to collect; the\nhalf-caste, flustered, but doing his best to appear dignified, tried to\nexplain his intentions. I went away without waiting to see the end.\n\n'But it so happened that I had a man in the hospital at the time, and\ngoing there to see about him the day before the opening of the Inquiry,\nI saw in the white men's ward that little chap tossing on his back, with\nhis arm in splints, and quite light-headed. To my great surprise the\nother one, the long individual with drooping white moustache, had also\nfound his way there. I remembered I had seen him slinking away during\nthe quarrel, in a half prance, half shuffle, and trying very hard not\nto look scared. He was no stranger to the port, it seems, and in his\ndistress was able to make tracks straight for Mariani's billiard-room\nand grog-shop near the bazaar. That unspeakable vagabond, Mariani, who\nhad known the man and had ministered to his vices in one or two other\nplaces, kissed the ground, in a manner of speaking, before him, and\nshut him up with a supply of bottles in an upstairs room of his infamous\nhovel. It appears he was under some hazy apprehension as to his personal\nsafety, and wished to be concealed. However, Mariani told me a long time\nafter (when he came on board one day to dun my steward for the price\nof some cigars) that he would have done more for him without asking\nany questions, from gratitude for some unholy favour received very\nmany years ago--as far as I could make out. He thumped twice his brawny\nchest, rolled enormous black-and-white eyes glistening with tears:\n\"Antonio never forget--Antonio never forget!\" What was the precise\nnature of the immoral obligation I never learned, but be it what it may,\nhe had every facility given him to remain under lock and key, with a\nchair, a table, a mattress in a corner, and a litter of fallen plaster\non the floor, in an irrational state of funk, and keeping up his pecker\nwith such tonics as Mariani dispensed. This lasted till the evening of\nthe third day, when, after letting out a few horrible screams, he found\nhimself compelled to seek safety in flight from a legion of centipedes.\nHe burst the door open, made one leap for dear life down the crazy\nlittle stairway, landed bodily on Mariani's stomach, picked himself up,\nand bolted like a rabbit into the streets. The police plucked him off\na garbage-heap in the early morning. At first he had a notion they were\ncarrying him off to be hanged, and fought for liberty like a hero, but\nwhen I sat down by his bed he had been very quiet for two days. His lean\nbronzed head, with white moustaches, looked fine and calm on the pillow,\nlike the head of a war-worn soldier with a child-like soul, had it not\nbeen for a hint of spectral alarm that lurked in the blank glitter of\nhis glance, resembling a nondescript form of a terror crouching silently\nbehind a pane of glass. He was so extremely calm, that I began to\nindulge in the eccentric hope of hearing something explanatory of the\nfamous affair from his point of view. Why I longed to go grubbing into\nthe deplorable details of an occurrence which, after all, concerned me\nno more than as a member of an obscure body of men held together by a\ncommunity of inglorious toil and by fidelity to a certain standard of\nconduct, I can't explain. You may call it an unhealthy curiosity if you\nlike; but I have a distinct notion I wished to find something. Perhaps,\nunconsciously, I hoped I would find that something, some profound and\nredeeming cause, some merciful explanation, some convincing shadow of an\nexcuse. I see well enough now that I hoped for the impossible--for the\nlaying of what is the most obstinate ghost of man's creation, of the\nuneasy doubt uprising like a mist, secret and gnawing like a worm, and\nmore chilling than the certitude of death--the doubt of the sovereign\npower enthroned in a fixed standard of conduct. It is the hardest thing\nto stumble against; it is the thing that breeds yelling panics and good\nlittle quiet villainies; it's the true shadow of calamity. Did I believe\nin a miracle? and why did I desire it so ardently? Was it for my own\nsake that I wished to find some shadow of an excuse for that young\nfellow whom I had never seen before, but whose appearance alone added a\ntouch of personal concern to the thoughts suggested by the knowledge of\nhis weakness--made it a thing of mystery and terror--like a hint of a\ndestructive fate ready for us all whose youth--in its day--had resembled\nhis youth? I fear that such was the secret motive of my prying. I was,\nand no mistake, looking for a miracle. The only thing that at\nthis distance of time strikes me as miraculous is the extent of my\nimbecility. I positively hoped to obtain from that battered and shady\ninvalid some exorcism against the ghost of doubt. I must have been\npretty desperate too, for, without loss of time, after a few indifferent\nand friendly sentences which he answered with languid readiness, just as\nany decent sick man would do, I produced the word Patna wrapped up in a\ndelicate question as in a wisp of floss silk. I was delicate selfishly;\nI did not want to startle him; I had no solicitude for him; I was not\nfurious with him and sorry for him: his experience was of no importance,\nhis redemption would have had no point for me. He had grown old in minor\niniquities, and could no longer inspire aversion or pity. He repeated\nPatna? interrogatively, seemed to make a short effort of memory, and\nsaid: \"Quite right. I am an old stager out here. I saw her go down.\" I\nmade ready to vent my indignation at such a stupid lie, when he added\nsmoothly, \"She was full of reptiles.\"\n\n'This made me pause. What did he mean? The unsteady phantom of terror\nbehind his glassy eyes seemed to stand still and look into mine\nwistfully. \"They turned me out of my bunk in the middle watch to look\nat her sinking,\" he pursued in a reflective tone. His voice sounded\nalarmingly strong all at once. I was sorry for my folly. There was\nno snowy-winged coif of a nursing sister to be seen flitting in the\nperspective of the ward; but away in the middle of a long row of empty\niron bedsteads an accident case from some ship in the Roads sat up brown\nand gaunt with a white bandage set rakishly on the forehead. Suddenly my\ninteresting invalid shot out an arm thin like a tentacle and clawed\nmy shoulder. \"Only my eyes were good enough to see. I am famous for my\neyesight. That's why they called me, I expect. None of them was quick\nenough to see her go, but they saw that she was gone right enough, and\nsang out together--like this.\" . . . A wolfish howl searched the very\nrecesses of my soul. \"Oh! make 'im dry up,\" whined the accident case\nirritably. \"You don't believe me, I suppose,\" went on the other, with\nan air of ineffable conceit. \"I tell you there are no such eyes as mine\nthis side of the Persian Gulf. Look under the bed.\"\n\n'Of course I stooped instantly. I defy anybody not to have done so.\n\"What can you see?\" he asked. \"Nothing,\" I said, feeling awfully ashamed\nof myself. He scrutinised my face with wild and withering contempt.\n\"Just so,\" he said, \"but if I were to look I could see--there's no eyes\nlike mine, I tell you.\" Again he clawed, pulling at me downwards in his\neagerness to relieve himself by a confidential communication. \"Millions\nof pink toads. There's no eyes like mine. Millions of pink toads. It's\nworse than seeing a ship sink. I could look at sinking ships and smoke\nmy pipe all day long. Why don't they give me back my pipe? I would get\na smoke while I watched these toads. The ship was full of them. They've\ngot to be watched, you know.\" He winked facetiously. The perspiration\ndripped on him off my head, my drill coat clung to my wet back: the\nafternoon breeze swept impetuously over the row of bedsteads, the stiff\nfolds of curtains stirred perpendicularly, rattling on brass rods, the\ncovers of empty beds blew about noiselessly near the bare floor all\nalong the line, and I shivered to the very marrow. The soft wind of the\ntropics played in that naked ward as bleak as a winter's gale in an old\nbarn at home. \"Don't you let him start his hollering, mister,\" hailed\nfrom afar the accident case in a distressed angry shout that came\nringing between the walls like a quavering call down a tunnel. The\nclawing hand hauled at my shoulder; he leered at me knowingly. \"The ship\nwas full of them, you know, and we had to clear out on the strict Q.T.,\"\nhe whispered with extreme rapidity. \"All pink. All pink--as big as\nmastiffs, with an eye on the top of the head and claws all round their\nugly mouths. Ough! Ough!\" Quick jerks as of galvanic shocks disclosed\nunder the flat coverlet the outlines of meagre and agitated legs; he let\ngo my shoulder and reached after something in the air; his body trembled\ntensely like a released harp-string; and while I looked down, the\nspectral horror in him broke through his glassy gaze. Instantly his face\nof an old soldier, with its noble and calm outlines, became decomposed\nbefore my eyes by the corruption of stealthy cunning, of an abominable\ncaution and of desperate fear. He restrained a cry--\"Ssh! what are they\ndoing now down there?\" he asked, pointing to the floor with fantastic\nprecautions of voice and gesture, whose meaning, borne upon my mind in a\nlurid flash, made me very sick of my cleverness. \"They are all asleep,\"\nI answered, watching him narrowly. That was it. That's what he wanted\nto hear; these were the exact words that could calm him. He drew a long\nbreath. \"Ssh! Quiet, steady. I am an old stager out here. I know them\nbrutes. Bash in the head of the first that stirs. There's too many of\nthem, and she won't swim more than ten minutes.\" He panted again. \"Hurry\nup,\" he yelled suddenly, and went on in a steady scream: \"They are all\nawake--millions of them. They are trampling on me! Wait! Oh, wait!\nI'll smash them in heaps like flies. Wait for me! Help! H-e-elp!\" An\ninterminable and sustained howl completed my discomfiture. I saw in\nthe distance the accident case raise deplorably both his hands to his\nbandaged head; a dresser, aproned to the chin showed himself in the\nvista of the ward, as if seen in the small end of a telescope. I\nconfessed myself fairly routed, and without more ado, stepping out\nthrough one of the long windows, escaped into the outside gallery. The\nhowl pursued me like a vengeance. I turned into a deserted landing, and\nsuddenly all became very still and quiet around me, and I descended\nthe bare and shiny staircase in a silence that enabled me to compose my\ndistracted thoughts. Down below I met one of the resident surgeons\nwho was crossing the courtyard and stopped me. \"Been to see your man,\nCaptain? I think we may let him go to-morrow. These fools have no\nnotion of taking care of themselves, though. I say, we've got the chief\nengineer of that pilgrim ship here. A curious case. D.T.'s of the worst\nkind. He has been drinking hard in that Greek's or Italian's grog-shop\nfor three days. What can you expect? Four bottles of that kind of brandy\na day, I am told. Wonderful, if true. Sheeted with boiler-iron inside I\nshould think. The head, ah! the head, of course, gone, but the curious\npart is there's some sort of method in his raving. I am trying to\nfind out. Most unusual--that thread of logic in such a delirium.\nTraditionally he ought to see snakes, but he doesn't. Good old\ntradition's at a discount nowadays. Eh! His--er--visions are batrachian.\nHa! ha! No, seriously, I never remember being so interested in a case\nof jim-jams before. He ought to be dead, don't you know, after such a\nfestive experiment. Oh! he is a tough object. Four-and-twenty years of\nthe tropics too. You ought really to take a peep at him. Noble-looking\nold boozer. Most extraordinary man I ever met--medically, of course.\nWon't you?\"\n\n'I have been all along exhibiting the usual polite signs of interest,\nbut now assuming an air of regret I murmured of want of time, and shook\nhands in a hurry. \"I say,\" he cried after me; \"he can't attend that\ninquiry. Is his evidence material, you think?\"\n\n'\"Not in the least,\" I called back from the gateway.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\n\n'The authorities were evidently of the same opinion. The inquiry was not\nadjourned. It was held on the appointed day to satisfy the law, and it\nwas well attended because of its human interest, no doubt. There was no\nincertitude as to facts--as to the one material fact, I mean. How the\nPatna came by her hurt it was impossible to find out; the court did not\nexpect to find out; and in the whole audience there was not a man who\ncared. Yet, as I've told you, all the sailors in the port attended, and\nthe waterside business was fully represented. Whether they knew it or\nnot, the interest that drew them here was purely psychological--the\nexpectation of some essential disclosure as to the strength, the power,\nthe horror, of human emotions. Naturally nothing of the kind could be\ndisclosed. The examination of the only man able and willing to face\nit was beating futilely round the well-known fact, and the play of\nquestions upon it was as instructive as the tapping with a hammer on\nan iron box, were the object to find out what's inside. However, an\nofficial inquiry could not be any other thing. Its object was not the\nfundamental why, but the superficial how, of this affair.\n\n'The young chap could have told them, and, though that very thing\nwas the thing that interested the audience, the questions put to him\nnecessarily led him away from what to me, for instance, would have\nbeen the only truth worth knowing. You can't expect the constituted\nauthorities to inquire into the state of a man's soul--or is it only of\nhis liver? Their business was to come down upon the consequences, and\nfrankly, a casual police magistrate and two nautical assessors are not\nmuch good for anything else. I don't mean to imply these fellows were\nstupid. The magistrate was very patient. One of the assessors was a\nsailing-ship skipper with a reddish beard, and of a pious disposition.\nBrierly was the other. Big Brierly. Some of you must have heard of Big\nBrierly--the captain of the crack ship of the Blue Star line. That's the\nman.\n\n'He seemed consumedly bored by the honour thrust upon him. He had never\nin his life made a mistake, never had an accident, never a mishap,\nnever a check in his steady rise, and he seemed to be one of those lucky\nfellows who know nothing of indecision, much less of self-mistrust.\nAt thirty-two he had one of the best commands going in the Eastern\ntrade--and, what's more, he thought a lot of what he had. There was\nnothing like it in the world, and I suppose if you had asked him\npoint-blank he would have confessed that in his opinion there was not\nsuch another commander. The choice had fallen upon the right man. The\nrest of mankind that did not command the sixteen-knot steel steamer Ossa\nwere rather poor creatures. He had saved lives at sea, had rescued\nships in distress, had a gold chronometer presented to him by the\nunderwriters, and a pair of binoculars with a suitable inscription from\nsome foreign Government, in commemoration of these services. He was\nacutely aware of his merits and of his rewards. I liked him well enough,\nthough some I know--meek, friendly men at that--couldn't stand him at\nany price. I haven't the slightest doubt he considered himself vastly my\nsuperior--indeed, had you been Emperor of East and West, you could not\nhave ignored your inferiority in his presence--but I couldn't get up any\nreal sentiment of offence. He did not despise me for anything I could\nhelp, for anything I was--don't you know? I was a negligible quantity\nsimply because I was not _the_ fortunate man of the earth, not Montague\nBrierly in command of the Ossa, not the owner of an inscribed gold\nchronometer and of silver-mounted binoculars testifying to the\nexcellence of my seamanship and to my indomitable pluck; not possessed\nof an acute sense of my merits and of my rewards, besides the love and\nworship of a black retriever, the most wonderful of its kind--for never\nwas such a man loved thus by such a dog. No doubt, to have all this\nforced upon you was exasperating enough; but when I reflected that I was\nassociated in these fatal disadvantages with twelve hundred millions of\nother more or less human beings, I found I could bear my share of his\ngood-natured and contemptuous pity for the sake of something indefinite\nand attractive in the man. I have never defined to myself this\nattraction, but there were moments when I envied him. The sting of life\ncould do no more to his complacent soul than the scratch of a pin to the\nsmooth face of a rock. This was enviable. As I looked at him, flanking\non one side the unassuming pale-faced magistrate who presided at the\ninquiry, his self-satisfaction presented to me and to the world a\nsurface as hard as granite. He committed suicide very soon after.\n\n'No wonder Jim's case bored him, and while I thought with something\nakin to fear of the immensity of his contempt for the young man under\nexamination, he was probably holding silent inquiry into his own case.\nThe verdict must have been of unmitigated guilt, and he took the secret\nof the evidence with him in that leap into the sea. If I understand\nanything of men, the matter was no doubt of the gravest import, one of\nthose trifles that awaken ideas--start into life some thought with which\na man unused to such a companionship finds it impossible to live. I am\nin a position to know that it wasn't money, and it wasn't drink, and it\nwasn't woman. He jumped overboard at sea barely a week after the end of\nthe inquiry, and less than three days after leaving port on his outward\npassage; as though on that exact spot in the midst of waters he had\nsuddenly perceived the gates of the other world flung open wide for his\nreception.\n\n'Yet it was not a sudden impulse. His grey-headed mate, a first-rate\nsailor and a nice old chap with strangers, but in his relations with\nhis commander the surliest chief officer I've ever seen, would tell the\nstory with tears in his eyes. It appears that when he came on deck in\nthe morning Brierly had been writing in the chart-room. \"It was ten\nminutes to four,\" he said, \"and the middle watch was not relieved yet of\ncourse. He heard my voice on the bridge speaking to the second mate, and\ncalled me in. I was loth to go, and that's the truth, Captain Marlow--I\ncouldn't stand poor Captain Brierly, I tell you with shame; we never\nknow what a man is made of. He had been promoted over too many heads,\nnot counting my own, and he had a damnable trick of making you feel\nsmall, nothing but by the way he said 'Good morning.' I never addressed\nhim, sir, but on matters of duty, and then it was as much as I could do\nto keep a civil tongue in my head.\" (He flattered himself there. I often\nwondered how Brierly could put up with his manners for more than half\na voyage.) \"I've a wife and children,\" he went on, \"and I had been ten\nyears in the Company, always expecting the next command--more fool I.\nSays he, just like this: 'Come in here, Mr. Jones,' in that swagger\nvoice of his--'Come in here, Mr. Jones.' In I went. 'We'll lay down her\nposition,' says he, stooping over the chart, a pair of dividers in hand.\nBy the standing orders, the officer going off duty would have done that\nat the end of his watch. However, I said nothing, and looked on while he\nmarked off the ship's position with a tiny cross and wrote the date and\nthe time. I can see him this moment writing his neat figures: seventeen,\neight, four A.M. The year would be written in red ink at the top of\nthe chart. He never used his charts more than a year, Captain Brierly\ndidn't. I've the chart now. When he had done he stands looking down\nat the mark he had made and smiling to himself, then looks up at me.\n'Thirty-two miles more as she goes,' says he, 'and then we shall be\nclear, and you may alter the course twenty degrees to the southward.'\n\n'\"We were passing to the north of the Hector Bank that voyage. I said,\n'All right, sir,' wondering what he was fussing about, since I had to\ncall him before altering the course anyhow. Just then eight bells were\nstruck: we came out on the bridge, and the second mate before going off\nmentions in the usual way--'Seventy-one on the log.' Captain Brierly\nlooks at the compass and then all round. It was dark and clear, and\nall the stars were out as plain as on a frosty night in high latitudes.\nSuddenly he says with a sort of a little sigh: 'I am going aft, and\nshall set the log at zero for you myself, so that there can be no\nmistake. Thirty-two miles more on this course and then you are safe.\nLet's see--the correction on the log is six per cent. additive; say,\nthen, thirty by the dial to run, and you may come twenty degrees to\nstarboard at once. No use losing any distance--is there?' I had never\nheard him talk so much at a stretch, and to no purpose as it seemed\nto me. I said nothing. He went down the ladder, and the dog, that was\nalways at his heels whenever he moved, night or day, followed,\nsliding nose first, after him. I heard his boot-heels tap, tap on the\nafter-deck, then he stopped and spoke to the dog--'Go back, Rover. On\nthe bridge, boy! Go on--get.' Then he calls out to me from the dark,\n'Shut that dog up in the chart-room, Mr. Jones--will you?'\n\n'\"This was the last time I heard his voice, Captain Marlow. These are\nthe last words he spoke in the hearing of any living human being, sir.\"\nAt this point the old chap's voice got quite unsteady. \"He was afraid\nthe poor brute would jump after him, don't you see?\" he pursued with\na quaver. \"Yes, Captain Marlow. He set the log for me; he--would you\nbelieve it?--he put a drop of oil in it too. There was the oil-feeder\nwhere he left it near by. The boat-swain's mate got the hose along aft\nto wash down at half-past five; by-and-by he knocks off and runs up on\nthe bridge--'Will you please come aft, Mr. Jones,' he says. 'There's a\nfunny thing. I don't like to touch it.' It was Captain Brierly's gold\nchronometer watch carefully hung under the rail by its chain.\n\n'\"As soon as my eyes fell on it something struck me, and I knew, sir. My\nlegs got soft under me. It was as if I had seen him go over; and I could\ntell how far behind he was left too. The taffrail-log marked eighteen\nmiles and three-quarters, and four iron belaying-pins were missing round\nthe mainmast. Put them in his pockets to help him down, I suppose; but,\nLord! what's four iron pins to a powerful man like Captain Brierly.\nMaybe his confidence in himself was just shook a bit at the last. That's\nthe only sign of fluster he gave in his whole life, I should think; but\nI am ready to answer for him, that once over he did not try to swim a\nstroke, the same as he would have had pluck enough to keep up all day\nlong on the bare chance had he fallen overboard accidentally. Yes, sir.\nHe was second to none--if he said so himself, as I heard him once. He\nhad written two letters in the middle watch, one to the Company and the\nother to me. He gave me a lot of instructions as to the passage--I had\nbeen in the trade before he was out of his time--and no end of hints\nas to my conduct with our people in Shanghai, so that I should keep the\ncommand of the Ossa. He wrote like a father would to a favourite son,\nCaptain Marlow, and I was five-and-twenty years his senior and had\ntasted salt water before he was fairly breeched. In his letter to the\nowners--it was left open for me to see--he said that he had always done\nhis duty by them--up to that moment--and even now he was not betraying\ntheir confidence, since he was leaving the ship to as competent a seaman\nas could be found--meaning me, sir, meaning me! He told them that if\nthe last act of his life didn't take away all his credit with them, they\nwould give weight to my faithful service and to his warm recommendation,\nwhen about to fill the vacancy made by his death. And much more like\nthis, sir. I couldn't believe my eyes. It made me feel queer all over,\"\nwent on the old chap, in great perturbation, and squashing something\nin the corner of his eye with the end of a thumb as broad as a spatula.\n\"You would think, sir, he had jumped overboard only to give an unlucky\nman a last show to get on. What with the shock of him going in this\nawful rash way, and thinking myself a made man by that chance, I was\nnearly off my chump for a week. But no fear. The captain of the Pelion\nwas shifted into the Ossa--came aboard in Shanghai--a little popinjay,\nsir, in a grey check suit, with his hair parted in the middle. 'Aw--I\nam--aw--your new captain, Mister--Mister--aw--Jones.' He was drowned in\nscent--fairly stunk with it, Captain Marlow. I dare say it was the look\nI gave him that made him stammer. He mumbled something about my natural\ndisappointment--I had better know at once that his chief officer got\nthe promotion to the Pelion--he had nothing to do with it, of\ncourse--supposed the office knew best--sorry. . . . Says I, 'Don't\nyou mind old Jones, sir; dam' his soul, he's used to it.' I could see\ndirectly I had shocked his delicate ear, and while we sat at our first\ntiffin together he began to find fault in a nasty manner with this and\nthat in the ship. I never heard such a voice out of a Punch and Judy\nshow. I set my teeth hard, and glued my eyes to my plate, and held my\npeace as long as I could; but at last I had to say something. Up\nhe jumps tiptoeing, ruffling all his pretty plumes, like a little\nfighting-cock. 'You'll find you have a different person to deal with\nthan the late Captain Brierly.' 'I've found it,' says I, very glum, but\npretending to be mighty busy with my steak. 'You are an old ruffian,\nMister--aw--Jones; and what's more, you are known for an old ruffian\nin the employ,' he squeaks at me. The damned bottle-washers stood about\nlistening with their mouths stretched from ear to ear. 'I may be a hard\ncase,' answers I, 'but I ain't so far gone as to put up with the sight\nof you sitting in Captain Brierly's chair.' With that I lay down my\nknife and fork. 'You would like to sit in it yourself--that's where the\nshoe pinches,' he sneers. I left the saloon, got my rags together, and\nwas on the quay with all my dunnage about my feet before the\nstevedores had turned to again. Yes. Adrift--on shore--after ten years'\nservice--and with a poor woman and four children six thousand miles\noff depending on my half-pay for every mouthful they ate. Yes, sir!\nI chucked it rather than hear Captain Brierly abused. He left me his\nnight-glasses--here they are; and he wished me to take care of the\ndog--here he is. Hallo, Rover, poor boy. Where's the captain, Rover?\"\nThe dog looked up at us with mournful yellow eyes, gave one desolate\nbark, and crept under the table.\n\n'All this was taking place, more than two years afterwards, on board\nthat nautical ruin the Fire-Queen this Jones had got charge of--quite\nby a funny accident, too--from Matherson--mad Matherson they generally\ncalled him--the same who used to hang out in Hai-phong, you know, before\nthe occupation days. The old chap snuffled on--\n\n'\"Ay, sir, Captain Brierly will be remembered here, if there's no other\nplace on earth. I wrote fully to his father and did not get a word in\nreply--neither Thank you, nor Go to the devil!--nothing! Perhaps they\ndid not want to know.\"\n\n'The sight of that watery-eyed old Jones mopping his bald head with a\nred cotton handkerchief, the sorrowing yelp of the dog, the squalor of\nthat fly-blown cuddy which was the only shrine of his memory, threw a\nveil of inexpressibly mean pathos over Brierly's remembered figure, the\nposthumous revenge of fate for that belief in his own splendour which\nhad almost cheated his life of its legitimate terrors. Almost! Perhaps\nwholly. Who can tell what flattering view he had induced himself to take\nof his own suicide?\n\n'\"Why did he commit the rash act, Captain Marlow--can you think?\" asked\nJones, pressing his palms together. \"Why? It beats me! Why?\" He slapped\nhis low and wrinkled forehead. \"If he had been poor and old and in\ndebt--and never a show--or else mad. But he wasn't of the kind that\ngoes mad, not he. You trust me. What a mate don't know about his skipper\nisn't worth knowing. Young, healthy, well off, no cares. . . . I sit\nhere sometimes thinking, thinking, till my head fairly begins to buzz.\nThere was some reason.\"\n\n'\"You may depend on it, Captain Jones,\" said I, \"it wasn't anything that\nwould have disturbed much either of us two,\" I said; and then, as if\na light had been flashed into the muddle of his brain, poor old Jones\nfound a last word of amazing profundity. He blew his nose, nodding at me\ndolefully: \"Ay, ay! neither you nor I, sir, had ever thought so much of\nourselves.\"\n\n'Of course the recollection of my last conversation with Brierly is\ntinged with the knowledge of his end that followed so close upon it. I\nspoke with him for the last time during the progress of the inquiry. It\nwas after the first adjournment, and he came up with me in the street.\nHe was in a state of irritation, which I noticed with surprise, his\nusual behaviour when he condescended to converse being perfectly\ncool, with a trace of amused tolerance, as if the existence of his\ninterlocutor had been a rather good joke. \"They caught me for that\ninquiry, you see,\" he began, and for a while enlarged complainingly upon\nthe inconveniences of daily attendance in court. \"And goodness knows how\nlong it will last. Three days, I suppose.\" I heard him out in silence;\nin my then opinion it was a way as good as another of putting on side.\n\"What's the use of it? It is the stupidest set-out you can imagine,\" he\npursued hotly. I remarked that there was no option. He interrupted me\nwith a sort of pent-up violence. \"I feel like a fool all the time.\" I\nlooked up at him. This was going very far--for Brierly--when talking of\nBrierly. He stopped short, and seizing the lapel of my coat, gave it\na slight tug. \"Why are we tormenting that young chap?\" he asked. This\nquestion chimed in so well to the tolling of a certain thought of mine\nthat, with the image of the absconding renegade in my eye, I answered\nat once, \"Hanged if I know, unless it be that he lets you.\" I was\nastonished to see him fall into line, so to speak, with that utterance,\nwhich ought to have been tolerably cryptic. He said angrily, \"Why, yes.\nCan't he see that wretched skipper of his has cleared out? What does he\nexpect to happen? Nothing can save him. He's done for.\" We walked on\nin silence a few steps. \"Why eat all that dirt?\" he exclaimed, with an\noriental energy of expression--about the only sort of energy you can\nfind a trace of east of the fiftieth meridian. I wondered greatly at the\ndirection of his thoughts, but now I strongly suspect it was strictly in\ncharacter: at bottom poor Brierly must have been thinking of himself.\nI pointed out to him that the skipper of the Patna was known to have\nfeathered his nest pretty well, and could procure almost anywhere the\nmeans of getting away. With Jim it was otherwise: the Government was\nkeeping him in the Sailors' Home for the time being, and probably he\nhadn't a penny in his pocket to bless himself with. It costs some money\nto run away. \"Does it? Not always,\" he said, with a bitter laugh, and\nto some further remark of mine--\"Well, then, let him creep twenty feet\nunderground and stay there! By heavens! _I_ would.\" I don't know why his\ntone provoked me, and I said, \"There is a kind of courage in facing\nit out as he does, knowing very well that if he went away nobody would\ntrouble to run after him.\" \"Courage be hanged!\" growled Brierly. \"That\nsort of courage is of no use to keep a man straight, and I don't care\na snap for such courage. If you were to say it was a kind of cowardice\nnow--of softness. I tell you what, I will put up two hundred rupees if\nyou put up another hundred and undertake to make the beggar clear out\nearly to-morrow morning. The fellow's a gentleman if he ain't fit to\nbe touched--he will understand. He must! This infernal publicity is too\nshocking: there he sits while all these confounded natives, serangs,\nlascars, quartermasters, are giving evidence that's enough to burn a man\nto ashes with shame. This is abominable. Why, Marlow, don't you think,\ndon't you feel, that this is abominable; don't you now--come--as a\nseaman? If he went away all this would stop at once.\" Brierly said these\nwords with a most unusual animation, and made as if to reach after his\npocket-book. I restrained him, and declared coldly that the cowardice\nof these four men did not seem to me a matter of such great importance.\n\"And you call yourself a seaman, I suppose,\" he pronounced angrily. I\nsaid that's what I called myself, and I hoped I was too. He heard me\nout, and made a gesture with his big arm that seemed to deprive me of\nmy individuality, to push me away into the crowd. \"The worst of it,\" he\nsaid, \"is that all you fellows have no sense of dignity; you don't think\nenough of what you are supposed to be.\"\n\n'We had been walking slowly meantime, and now stopped opposite the\nharbour office, in sight of the very spot from which the immense captain\nof the Patna had vanished as utterly as a tiny feather blown away in a\nhurricane. I smiled. Brierly went on: \"This is a disgrace. We've got all\nkinds amongst us--some anointed scoundrels in the lot; but, hang it, we\nmust preserve professional decency or we become no better than so many\ntinkers going about loose. We are trusted. Do you understand?--trusted!\nFrankly, I don't care a snap for all the pilgrims that ever came out of\nAsia, but a decent man would not have behaved like this to a full cargo\nof old rags in bales. We aren't an organised body of men, and the only\nthing that holds us together is just the name for that kind of decency.\nSuch an affair destroys one's confidence. A man may go pretty near\nthrough his whole sea-life without any call to show a stiff upper lip.\nBut when the call comes . . . Aha! . . . If I . . .\"\n\n'He broke off, and in a changed tone, \"I'll give you two hundred rupees\nnow, Marlow, and you just talk to that chap. Confound him! I wish he had\nnever come out here. Fact is, I rather think some of my people know his.\nThe old man's a parson, and I remember now I met him once when staying\nwith my cousin in Essex last year. If I am not mistaken, the old\nchap seemed rather to fancy his sailor son. Horrible. I can't do it\nmyself--but you . . .\"\n\n'Thus, apropos of Jim, I had a glimpse of the real Brierly a few days\nbefore he committed his reality and his sham together to the keeping of\nthe sea. Of course I declined to meddle. The tone of this last \"but\nyou\" (poor Brierly couldn't help it), that seemed to imply I was no\nmore noticeable than an insect, caused me to look at the proposal with\nindignation, and on account of that provocation, or for some other\nreason, I became positive in my mind that the inquiry was a severe\npunishment to that Jim, and that his facing it--practically of his own\nfree will--was a redeeming feature in his abominable case. I hadn't been\nso sure of it before. Brierly went off in a huff. At the time his state\nof mind was more of a mystery to me than it is now.\n\n'Next day, coming into court late, I sat by myself. Of course I could\nnot forget the conversation I had with Brierly, and now I had them both\nunder my eyes. The demeanour of one suggested gloomy impudence and of\nthe other a contemptuous boredom; yet one attitude might not have been\ntruer than the other, and I was aware that one was not true. Brierly was\nnot bored--he was exasperated; and if so, then Jim might not have been\nimpudent. According to my theory he was not. I imagined he was hopeless.\nThen it was that our glances met. They met, and the look he gave me was\ndiscouraging of any intention I might have had to speak to him. Upon\neither hypothesis--insolence or despair--I felt I could be of no use to\nhim. This was the second day of the proceedings. Very soon after that\nexchange of glances the inquiry was adjourned again to the next day. The\nwhite men began to troop out at once. Jim had been told to stand down\nsome time before, and was able to leave amongst the first. I saw his\nbroad shoulders and his head outlined in the light of the door, and\nwhile I made my way slowly out talking with some one--some stranger who\nhad addressed me casually--I could see him from within the court-room\nresting both elbows on the balustrade of the verandah and turning his\nback on the small stream of people trickling down the few steps. There\nwas a murmur of voices and a shuffle of boots.\n\n'The next case was that of assault and battery committed upon a\nmoney-lender, I believe; and the defendant--a venerable villager with a\nstraight white beard--sat on a mat just outside the door with his sons,\ndaughters, sons-in-law, their wives, and, I should think, half the\npopulation of his village besides, squatting or standing around him. A\nslim dark woman, with part of her back and one black shoulder bared,\nand with a thin gold ring in her nose, suddenly began to talk in a\nhigh-pitched, shrewish tone. The man with me instinctively looked up\nat her. We were then just through the door, passing behind Jim's burly\nback.\n\n'Whether those villagers had brought the yellow dog with them, I don't\nknow. Anyhow, a dog was there, weaving himself in and out amongst\npeople's legs in that mute stealthy way native dogs have, and my\ncompanion stumbled over him. The dog leaped away without a sound; the\nman, raising his voice a little, said with a slow laugh, \"Look at that\nwretched cur,\" and directly afterwards we became separated by a lot of\npeople pushing in. I stood back for a moment against the wall while the\nstranger managed to get down the steps and disappeared. I saw Jim spin\nround. He made a step forward and barred my way. We were alone; he\nglared at me with an air of stubborn resolution. I became aware I was\nbeing held up, so to speak, as if in a wood. The verandah was empty by\nthen, the noise and movement in court had ceased: a great silence fell\nupon the building, in which, somewhere far within, an oriental voice\nbegan to whine abjectly. The dog, in the very act of trying to sneak in\nat the door, sat down hurriedly to hunt for fleas.\n\n'\"Did you speak to me?\" asked Jim very low, and bending forward, not so\nmuch towards me but at me, if you know what I mean. I said \"No\" at once.\nSomething in the sound of that quiet tone of his warned me to be on my\ndefence. I watched him. It was very much like a meeting in a wood, only\nmore uncertain in its issue, since he could possibly want neither my\nmoney nor my life--nothing that I could simply give up or defend with\na clear conscience. \"You say you didn't,\" he said, very sombre. \"But I\nheard.\" \"Some mistake,\" I protested, utterly at a loss, and never taking\nmy eyes off him. To watch his face was like watching a darkening sky\nbefore a clap of thunder, shade upon shade imperceptibly coming on, the\ndoom growing mysteriously intense in the calm of maturing violence.\n\n'\"As far as I know, I haven't opened my lips in your hearing,\" I\naffirmed with perfect truth. I was getting a little angry, too, at the\nabsurdity of this encounter. It strikes me now I have never in my life\nbeen so near a beating--I mean it literally; a beating with fists. I\nsuppose I had some hazy prescience of that eventuality being in the\nair. Not that he was actively threatening me. On the contrary, he was\nstrangely passive--don't you know? but he was lowering, and, though not\nexceptionally big, he looked generally fit to demolish a wall. The\nmost reassuring symptom I noticed was a kind of slow and ponderous\nhesitation, which I took as a tribute to the evident sincerity of my\nmanner and of my tone. We faced each other. In the court the assault\ncase was proceeding. I caught the words: \"Well--buffalo--stick--in the\ngreatness of my fear. . . .\"\n\n'\"What did you mean by staring at me all the morning?\" said Jim at last.\nHe looked up and looked down again. \"Did you expect us all to sit with\ndowncast eyes out of regard for your susceptibilities?\" I retorted\nsharply. I was not going to submit meekly to any of his nonsense. He\nraised his eyes again, and this time continued to look me straight\nin the face. \"No. That's all right,\" he pronounced with an air of\ndeliberating with himself upon the truth of this statement--\"that's all\nright. I am going through with that. Only\"--and there he spoke a little\nfaster--\"I won't let any man call me names outside this court. There was\na fellow with you. You spoke to him--oh yes--I know; 'tis all very fine.\nYou spoke to him, but you meant me to hear. . . .\"\n\n'I assured him he was under some extraordinary delusion. I had no\nconception how it came about. \"You thought I would be afraid to resent\nthis,\" he said, with just a faint tinge of bitterness. I was interested\nenough to discern the slightest shades of expression, but I was not in\nthe least enlightened; yet I don't know what in these words, or perhaps\njust the intonation of that phrase, induced me suddenly to make all\npossible allowances for him. I ceased to be annoyed at my unexpected\npredicament. It was some mistake on his part; he was blundering, and I\nhad an intuition that the blunder was of an odious, of an unfortunate\nnature. I was anxious to end this scene on grounds of decency, just as\none is anxious to cut short some unprovoked and abominable confidence.\nThe funniest part was, that in the midst of all these considerations\nof the higher order I was conscious of a certain trepidation as to\nthe possibility--nay, likelihood--of this encounter ending in some\ndisreputable brawl which could not possibly be explained, and would make\nme ridiculous. I did not hanker after a three days' celebrity as the man\nwho got a black eye or something of the sort from the mate of the Patna.\nHe, in all probability, did not care what he did, or at any rate would\nbe fully justified in his own eyes. It took no magician to see he was\namazingly angry about something, for all his quiet and even torpid\ndemeanour. I don't deny I was extremely desirous to pacify him at all\ncosts, had I only known what to do. But I didn't know, as you may well\nimagine. It was a blackness without a single gleam. We confronted each\nother in silence. He hung fire for about fifteen seconds, then made a\nstep nearer, and I made ready to ward off a blow, though I don't think I\nmoved a muscle. \"If you were as big as two men and as strong as six,\"\nhe said very softly, \"I would tell you what I think of you. You . . .\"\n\"Stop!\" I exclaimed. This checked him for a second. \"Before you tell me\nwhat you think of me,\" I went on quickly, \"will you kindly tell me what\nit is I've said or done?\" During the pause that ensued he surveyed me\nwith indignation, while I made supernatural efforts of memory, in which\nI was hindered by the oriental voice within the court-room expostulating\nwith impassioned volubility against a charge of falsehood. Then we spoke\nalmost together. \"I will soon show you I am not,\" he said, in a tone\nsuggestive of a crisis. \"I declare I don't know,\" I protested earnestly\nat the same time. He tried to crush me by the scorn of his glance.\n\"Now that you see I am not afraid you try to crawl out of it,\" he said.\n\"Who's a cur now--hey?\" Then, at last, I understood.\n\n'He had been scanning my features as though looking for a place where\nhe would plant his fist. \"I will allow no man,\" . . . he mumbled\nthreateningly. It was, indeed, a hideous mistake; he had given himself\naway utterly. I can't give you an idea how shocked I was. I suppose he\nsaw some reflection of my feelings in my face, because his expression\nchanged just a little. \"Good God!\" I stammered, \"you don't think\nI . . .\" \"But I am sure I've heard,\" he persisted, raising his voice for\nthe first time since the beginning of this deplorable scene. Then with a\nshade of disdain he added, \"It wasn't you, then? Very well; I'll find\nthe other.\" \"Don't be a fool,\" I cried in exasperation; \"it wasn't that\nat all.\" \"I've heard,\" he said again with an unshaken and sombre\nperseverance.\n\n'There may be those who could have laughed at his pertinacity; I didn't.\nOh, I didn't! There had never been a man so mercilessly shown up by\nhis own natural impulse. A single word had stripped him of his\ndiscretion--of that discretion which is more necessary to the decencies\nof our inner being than clothing is to the decorum of our body. \"Don't\nbe a fool,\" I repeated. \"But the other man said it, you don't deny\nthat?\" he pronounced distinctly, and looking in my face without\nflinching. \"No, I don't deny,\" said I, returning his gaze. At last his\neyes followed downwards the direction of my pointing finger. He appeared\nat first uncomprehending, then confounded, and at last amazed and scared\nas though a dog had been a monster and he had never seen a dog before.\n\"Nobody dreamt of insulting you,\" I said.\n\n'He contemplated the wretched animal, that moved no more than an effigy:\nit sat with ears pricked and its sharp muzzle pointed into the doorway,\nand suddenly snapped at a fly like a piece of mechanism.\n\n'I looked at him. The red of his fair sunburnt complexion deepened\nsuddenly under the down of his cheeks, invaded his forehead, spread to\nthe roots of his curly hair. His ears became intensely crimson, and even\nthe clear blue of his eyes was darkened many shades by the rush of blood\nto his head. His lips pouted a little, trembling as though he had been\non the point of bursting into tears. I perceived he was incapable\nof pronouncing a word from the excess of his humiliation. From\ndisappointment too--who knows? Perhaps he looked forward to that\nhammering he was going to give me for rehabilitation, for appeasement?\nWho can tell what relief he expected from this chance of a row? He\nwas naive enough to expect anything; but he had given himself away for\nnothing in this case. He had been frank with himself--let alone\nwith me--in the wild hope of arriving in that way at some effective\nrefutation, and the stars had been ironically unpropitious. He made an\ninarticulate noise in his throat like a man imperfectly stunned by a\nblow on the head. It was pitiful.\n\n'I didn't catch up again with him till well outside the gate. I had even\nto trot a bit at the last, but when, out of breath at his elbow, I taxed\nhim with running away, he said, \"Never!\" and at once turned at bay. I\nexplained I never meant to say he was running away from _me_. \"From no\nman--from not a single man on earth,\" he affirmed with a stubborn mien.\nI forbore to point out the one obvious exception which would hold good\nfor the bravest of us; I thought he would find out by himself very soon.\nHe looked at me patiently while I was thinking of something to say, but\nI could find nothing on the spur of the moment, and he began to walk on.\nI kept up, and anxious not to lose him, I said hurriedly that I couldn't\nthink of leaving him under a false impression of my--of my--I stammered.\nThe stupidity of the phrase appalled me while I was trying to finish\nit, but the power of sentences has nothing to do with their sense or the\nlogic of their construction. My idiotic mumble seemed to please him. He\ncut it short by saying, with courteous placidity that argued an\nimmense power of self-control or else a wonderful elasticity of\nspirits--\"Altogether my mistake.\" I marvelled greatly at this\nexpression: he might have been alluding to some trifling occurrence.\nHadn't he understood its deplorable meaning? \"You may well forgive me,\"\nhe continued, and went on a little moodily, \"All these staring people in\ncourt seemed such fools that--that it might have been as I supposed.\"\n\n'This opened suddenly a new view of him to my wonder. I looked at him\ncuriously and met his unabashed and impenetrable eyes. \"I can't put up\nwith this kind of thing,\" he said, very simply, \"and I don't mean to. In\ncourt it's different; I've got to stand that--and I can do it too.\"\n\n'I don't pretend I understood him. The views he let me have of himself\nwere like those glimpses through the shifting rents in a thick fog--bits\nof vivid and vanishing detail, giving no connected idea of the general\naspect of a country. They fed one's curiosity without satisfying it;\nthey were no good for purposes of orientation. Upon the whole he was\nmisleading. That's how I summed him up to myself after he left me late\nin the evening. I had been staying at the Malabar House for a few days,\nand on my pressing invitation he dined with me there.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\n\n'An outward-bound mail-boat had come in that afternoon, and the\nbig dining-room of the hotel was more than half full of people with\na-hundred-pounds-round-the-world tickets in their pockets. There were\nmarried couples looking domesticated and bored with each other in the\nmidst of their travels; there were small parties and large parties,\nand lone individuals dining solemnly or feasting boisterously, but all\nthinking, conversing, joking, or scowling as was their wont at home;\nand just as intelligently receptive of new impressions as their trunks\nupstairs. Henceforth they would be labelled as having passed through\nthis and that place, and so would be their luggage. They would cherish\nthis distinction of their persons, and preserve the gummed tickets on\ntheir portmanteaus as documentary evidence, as the only permanent trace\nof their improving enterprise. The dark-faced servants tripped without\nnoise over the vast and polished floor; now and then a girl's laugh\nwould be heard, as innocent and empty as her mind, or, in a sudden hush\nof crockery, a few words in an affected drawl from some wit embroidering\nfor the benefit of a grinning tableful the last funny story of shipboard\nscandal. Two nomadic old maids, dressed up to kill, worked acrimoniously\nthrough the bill of fare, whispering to each other with faded lips,\nwooden-faced and bizarre, like two sumptuous scarecrows. A little wine\nopened Jim's heart and loosened his tongue. His appetite was good, too,\nI noticed. He seemed to have buried somewhere the opening episode of\nour acquaintance. It was like a thing of which there would be no more\nquestion in this world. And all the time I had before me these blue,\nboyish eyes looking straight into mine, this young face, these capable\nshoulders, the open bronzed forehead with a white line under the roots\nof clustering fair hair, this appearance appealing at sight to all\nmy sympathies: this frank aspect, the artless smile, the youthful\nseriousness. He was of the right sort; he was one of us. He talked\nsoberly, with a sort of composed unreserve, and with a quiet bearing\nthat might have been the outcome of manly self-control, of impudence, of\ncallousness, of a colossal unconsciousness, of a gigantic deception. Who\ncan tell! From our tone we might have been discussing a third person,\na football match, last year's weather. My mind floated in a sea of\nconjectures till the turn of the conversation enabled me, without being\noffensive, to remark that, upon the whole, this inquiry must have been\npretty trying to him. He darted his arm across the tablecloth, and\nclutching my hand by the side of my plate, glared fixedly. I was\nstartled. \"It must be awfully hard,\" I stammered, confused by this\ndisplay of speechless feeling. \"It is--hell,\" he burst out in a muffled\nvoice.\n\n'This movement and these words caused two well-groomed male\nglobe-trotters at a neighbouring table to look up in alarm from their\niced pudding. I rose, and we passed into the front gallery for coffee\nand cigars.\n\n'On little octagon tables candles burned in glass globes; clumps of\nstiff-leaved plants separated sets of cosy wicker chairs; and between\nthe pairs of columns, whose reddish shafts caught in a long row the\nsheen from the tall windows, the night, glittering and sombre, seemed\nto hang like a splendid drapery. The riding lights of ships winked afar\nlike setting stars, and the hills across the roadstead resembled rounded\nblack masses of arrested thunder-clouds.\n\n'\"I couldn't clear out,\" Jim began. \"The skipper did--that's all very\nwell for him. I couldn't, and I wouldn't. They all got out of it in one\nway or another, but it wouldn't do for me.\"\n\n'I listened with concentrated attention, not daring to stir in my chair;\nI wanted to know--and to this day I don't know, I can only guess. He\nwould be confident and depressed all in the same breath, as if some\nconviction of innate blamelessness had checked the truth writhing within\nhim at every turn. He began by saying, in the tone in which a man would\nadmit his inability to jump a twenty-foot wall, that he could never\ngo home now; and this declaration recalled to my mind what Brierly had\nsaid, \"that the old parson in Essex seemed to fancy his sailor son not a\nlittle.\"\n\n'I can't tell you whether Jim knew he was especially \"fancied,\" but the\ntone of his references to \"my Dad\" was calculated to give me a notion\nthat the good old rural dean was about the finest man that ever had been\nworried by the cares of a large family since the beginning of the world.\nThis, though never stated, was implied with an anxiety that there should\nbe no mistake about it, which was really very true and charming, but\nadded a poignant sense of lives far off to the other elements of the\nstory. \"He has seen it all in the home papers by this time,\" said Jim.\n\"I can never face the poor old chap.\" I did not dare to lift my eyes\nat this till I heard him add, \"I could never explain. He wouldn't\nunderstand.\" Then I looked up. He was smoking reflectively, and after\na moment, rousing himself, began to talk again. He discovered at once\na desire that I should not confound him with his partners in--in crime,\nlet us call it. He was not one of them; he was altogether of another\nsort. I gave no sign of dissent. I had no intention, for the sake of\nbarren truth, to rob him of the smallest particle of any saving grace\nthat would come in his way. I didn't know how much of it he believed\nhimself. I didn't know what he was playing up to--if he was playing up\nto anything at all--and I suspect he did not know either; for it is my\nbelief no man ever understands quite his own artful dodges to escape\nfrom the grim shadow of self-knowledge. I made no sound all the time\nhe was wondering what he had better do after \"that stupid inquiry was\nover.\"\n\n'Apparently he shared Brierly's contemptuous opinion of these\nproceedings ordained by law. He would not know where to turn, he\nconfessed, clearly thinking aloud rather than talking to me. Certificate\ngone, career broken, no money to get away, no work that he could obtain\nas far as he could see. At home he could perhaps get something; but it\nmeant going to his people for help, and that he would not do. He\nsaw nothing for it but ship before the mast--could get perhaps a\nquartermaster's billet in some steamer. Would do for a quartermaster.\n. . . \"Do you think you would?\" I asked pitilessly. He jumped up, and\ngoing to the stone balustrade looked out into the night. In a moment he\nwas back, towering above my chair with his youthful face clouded yet by\nthe pain of a conquered emotion. He had understood very well I did not\ndoubt his ability to steer a ship. In a voice that quavered a bit he\nasked me why did I say that? I had been \"no end kind\" to him. I had not\neven laughed at him when--here he began to mumble--\"that mistake, you\nknow--made a confounded ass of myself.\" I broke in by saying rather\nwarmly that for me such a mistake was not a matter to laugh at. He sat\ndown and drank deliberately some coffee, emptying the small cup to the\nlast drop. \"That does not mean I admit for a moment the cap fitted,\"\nhe declared distinctly. \"No?\" I said. \"No,\" he affirmed with quiet\ndecision. \"Do you know what _you_ would have done? Do you? And you\ndon't think yourself\" . . . he gulped something . . . \"you don't think\nyourself a--a--cur?\"\n\n'And with this--upon my honour!--he looked up at me inquisitively. It\nwas a question it appears--a bona fide question! However, he didn't wait\nfor an answer. Before I could recover he went on, with his eyes straight\nbefore him, as if reading off something written on the body of the\nnight. \"It is all in being ready. I wasn't; not--not then. I don't want\nto excuse myself; but I would like to explain--I would like somebody to\nunderstand--somebody--one person at least! You! Why not you?\"\n\n'It was solemn, and a little ridiculous too, as they always are, those\nstruggles of an individual trying to save from the fire his idea of what\nhis moral identity should be, this precious notion of a convention, only\none of the rules of the game, nothing more, but all the same so terribly\neffective by its assumption of unlimited power over natural instincts,\nby the awful penalties of its failure. He began his story quietly\nenough. On board that Dale Line steamer that had picked up these four\nfloating in a boat upon the discreet sunset glow of the sea, they had\nbeen after the first day looked askance upon. The fat skipper told some\nstory, the others had been silent, and at first it had been accepted.\nYou don't cross-examine poor castaways you had the good luck to save,\nif not from cruel death, then at least from cruel suffering. Afterwards,\nwith time to think it over, it might have struck the officers of the\nAvondale that there was \"something fishy\" in the affair; but of course\nthey would keep their doubts to themselves. They had picked up the\ncaptain, the mate, and two engineers of the steamer Patna sunk at sea,\nand that, very properly, was enough for them. I did not ask Jim about\nthe nature of his feelings during the ten days he spent on board. From\nthe way he narrated that part I was at liberty to infer he was partly\nstunned by the discovery he had made--the discovery about himself--and\nno doubt was at work trying to explain it away to the only man who\nwas capable of appreciating all its tremendous magnitude. You must\nunderstand he did not try to minimise its importance. Of that I am sure;\nand therein lies his distinction. As to what sensations he experienced\nwhen he got ashore and heard the unforeseen conclusion of the tale in\nwhich he had taken such a pitiful part, he told me nothing of them, and\nit is difficult to imagine.\n\n'I wonder whether he felt the ground cut from under his feet? I wonder?\nBut no doubt he managed to get a fresh foothold very soon. He was ashore\na whole fortnight waiting in the Sailors' Home, and as there were six or\nseven men staying there at the time, I had heard of him a little.\nTheir languid opinion seemed to be that, in addition to his other\nshortcomings, he was a sulky brute. He had passed these days on the\nverandah, buried in a long chair, and coming out of his place of\nsepulture only at meal-times or late at night, when he wandered on the\nquays all by himself, detached from his surroundings, irresolute and\nsilent, like a ghost without a home to haunt. \"I don't think I've spoken\nthree words to a living soul in all that time,\" he said, making me very\nsorry for him; and directly he added, \"One of these fellows would have\nbeen sure to blurt out something I had made up my mind not to put up\nwith, and I didn't want a row. No! Not then. I was too--too . . . I\nhad no heart for it.\" \"So that bulkhead held out after all,\" I remarked\ncheerfully. \"Yes,\" he murmured, \"it held. And yet I swear to you I felt\nit bulge under my hand.\" \"It's extraordinary what strains old iron will\nstand sometimes,\" I said. Thrown back in his seat, his legs stiffly out\nand arms hanging down, he nodded slightly several times. You could not\nconceive a sadder spectacle. Suddenly he lifted his head; he sat up;\nhe slapped his thigh. \"Ah! what a chance missed! My God! what a chance\nmissed!\" he blazed out, but the ring of the last \"missed\" resembled a\ncry wrung out by pain.\n\n'He was silent again with a still, far-away look of fierce yearning\nafter that missed distinction, with his nostrils for an instant dilated,\nsniffing the intoxicating breath of that wasted opportunity. If you\nthink I was either surprised or shocked you do me an injustice in more\nways than one! Ah, he was an imaginative beggar! He would give himself\naway; he would give himself up. I could see in his glance darted into\nthe night all his inner being carried on, projected headlong into the\nfanciful realm of recklessly heroic aspirations. He had no leisure to\nregret what he had lost, he was so wholly and naturally concerned for\nwhat he had failed to obtain. He was very far away from me who watched\nhim across three feet of space. With every instant he was penetrating\ndeeper into the impossible world of romantic achievements. He got to\nthe heart of it at last! A strange look of beatitude overspread his\nfeatures, his eyes sparkled in the light of the candle burning between\nus; he positively smiled! He had penetrated to the very heart--to\nthe very heart. It was an ecstatic smile that your faces--or mine\neither--will never wear, my dear boys. I whisked him back by saying, \"If\nyou had stuck to the ship, you mean!\"\n\n'He turned upon me, his eyes suddenly amazed and full of pain, with a\nbewildered, startled, suffering face, as though he had tumbled down\nfrom a star. Neither you nor I will ever look like this on any man. He\nshuddered profoundly, as if a cold finger-tip had touched his heart.\nLast of all he sighed.\n\n'I was not in a merciful mood. He provoked one by his contradictory\nindiscretions. \"It is unfortunate you didn't know beforehand!\" I\nsaid with every unkind intention; but the perfidious shaft fell\nharmless--dropped at his feet like a spent arrow, as it were, and he did\nnot think of picking it up. Perhaps he had not even seen it. Presently,\nlolling at ease, he said, \"Dash it all! I tell you it bulged. I was\nholding up my lamp along the angle-iron in the lower deck when a\nflake of rust as big as the palm of my hand fell off the plate, all of\nitself.\" He passed his hand over his forehead. \"The thing stirred and\njumped off like something alive while I was looking at it.\" \"That made\nyou feel pretty bad,\" I observed casually. \"Do you suppose,\" he said,\n\"that I was thinking of myself, with a hundred and sixty people at my\nback, all fast asleep in that fore-'tween-deck alone--and more of them\naft; more on the deck--sleeping--knowing nothing about it--three times\nas many as there were boats for, even if there had been time? I expected\nto see the iron open out as I stood there and the rush of water going\nover them as they lay. . . . What could I do--what?\"\n\n'I can easily picture him to myself in the peopled gloom of the\ncavernous place, with the light of the globe-lamp falling on a small\nportion of the bulkhead that had the weight of the ocean on the other\nside, and the breathing of unconscious sleepers in his ears. I can see\nhim glaring at the iron, startled by the falling rust, overburdened by\nthe knowledge of an imminent death. This, I gathered, was the second\ntime he had been sent forward by that skipper of his, who, I rather\nthink, wanted to keep him away from the bridge. He told me that his\nfirst impulse was to shout and straightway make all those people\nleap out of sleep into terror; but such an overwhelming sense of his\nhelplessness came over him that he was not able to produce a sound. This\nis, I suppose, what people mean by the tongue cleaving to the roof of\nthe mouth. \"Too dry,\" was the concise expression he used in reference to\nthis state. Without a sound, then, he scrambled out on deck through\nthe number one hatch. A windsail rigged down there swung against him\naccidentally, and he remembered that the light touch of the canvas on\nhis face nearly knocked him off the hatchway ladder.\n\n'He confessed that his knees wobbled a good deal as he stood on the\nforedeck looking at another sleeping crowd. The engines having been\nstopped by that time, the steam was blowing off. Its deep rumble made\nthe whole night vibrate like a bass string. The ship trembled to it.\n\n'He saw here and there a head lifted off a mat, a vague form uprise in\nsitting posture, listen sleepily for a moment, sink down again into the\nbillowy confusion of boxes, steam-winches, ventilators. He was aware\nall these people did not know enough to take intelligent notice of\nthat strange noise. The ship of iron, the men with white faces, all the\nsights, all the sounds, everything on board to that ignorant and pious\nmultitude was strange alike, and as trustworthy as it would for ever\nremain incomprehensible. It occurred to him that the fact was fortunate.\nThe idea of it was simply terrible.\n\n'You must remember he believed, as any other man would have done in\nhis place, that the ship would go down at any moment; the bulging,\nrust-eaten plates that kept back the ocean, fatally must give way, all\nat once like an undermined dam, and let in a sudden and overwhelming\nflood. He stood still looking at these recumbent bodies, a doomed man\naware of his fate, surveying the silent company of the dead. They _were_\ndead! Nothing could save them! There were boats enough for half of them\nperhaps, but there was no time. No time! No time! It did not seem worth\nwhile to open his lips, to stir hand or foot. Before he could shout\nthree words, or make three steps, he would be floundering in a sea\nwhitened awfully by the desperate struggles of human beings, clamorous\nwith the distress of cries for help. There was no help. He imagined\nwhat would happen perfectly; he went through it all motionless by the\nhatchway with the lamp in his hand--he went through it to the very last\nharrowing detail. I think he went through it again while he was telling\nme these things he could not tell the court.\n\n'\"I saw as clearly as I see you now that there was nothing I could do.\nIt seemed to take all life out of my limbs. I thought I might just as\nwell stand where I was and wait. I did not think I had many\nseconds. . . .\" Suddenly the steam ceased blowing off. The noise, he\nremarked, had been distracting, but the silence at once became\nintolerably oppressive.\n\n'\"I thought I would choke before I got drowned,\" he said.\n\n'He protested he did not think of saving himself. The only distinct\nthought formed, vanishing, and re-forming in his brain, was: eight\nhundred people and seven boats; eight hundred people and seven boats.\n\n'\"Somebody was speaking aloud inside my head,\" he said a little wildly.\n\"Eight hundred people and seven boats--and no time! Just think of it.\"\nHe leaned towards me across the little table, and I tried to avoid his\nstare. \"Do you think I was afraid of death?\" he asked in a voice very\nfierce and low. He brought down his open hand with a bang that made the\ncoffee-cups dance. \"I am ready to swear I was not--I was not. . . . By\nGod--no!\" He hitched himself upright and crossed his arms; his chin fell\non his breast.\n\n'The soft clashes of crockery reached us faintly through the high\nwindows. There was a burst of voices, and several men came out in high\ngood-humour into the gallery. They were exchanging jocular reminiscences\nof the donkeys in Cairo. A pale anxious youth stepping softly on long\nlegs was being chaffed by a strutting and rubicund globe-trotter about\nhis purchases in the bazaar. \"No, really--do you think I've been done\nto that extent?\" he inquired very earnest and deliberate. The band moved\naway, dropping into chairs as they went; matches flared, illuminating\nfor a second faces without the ghost of an expression and the flat glaze\nof white shirt-fronts; the hum of many conversations animated with the\nardour of feasting sounded to me absurd and infinitely remote.\n\n'\"Some of the crew were sleeping on the number one hatch within reach of\nmy arm,\" began Jim again.\n\n'You must know they kept Kalashee watch in that ship, all hands sleeping\nthrough the night, and only the reliefs of quartermasters and look-out\nmen being called. He was tempted to grip and shake the shoulder of the\nnearest lascar, but he didn't. Something held his arms down along his\nsides. He was not afraid--oh no! only he just couldn't--that's all. He\nwas not afraid of death perhaps, but I'll tell you what, he was afraid\nof the emergency. His confounded imagination had evoked for him all\nthe horrors of panic, the trampling rush, the pitiful screams, boats\nswamped--all the appalling incidents of a disaster at sea he had ever\nheard of. He might have been resigned to die but I suspect he wanted\nto die without added terrors, quietly, in a sort of peaceful trance. A\ncertain readiness to perish is not so very rare, but it is seldom\nthat you meet men whose souls, steeled in the impenetrable armour of\nresolution, are ready to fight a losing battle to the last; the desire\nof peace waxes stronger as hope declines, till at last it conquers the\nvery desire of life. Which of us here has not observed this, or maybe\nexperienced something of that feeling in his own person--this extreme\nweariness of emotions, the vanity of effort, the yearning for rest?\nThose striving with unreasonable forces know it well,--the shipwrecked\ncastaways in boats, wanderers lost in a desert, men battling against the\nunthinking might of nature, or the stupid brutality of crowds.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\n\n'How long he stood stock-still by the hatch expecting every moment to\nfeel the ship dip under his feet and the rush of water take him at the\nback and toss him like a chip, I cannot say. Not very long--two minutes\nperhaps. A couple of men he could not make out began to converse\ndrowsily, and also, he could not tell where, he detected a curious\nnoise of shuffling feet. Above these faint sounds there was that awful\nstillness preceding a catastrophe, that trying silence of the moment\nbefore the crash; then it came into his head that perhaps he would have\ntime to rush along and cut all the lanyards of the gripes, so that the\nboats would float as the ship went down.\n\n'The Patna had a long bridge, and all the boats were up there, four on\none side and three on the other--the smallest of them on the port-side\nand nearly abreast of the steering gear. He assured me, with evident\nanxiety to be believed, that he had been most careful to keep them ready\nfor instant service. He knew his duty. I dare say he was a good enough\nmate as far as that went. \"I always believed in being prepared for the\nworst,\" he commented, staring anxiously in my face. I nodded my approval\nof the sound principle, averting my eyes before the subtle unsoundness\nof the man.\n\n'He started unsteadily to run. He had to step over legs, avoid stumbling\nagainst the heads. Suddenly some one caught hold of his coat from below,\nand a distressed voice spoke under his elbow. The light of the lamp he\ncarried in his right hand fell upon an upturned dark face whose eyes\nentreated him together with the voice. He had picked up enough of the\nlanguage to understand the word water, repeated several times in a tone\nof insistence, of prayer, almost of despair. He gave a jerk to get away,\nand felt an arm embrace his leg.\n\n'\"The beggar clung to me like a drowning man,\" he said impressively.\n\"Water, water! What water did he mean? What did he know? As calmly as\nI could I ordered him to let go. He was stopping me, time was pressing,\nother men began to stir; I wanted time--time to cut the boats adrift.\nHe got hold of my hand now, and I felt that he would begin to shout. It\nflashed upon me it was enough to start a panic, and I hauled off with\nmy free arm and slung the lamp in his face. The glass jingled, the light\nwent out, but the blow made him let go, and I ran off--I wanted to get\nat the boats; I wanted to get at the boats. He leaped after me from\nbehind. I turned on him. He would not keep quiet; he tried to shout; I\nhad half throttled him before I made out what he wanted. He wanted some\nwater--water to drink; they were on strict allowance, you know, and\nhe had with him a young boy I had noticed several times. His child was\nsick--and thirsty. He had caught sight of me as I passed by, and was\nbegging for a little water. That's all. We were under the bridge, in\nthe dark. He kept on snatching at my wrists; there was no getting rid of\nhim. I dashed into my berth, grabbed my water-bottle, and thrust it into\nhis hands. He vanished. I didn't find out till then how much I was in\nwant of a drink myself.\" He leaned on one elbow with a hand over his\neyes.\n\n'I felt a creepy sensation all down my backbone; there was something\npeculiar in all this. The fingers of the hand that shaded his brow\ntrembled slightly. He broke the short silence.\n\n'\"These things happen only once to a man and . . . Ah! well! When I got\non the bridge at last the beggars were getting one of the boats off the\nchocks. A boat! I was running up the ladder when a heavy blow fell on\nmy shoulder, just missing my head. It didn't stop me, and the chief\nengineer--they had got him out of his bunk by then--raised the\nboat-stretcher again. Somehow I had no mind to be surprised at anything.\nAll this seemed natural--and awful--and awful. I dodged that miserable\nmaniac, lifted him off the deck as though he had been a little child,\nand he started whispering in my arms: 'Don't! don't! I thought you were\none of them niggers.' I flung him away, he skidded along the bridge and\nknocked the legs from under the little chap--the second. The skipper,\nbusy about the boat, looked round and came at me head down, growling\nlike a wild beast. I flinched no more than a stone. I was as solid\nstanding there as this,\" he tapped lightly with his knuckles the wall\nbeside his chair. \"It was as though I had heard it all, seen it all,\ngone through it all twenty times already. I wasn't afraid of them. I\ndrew back my fist and he stopped short, muttering--\n\n'\"'Ah! it's you. Lend a hand quick.'\n\n'\"That's what he said. Quick! As if anybody could be quick enough.\n'Aren't you going to do something?' I asked. 'Yes. Clear out,' he\nsnarled over his shoulder.\n\n'\"I don't think I understood then what he meant. The other two had\npicked themselves up by that time, and they rushed together to the boat.\nThey tramped, they wheezed, they shoved, they cursed the boat, the ship,\neach other--cursed me. All in mutters. I didn't move, I didn't speak.\nI watched the slant of the ship. She was as still as if landed on the\nblocks in a dry dock--only she was like this,\" He held up his hand,\npalm under, the tips of the fingers inclined downwards. \"Like this,\" he\nrepeated. \"I could see the line of the horizon before me, as clear as a\nbell, above her stem-head; I could see the water far off there black\nand sparkling, and still--still as a-pond, deadly still, more still than\never sea was before--more still than I could bear to look at. Have you\nwatched a ship floating head down, checked in sinking by a sheet of old\niron too rotten to stand being shored up? Have you? Oh yes, shored up? I\nthought of that--I thought of every mortal thing; but can you shore up a\nbulkhead in five minutes--or in fifty for that matter? Where was I going\nto get men that would go down below? And the timber--the timber! Would\nyou have had the courage to swing the maul for the first blow if you\nhad seen that bulkhead? Don't say you would: you had not seen it; nobody\nwould. Hang it--to do a thing like that you must believe there is a\nchance, one in a thousand, at least, some ghost of a chance; and you\nwould not have believed. Nobody would have believed. You think me a\ncur for standing there, but what would you have done? What! You can't\ntell--nobody can tell. One must have time to turn round. What would you\nhave me do? Where was the kindness in making crazy with fright all those\npeople I could not save single-handed--that nothing could save? Look\nhere! As true as I sit on this chair before you . . .\"\n\n'He drew quick breaths at every few words and shot quick glances at my\nface, as though in his anguish he were watchful of the effect. He was\nnot speaking to me, he was only speaking before me, in a dispute with\nan invisible personality, an antagonistic and inseparable partner of his\nexistence--another possessor of his soul. These were issues beyond the\ncompetency of a court of inquiry: it was a subtle and momentous quarrel\nas to the true essence of life, and did not want a judge. He wanted\nan ally, a helper, an accomplice. I felt the risk I ran of being\ncircumvented, blinded, decoyed, bullied, perhaps, into taking a definite\npart in a dispute impossible of decision if one had to be fair to all\nthe phantoms in possession--to the reputable that had its claims and\nto the disreputable that had its exigencies. I can't explain to you who\nhaven't seen him and who hear his words only at second hand the mixed\nnature of my feelings. It seemed to me I was being made to comprehend\nthe Inconceivable--and I know of nothing to compare with the discomfort\nof such a sensation. I was made to look at the convention that lurks in\nall truth and on the essential sincerity of falsehood. He appealed to\nall sides at once--to the side turned perpetually to the light of day,\nand to that side of us which, like the other hemisphere of the moon,\nexists stealthily in perpetual darkness, with only a fearful ashy light\nfalling at times on the edge. He swayed me. I own to it, I own up. The\noccasion was obscure, insignificant--what you will: a lost youngster,\none in a million--but then he was one of us; an incident as completely\ndevoid of importance as the flooding of an ant-heap, and yet the mystery\nof his attitude got hold of me as though he had been an individual\nin the forefront of his kind, as if the obscure truth involved were\nmomentous enough to affect mankind's conception of itself. . . .'\n\nMarlow paused to put new life into his expiring cheroot, seemed to\nforget all about the story, and abruptly began again.\n\n'My fault of course. One has no business really to get interested. It's\na weakness of mine. His was of another kind. My weakness consists in not\nhaving a discriminating eye for the incidental--for the externals--no\neye for the hod of the rag-picker or the fine linen of the next man.\nNext man--that's it. I have met so many men,' he pursued, with momentary\nsadness--'met them too with a certain--certain--impact, let us say; like\nthis fellow, for instance--and in each case all I could see was merely\nthe human being. A confounded democratic quality of vision which may be\nbetter than total blindness, but has been of no advantage to me, I can\nassure you. Men expect one to take into account their fine linen. But\nI never could get up any enthusiasm about these things. Oh! it's a\nfailing; it's a failing; and then comes a soft evening; a lot of men too\nindolent for whist--and a story. . . .'\n\nHe paused again to wait for an encouraging remark, perhaps, but nobody\nspoke; only the host, as if reluctantly performing a duty, murmured--\n\n'You are so subtle, Marlow.'\n\n'Who? I?' said Marlow in a low voice. 'Oh no! But _he_ was; and try as I\nmay for the success of this yarn, I am missing innumerable shades--they\nwere so fine, so difficult to render in colourless words. Because he\ncomplicated matters by being so simple, too--the simplest poor\ndevil! . . . By Jove! he was amazing. There he sat telling me that just\nas I saw him before my eyes he wouldn't be afraid to face anything--and\nbelieving in it too. I tell you it was fabulously innocent and it was\nenormous, enormous! I watched him covertly, just as though I had\nsuspected him of an intention to take a jolly good rise out of me. He\nwas confident that, on the square, \"on the square, mind!\" there was\nnothing he couldn't meet. Ever since he had been \"so high\"--\"quite a\nlittle chap,\" he had been preparing himself for all the difficulties\nthat can beset one on land and water. He confessed proudly to this kind\nof foresight. He had been elaborating dangers and defences, expecting\nthe worst, rehearsing his best. He must have led a most exalted\nexistence. Can you fancy it? A succession of adventures, so much glory,\nsuch a victorious progress! and the deep sense of his sagacity crowning\nevery day of his inner life. He forgot himself; his eyes shone; and with\nevery word my heart, searched by the light of his absurdity, was growing\nheavier in my breast. I had no mind to laugh, and lest I should smile I\nmade for myself a stolid face. He gave signs of irritation.\n\n'\"It is always the unexpected that happens,\" I said in a propitiatory\ntone. My obtuseness provoked him into a contemptuous \"Pshaw!\" I suppose\nhe meant that the unexpected couldn't touch him; nothing less than the\nunconceivable itself could get over his perfect state of preparation. He\nhad been taken unawares--and he whispered to himself a malediction upon\nthe waters and the firmament, upon the ship, upon the men. Everything\nhad betrayed him! He had been tricked into that sort of high-minded\nresignation which prevented him lifting as much as his little finger,\nwhile these others who had a very clear perception of the actual\nnecessity were tumbling against each other and sweating desperately over\nthat boat business. Something had gone wrong there at the last moment.\nIt appears that in their flurry they had contrived in some mysterious\nway to get the sliding bolt of the foremost boat-chock jammed tight, and\nforthwith had gone out of the remnants of their minds over the deadly\nnature of that accident. It must have been a pretty sight, the fierce\nindustry of these beggars toiling on a motionless ship that floated\nquietly in the silence of a world asleep, fighting against time for the\nfreeing of that boat, grovelling on all-fours, standing up in despair,\ntugging, pushing, snarling at each other venomously, ready to kill,\nready to weep, and only kept from flying at each other's throats by\nthe fear of death that stood silent behind them like an inflexible and\ncold-eyed taskmaster. Oh yes! It must have been a pretty sight. He\nsaw it all, he could talk about it with scorn and bitterness; he had a\nminute knowledge of it by means of some sixth sense, I conclude, because\nhe swore to me he had remained apart without a glance at them and at the\nboat--without one single glance. And I believe him. I should think he\nwas too busy watching the threatening slant of the ship, the suspended\nmenace discovered in the midst of the most perfect security--fascinated\nby the sword hanging by a hair over his imaginative head.\n\n'Nothing in the world moved before his eyes, and he could depict to\nhimself without hindrance the sudden swing upwards of the dark sky-line,\nthe sudden tilt up of the vast plain of the sea, the swift still rise,\nthe brutal fling, the grasp of the abyss, the struggle without hope, the\nstarlight closing over his head for ever like the vault of a tomb--the\nrevolt of his young life--the black end. He could! By Jove! who\ncouldn't? And you must remember he was a finished artist in that\npeculiar way, he was a gifted poor devil with the faculty of swift and\nforestalling vision. The sights it showed him had turned him into cold\nstone from the soles of his feet to the nape of his neck; but there\nwas a hot dance of thoughts in his head, a dance of lame, blind, mute\nthoughts--a whirl of awful cripples. Didn't I tell you he confessed\nhimself before me as though I had the power to bind and to loose? He\nburrowed deep, deep, in the hope of my absolution, which would have been\nof no good to him. This was one of those cases which no solemn deception\ncan palliate, where no man can help; where his very Maker seems to\nabandon a sinner to his own devices.\n\n'He stood on the starboard side of the bridge, as far as he could get\nfrom the struggle for the boat, which went on with the agitation\nof madness and the stealthiness of a conspiracy. The two Malays had\nmeantime remained holding to the wheel. Just picture to yourselves\nthe actors in that, thank God! unique, episode of the sea, four beside\nthemselves with fierce and secret exertions, and three looking on in\ncomplete immobility, above the awnings covering the profound ignorance\nof hundreds of human beings, with their weariness, with their dreams,\nwith their hopes, arrested, held by an invisible hand on the brink of\nannihilation. For that they were so, makes no doubt to me: given the\nstate of the ship, this was the deadliest possible description of\naccident that could happen. These beggars by the boat had every reason\nto go distracted with funk. Frankly, had I been there, I would not have\ngiven as much as a counterfeit farthing for the ship's chance to keep\nabove water to the end of each successive second. And still she\nfloated! These sleeping pilgrims were destined to accomplish their\nwhole pilgrimage to the bitterness of some other end. It was as if the\nOmnipotence whose mercy they confessed had needed their humble testimony\non earth for a while longer, and had looked down to make a sign,\n\"Thou shalt not!\" to the ocean. Their escape would trouble me as a\nprodigiously inexplicable event, did I not know how tough old iron can\nbe--as tough sometimes as the spirit of some men we meet now and then,\nworn to a shadow and breasting the weight of life. Not the least\nwonder of these twenty minutes, to my mind, is the behaviour of the two\nhelmsmen. They were amongst the native batch of all sorts brought over\nfrom Aden to give evidence at the inquiry. One of them, labouring under\nintense bashfulness, was very young, and with his smooth, yellow,\ncheery countenance looked even younger than he was. I remember perfectly\nBrierly asking him, through the interpreter, what he thought of it at\nthe time, and the interpreter, after a short colloquy, turning to the\ncourt with an important air--\n\n'\"He says he thought nothing.\"\n\n'The other, with patient blinking eyes, a blue cotton handkerchief,\nfaded with much washing, bound with a smart twist over a lot of grey\nwisps, his face shrunk into grim hollows, his brown skin made darker by\na mesh of wrinkles, explained that he had a knowledge of some evil thing\nbefalling the ship, but there had been no order; he could not remember\nan order; why should he leave the helm? To some further questions he\njerked back his spare shoulders, and declared it never came into his\nmind then that the white men were about to leave the ship through\nfear of death. He did not believe it now. There might have been secret\nreasons. He wagged his old chin knowingly. Aha! secret reasons. He was\na man of great experience, and he wanted _that_ white Tuan to know--he\nturned towards Brierly, who didn't raise his head--that he had acquired\na knowledge of many things by serving white men on the sea for a great\nnumber of years--and, suddenly, with shaky excitement he poured upon\nour spellbound attention a lot of queer-sounding names, names of\ndead-and-gone skippers, names of forgotten country ships, names of\nfamiliar and distorted sound, as if the hand of dumb time had been at\nwork on them for ages. They stopped him at last. A silence fell upon\nthe court,--a silence that remained unbroken for at least a minute, and\npassed gently into a deep murmur. This episode was the sensation of\nthe second day's proceedings--affecting all the audience, affecting\neverybody except Jim, who was sitting moodily at the end of the first\nbench, and never looked up at this extraordinary and damning witness\nthat seemed possessed of some mysterious theory of defence.\n\n'So these two lascars stuck to the helm of that ship without\nsteerage-way, where death would have found them if such had been their\ndestiny. The whites did not give them half a glance, had probably\nforgotten their existence. Assuredly Jim did not remember it. He\nremembered he could do nothing; he could do nothing, now he was alone.\nThere was nothing to do but to sink with the ship. No use making a\ndisturbance about it. Was there? He waited upstanding, without a sound,\nstiffened in the idea of some sort of heroic discretion. The first\nengineer ran cautiously across the bridge to tug at his sleeve.\n\n'\"Come and help! For God's sake, come and help!\"\n\n'He ran back to the boat on the points of his toes, and returned\ndirectly to worry at his sleeve, begging and cursing at the same time.\n\n'\"I believe he would have kissed my hands,\" said Jim savagely, \"and,\nnext moment, he starts foaming and whispering in my face, 'If I had\nthe time I would like to crack your skull for you.' I pushed him away.\nSuddenly he caught hold of me round the neck. Damn him! I hit him. I\nhit out without looking. 'Won't you save your own life--you infernal\ncoward?' he sobs. Coward! He called me an infernal coward! Ha! ha! ha!\nha! He called me--ha! ha! ha! . . .\"\n\n'He had thrown himself back and was shaking with laughter. I had never\nin my life heard anything so bitter as that noise. It fell like a blight\non all the merriment about donkeys, pyramids, bazaars, or what not.\nAlong the whole dim length of the gallery the voices dropped, the pale\nblotches of faces turned our way with one accord, and the silence\nbecame so profound that the clear tinkle of a teaspoon falling on\nthe tesselated floor of the verandah rang out like a tiny and silvery\nscream.\n\n'\"You mustn't laugh like this, with all these people about,\" I\nremonstrated. \"It isn't nice for them, you know.\"\n\n'He gave no sign of having heard at first, but after a while, with a\nstare that, missing me altogether, seemed to probe the heart of some\nawful vision, he muttered carelessly--\"Oh! they'll think I am drunk.\"\n\n'And after that you would have thought from his appearance he would\nnever make a sound again. But--no fear! He could no more stop telling\nnow than he could have stopped living by the mere exertion of his will.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\n\n'\"I was saying to myself, 'Sink--curse you! Sink!'\" These were the\nwords with which he began again. He wanted it over. He was severely left\nalone, and he formulated in his head this address to the ship in a\ntone of imprecation, while at the same time he enjoyed the privilege of\nwitnessing scenes--as far as I can judge--of low comedy. They were still\nat that bolt. The skipper was ordering, \"Get under and try to lift\"; and\nthe others naturally shirked. You understand that to be squeezed flat\nunder the keel of a boat wasn't a desirable position to be caught in if\nthe ship went down suddenly. \"Why don't you--you the strongest?\" whined\nthe little engineer. \"Gott-for-dam! I am too thick,\" spluttered the\nskipper in despair. It was funny enough to make angels weep. They stood\nidle for a moment, and suddenly the chief engineer rushed again at Jim.\n\n'\"Come and help, man! Are you mad to throw your only chance away? Come\nand help, man! Man! Look there--look!\"\n\n'And at last Jim looked astern where the other pointed with maniacal\ninsistence. He saw a silent black squall which had eaten up already\none-third of the sky. You know how these squalls come up there about\nthat time of the year. First you see a darkening of the horizon--no\nmore; then a cloud rises opaque like a wall. A straight edge of vapour\nlined with sickly whitish gleams flies up from the southwest, swallowing\nthe stars in whole constellations; its shadow flies over the waters, and\nconfounds sea and sky into one abyss of obscurity. And all is still.\nNo thunder, no wind, no sound; not a flicker of lightning. Then in\nthe tenebrous immensity a livid arch appears; a swell or two like\nundulations of the very darkness run past, and suddenly, wind and rain\nstrike together with a peculiar impetuosity as if they had burst through\nsomething solid. Such a cloud had come up while they weren't looking.\nThey had just noticed it, and were perfectly justified in surmising\nthat if in absolute stillness there was some chance for the ship to keep\nafloat a few minutes longer, the least disturbance of the sea would make\nan end of her instantly. Her first nod to the swell that precedes the\nburst of such a squall would be also her last, would become a plunge,\nwould, so to speak, be prolonged into a long dive, down, down to the\nbottom. Hence these new capers of their fright, these new antics in\nwhich they displayed their extreme aversion to die.\n\n'\"It was black, black,\" pursued Jim with moody steadiness. \"It had\nsneaked upon us from behind. The infernal thing! I suppose there had\nbeen at the back of my head some hope yet. I don't know. But that was\nall over anyhow. It maddened me to see myself caught like this. I was\nangry, as though I had been trapped. I _was_ trapped! The night was hot,\ntoo, I remember. Not a breath of air.\"\n\n'He remembered so well that, gasping in the chair, he seemed to sweat\nand choke before my eyes. No doubt it maddened him; it knocked him over\nafresh--in a manner of speaking--but it made him also remember that\nimportant purpose which had sent him rushing on that bridge only to slip\nclean out of his mind. He had intended to cut the lifeboats clear of the\nship. He whipped out his knife and went to work slashing as though he\nhad seen nothing, had heard nothing, had known of no one on board. They\nthought him hopelessly wrong-headed and crazy, but dared not protest\nnoisily against this useless loss of time. When he had done he returned\nto the very same spot from which he had started. The chief was there,\nready with a clutch at him to whisper close to his head, scathingly, as\nthough he wanted to bite his ear--\n\n'\"You silly fool! do you think you'll get the ghost of a show when all\nthat lot of brutes is in the water? Why, they will batter your head for\nyou from these boats.\"\n\n'He wrung his hands, ignored, at Jim's elbow. The skipper kept up a\nnervous shuffle in one place and mumbled, \"Hammer! hammer! Mein Gott!\nGet a hammer.\"\n\n'The little engineer whimpered like a child, but, broken arm and all,\nhe turned out the least craven of the lot as it seems, and, actually,\nmustered enough pluck to run an errand to the engine-room. No trifle, it\nmust be owned in fairness to him. Jim told me he darted desperate looks\nlike a cornered man, gave one low wail, and dashed off. He was back\ninstantly clambering, hammer in hand, and without a pause flung himself\nat the bolt. The others gave up Jim at once and ran off to assist.\nHe heard the tap, tap of the hammer, the sound of the released chock\nfalling over. The boat was clear. Only then he turned to look--only\nthen. But he kept his distance--he kept his distance. He wanted me to\nknow he had kept his distance; that there was nothing in common between\nhim and these men--who had the hammer. Nothing whatever. It is more than\nprobable he thought himself cut off from them by a space that could\nnot be traversed, by an obstacle that could not be overcome, by a chasm\nwithout bottom. He was as far as he could get from them--the whole\nbreadth of the ship.\n\n'His feet were glued to that remote spot and his eyes to their\nindistinct group bowed together and swaying strangely in the common\ntorment of fear. A hand-lamp lashed to a stanchion above a little table\nrigged up on the bridge--the Patna had no chart-room amidships--threw a\nlight on their labouring shoulders, on their arched and bobbing backs.\nThey pushed at the bow of the boat; they pushed out into the night; they\npushed, and would no more look back at him. They had given him up as if\nindeed he had been too far, too hopelessly separated from themselves, to\nbe worth an appealing word, a glance, or a sign. They had no leisure to\nlook back upon his passive heroism, to feel the sting of his abstention.\nThe boat was heavy; they pushed at the bow with no breath to spare for\nan encouraging word: but the turmoil of terror that had scattered their\nself-command like chaff before the wind, converted their desperate\nexertions into a bit of fooling, upon my word, fit for knockabout clowns\nin a farce. They pushed with their hands, with their heads, they pushed\nfor dear life with all the weight of their bodies, they pushed with all\nthe might of their souls--only no sooner had they succeeded in canting\nthe stem clear of the davit than they would leave off like one man and\nstart a wild scramble into her. As a natural consequence the boat would\nswing in abruptly, driving them back, helpless and jostling against each\nother. They would stand nonplussed for a while, exchanging in fierce\nwhispers all the infamous names they could call to mind, and go at it\nagain. Three times this occurred. He described it to me with morose\nthoughtfulness. He hadn't lost a single movement of that comic business.\n\"I loathed them. I hated them. I had to look at all that,\" he said\nwithout emphasis, turning upon me a sombrely watchful glance. \"Was ever\nthere any one so shamefully tried?\"\n\n'He took his head in his hands for a moment, like a man driven to\ndistraction by some unspeakable outrage. These were things he could not\nexplain to the court--and not even to me; but I would have been little\nfitted for the reception of his confidences had I not been able at times\nto understand the pauses between the words. In this assault upon\nhis fortitude there was the jeering intention of a spiteful and\nvile vengeance; there was an element of burlesque in his ordeal--a\ndegradation of funny grimaces in the approach of death or dishonour.\n\n'He related facts which I have not forgotten, but at this distance of\ntime I couldn't recall his very words: I only remember that he managed\nwonderfully to convey the brooding rancour of his mind into the bare\nrecital of events. Twice, he told me, he shut his eyes in the certitude\nthat the end was upon him already, and twice he had to open them again.\nEach time he noted the darkening of the great stillness. The shadow of\nthe silent cloud had fallen upon the ship from the zenith, and seemed\nto have extinguished every sound of her teeming life. He could no longer\nhear the voices under the awnings. He told me that each time he closed\nhis eyes a flash of thought showed him that crowd of bodies, laid out\nfor death, as plain as daylight. When he opened them, it was to see the\ndim struggle of four men fighting like mad with a stubborn boat. \"They\nwould fall back before it time after time, stand swearing at each other,\nand suddenly make another rush in a bunch. . . . Enough to make you\ndie laughing,\" he commented with downcast eyes; then raising them for a\nmoment to my face with a dismal smile, \"I ought to have a merry life\nof it, by God! for I shall see that funny sight a good many times yet\nbefore I die.\" His eyes fell again. \"See and hear. . . . See and hear,\"\nhe repeated twice, at long intervals, filled by vacant staring.\n\n'He roused himself.\n\n'\"I made up my mind to keep my eyes shut,\" he said, \"and I couldn't. I\ncouldn't, and I don't care who knows it. Let them go through that kind\nof thing before they talk. Just let them--and do better--that's all. The\nsecond time my eyelids flew open and my mouth too. I had felt the\nship move. She just dipped her bows--and lifted them gently--and slow!\neverlastingly slow; and ever so little. She hadn't done that much for\ndays. The cloud had raced ahead, and this first swell seemed to travel\nupon a sea of lead. There was no life in that stir. It managed, though,\nto knock over something in my head. What would you have done? You are\nsure of yourself--aren't you? What would you do if you felt now--this\nminute--the house here move, just move a little under your chair. Leap!\nBy heavens! you would take one spring from where you sit and land in\nthat clump of bushes yonder.\"\n\n'He flung his arm out at the night beyond the stone balustrade. I held\nmy peace. He looked at me very steadily, very severe. There could be no\nmistake: I was being bullied now, and it behoved me to make no sign lest\nby a gesture or a word I should be drawn into a fatal admission about\nmyself which would have had some bearing on the case. I was not disposed\nto take any risk of that sort. Don't forget I had him before me, and\nreally he was too much like one of us not to be dangerous. But if you\nwant to know I don't mind telling you that I did, with a rapid glance,\nestimate the distance to the mass of denser blackness in the middle of\nthe grass-plot before the verandah. He exaggerated. I would have landed\nshort by several feet--and that's the only thing of which I am fairly\ncertain.\n\n'The last moment had come, as he thought, and he did not move. His feet\nremained glued to the planks if his thoughts were knocking about loose\nin his head. It was at this moment too that he saw one of the men around\nthe boat step backwards suddenly, clutch at the air with raised arms,\ntotter and collapse. He didn't exactly fall, he only slid gently into a\nsitting posture, all hunched up, and with his shoulders propped against\nthe side of the engine-room skylight. \"That was the donkey-man.\nA haggard, white-faced chap with a ragged moustache. Acted third\nengineer,\" he explained.\n\n'\"Dead,\" I said. We had heard something of that in court.\n\n'\"So they say,\" he pronounced with sombre indifference. \"Of course I\nnever knew. Weak heart. The man had been complaining of being out of\nsorts for some time before. Excitement. Over-exertion. Devil only knows.\nHa! ha! ha! It was easy to see he did not want to die either. Droll,\nisn't it? May I be shot if he hadn't been fooled into killing himself!\nFooled--neither more nor less. Fooled into it, by heavens! just as\nI . . . Ah! If he had only kept still; if he had only told them to go to\nthe devil when they came to rush him out of his bunk because the ship\nwas sinking! If he had only stood by with his hands in his pockets and\ncalled them names!\"\n\n'He got up, shook his fist, glared at me, and sat down.\n\n'\"A chance missed, eh?\" I murmured.\n\n'\"Why don't you laugh?\" he said. \"A joke hatched in hell. Weak\nheart! . . . I wish sometimes mine had been.\"\n\n'This irritated me. \"Do you?\" I exclaimed with deep-rooted irony. \"Yes!\nCan't _you_ understand?\" he cried. \"I don't know what more you could\nwish for,\" I said angrily. He gave me an utterly uncomprehending glance.\nThis shaft had also gone wide of the mark, and he was not the man to\nbother about stray arrows. Upon my word, he was too unsuspecting; he was\nnot fair game. I was glad that my missile had been thrown away,--that he\nhad not even heard the twang of the bow.\n\n'Of course he could not know at the time the man was dead. The next\nminute--his last on board--was crowded with a tumult of events and\nsensations which beat about him like the sea upon a rock. I use the\nsimile advisedly, because from his relation I am forced to believe\nhe had preserved through it all a strange illusion of passiveness, as\nthough he had not acted but had suffered himself to be handled by the\ninfernal powers who had selected him for the victim of their practical\njoke. The first thing that came to him was the grinding surge of the\nheavy davits swinging out at last--a jar which seemed to enter his body\nfrom the deck through the soles of his feet, and travel up his spine to\nthe crown of his head. Then, the squall being very near now, another\nand a heavier swell lifted the passive hull in a threatening heave that\nchecked his breath, while his brain and his heart together were pierced\nas with daggers by panic-stricken screams. \"Let go! For God's sake,\nlet go! Let go! She's going.\" Following upon that the boat-falls ripped\nthrough the blocks, and a lot of men began to talk in startled tones\nunder the awnings. \"When these beggars did break out, their yelps were\nenough to wake the dead,\" he said. Next, after the splashing shock\nof the boat literally dropped in the water, came the hollow noises of\nstamping and tumbling in her, mingled with confused shouts: \"Unhook!\nUnhook! Shove! Unhook! Shove for your life! Here's the squall down on\nus. . . .\" He heard, high above his head, the faint muttering of the\nwind; he heard below his feet a cry of pain. A lost voice alongside\nstarted cursing a swivel hook. The ship began to buzz fore and aft\nlike a disturbed hive, and, as quietly as he was telling me of all\nthis--because just then he was very quiet in attitude, in face, in\nvoice--he went on to say without the slightest warning as it were, \"I\nstumbled over his legs.\"\n\n'This was the first I heard of his having moved at all. I could not\nrestrain a grunt of surprise. Something had started him off at last, but\nof the exact moment, of the cause that tore him out of his immobility,\nhe knew no more than the uprooted tree knows of the wind that laid it\nlow. All this had come to him: the sounds, the sights, the legs of the\ndead man--by Jove! The infernal joke was being crammed devilishly down\nhis throat, but--look you--he was not going to admit of any sort of\nswallowing motion in his gullet. It's extraordinary how he could cast\nupon you the spirit of his illusion. I listened as if to a tale of black\nmagic at work upon a corpse.\n\n'\"He went over sideways, very gently, and this is the last thing I\nremember seeing on board,\" he continued. \"I did not care what he did.\nIt looked as though he were picking himself up: I thought he was picking\nhimself up, of course: I expected him to bolt past me over the rail and\ndrop into the boat after the others. I could hear them knocking about\ndown there, and a voice as if crying up a shaft called out 'George!'\nThen three voices together raised a yell. They came to me separately:\none bleated, another screamed, one howled. Ough!\"\n\n'He shivered a little, and I beheld him rise slowly as if a steady\nhand from above had been pulling him out of the chair by his hair. Up,\nslowly--to his full height, and when his knees had locked stiff the hand\nlet him go, and he swayed a little on his feet. There was a suggestion\nof awful stillness in his face, in his movements, in his very voice when\nhe said \"They shouted\"--and involuntarily I pricked up my ears for\nthe ghost of that shout that would be heard directly through the false\neffect of silence. \"There were eight hundred people in that ship,\" he\nsaid, impaling me to the back of my seat with an awful blank stare.\n\"Eight hundred living people, and they were yelling after the one dead\nman to come down and be saved. 'Jump, George! Jump! Oh, jump!' I stood\nby with my hand on the davit. I was very quiet. It had come over pitch\ndark. You could see neither sky nor sea. I heard the boat alongside go\nbump, bump, and not another sound down there for a while, but the ship\nunder me was full of talking noises. Suddenly the skipper howled 'Mein\nGott! The squall! The squall! Shove off!' With the first hiss of rain,\nand the first gust of wind, they screamed, 'Jump, George! We'll catch\nyou! Jump!' The ship began a slow plunge; the rain swept over her like\na broken sea; my cap flew off my head; my breath was driven back into\nmy throat. I heard as if I had been on the top of a tower another wild\nscreech, 'Geo-o-o-orge! Oh, jump!' She was going down, down, head first\nunder me. . . .\"\n\n'He raised his hand deliberately to his face, and made picking motions\nwith his fingers as though he had been bothered with cobwebs, and\nafterwards he looked into the open palm for quite half a second before\nhe blurted out--\n\n'\"I had jumped . . .\" He checked himself, averted his gaze. . . . \"It\nseems,\" he added.\n\n'His clear blue eyes turned to me with a piteous stare, and looking at\nhim standing before me, dumfounded and hurt, I was oppressed by a sad\nsense of resigned wisdom, mingled with the amused and profound pity of\nan old man helpless before a childish disaster.\n\n'\"Looks like it,\" I muttered.\n\n'\"I knew nothing about it till I looked up,\" he explained hastily. And\nthat's possible, too. You had to listen to him as you would to a small\nboy in trouble. He didn't know. It had happened somehow. It would never\nhappen again. He had landed partly on somebody and fallen across a\nthwart. He felt as though all his ribs on his left side must be broken;\nthen he rolled over, and saw vaguely the ship he had deserted uprising\nabove him, with the red side-light glowing large in the rain like a fire\non the brow of a hill seen through a mist. \"She seemed higher than a\nwall; she loomed like a cliff over the boat . . . I wished I could die,\"\nhe cried. \"There was no going back. It was as if I had jumped into a\nwell--into an everlasting deep hole. . . .\"'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\n\n'He locked his fingers together and tore them apart. Nothing could be\nmore true: he had indeed jumped into an everlasting deep hole. He had\ntumbled from a height he could never scale again. By that time the boat\nhad gone driving forward past the bows. It was too dark just then\nfor them to see each other, and, moreover, they were blinded and half\ndrowned with rain. He told me it was like being swept by a flood through\na cavern. They turned their backs to the squall; the skipper, it seems,\ngot an oar over the stern to keep the boat before it, and for two or\nthree minutes the end of the world had come through a deluge in a pitchy\nblackness. The sea hissed \"like twenty thousand kettles.\" That's his\nsimile, not mine. I fancy there was not much wind after the first gust;\nand he himself had admitted at the inquiry that the sea never got up\nthat night to any extent. He crouched down in the bows and stole a\nfurtive glance back. He saw just one yellow gleam of the mast-head light\nhigh up and blurred like a last star ready to dissolve. \"It terrified me\nto see it still there,\" he said. That's what he said. What terrified him\nwas the thought that the drowning was not over yet. No doubt he wanted\nto be done with that abomination as quickly as possible. Nobody in the\nboat made a sound. In the dark she seemed to fly, but of course she\ncould not have had much way. Then the shower swept ahead, and the great,\ndistracting, hissing noise followed the rain into distance and died out.\nThere was nothing to be heard then but the slight wash about the boat's\nsides. Somebody's teeth were chattering violently. A hand touched his\nback. A faint voice said, \"You there?\" Another cried out shakily,\n\"She's gone!\" and they all stood up together to look astern. They saw no\nlights. All was black. A thin cold drizzle was driving into their faces.\nThe boat lurched slightly. The teeth chattered faster, stopped, and\nbegan again twice before the man could master his shiver sufficiently to\nsay, \"Ju-ju-st in ti-ti-me. . . . Brrrr.\" He recognised the voice of the\nchief engineer saying surlily, \"I saw her go down. I happened to turn my\nhead.\" The wind had dropped almost completely.\n\n'They watched in the dark with their heads half turned to windward as if\nexpecting to hear cries. At first he was thankful the night had covered\nup the scene before his eyes, and then to know of it and yet to have\nseen and heard nothing appeared somehow the culminating point of an\nawful misfortune. \"Strange, isn't it?\" he murmured, interrupting himself\nin his disjointed narrative.\n\n'It did not seem so strange to me. He must have had an unconscious\nconviction that the reality could not be half as bad, not half as\nanguishing, appalling, and vengeful as the created terror of his\nimagination. I believe that, in this first moment, his heart was wrung\nwith all the suffering, that his soul knew the accumulated savour of all\nthe fear, all the horror, all the despair of eight hundred human beings\npounced upon in the night by a sudden and violent death, else why should\nhe have said, \"It seemed to me that I must jump out of that accursed\nboat and swim back to see--half a mile--more--any distance--to the very\nspot . . .\"? Why this impulse? Do you see the significance? Why back to\nthe very spot? Why not drown alongside--if he meant drowning? Why back\nto the very spot, to see--as if his imagination had to be soothed by the\nassurance that all was over before death could bring relief? I defy any\none of you to offer another explanation. It was one of those bizarre and\nexciting glimpses through the fog. It was an extraordinary disclosure.\nHe let it out as the most natural thing one could say. He fought down\nthat impulse and then he became conscious of the silence. He mentioned\nthis to me. A silence of the sea, of the sky, merged into one indefinite\nimmensity still as death around these saved, palpitating lives.\n\"You might have heard a pin drop in the boat,\" he said with a queer\ncontraction of his lips, like a man trying to master his sensibilities\nwhile relating some extremely moving fact. A silence! God alone, who had\nwilled him as he was, knows what he made of it in his heart. \"I didn't\nthink any spot on earth could be so still,\" he said. \"You couldn't\ndistinguish the sea from the sky; there was nothing to see and nothing\nto hear. Not a glimmer, not a shape, not a sound. You could have\nbelieved that every bit of dry land had gone to the bottom; that every\nman on earth but I and these beggars in the boat had got drowned.\" He\nleaned over the table with his knuckles propped amongst coffee-cups,\nliqueur-glasses, cigar-ends. \"I seemed to believe it. Everything was\ngone and--all was over . . .\" he fetched a deep sigh . . . \"with me.\"'\n\nMarlow sat up abruptly and flung away his cheroot with force. It made\na darting red trail like a toy rocket fired through the drapery of\ncreepers. Nobody stirred.\n\n'Hey, what do you think of it?' he cried with sudden animation. 'Wasn't\nhe true to himself, wasn't he? His saved life was over for want of\nground under his feet, for want of sights for his eyes, for want of\nvoices in his ears. Annihilation--hey! And all the time it was only a\nclouded sky, a sea that did not break, the air that did not stir. Only a\nnight; only a silence.\n\n'It lasted for a while, and then they were suddenly and unanimously\nmoved to make a noise over their escape. \"I knew from the first she\nwould go.\" \"Not a minute too soon.\" \"A narrow squeak, b'gosh!\" He said\nnothing, but the breeze that had dropped came back, a gentle draught\nfreshened steadily, and the sea joined its murmuring voice to this\ntalkative reaction succeeding the dumb moments of awe. She was gone! She\nwas gone! Not a doubt of it. Nobody could have helped. They repeated the\nsame words over and over again as though they couldn't stop themselves.\nNever doubted she would go. The lights were gone. No mistake. The\nlights were gone. Couldn't expect anything else. She had to go. . . . He\nnoticed that they talked as though they had left behind them nothing but\nan empty ship. They concluded she would not have been long when she once\nstarted. It seemed to cause them some sort of satisfaction. They assured\neach other that she couldn't have been long about it--\"Just shot down\nlike a flat-iron.\" The chief engineer declared that the mast-head light\nat the moment of sinking seemed to drop \"like a lighted match you throw\ndown.\" At this the second laughed hysterically. \"I am g-g-glad, I am\ngla-a-a-d.\" His teeth went on \"like an electric rattle,\" said Jim,\n\"and all at once he began to cry. He wept and blubbered like a child,\ncatching his breath and sobbing 'Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!' He would\nbe quiet for a while and start suddenly, 'Oh, my poor arm! oh, my poor\na-a-a-arm!' I felt I could knock him down. Some of them sat in the\nstern-sheets. I could just make out their shapes. Voices came to me,\nmumble, mumble, grunt, grunt. All this seemed very hard to bear. I was\ncold too. And I could do nothing. I thought that if I moved I would have\nto go over the side and . . .\"\n\n'His hand groped stealthily, came in contact with a liqueur-glass, and\nwas withdrawn suddenly as if it had touched a red-hot coal. I pushed the\nbottle slightly. \"Won't you have some more?\" I asked. He looked at me\nangrily. \"Don't you think I can tell you what there is to tell without\nscrewing myself up?\" he asked. The squad of globe-trotters had gone to\nbed. We were alone but for a vague white form erect in the shadow, that,\nbeing looked at, cringed forward, hesitated, backed away silently. It\nwas getting late, but I did not hurry my guest.\n\n'In the midst of his forlorn state he heard his companions begin to\nabuse some one. \"What kept you from jumping, you lunatic?\" said a\nscolding voice. The chief engineer left the stern-sheets, and could\nbe heard clambering forward as if with hostile intentions against \"the\ngreatest idiot that ever was.\" The skipper shouted with rasping effort\noffensive epithets from where he sat at the oar. He lifted his head\nat that uproar, and heard the name \"George,\" while a hand in the dark\nstruck him on the breast. \"What have you got to say for yourself, you\nfool?\" queried somebody, with a sort of virtuous fury. \"They were after\nme,\" he said. \"They were abusing me--abusing me . . . by the name of\nGeorge.\"\n\n'He paused to stare, tried to smile, turned his eyes away and went on.\n\"That little second puts his head right under my nose, 'Why, it's that\nblasted mate!' 'What!' howls the skipper from the other end of the boat.\n'No!' shrieks the chief. And he too stooped to look at my face.\"\n\n'The wind had left the boat suddenly. The rain began to fall again, and\nthe soft, uninterrupted, a little mysterious sound with which the sea\nreceives a shower arose on all sides in the night. \"They were too taken\naback to say anything more at first,\" he narrated steadily, \"and what\ncould I have to say to them?\" He faltered for a moment, and made an\neffort to go on. \"They called me horrible names.\" His voice, sinking to\na whisper, now and then would leap up suddenly, hardened by the passion\nof scorn, as though he had been talking of secret abominations. \"Never\nmind what they called me,\" he said grimly. \"I could hear hate in their\nvoices. A good thing too. They could not forgive me for being in that\nboat. They hated it. It made them mad. . . .\" He laughed short. . . .\n\"But it kept me from--Look! I was sitting with my arms crossed, on the\ngunwale! . . .\" He perched himself smartly on the edge of the table and\ncrossed his arms. . . . \"Like this--see? One little tilt backwards and\nI would have been gone--after the others. One little tilt--the least\nbit--the least bit.\" He frowned, and tapping his forehead with the tip\nof his middle finger, \"It was there all the time,\" he said impressively.\n\"All the time--that notion. And the rain--cold, thick, cold as melted\nsnow--colder--on my thin cotton clothes--I'll never be so cold again in\nmy life, I know. And the sky was black too--all black. Not a star, not\na light anywhere. Nothing outside that confounded boat and those two\nyapping before me like a couple of mean mongrels at a tree'd thief. Yap!\nyap! 'What you doing here? You're a fine sort! Too much of a bloomin'\ngentleman to put your hand to it. Come out of your trance, did you? To\nsneak in? Did you?' Yap! yap! 'You ain't fit to live!' Yap! yap! Two of\nthem together trying to out-bark each other. The other would bay from\nthe stern through the rain--couldn't see him--couldn't make it out--some\nof his filthy jargon. Yap! yap! Bow-ow-ow-ow-ow! Yap! yap! It was sweet\nto hear them; it kept me alive, I tell you. It saved my life. At it they\nwent, as if trying to drive me overboard with the noise! . . . 'I wonder\nyou had pluck enough to jump. You ain't wanted here. If I had known who\nit was, I would have tipped you over--you skunk! What have you done with\nthe other? Where did you get the pluck to jump--you coward? What's to\nprevent us three from firing you overboard?' . . . They were out of\nbreath; the shower passed away upon the sea. Then nothing. There was\nnothing round the boat, not even a sound. Wanted to see me overboard,\ndid they? Upon my soul! I think they would have had their wish if they\nhad only kept quiet. Fire me overboard! Would they? 'Try,' I said. 'I\nwould for twopence.' 'Too good for you,' they screeched together. It was\nso dark that it was only when one or the other of them moved that I was\nquite sure of seeing him. By heavens! I only wish they had tried.\"\n\n'I couldn't help exclaiming, \"What an extraordinary affair!\"\n\n'\"Not bad--eh?\" he said, as if in some sort astounded. \"They pretended\nto think I had done away with that donkey-man for some reason or other.\nWhy should I? And how the devil was I to know? Didn't I get somehow\ninto that boat? into that boat--I . . .\" The muscles round his lips\ncontracted into an unconscious grimace that tore through the mask of his\nusual expression--something violent, short-lived and illuminating like\na twist of lightning that admits the eye for an instant into the secret\nconvolutions of a cloud. \"I did. I was plainly there with them--wasn't\nI? Isn't it awful a man should be driven to do a thing like that--and be\nresponsible? What did I know about their George they were howling after?\nI remembered I had seen him curled up on the deck. 'Murdering coward!'\nthe chief kept on calling me. He didn't seem able to remember any other\ntwo words. I didn't care, only his noise began to worry me. 'Shut up,' I\nsaid. At that he collected himself for a confounded screech. 'You killed\nhim! You killed him!' 'No,' I shouted, 'but I will kill you directly.' I\njumped up, and he fell backwards over a thwart with an awful loud thump.\nI don't know why. Too dark. Tried to step back I suppose. I stood still\nfacing aft, and the wretched little second began to whine, 'You\nain't going to hit a chap with a broken arm--and you call yourself a\ngentleman, too.' I heard a heavy tramp--one--two--and wheezy grunting.\nThe other beast was coming at me, clattering his oar over the stern. I\nsaw him moving, big, big--as you see a man in a mist, in a dream. 'Come\non,' I cried. I would have tumbled him over like a bale of shakings. He\nstopped, muttered to himself, and went back. Perhaps he had heard the\nwind. I didn't. It was the last heavy gust we had. He went back to his\noar. I was sorry. I would have tried to--to . . .\"\n\n'He opened and closed his curved fingers, and his hands had an eager and\ncruel flutter. \"Steady, steady,\" I murmured.\n\n'\"Eh? What? I am not excited,\" he remonstrated, awfully hurt, and with\na convulsive jerk of his elbow knocked over the cognac bottle. I started\nforward, scraping my chair. He bounced off the table as if a mine had\nbeen exploded behind his back, and half turned before he alighted,\ncrouching on his feet to show me a startled pair of eyes and a face\nwhite about the nostrils. A look of intense annoyance succeeded.\n\"Awfully sorry. How clumsy of me!\" he mumbled, very vexed, while the\npungent odour of spilt alcohol enveloped us suddenly with an atmosphere\nof a low drinking-bout in the cool, pure darkness of the night. The\nlights had been put out in the dining-hall; our candle glimmered\nsolitary in the long gallery, and the columns had turned black from\npediment to capital. On the vivid stars the high corner of the Harbour\nOffice stood out distinct across the Esplanade, as though the sombre\npile had glided nearer to see and hear.\n\n'He assumed an air of indifference.\n\n'\"I dare say I am less calm now than I was then. I was ready for\nanything. These were trifles. . . .\"\n\n'\"You had a lively time of it in that boat,\" I remarked\n\n'\"I was ready,\" he repeated. \"After the ship's lights had gone, anything\nmight have happened in that boat--anything in the world--and the world\nno wiser. I felt this, and I was pleased. It was just dark enough too.\nWe were like men walled up quick in a roomy grave. No concern with\nanything on earth. Nobody to pass an opinion. Nothing mattered.\" For the\nthird time during this conversation he laughed harshly, but there was\nno one about to suspect him of being only drunk. \"No fear, no law, no\nsounds, no eyes--not even our own, till--till sunrise at least.\"\n\n'I was struck by the suggestive truth of his words. There is something\npeculiar in a small boat upon the wide sea. Over the lives borne from\nunder the shadow of death there seems to fall the shadow of madness.\nWhen your ship fails you, your whole world seems to fail you; the world\nthat made you, restrained you, took care of you. It is as if the souls\nof men floating on an abyss and in touch with immensity had been set\nfree for any excess of heroism, absurdity, or abomination. Of course, as\nwith belief, thought, love, hate, conviction, or even the visual aspect\nof material things, there are as many shipwrecks as there are men, and\nin this one there was something abject which made the isolation more\ncomplete--there was a villainy of circumstances that cut these men off\nmore completely from the rest of mankind, whose ideal of conduct had\nnever undergone the trial of a fiendish and appalling joke. They were\nexasperated with him for being a half-hearted shirker: he focussed on\nthem his hatred of the whole thing; he would have liked to take a signal\nrevenge for the abhorrent opportunity they had put in his way. Trust\na boat on the high seas to bring out the Irrational that lurks at the\nbottom of every thought, sentiment, sensation, emotion. It was part of\nthe burlesque meanness pervading that particular disaster at sea that\nthey did not come to blows. It was all threats, all a terribly effective\nfeint, a sham from beginning to end, planned by the tremendous disdain\nof the Dark Powers whose real terrors, always on the verge of triumph,\nare perpetually foiled by the steadfastness of men. I asked, after\nwaiting for a while, \"Well, what happened?\" A futile question. I knew\ntoo much already to hope for the grace of a single uplifting touch, for\nthe favour of hinted madness, of shadowed horror. \"Nothing,\" he said. \"I\nmeant business, but they meant noise only. Nothing happened.\"\n\n'And the rising sun found him just as he had jumped up first in the bows\nof the boat. What a persistence of readiness! He had been holding the\ntiller in his hand, too, all the night. They had dropped the rudder\noverboard while attempting to ship it, and I suppose the tiller got\nkicked forward somehow while they were rushing up and down that boat\ntrying to do all sorts of things at once so as to get clear of the\nside. It was a long heavy piece of hard wood, and apparently he had been\nclutching it for six hours or so. If you don't call that being ready!\nCan you imagine him, silent and on his feet half the night, his face to\nthe gusts of rain, staring at sombre forms watchful of vague movements,\nstraining his ears to catch rare low murmurs in the stern-sheets!\nFirmness of courage or effort of fear? What do you think? And the\nendurance is undeniable too. Six hours more or less on the defensive;\nsix hours of alert immobility while the boat drove slowly or floated\narrested, according to the caprice of the wind; while the sea, calmed,\nslept at last; while the clouds passed above his head; while the sky\nfrom an immensity lustreless and black, diminished to a sombre and\nlustrous vault, scintillated with a greater brilliance, faded to the\neast, paled at the zenith; while the dark shapes blotting the low\nstars astern got outlines, relief became shoulders, heads, faces,\nfeatures,--confronted him with dreary stares, had dishevelled hair, torn\nclothes, blinked red eyelids at the white dawn. \"They looked as though\nthey had been knocking about drunk in gutters for a week,\" he described\ngraphically; and then he muttered something about the sunrise being of a\nkind that foretells a calm day. You know that sailor habit of referring\nto the weather in every connection. And on my side his few mumbled words\nwere enough to make me see the lower limb of the sun clearing the\nline of the horizon, the tremble of a vast ripple running over all the\nvisible expanse of the sea, as if the waters had shuddered, giving birth\nto the globe of light, while the last puff of the breeze would stir the\nair in a sigh of relief.\n\n'\"They sat in the stern shoulder to shoulder, with the skipper in the\nmiddle, like three dirty owls, and stared at me,\" I heard him say\nwith an intention of hate that distilled a corrosive virtue into the\ncommonplace words like a drop of powerful poison falling into a glass\nof water; but my thoughts dwelt upon that sunrise. I could imagine\nunder the pellucid emptiness of the sky these four men imprisoned in the\nsolitude of the sea, the lonely sun, regardless of the speck of life,\nascending the clear curve of the heaven as if to gaze ardently from a\ngreater height at his own splendour reflected in the still ocean. \"They\ncalled out to me from aft,\" said Jim, \"as though we had been chums\ntogether. I heard them. They were begging me to be sensible and drop\nthat 'blooming piece of wood.' Why _would_ I carry on so? They hadn't\ndone me any harm--had they? There had been no harm. . . . No harm!\"\n\n'His face crimsoned as though he could not get rid of the air in his\nlungs.\n\n'\"No harm!\" he burst out. \"I leave it to you. You can understand. Can't\nyou? You see it--don't you? No harm! Good God! What more could they have\ndone? Oh yes, I know very well--I jumped. Certainly. I jumped! I told\nyou I jumped; but I tell you they were too much for any man. It was\ntheir doing as plainly as if they had reached up with a boat-hook and\npulled me over. Can't you see it? You must see it. Come. Speak--straight\nout.\"\n\n'His uneasy eyes fastened upon mine, questioned, begged, challenged,\nentreated. For the life of me I couldn't help murmuring, \"You've been\ntried.\" \"More than is fair,\" he caught up swiftly. \"I wasn't given half\na chance--with a gang like that. And now they were friendly--oh, so\ndamnably friendly! Chums, shipmates. All in the same boat. Make the best\nof it. They hadn't meant anything. They didn't care a hang for George.\nGeorge had gone back to his berth for something at the last moment and\ngot caught. The man was a manifest fool. Very sad, of course. . . .\nTheir eyes looked at me; their lips moved; they wagged their heads at\nthe other end of the boat--three of them; they beckoned--to me. Why\nnot? Hadn't I jumped? I said nothing. There are no words for the sort of\nthings I wanted to say. If I had opened my lips just then I would have\nsimply howled like an animal. I was asking myself when I would wake up.\nThey urged me aloud to come aft and hear quietly what the skipper had to\nsay. We were sure to be picked up before the evening--right in the track\nof all the Canal traffic; there was smoke to the north-west now.\n\n'\"It gave me an awful shock to see this faint, faint blur, this low\ntrail of brown mist through which you could see the boundary of sea and\nsky. I called out to them that I could hear very well where I was. The\nskipper started swearing, as hoarse as a crow. He wasn't going to talk\nat the top of his voice for _my_ accommodation. 'Are you afraid they\nwill hear you on shore?' I asked. He glared as if he would have liked to\nclaw me to pieces. The chief engineer advised him to humour me. He\nsaid I wasn't right in my head yet. The other rose astern, like a thick\npillar of flesh--and talked--talked. . . .\"\n\n'Jim remained thoughtful. \"Well?\" I said. \"What did I care what story\nthey agreed to make up?\" he cried recklessly. \"They could tell what they\njolly well liked. It was their business. I knew the story. Nothing\nthey could make people believe could alter it for me. I let him talk,\nargue--talk, argue. He went on and on and on. Suddenly I felt my legs\ngive way under me. I was sick, tired--tired to death. I let fall the\ntiller, turned my back on them, and sat down on the foremost thwart. I\nhad enough. They called to me to know if I understood--wasn't it true,\nevery word of it? It was true, by God! after their fashion. I did not\nturn my head. I heard them palavering together. 'The silly ass won't say\nanything.' 'Oh, he understands well enough.' 'Let him be; he will be all\nright.' 'What can he do?' What could I do? Weren't we all in the same\nboat? I tried to be deaf. The smoke had disappeared to the northward.\nIt was a dead calm. They had a drink from the water-breaker, and I drank\ntoo. Afterwards they made a great business of spreading the boat-sail\nover the gunwales. Would I keep a look-out? They crept under, out of my\nsight, thank God! I felt weary, weary, done up, as if I hadn't had one\nhour's sleep since the day I was born. I couldn't see the water for the\nglitter of the sunshine. From time to time one of them would creep out,\nstand up to take a look all round, and get under again. I could hear\nspells of snoring below the sail. Some of them could sleep. One of them\nat least. I couldn't! All was light, light, and the boat seemed to be\nfalling through it. Now and then I would feel quite surprised to find\nmyself sitting on a thwart. . . .\"\n\n'He began to walk with measured steps to and fro before my chair, one\nhand in his trousers-pocket, his head bent thoughtfully, and his right\narm at long intervals raised for a gesture that seemed to put out of his\nway an invisible intruder.\n\n'\"I suppose you think I was going mad,\" he began in a changed tone. \"And\nwell you may, if you remember I had lost my cap. The sun crept all the\nway from east to west over my bare head, but that day I could not come\nto any harm, I suppose. The sun could not make me mad. . . .\" His right\narm put aside the idea of madness. . . . \"Neither could it kill\nme. . . .\" Again his arm repulsed a shadow. . . . \"_That_ rested with\nme.\"\n\n'\"Did it?\" I said, inexpressibly amazed at this new turn, and I looked\nat him with the same sort of feeling I might be fairly conceived to\nexperience had he, after spinning round on his heel, presented an\naltogether new face.\n\n'\"I didn't get brain fever, I did not drop dead either,\" he went on. \"I\ndidn't bother myself at all about the sun over my head. I was thinking\nas coolly as any man that ever sat thinking in the shade. That greasy\nbeast of a skipper poked his big cropped head from under the canvas\nand screwed his fishy eyes up at me. 'Donnerwetter! you will die,' he\ngrowled, and drew in like a turtle. I had seen him. I had heard him. He\ndidn't interrupt me. I was thinking just then that I wouldn't.\"\n\n'He tried to sound my thought with an attentive glance dropped on me\nin passing. \"Do you mean to say you had been deliberating with yourself\nwhether you would die?\" I asked in as impenetrable a tone as I could\ncommand. He nodded without stopping. \"Yes, it had come to that as I sat\nthere alone,\" he said. He passed on a few steps to the imaginary end\nof his beat, and when he flung round to come back both his hands were\nthrust deep into his pockets. He stopped short in front of my chair and\nlooked down. \"Don't you believe it?\" he inquired with tense curiosity.\nI was moved to make a solemn declaration of my readiness to believe\nimplicitly anything he thought fit to tell me.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\n\n'He heard me out with his head on one side, and I had another glimpse\nthrough a rent in the mist in which he moved and had his being. The dim\ncandle spluttered within the ball of glass, and that was all I had to\nsee him by; at his back was the dark night with the clear stars, whose\ndistant glitter disposed in retreating planes lured the eye into the\ndepths of a greater darkness; and yet a mysterious light seemed to show\nme his boyish head, as if in that moment the youth within him had, for\na moment, glowed and expired. \"You are an awful good sort to listen like\nthis,\" he said. \"It does me good. You don't know what it is to me. You\ndon't\" . . . words seemed to fail him. It was a distinct glimpse. He was\na youngster of the sort you like to see about you; of the sort you like\nto imagine yourself to have been; of the sort whose appearance claims\nthe fellowship of these illusions you had thought gone out, extinct,\ncold, and which, as if rekindled at the approach of another flame, give\na flutter deep, deep down somewhere, give a flutter of light . . . of\nheat! . . . Yes; I had a glimpse of him then . . . and it was not the\nlast of that kind. . . . \"You don't know what it is for a fellow in my\nposition to be believed--make a clean breast of it to an elder man. It\nis so difficult--so awfully unfair--so hard to understand.\"\n\n'The mists were closing again. I don't know how old I appeared to\nhim--and how much wise. Not half as old as I felt just then; not half\nas uselessly wise as I knew myself to be. Surely in no other craft as in\nthat of the sea do the hearts of those already launched to sink or swim\ngo out so much to the youth on the brink, looking with shining eyes upon\nthat glitter of the vast surface which is only a reflection of his\nown glances full of fire. There is such magnificent vagueness in\nthe expectations that had driven each of us to sea, such a glorious\nindefiniteness, such a beautiful greed of adventures that are their own\nand only reward. What we get--well, we won't talk of that; but can one\nof us restrain a smile? In no other kind of life is the illusion more\nwide of reality--in no other is the beginning _all_ illusion--the\ndisenchantment more swift--the subjugation more complete. Hadn't we all\ncommenced with the same desire, ended with the same knowledge, carried\nthe memory of the same cherished glamour through the sordid days of\nimprecation? What wonder that when some heavy prod gets home the bond\nis found to be close; that besides the fellowship of the craft there is\nfelt the strength of a wider feeling--the feeling that binds a man to a\nchild. He was there before me, believing that age and wisdom can find\na remedy against the pain of truth, giving me a glimpse of himself as a\nyoung fellow in a scrape that is the very devil of a scrape, the sort\nof scrape greybeards wag at solemnly while they hide a smile. And he\nhad been deliberating upon death--confound him! He had found that to\nmeditate about because he thought he had saved his life, while all its\nglamour had gone with the ship in the night. What more natural! It\nwas tragic enough and funny enough in all conscience to call aloud for\ncompassion, and in what was I better than the rest of us to refuse him\nmy pity? And even as I looked at him the mists rolled into the rent, and\nhis voice spoke--\n\n'\"I was so lost, you know. It was the sort of thing one does not expect\nto happen to one. It was not like a fight, for instance.\"\n\n'\"It was not,\" I admitted. He appeared changed, as if he had suddenly\nmatured.\n\n'\"One couldn't be sure,\" he muttered.\n\n'\"Ah! You were not sure,\" I said, and was placated by the sound of\na faint sigh that passed between us like the flight of a bird in the\nnight.\n\n'\"Well, I wasn't,\" he said courageously. \"It was something like that\nwretched story they made up. It was not a lie--but it wasn't truth all\nthe same. It was something. . . . One knows a downright lie. There was\nnot the thickness of a sheet of paper between the right and the wrong of\nthis affair.\"\n\n'\"How much more did you want?\" I asked; but I think I spoke so low that\nhe did not catch what I said. He had advanced his argument as though\nlife had been a network of paths separated by chasms. His voice sounded\nreasonable.\n\n'\"Suppose I had not--I mean to say, suppose I had stuck to the ship?\nWell. How much longer? Say a minute--half a minute. Come. In thirty\nseconds, as it seemed certain then, I would have been overboard; and do\nyou think I would not have laid hold of the first thing that came in my\nway--oar, life-buoy, grating--anything? Wouldn't you?\"\n\n'\"And be saved,\" I interjected.\n\n'\"I would have meant to be,\" he retorted. \"And that's more than I meant\nwhen I\" . . . he shivered as if about to swallow some nauseous\ndrug . . . \"jumped,\" he pronounced with a convulsive effort, whose\nstress, as if propagated by the waves of the air, made my body stir a\nlittle in the chair. He fixed me with lowering eyes. \"Don't you believe\nme?\" he cried. \"I swear! . . . Confound it! You got me here to talk,\nand . . . You must! . . . You said you would believe.\" \"Of course I do,\"\nI protested, in a matter-of-fact tone which produced a calming effect.\n\"Forgive me,\" he said. \"Of course I wouldn't have talked to you about\nall this if you had not been a gentleman. I ought to have known . . . I\nam--I am--a gentleman too . . .\" \"Yes, yes,\" I said hastily. He was\nlooking me squarely in the face, and withdrew his gaze slowly. \"Now you\nunderstand why I didn't after all . . . didn't go out in that way. I\nwasn't going to be frightened at what I had done. And, anyhow, if I had\nstuck to the ship I would have done my best to be saved. Men have been\nknown to float for hours--in the open sea--and be picked up not much the\nworse for it. I might have lasted it out better than many others.\nThere's nothing the matter with my heart.\" He withdrew his right fist\nfrom his pocket, and the blow he struck on his chest resounded like a\nmuffled detonation in the night.\n\n'\"No,\" I said. He meditated, with his legs slightly apart and his\nchin sunk. \"A hair's-breadth,\" he muttered. \"Not the breadth of a hair\nbetween this and that. And at the time . . .\"\n\n'\"It is difficult to see a hair at midnight,\" I put in, a little\nviciously I fear. Don't you see what I mean by the solidarity of the\ncraft? I was aggrieved against him, as though he had cheated me--me!--of\na splendid opportunity to keep up the illusion of my beginnings, as\nthough he had robbed our common life of the last spark of its glamour.\n\"And so you cleared out--at once.\"\n\n'\"Jumped,\" he corrected me incisively. \"Jumped--mind!\" he repeated, and\nI wondered at the evident but obscure intention. \"Well, yes! Perhaps I\ncould not see then. But I had plenty of time and any amount of light\nin that boat. And I could think, too. Nobody would know, of course, but\nthis did not make it any easier for me. You've got to believe that, too.\nI did not want all this talk. . . . No . . . Yes . . . I won't\nlie . . . I wanted it: it is the very thing I wanted--there. Do you\nthink you or anybody could have made me if I . . . I am--I am not afraid\nto tell. And I wasn't afraid to think either. I looked it in the face. I\nwasn't going to run away. At first--at night, if it hadn't been for\nthose fellows I might have . . . No! by heavens! I was not going to give\nthem that satisfaction. They had done enough. They made up a story, and\nbelieved it for all I know. But I knew the truth, and I would live it\ndown--alone, with myself. I wasn't going to give in to such a beastly\nunfair thing. What did it prove after all? I was confoundedly cut up.\nSick of life--to tell you the truth; but what would have been the good\nto shirk it--in--in--that way? That was not the way. I believe--I\nbelieve it would have--it would have ended--nothing.\"\n\n'He had been walking up and down, but with the last word he turned short\nat me.\n\n'\"What do _you_ believe?\" he asked with violence. A pause ensued, and\nsuddenly I felt myself overcome by a profound and hopeless fatigue, as\nthough his voice had startled me out of a dream of wandering through\nempty spaces whose immensity had harassed my soul and exhausted my body.\n\n'\". . . Would have ended nothing,\" he muttered over me obstinately,\nafter a little while. \"No! the proper thing was to face it out--alone\nfor myself--wait for another chance--find out . . .\"'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\n\n'All around everything was still as far as the ear could reach. The mist\nof his feelings shifted between us, as if disturbed by his struggles,\nand in the rifts of the immaterial veil he would appear to my staring\neyes distinct of form and pregnant with vague appeal like a symbolic\nfigure in a picture. The chill air of the night seemed to lie on my\nlimbs as heavy as a slab of marble.\n\n'\"I see,\" I murmured, more to prove to myself that I could break my\nstate of numbness than for any other reason.\n\n'\"The Avondale picked us up just before sunset,\" he remarked moodily.\n\"Steamed right straight for us. We had only to sit and wait.\"\n\n'After a long interval, he said, \"They told their story.\" And again\nthere was that oppressive silence. \"Then only I knew what it was I had\nmade up my mind to,\" he added.\n\n'\"You said nothing,\" I whispered.\n\n'\"What could I say?\" he asked, in the same low tone. . . . \"Shock\nslight. Stopped the ship. Ascertained the damage. Took measures to get\nthe boats out without creating a panic. As the first boat was lowered\nship went down in a squall. Sank like lead. . . . What could be more\nclear\" . . . he hung his head . . . \"and more awful?\" His lips quivered\nwhile he looked straight into my eyes. \"I had jumped--hadn't I?\" he\nasked, dismayed. \"That's what I had to live down. The story didn't\nmatter.\" . . . He clasped his hands for an instant, glanced right and\nleft into the gloom: \"It was like cheating the dead,\" he stammered.\n\n'\"And there were no dead,\" I said.\n\n'He went away from me at this. That is the only way I can describe it.\nIn a moment I saw his back close to the balustrade. He stood there for\nsome time, as if admiring the purity and the peace of the night. Some\nflowering-shrub in the garden below spread its powerful scent through\nthe damp air. He returned to me with hasty steps.\n\n'\"And that did not matter,\" he said, as stubbornly as you please.\n\n'\"Perhaps not,\" I admitted. I began to have a notion he was too much for\nme. After all, what did _I_ know?\n\n'\"Dead or not dead, I could not get clear,\" he said. \"I had to live;\nhadn't I?\"\n\n'\"Well, yes--if you take it in that way,\" I mumbled.\n\n'\"I was glad, of course,\" he threw out carelessly, with his mind fixed\non something else. \"The exposure,\" he pronounced slowly, and lifted\nhis head. \"Do you know what was my first thought when I heard? I was\nrelieved. I was relieved to learn that those shouts--did I tell you I\nhad heard shouts? No? Well, I did. Shouts for help . . . blown along\nwith the drizzle. Imagination, I suppose. And yet I can hardly . . . How\nstupid. . . . The others did not. I asked them afterwards. They all\nsaid No. No? And I was hearing them even then! I might have known--but\nI didn't think--I only listened. Very faint screams--day after day. Then\nthat little half-caste chap here came up and spoke to me. 'The\nPatna . . . French gunboat . . . towed successfully to Aden . . .\nInvestigation . . . Marine Office . . . Sailors' Home . . . arrangements\nmade for your board and lodging!' I walked along with him, and I enjoyed\nthe silence. So there had been no shouting. Imagination. I had to\nbelieve him. I could hear nothing any more. I wonder how long I could\nhave stood it. It was getting worse, too . . . I mean--louder.\" 'He fell\ninto thought.\n\n'\"And I had heard nothing! Well--so be it. But the lights! The lights\ndid go! We did not see them. They were not there. If they had been, I\nwould have swam back--I would have gone back and shouted alongside--I\nwould have begged them to take me on board. . . . I would have had my\nchance. . . . You doubt me? . . . How do you know how I felt? . . . What\nright have you to doubt? . . . I very nearly did it as it was--do you\nunderstand?\" His voice fell. \"There was not a glimmer--not a glimmer,\"\nhe protested mournfully. \"Don't you understand that if there had been,\nyou would not have seen me here? You see me--and you doubt.\"\n\n'I shook my head negatively. This question of the lights being lost\nsight of when the boat could not have been more than a quarter of a mile\nfrom the ship was a matter for much discussion. Jim stuck to it that\nthere was nothing to be seen after the first shower had cleared away;\nand the others had affirmed the same thing to the officers of the\nAvondale. Of course people shook their heads and smiled. One old skipper\nwho sat near me in court tickled my ear with his white beard to murmur,\n\"Of course they would lie.\" As a matter of fact nobody lied; not even\nthe chief engineer with his story of the mast-head light dropping like a\nmatch you throw down. Not consciously, at least. A man with his liver in\nsuch a state might very well have seen a floating spark in the corner of\nhis eye when stealing a hurried glance over his shoulder. They had seen\nno light of any sort though they were well within range, and they could\nonly explain this in one way: the ship had gone down. It was obvious\nand comforting. The foreseen fact coming so swiftly had justified their\nhaste. No wonder they did not cast about for any other explanation. Yet\nthe true one was very simple, and as soon as Brierly suggested it the\ncourt ceased to bother about the question. If you remember, the ship had\nbeen stopped, and was lying with her head on the course steered through\nthe night, with her stern canted high and her bows brought low down in\nthe water through the filling of the fore-compartment. Being thus out of\ntrim, when the squall struck her a little on the quarter, she swung head\nto wind as sharply as though she had been at anchor. By this change in\nher position all her lights were in a very few moments shut off from\nthe boat to leeward. It may very well be that, had they been seen, they\nwould have had the effect of a mute appeal--that their glimmer lost in\nthe darkness of the cloud would have had the mysterious power of the\nhuman glance that can awaken the feelings of remorse and pity. It would\nhave said, \"I am here--still here\" . . . and what more can the eye of\nthe most forsaken of human beings say? But she turned her back on them\nas if in disdain of their fate: she had swung round, burdened, to glare\nstubbornly at the new danger of the open sea which she so strangely\nsurvived to end her days in a breaking-up yard, as if it had been her\nrecorded fate to die obscurely under the blows of many hammers. What\nwere the various ends their destiny provided for the pilgrims I am\nunable to say; but the immediate future brought, at about nine o'clock\nnext morning, a French gunboat homeward bound from Reunion. The report\nof her commander was public property. He had swept a little out of\nhis course to ascertain what was the matter with that steamer floating\ndangerously by the head upon a still and hazy sea. There was an ensign,\nunion down, flying at her main gaff (the serang had the sense to make a\nsignal of distress at daylight); but the cooks were preparing the food\nin the cooking-boxes forward as usual. The decks were packed as close\nas a sheep-pen: there were people perched all along the rails, jammed on\nthe bridge in a solid mass; hundreds of eyes stared, and not a sound was\nheard when the gunboat ranged abreast, as if all that multitude of lips\nhad been sealed by a spell.\n\n'The Frenchman hailed, could get no intelligible reply, and after\nascertaining through his binoculars that the crowd on deck did not look\nplague-stricken, decided to send a boat. Two officers came on board,\nlistened to the serang, tried to talk with the Arab, couldn't make head\nor tail of it: but of course the nature of the emergency was obvious\nenough. They were also very much struck by discovering a white man, dead\nand curled up peacefully on the bridge. \"Fort intrigues par ce cadavre,\"\nas I was informed a long time after by an elderly French lieutenant whom\nI came across one afternoon in Sydney, by the merest chance, in a sort\nof cafe, and who remembered the affair perfectly. Indeed this affair,\nI may notice in passing, had an extraordinary power of defying the\nshortness of memories and the length of time: it seemed to live, with\na sort of uncanny vitality, in the minds of men, on the tips of their\ntongues. I've had the questionable pleasure of meeting it often, years\nafterwards, thousands of miles away, emerging from the remotest possible\ntalk, coming to the surface of the most distant allusions. Has it not\nturned up to-night between us? And I am the only seaman here. I am the\nonly one to whom it is a memory. And yet it has made its way out! But if\ntwo men who, unknown to each other, knew of this affair met accidentally\non any spot of this earth, the thing would pop up between them as sure\nas fate, before they parted. I had never seen that Frenchman before, and\nat the end of an hour we had done with each other for life: he did not\nseem particularly talkative either; he was a quiet, massive chap in a\ncreased uniform, sitting drowsily over a tumbler half full of some\ndark liquid. His shoulder-straps were a bit tarnished, his clean-shaved\ncheeks were large and sallow; he looked like a man who would be given\nto taking snuff--don't you know? I won't say he did; but the habit would\nhave fitted that kind of man. It all began by his handing me a number of\nHome News, which I didn't want, across the marble table. I said \"Merci.\"\nWe exchanged a few apparently innocent remarks, and suddenly, before\nI knew how it had come about, we were in the midst of it, and he was\ntelling me how much they had been \"intrigued by that corpse.\" It turned\nout he had been one of the boarding officers.\n\n'In the establishment where we sat one could get a variety of foreign\ndrinks which were kept for the visiting naval officers, and he took a\nsip of the dark medical-looking stuff, which probably was nothing more\nnasty than cassis a l'eau, and glancing with one eye into the tumbler,\nshook his head slightly. \"Impossible de comprendre--vous concevez,\" he\nsaid, with a curious mixture of unconcern and thoughtfulness. I could\nvery easily conceive how impossible it had been for them to understand.\nNobody in the gunboat knew enough English to get hold of the story as\ntold by the serang. There was a good deal of noise, too, round the two\nofficers. \"They crowded upon us. There was a circle round that dead\nman (autour de ce mort),\" he described. \"One had to attend to the most\npressing. These people were beginning to agitate themselves--Parbleu!\nA mob like that--don't you see?\" he interjected with philosophic\nindulgence. As to the bulkhead, he had advised his commander that the\nsafest thing was to leave it alone, it was so villainous to look at.\nThey got two hawsers on board promptly (en toute hale) and took the\nPatna in tow--stern foremost at that--which, under the circumstances,\nwas not so foolish, since the rudder was too much out of the water to\nbe of any great use for steering, and this manoeuvre eased the strain on\nthe bulkhead, whose state, he expounded with stolid glibness, demanded\nthe greatest care (exigeait les plus grands menagements). I could not\nhelp thinking that my new acquaintance must have had a voice in most of\nthese arrangements: he looked a reliable officer, no longer very active,\nand he was seamanlike too, in a way, though as he sat there, with his\nthick fingers clasped lightly on his stomach, he reminded you of one\nof those snuffy, quiet village priests, into whose ears are poured the\nsins, the sufferings, the remorse of peasant generations, on whose faces\nthe placid and simple expression is like a veil thrown over the mystery\nof pain and distress. He ought to have had a threadbare black soutane\nbuttoned smoothly up to his ample chin, instead of a frock-coat with\nshoulder-straps and brass buttons. His broad bosom heaved regularly\nwhile he went on telling me that it had been the very devil of a job,\nas doubtless (sans doute) I could figure to myself in my quality of a\nseaman (en votre qualite de marin). At the end of the period he inclined\nhis body slightly towards me, and, pursing his shaved lips, allowed the\nair to escape with a gentle hiss. \"Luckily,\" he continued, \"the sea was\nlevel like this table, and there was no more wind than there is here.\"\n. . . The place struck me as indeed intolerably stuffy, and very hot;\nmy face burned as though I had been young enough to be embarrassed and\nblushing. They had directed their course, he pursued, to the nearest\nEnglish port \"naturellement,\" where their responsibility ceased, \"Dieu\nmerci.\" . . . He blew out his flat cheeks a little. . . . \"Because,\nmind you (notez bien), all the time of towing we had two quartermasters\nstationed with axes by the hawsers, to cut us clear of our tow in case\nshe . . .\" He fluttered downwards his heavy eyelids, making his meaning\nas plain as possible. . . . \"What would you! One does what one can\n(on fait ce qu'on peut),\" and for a moment he managed to invest\nhis ponderous immobility with an air of resignation. \"Two\nquartermasters--thirty hours--always there. Two!\" he repeated, lifting\nup his right hand a little, and exhibiting two fingers. This was\nabsolutely the first gesture I saw him make. It gave me the opportunity\nto \"note\" a starred scar on the back of his hand--effect of a gunshot\nclearly; and, as if my sight had been made more acute by this discovery,\nI perceived also the seam of an old wound, beginning a little below the\ntemple and going out of sight under the short grey hair at the side of\nhis head--the graze of a spear or the cut of a sabre. He clasped his\nhands on his stomach again. \"I remained on board that--that--my memory\nis going (s'en va). Ah! Patt-na. C'est bien ca. Patt-na. Merci. It is\ndroll how one forgets. I stayed on that ship thirty hours. . . .\"\n\n'\"You did!\" I exclaimed. Still gazing at his hands, he pursed his lips a\nlittle, but this time made no hissing sound. \"It was judged proper,\" he\nsaid, lifting his eyebrows dispassionately, \"that one of the officers\nshould remain to keep an eye open (pour ouvrir l'oeil)\" . . . he sighed\nidly . . . \"and for communicating by signals with the towing ship--do\nyou see?--and so on. For the rest, it was my opinion too. We made our\nboats ready to drop over--and I also on that ship took measures. . . .\nEnfin! One has done one's possible. It was a delicate position. Thirty\nhours! They prepared me some food. As for the wine--go and whistle for\nit--not a drop.\" In some extraordinary way, without any marked change in\nhis inert attitude and in the placid expression of his face, he managed\nto convey the idea of profound disgust. \"I--you know--when it comes to\neating without my glass of wine--I am nowhere.\"\n\n'I was afraid he would enlarge upon the grievance, for though he didn't\nstir a limb or twitch a feature, he made one aware how much he was\nirritated by the recollection. But he seemed to forget all about it.\nThey delivered their charge to the \"port authorities,\" as he expressed\nit. He was struck by the calmness with which it had been received. \"One\nmight have thought they had such a droll find (drole de trouvaille)\nbrought them every day. You are extraordinary--you others,\" he\ncommented, with his back propped against the wall, and looking himself\nas incapable of an emotional display as a sack of meal. There happened\nto be a man-of-war and an Indian Marine steamer in the harbour at the\ntime, and he did not conceal his admiration of the efficient manner in\nwhich the boats of these two ships cleared the Patna of her passengers.\nIndeed his torpid demeanour concealed nothing: it had that mysterious,\nalmost miraculous, power of producing striking effects by means\nimpossible of detection which is the last word of the highest art.\n\"Twenty-five minutes--watch in hand--twenty-five, no more.\" . . . He\nunclasped and clasped again his fingers without removing his hands from\nhis stomach, and made it infinitely more effective than if he had thrown\nup his arms to heaven in amazement. . . . \"All that lot (tout ce monde)\non shore--with their little affairs--nobody left but a guard of\nseamen (marins de l'Etat) and that interesting corpse (cet interessant\ncadavre). Twenty-five minutes.\" . . . With downcast eyes and his head\ntilted slightly on one side he seemed to roll knowingly on his tongue\nthe savour of a smart bit of work. He persuaded one without any further\ndemonstration that his approval was eminently worth having, and resuming\nhis hardly interrupted immobility, he went on to inform me that, being\nunder orders to make the best of their way to Toulon, they left in\ntwo hours' time, \"so that (de sorte que) there are many things in this\nincident of my life (dans cet episode de ma vie) which have remained\nobscure.\"'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\n\n'After these words, and without a change of attitude, he, so to speak,\nsubmitted himself passively to a state of silence. I kept him company;\nand suddenly, but not abruptly, as if the appointed time had arrived\nfor his moderate and husky voice to come out of his immobility, he\npronounced, \"Mon Dieu! how the time passes!\" Nothing could have been\nmore commonplace than this remark; but its utterance coincided for me\nwith a moment of vision. It's extraordinary how we go through life with\neyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts. Perhaps it's just\nas well; and it may be that it is this very dullness that makes life to\nthe incalculable majority so supportable and so welcome. Nevertheless,\nthere can be but few of us who had never known one of these rare moments\nof awakening when we see, hear, understand ever so much--everything--in\na flash--before we fall back again into our agreeable somnolence. I\nraised my eyes when he spoke, and I saw him as though I had never seen\nhim before. I saw his chin sunk on his breast, the clumsy folds of his\ncoat, his clasped hands, his motionless pose, so curiously suggestive\nof his having been simply left there. Time had passed indeed: it had\novertaken him and gone ahead. It had left him hopelessly behind with\na few poor gifts: the iron-grey hair, the heavy fatigue of the tanned\nface, two scars, a pair of tarnished shoulder-straps; one of those\nsteady, reliable men who are the raw material of great reputations,\none of those uncounted lives that are buried without drums and\ntrumpets under the foundations of monumental successes. \"I am now third\nlieutenant of the Victorieuse\" (she was the flagship of the French\nPacific squadron at the time), he said, detaching his shoulders from\nthe wall a couple of inches to introduce himself. I bowed slightly on my\nside of the table, and told him I commanded a merchant vessel at present\nanchored in Rushcutters' Bay. He had \"remarked\" her,--a pretty little\ncraft. He was very civil about it in his impassive way. I even fancy\nhe went the length of tilting his head in compliment as he repeated,\nbreathing visibly the while, \"Ah, yes. A little craft painted\nblack--very pretty--very pretty (tres coquet).\" After a time he twisted\nhis body slowly to face the glass door on our right. \"A dull town\n(triste ville),\" he observed, staring into the street. It was a\nbrilliant day; a southerly buster was raging, and we could see the\npassers-by, men and women, buffeted by the wind on the sidewalks, the\nsunlit fronts of the houses across the road blurred by the tall whirls\nof dust. \"I descended on shore,\" he said, \"to stretch my legs a little,\nbut . . .\" He didn't finish, and sank into the depths of his repose.\n\"Pray--tell me,\" he began, coming up ponderously, \"what was there at the\nbottom of this affair--precisely (au juste)? It is curious. That dead\nman, for instance--and so on.\"\n\n'\"There were living men too,\" I said; \"much more curious.\"\n\n'\"No doubt, no doubt,\" he agreed half audibly, then, as if after\nmature consideration, murmured, \"Evidently.\" I made no difficulty in\ncommunicating to him what had interested me most in this affair. It\nseemed as though he had a right to know: hadn't he spent thirty hours\non board the Patna--had he not taken the succession, so to speak, had\nhe not done \"his possible\"? He listened to me, looking more priest-like\nthan ever, and with what--probably on account of his downcast eyes--had\nthe appearance of devout concentration. Once or twice he elevated\nhis eyebrows (but without raising his eyelids), as one would say \"The\ndevil!\" Once he calmly exclaimed, \"Ah, bah!\" under his breath, and when\nI had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort\nof sorrowful whistle.\n\n'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of\nindifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility\nappear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an\negg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a \"Very\ninteresting,\" pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before\nI got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself,\n\"That's it. That _is_ it.\" His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast,\nhis body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he\nmeant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person,\nas a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind\nis felt. \"And so that poor young man ran away along with the others,\" he\nsaid, with grave tranquillity.\n\n'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine\nI can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple\nstatement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . \"S'est enfui avec\nles autres,\" had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the\ndiscrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did\nget hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking\nprofessional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness\nwas that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's\nperplexities are mere child's-play. \"Ah! The young, the young,\" he said\nindulgently. \"And after all, one does not die of it.\" \"Die of what?\" I\nasked swiftly. \"Of being afraid.\" He elucidated his meaning and sipped\nhis drink.\n\n'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff\nand could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his\ntumbler with an ungainly clutch. \"One is always afraid. One may talk,\nbut . . .\" He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . \"The fear, the\nfear--look you--it is always there.\" . . . He touched his breast near\na brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his\nown when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I\nsuppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, \"Yes! yes! One\ntalks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning\none is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This\nis always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse),\" he said,\nusing the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, \"in all parts\nof the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!\" . . . He\ndrank carelessly. . . . \"Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has\ngot to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?\" he\nappealed to me reasonably. \"Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them,\nif he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a\npoint--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point\nwhen you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to\nlive with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination\nof circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac\nepouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is\nfear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes.\nYes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!\"\n. . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had\nbeen the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened\nthe effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. \"It's\nevident--parbleu!\" he continued; \"for, make up your mind as much as you\nlike, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement\nd'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my\nproofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . .\"\n\n'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. \"No, no; one does\nnot die of it,\" he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean\nto proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the\nmore so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well\npress him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him\nbetter. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move.\n\"That is so,\" he resumed placidly. \"Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne\npoltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise.\nBut habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One\nputs up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than\nyourself, and yet make good countenance. . . .\"\n\n'His voice ceased.\n\n'\"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at\nleast at the moment,\" I remarked.\n\n'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: \"I don't say; I don't say. The\nyoung man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best\ndispositions,\" he repeated, wheezing a little.\n\n'\"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view,\" I said. \"His own feeling\nin the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . .\"\n\n'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up\nhis heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the\nsteady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to\nme. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel\nrings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance,\ncoming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like\na razor-edge on a battle-axe. \"Pardon,\" he said punctiliously. His right\nhand went up, and he swayed forward. \"Allow me . . . I contended that\none may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of\nitself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to\nget upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life\nimpossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour\n. . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when\" . . . he\ngot on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might\nscramble up from the grass . . . \"when the honour is gone--ah\nca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no\nopinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it.\"\n\n'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into\nour attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a\nmantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight\nof futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our\nconversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. \"Very well,\" I said,\nwith a disconcerted smile; \"but couldn't it reduce itself to not being\nfound out?\" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had\nchanged his mind. \"This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I\ndon't think about it.\" He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held\nbefore him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his\nwounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at\neach other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked\non critically, as though he had paid for the performance. \"Serviteur,\"\nsaid the Frenchman. Another scrape. \"Monsieur\" . . . \"Monsieur.\" . . .\nThe glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster\nget hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his\nshoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs.\n\n'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case.\nIf you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its\nactuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had\ncome straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an\nutterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one\nof my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something\nof Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation.\nWater-clerk. \"My representative afloat,\" as De Jongh called him. You\ncan't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of\nbeing invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an\ninsurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had\ngone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying\nto save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a\nhazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers\nhad been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when\nBob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that\ngirl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had\ngone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like\ngrim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats;\nbut poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and\nthe woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse,\nI've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl\nscreaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to\nwarn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me,\nhiding a smile at the recollection, \"It was for all the world, sir, like\na naughty youngster fighting with his mother.\" The same old chap said\nthat \"At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling\nat the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought\nafterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water\nwould tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save\nher. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old\nship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck\nin was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up.\"\nPoor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a\nlove affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for\never, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it\ncame to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up\nto it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh\ntill we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized\nand bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and\nsay, \"It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul\nwas shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that\nwork.\" I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new\nconditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to\ndo that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his\nadventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had\ncertainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing\nto see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for\nwhich I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding\nwith a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his\nfancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could\ncarry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse,\nand now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's\ndonkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said\nnever a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain\nfantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the\nirrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the\nEastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never\nfeel I had done with Jim for good.\n\n'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not,\nhowever, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where\nwe had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him\nyears before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the\nlong gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of\nthe night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was\nsuspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had\nslipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police\nmagistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the\nassault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his\nbowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil\nwith a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told\nmyself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare\nhim the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain\nthe reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got\na sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in\nmy narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words.\nI don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which\ninduced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call\nit--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely\nready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of\ncourse--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some\nwork in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink,\nand paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I\nwas impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for\nthe sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of\nMr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write\nin that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had\ndone better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of\nthat sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I\nam concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would\nappear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be,\nand--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along\nwith the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak\ngrossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle\nintentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the\ncriminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher\norigin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was\neager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much,\nfor I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he\nbelieved where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine\nin the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. \"Clear out!\nCouldn't think of it,\" he said, with a shake of the head. \"I make you\nan offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude,\"\nI said; \"you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . .\" \"Awfully\ngood of you,\" he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly:\nthe future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not\nfalter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart.\nI felt angry--not for the first time that night. \"The whole wretched\nbusiness,\" I said, \"is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your\nkind . . .\" \"It is, it is,\" he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on\nthe floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could\nsee the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth\nskin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously\nheartrending. It provoked me to brutality. \"Yes,\" I said; \"and allow me\nto confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can\nexpect from this licking of the dregs.\" \"Advantage!\" he murmured out of\nhis stillness. \"I am dashed if I do,\" I said, enraged. \"I've been trying\nto tell you all there is in it,\" he went on slowly, as if meditating\nsomething unanswerable. \"But after all, it is _my_ trouble.\" I opened my\nmouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in\nmyself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a\nman thinking half aloud. \"Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not\none of them would face it. . . . They! . . .\" He moved his hand slightly\nto imply disdain. \"But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't\nshirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it.\" He was silent. He\ngazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the\npassing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected\nthem in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of\nunearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere\nshades. \"Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow,\" I began. He had a movement of\nimpatience. \"You don't seem to understand,\" he said incisively; then\nlooking at me without a wink, \"I may have jumped, but I don't run away.\"\n\"I meant no offence,\" I said; and added stupidly, \"Better men than you\nhave found it expedient to run, at times.\" He coloured all over, while\nin my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. \"Perhaps so,\"\nhe said at last, \"I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to\nfight this thing down--I am fighting it now.\" I got out of my chair and\nfelt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end\nto it I imagined nothing better but to remark, \"I had no idea it was so\nlate,\" in an airy tone. . . . \"I dare say you have had enough of this,\"\nhe said brusquely: \"and to tell you the truth\"--he began to look round\nfor his hat--\"so have I.\"\n\n'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping\nhand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed\nto wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its\nprey. I heard his voice. \"Ah! here it is.\" He had found his hat. For a\nfew seconds we hung in the wind. \"What will you do after--after . . .\"\nI asked very low. \"Go to the dogs as likely as not,\" he answered in a\ngruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to\ntake it lightly. \"Pray remember,\" I said, \"that I should like very much\nto see you again before you go.\" \"I don't know what's to prevent\nyou. The damned thing won't make me invisible,\" he said with intense\nbitterness,--\"no such luck.\" And then at the moment of taking leave he\ntreated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an\nawful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it\ninto his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to\nshaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly\nat him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff;\nI remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin\non his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle\nspluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that\nfloated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night\nswallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the\nquick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running.\nAbsolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet\nfour-and-twenty.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\n\n'I slept little, hurried over my breakfast, and after a slight\nhesitation gave up my early morning visit to my ship. It was really\nvery wrong of me, because, though my chief mate was an excellent man all\nround, he was the victim of such black imaginings that if he did not get\na letter from his wife at the expected time he would go quite distracted\nwith rage and jealousy, lose all grip on the work, quarrel with all\nhands, and either weep in his cabin or develop such a ferocity of temper\nas all but drove the crew to the verge of mutiny. The thing had always\nseemed inexplicable to me: they had been married thirteen years; I had a\nglimpse of her once, and, honestly, I couldn't conceive a man abandoned\nenough to plunge into sin for the sake of such an unattractive person. I\ndon't know whether I have not done wrong by refraining from putting\nthat view before poor Selvin: the man made a little hell on earth for\nhimself, and I also suffered indirectly, but some sort of, no doubt,\nfalse delicacy prevented me. The marital relations of seamen would make\nan interesting subject, and I could tell you instances. . . . However,\nthis is not the place, nor the time, and we are concerned with Jim--who\nwas unmarried. If his imaginative conscience or his pride; if all the\nextravagant ghosts and austere shades that were the disastrous familiars\nof his youth would not let him run away from the block, I, who of course\ncan't be suspected of such familiars, was irresistibly impelled to go\nand see his head roll off. I wended my way towards the court. I didn't\nhope to be very much impressed or edified, or interested or even\nfrightened--though, as long as there is any life before one, a jolly\ngood fright now and then is a salutary discipline. But neither did I\nexpect to be so awfully depressed. The bitterness of his punishment was\nin its chill and mean atmosphere. The real significance of crime is in\nits being a breach of faith with the community of mankind, and from\nthat point of view he was no mean traitor, but his execution was a\nhole-and-corner affair. There was no high scaffolding, no scarlet cloth\n(did they have scarlet cloth on Tower Hill? They should have had), no\nawe-stricken multitude to be horrified at his guilt and be moved to\ntears at his fate--no air of sombre retribution. There was, as I walked\nalong, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling,\nthe streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope:\nyellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped\nshoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canopy, a company of native infantry\nin a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a native\npoliceman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent\nleather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his\nmigrating spirit were suffering exceedingly from that unforeseen--what\nd'ye call 'em?--avatar--incarnation. Under the shade of a lonely tree\nin the courtyard, the villagers connected with the assault case sat in a\npicturesque group, looking like a chromo-lithograph of a camp in a book\nof Eastern travel. One missed the obligatory thread of smoke in the\nforeground and the pack-animals grazing. A blank yellow wall rose behind\novertopping the tree, reflecting the glare. The court-room was sombre,\nseemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying\nshort to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed\nby the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty\nbenches, as if absorbed in pious meditation. The plaintiff, who had\nbeen beaten,--an obese chocolate-coloured man with shaved head, one\nfat breast bare and a bright yellow caste-mark above the bridge of his\nnose,--sat in pompous immobility: only his eyes glittered, rolling\nin the gloom, and the nostrils dilated and collapsed violently as he\nbreathed. Brierly dropped into his seat looking done up, as though\nhe had spent the night in sprinting on a cinder-track. The pious\nsailing-ship skipper appeared excited and made uneasy movements, as\nif restraining with difficulty an impulse to stand up and exhort\nus earnestly to prayer and repentance. The head of the magistrate,\ndelicately pale under the neatly arranged hair, resembled the head of a\nhopeless invalid after he had been washed and brushed and propped up in\nbed. He moved aside the vase of flowers--a bunch of purple with a few\npink blossoms on long stalks--and seizing in both hands a long sheet of\nbluish paper, ran his eye over it, propped his forearms on the edge of\nthe desk, and began to read aloud in an even, distinct, and careless\nvoice.\n\n'By Jove! For all my foolishness about scaffolds and heads rolling\noff--I assure you it was infinitely worse than a beheading. A heavy\nsense of finality brooded over all this, unrelieved by the hope of rest\nand safety following the fall of the axe. These proceedings had all the\ncold vengefulness of a death-sentence, and the cruelty of a sentence of\nexile. This is how I looked at it that morning--and even now I seem to\nsee an undeniable vestige of truth in that exaggerated view of a common\noccurrence. You may imagine how strongly I felt this at the time.\nPerhaps it is for that reason that I could not bring myself to admit\nthe finality. The thing was always with me, I was always eager to take\nopinion on it, as though it had not been practically settled: individual\nopinion--international opinion--by Jove! That Frenchman's, for instance.\nHis own country's pronouncement was uttered in the passionless and\ndefinite phraseology a machine would use, if machines could speak. The\nhead of the magistrate was half hidden by the paper, his brow was like\nalabaster.\n\n'There were several questions before the court. The first as to whether\nthe ship was in every respect fit and seaworthy for the voyage. The\ncourt found she was not. The next point, I remember, was, whether up\nto the time of the accident the ship had been navigated with proper and\nseamanlike care. They said Yes to that, goodness knows why, and then\nthey declared that there was no evidence to show the exact cause of\nthe accident. A floating derelict probably. I myself remember that a\nNorwegian barque bound out with a cargo of pitch-pine had been given up\nas missing about that time, and it was just the sort of craft that would\ncapsize in a squall and float bottom up for months--a kind of maritime\nghoul on the prowl to kill ships in the dark. Such wandering corpses are\ncommon enough in the North Atlantic, which is haunted by all the terrors\nof the sea,--fogs, icebergs, dead ships bent upon mischief, and long\nsinister gales that fasten upon one like a vampire till all the strength\nand the spirit and even hope are gone, and one feels like the empty\nshell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough\nto resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which,\nunless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing\nof worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of\ndevilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I\nwas aware of the magistrate's voice as a sound merely; but in a moment\nit shaped itself into distinct words . . . \"in utter disregard of their\nplain duty,\" it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and\nthen . . . \"abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property\nconfided to their charge\" . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A\npair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the\nedge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected\nhim to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and\nfair and extremely attentive. \"Therefore, . . .\" began the voice\nemphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the\nman behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the\nwind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him,\ncaught only the fragments of official language. . . . \"The Court . . .\nGustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James\nSo-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled.\" A silence fell. The\nmagistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of\nhis chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move\nout; others were pushing in, and I also made for the door. Outside I\nstood still, and when Jim passed me on his way to the gate, I caught at\nhis arm and detained him. The look he gave discomposed me, as though I\nhad been responsible for his state he looked at me as if I had been the\nembodied evil of life. \"It's all over,\" I stammered. \"Yes,\" he said\nthickly. \"And now let no man . . .\" He jerked his arm out of my grasp. I\nwatched his back as he went away. It was a long street, and he remained\nin sight for some time. He walked rather slow, and straddling his legs a\nlittle, as if he had found it difficult to keep a straight line. Just\nbefore I lost him I fancied he staggered a bit.\n\n'\"Man overboard,\" said a deep voice behind me. Turning round, I saw a\nfellow I knew slightly, a West Australian; Chester was his name. He,\ntoo, had been looking after Jim. He was a man with an immense girth of\nchest, a rugged, clean-shaved face of mahogany colour, and two blunt\ntufts of iron-grey, thick, wiry hairs on his upper lip. He had\nbeen pearler, wrecker, trader, whaler too, I believe; in his own\nwords--anything and everything a man may be at sea, but a pirate. The\nPacific, north and south, was his proper hunting-ground; but he had\nwandered so far afield looking for a cheap steamer to buy. Lately he\nhad discovered--so he said--a guano island somewhere, but its approaches\nwere dangerous, and the anchorage, such as it was, could not be\nconsidered safe, to say the least of it. \"As good as a gold-mine,\" he\nwould exclaim. \"Right bang in the middle of the Walpole Reefs, and if\nit's true enough that you can get no holding-ground anywhere in less\nthan forty fathom, then what of that? There are the hurricanes, too. But\nit's a first-rate thing. As good as a gold-mine--better! Yet there's not\na fool of them that will see it. I can't get a skipper or a shipowner\nto go near the place. So I made up my mind to cart the blessed stuff\nmyself.\" . . . This was what he required a steamer for, and I knew he\nwas just then negotiating enthusiastically with a Parsee firm for an\nold, brig-rigged, sea-anachronism of ninety horse-power. We had met and\nspoken together several times. He looked knowingly after Jim. \"Takes\nit to heart?\" he asked scornfully. \"Very much,\" I said. \"Then he's no\ngood,\" he opined. \"What's all the to-do about? A bit of ass's skin. That\nnever yet made a man. You must see things exactly as they are--if you\ndon't, you may just as well give in at once. You will never do anything\nin this world. Look at me. I made it a practice never to take anything\nto heart.\" \"Yes,\" I said, \"you see things as they are.\" \"I wish I could\nsee my partner coming along, that's what I wish to see,\" he said. \"Know\nmy partner? Old Robinson. Yes; _the_ Robinson. Don't _you_ know? The\nnotorious Robinson. The man who smuggled more opium and bagged more\nseals in his time than any loose Johnny now alive. They say he used to\nboard the sealing-schooners up Alaska way when the fog was so thick that\nthe Lord God, He alone, could tell one man from another. Holy-Terror\nRobinson. That's the man. He is with me in that guano thing. The best\nchance he ever came across in his life.\" He put his lips to my ear.\n\"Cannibal?--well, they used to give him the name years and years ago.\nYou remember the story? A shipwreck on the west side of Stewart Island;\nthat's right; seven of them got ashore, and it seems they did not get\non very well together. Some men are too cantankerous for anything--don't\nknow how to make the best of a bad job--don't see things as they are--as\nthey _are_, my boy! And then what's the consequence? Obvious! Trouble,\ntrouble; as likely as not a knock on the head; and serve 'em right too.\nThat sort is the most useful when it's dead. The story goes that a boat\nof Her Majesty's ship Wolverine found him kneeling on the kelp, naked as\nthe day he was born, and chanting some psalm-tune or other; light snow\nwas falling at the time. He waited till the boat was an oar's length\nfrom the shore, and then up and away. They chased him for an hour up and\ndown the boulders, till a marihe flung a stone that took him behind\nthe ear providentially and knocked him senseless. Alone? Of course. But\nthat's like that tale of sealing-schooners; the Lord God knows the right\nand the wrong of that story. The cutter did not investigate much. They\nwrapped him in a boat-cloak and took him off as quick as they could,\nwith a dark night coming on, the weather threatening, and the ship\nfiring recall guns every five minutes. Three weeks afterwards he was as\nwell as ever. He didn't allow any fuss that was made on shore to upset\nhim; he just shut his lips tight, and let people screech. It was bad\nenough to have lost his ship, and all he was worth besides, without\npaying attention to the hard names they called him. That's the man for\nme.\" He lifted his arm for a signal to some one down the street. \"He's\ngot a little money, so I had to let him into my thing. Had to! It\nwould have been sinful to throw away such a find, and I was cleaned out\nmyself. It cut me to the quick, but I could see the matter just as\nit was, and if I _must_ share--thinks I--with any man, then give me\nRobinson. I left him at breakfast in the hotel to come to court, because\nI've an idea. . . . Ah! Good morning, Captain Robinson. . . . Friend of\nmine, Captain Robinson.\"\n\n'An emaciated patriarch in a suit of white drill, a solah topi with a\ngreen-lined rim on a head trembling with age, joined us after crossing\nthe street in a trotting shuffle, and stood propped with both hands on\nthe handle of an umbrella. A white beard with amber streaks hung lumpily\ndown to his waist. He blinked his creased eyelids at me in a bewildered\nway. \"How do you do? how do you do?\" he piped amiably, and tottered. \"A\nlittle deaf,\" said Chester aside. \"Did you drag him over six thousand\nmiles to get a cheap steamer?\" I asked. \"I would have taken him twice\nround the world as soon as look at him,\" said Chester with immense\nenergy. \"The steamer will be the making of us, my lad. Is it my fault\nthat every skipper and shipowner in the whole of blessed Australasia\nturns out a blamed fool? Once I talked for three hours to a man in\nAuckland. 'Send a ship,' I said, 'send a ship. I'll give you half of the\nfirst cargo for yourself, free gratis for nothing--just to make a good\nstart.' Says he, 'I wouldn't do it if there was no other place on\nearth to send a ship to.' Perfect ass, of course. Rocks, currents, no\nanchorage, sheer cliff to lay to, no insurance company would take the\nrisk, didn't see how he could get loaded under three years. Ass! I\nnearly went on my knees to him. 'But look at the thing as it is,' says\nI. 'Damn rocks and hurricanes. Look at it as it is. There's guano there\nQueensland sugar-planters would fight for--fight for on the quay, I\ntell you.' . . . What can you do with a fool? . . . 'That's one of your\nlittle jokes, Chester,' he says. . . . Joke! I could have wept. Ask\nCaptain Robinson here. . . . And there was another shipowning fellow--a\nfat chap in a white waistcoat in Wellington, who seemed to think I was\nup to some swindle or other. 'I don't know what sort of fool you're\nlooking for,' he says, 'but I am busy just now. Good morning.' I longed\nto take him in my two hands and smash him through the window of his own\noffice. But I didn't. I was as mild as a curate. 'Think of it,' says I.\n'_Do_ think it over. I'll call to-morrow.' He grunted something about\nbeing 'out all day.' On the stairs I felt ready to beat my head against\nthe wall from vexation. Captain Robinson here can tell you. It was awful\nto think of all that lovely stuff lying waste under the sun--stuff that\nwould send the sugar-cane shooting sky-high. The making of Queensland!\nThe making of Queensland! And in Brisbane, where I went to have a last\ntry, they gave me the name of a lunatic. Idiots! The only sensible man\nI came across was the cabman who drove me about. A broken-down swell he\nwas, I fancy. Hey! Captain Robinson? You remember I told you about my\ncabby in Brisbane--don't you? The chap had a wonderful eye for things.\nHe saw it all in a jiffy. It was a real pleasure to talk with him. One\nevening after a devil of a day amongst shipowners I felt so bad that,\nsays I, 'I must get drunk. Come along; I must get drunk, or I'll go\nmad.' 'I am your man,' he says; 'go ahead.' I don't know what I would\nhave done without him. Hey! Captain Robinson.\"\n\n'He poked the ribs of his partner. \"He! he! he!\" laughed the Ancient,\nlooked aimlessly down the street, then peered at me doubtfully with sad,\ndim pupils. . . . \"He! he! he!\" . . . He leaned heavier on the umbrella,\nand dropped his gaze on the ground. I needn't tell you I had tried to\nget away several times, but Chester had foiled every attempt by simply\ncatching hold of my coat. \"One minute. I've a notion.\" \"What's your\ninfernal notion?\" I exploded at last. \"If you think I am going in with\nyou . . .\" \"No, no, my boy. Too late, if you wanted ever so much. We've\ngot a steamer.\" \"You've got the ghost of a steamer,\" I said. \"Good\nenough for a start--there's no superior nonsense about us. Is there,\nCaptain Robinson?\" \"No! no! no!\" croaked the old man without lifting\nhis eyes, and the senile tremble of his head became almost fierce with\ndetermination. \"I understand you know that young chap,\" said Chester,\nwith a nod at the street from which Jim had disappeared long ago. \"He's\nbeen having grub with you in the Malabar last night--so I was told.\"\n\n'I said that was true, and after remarking that he too liked to live\nwell and in style, only that, for the present, he had to be saving of\nevery penny--\"none too many for the business! Isn't that so, Captain\nRobinson?\"--he squared his shoulders and stroked his dumpy moustache,\nwhile the notorious Robinson, coughing at his side, clung more than ever\nto the handle of the umbrella, and seemed ready to subside passively\ninto a heap of old bones. \"You see, the old chap has all the money,\"\nwhispered Chester confidentially. \"I've been cleaned out trying to\nengineer the dratted thing. But wait a bit, wait a bit. The good time is\ncoming.\" . . . He seemed suddenly astonished at the signs of impatience\nI gave. \"Oh, crakee!\" he cried; \"I am telling you of the biggest thing\nthat ever was, and you . . .\" \"I have an appointment,\" I pleaded mildly.\n\"What of that?\" he asked with genuine surprise; \"let it wait.\" \"That's\nexactly what I am doing now,\" I remarked; \"hadn't you better tell me\nwhat it is you want?\" \"Buy twenty hotels like that,\" he growled to\nhimself; \"and every joker boarding in them too--twenty times over.\" He\nlifted his head smartly \"I want that young chap.\" \"I don't understand,\"\nI said. \"He's no good, is he?\" said Chester crisply. \"I know nothing\nabout it,\" I protested. \"Why, you told me yourself he was taking it to\nheart,\" argued Chester. \"Well, in my opinion a chap who . . . Anyhow, he\ncan't be much good; but then you see I am on the look-out for somebody,\nand I've just got a thing that will suit him. I'll give him a job on\nmy island.\" He nodded significantly. \"I'm going to dump forty coolies\nthere--if I've to steal 'em. Somebody must work the stuff. Oh! I mean\nto act square: wooden shed, corrugated-iron roof--I know a man in Hobart\nwho will take my bill at six months for the materials. I do. Honour\nbright. Then there's the water-supply. I'll have to fly round and get\nsomebody to trust me for half-a-dozen second-hand iron tanks. Catch\nrain-water, hey? Let him take charge. Make him supreme boss over the\ncoolies. Good idea, isn't it? What do you say?\" \"There are whole years\nwhen not a drop of rain falls on Walpole,\" I said, too amazed to laugh.\nHe bit his lip and seemed bothered. \"Oh, well, I will fix up something\nfor them--or land a supply. Hang it all! That's not the question.\"\n\n'I said nothing. I had a rapid vision of Jim perched on a shadowless\nrock, up to his knees in guano, with the screams of sea-birds in his\nears, the incandescent ball of the sun above his head; the empty sky and\nthe empty ocean all a-quiver, simmering together in the heat as far as\nthe eye could reach. \"I wouldn't advise my worst enemy . . .\" I began.\n\"What's the matter with you?\" cried Chester; \"I mean to give him a good\nscrew--that is, as soon as the thing is set going, of course. It's as\neasy as falling off a log. Simply nothing to do; two six-shooters in his\nbelt . . . Surely he wouldn't be afraid of anything forty coolies could\ndo--with two six-shooters and he the only armed man too! It's much\nbetter than it looks. I want you to help me to talk him over.\" \"No!\"\nI shouted. Old Robinson lifted his bleared eyes dismally for a moment,\nChester looked at me with infinite contempt. \"So you wouldn't advise\nhim?\" he uttered slowly. \"Certainly not,\" I answered, as indignant as\nthough he had requested me to help murder somebody; \"moreover, I am sure\nhe wouldn't. He is badly cut up, but he isn't mad as far as I know.\" \"He\nis no earthly good for anything,\" Chester mused aloud. \"He would just\nhave done for me. If you only could see a thing as it is, you would\nsee it's the very thing for him. And besides . . . Why! it's the most\nsplendid, sure chance . . .\" He got angry suddenly. \"I must have a man.\nThere! . . .\" He stamped his foot and smiled unpleasantly. \"Anyhow, I\ncould guarantee the island wouldn't sink under him--and I believe he\nis a bit particular on that point.\" \"Good morning,\" I said curtly. He\nlooked at me as though I had been an incomprehensible fool. . . . \"Must\nbe moving, Captain Robinson,\" he yelled suddenly into the old man's ear.\n\"These Parsee Johnnies are waiting for us to clinch the bargain.\" He\ntook his partner under the arm with a firm grip, swung him round, and,\nunexpectedly, leered at me over his shoulder. \"I was trying to do him\na kindness,\" he asserted, with an air and tone that made my blood boil.\n\"Thank you for nothing--in his name,\" I rejoined. \"Oh! you are devilish\nsmart,\" he sneered; \"but you are like the rest of them. Too much in the\nclouds. See what you will do with him.\" \"I don't know that I want to\ndo anything with him.\" \"Don't you?\" he spluttered; his grey moustache\nbristled with anger, and by his side the notorious Robinson, propped\non the umbrella, stood with his back to me, as patient and still as a\nworn-out cab-horse. \"I haven't found a guano island,\" I said. \"It's\nmy belief you wouldn't know one if you were led right up to it by the\nhand,\" he riposted quickly; \"and in this world you've got to see a thing\nfirst, before you can make use of it. Got to see it through and through\nat that, neither more nor less.\" \"And get others to see it, too,\" I\ninsinuated, with a glance at the bowed back by his side. Chester snorted\nat me. \"His eyes are right enough--don't you worry. He ain't a puppy.\"\n\"Oh, dear, no!\" I said. \"Come along, Captain Robinson,\" he shouted, with\na sort of bullying deference under the rim of the old man's hat; the\nHoly Terror gave a submissive little jump. The ghost of a steamer was\nwaiting for them, Fortune on that fair isle! They made a curious pair\nof Argonauts. Chester strode on leisurely, well set up, portly, and of\nconquering mien; the other, long, wasted, drooping, and hooked to his\narm, shuffled his withered shanks with desperate haste.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\n\n'I did not start in search of Jim at once, only because I had really an\nappointment which I could not neglect. Then, as ill-luck would have\nit, in my agent's office I was fastened upon by a fellow fresh from\nMadagascar with a little scheme for a wonderful piece of business. It\nhad something to do with cattle and cartridges and a Prince Ravonalo\nsomething; but the pivot of the whole affair was the stupidity of some\nadmiral--Admiral Pierre, I think. Everything turned on that, and the\nchap couldn't find words strong enough to express his confidence. He had\nglobular eyes starting out of his head with a fishy glitter, bumps on\nhis forehead, and wore his long hair brushed back without a parting.\nHe had a favourite phrase which he kept on repeating triumphantly, \"The\nminimum of risk with the maximum of profit is my motto. What?\" He made\nmy head ache, spoiled my tiffin, but got his own out of me all right;\nand as soon as I had shaken him off, I made straight for the water-side.\nI caught sight of Jim leaning over the parapet of the quay. Three native\nboatmen quarrelling over five annas were making an awful row at his\nelbow. He didn't hear me come up, but spun round as if the slight\ncontact of my finger had released a catch. \"I was looking,\" he\nstammered. I don't remember what I said, not much anyhow, but he made no\ndifficulty in following me to the hotel.\n\n'He followed me as manageable as a little child, with an obedient air,\nwith no sort of manifestation, rather as though he had been waiting\nfor me there to come along and carry him off. I need not have been so\nsurprised as I was at his tractability. On all the round earth, which to\nsome seems so big and that others affect to consider as rather smaller\nthan a mustard-seed, he had no place where he could--what shall I\nsay?--where he could withdraw. That's it! Withdraw--be alone with his\nloneliness. He walked by my side very calm, glancing here and there, and\nonce turned his head to look after a Sidiboy fireman in a cutaway coat\nand yellowish trousers, whose black face had silky gleams like a lump\nof anthracite coal. I doubt, however, whether he saw anything, or even\nremained all the time aware of my companionship, because if I had not\nedged him to the left here, or pulled him to the right there, I believe\nhe would have gone straight before him in any direction till stopped by\na wall or some other obstacle. I steered him into my bedroom, and sat\ndown at once to write letters. This was the only place in the world\n(unless, perhaps, the Walpole Reef--but that was not so handy) where he\ncould have it out with himself without being bothered by the rest of\nthe universe. The damned thing--as he had expressed it--had not made\nhim invisible, but I behaved exactly as though he were. No sooner in my\nchair I bent over my writing-desk like a medieval scribe, and, but for\nthe movement of the hand holding the pen, remained anxiously quiet. I\ncan't say I was frightened; but I certainly kept as still as if there\nhad been something dangerous in the room, that at the first hint of a\nmovement on my part would be provoked to pounce upon me. There was not\nmuch in the room--you know how these bedrooms are--a sort of four-poster\nbedstead under a mosquito-net, two or three chairs, the table I was\nwriting at, a bare floor. A glass door opened on an upstairs verandah,\nand he stood with his face to it, having a hard time with all possible\nprivacy. Dusk fell; I lit a candle with the greatest economy of movement\nand as much prudence as though it were an illegal proceeding. There is\nno doubt that he had a very hard time of it, and so had I, even to the\npoint, I must own, of wishing him to the devil, or on Walpole Reef at\nleast. It occurred to me once or twice that, after all, Chester was,\nperhaps, the man to deal effectively with such a disaster. That strange\nidealist had found a practical use for it at once--unerringly, as it\nwere. It was enough to make one suspect that, maybe, he really could see\nthe true aspect of things that appeared mysterious or utterly hopeless\nto less imaginative persons. I wrote and wrote; I liquidated all the\narrears of my correspondence, and then went on writing to people who had\nno reason whatever to expect from me a gossipy letter about nothing at\nall. At times I stole a sidelong glance. He was rooted to the spot,\nbut convulsive shudders ran down his back; his shoulders would heave\nsuddenly. He was fighting, he was fighting--mostly for his breath, as it\nseemed. The massive shadows, cast all one way from the straight flame of\nthe candle, seemed possessed of gloomy consciousness; the immobility of\nthe furniture had to my furtive eye an air of attention. I was becoming\nfanciful in the midst of my industrious scribbling; and though, when the\nscratching of my pen stopped for a moment, there was complete silence\nand stillness in the room, I suffered from that profound disturbance\nand confusion of thought which is caused by a violent and menacing\nuproar--of a heavy gale at sea, for instance. Some of you may know what\nI mean: that mingled anxiety, distress, and irritation with a sort of\ncraven feeling creeping in--not pleasant to acknowledge, but which gives\na quite special merit to one's endurance. I don't claim any merit\nfor standing the stress of Jim's emotions; I could take refuge in the\nletters; I could have written to strangers if necessary. Suddenly, as I\nwas taking up a fresh sheet of notepaper, I heard a low sound, the first\nsound that, since we had been shut up together, had come to my ears in\nthe dim stillness of the room. I remained with my head down, with my\nhand arrested. Those who have kept vigil by a sick-bed have heard such\nfaint sounds in the stillness of the night watches, sounds wrung from a\nracked body, from a weary soul. He pushed the glass door with such force\nthat all the panes rang: he stepped out, and I held my breath, straining\nmy ears without knowing what else I expected to hear. He was really\ntaking too much to heart an empty formality which to Chester's rigorous\ncriticism seemed unworthy the notice of a man who could see things as\nthey were. An empty formality; a piece of parchment. Well, well. As to\nan inaccessible guano deposit, that was another story altogether. One\ncould intelligibly break one's heart over that. A feeble burst of many\nvoices mingled with the tinkle of silver and glass floated up from the\ndining-room below; through the open door the outer edge of the light\nfrom my candle fell on his back faintly; beyond all was black; he stood\non the brink of a vast obscurity, like a lonely figure by the shore of\na sombre and hopeless ocean. There was the Walpole Reef in it--to\nbe sure--a speck in the dark void, a straw for the drowning man. My\ncompassion for him took the shape of the thought that I wouldn't have\nliked his people to see him at that moment. I found it trying myself.\nHis back was no longer shaken by his gasps; he stood straight as an\narrow, faintly visible and still; and the meaning of this stillness sank\nto the bottom of my soul like lead into the water, and made it so heavy\nthat for a second I wished heartily that the only course left open for\nme was to pay for his funeral. Even the law had done with him. To bury\nhim would have been such an easy kindness! It would have been so much\nin accordance with the wisdom of life, which consists in putting out of\nsight all the reminders of our folly, of our weakness, of our mortality;\nall that makes against our efficiency--the memory of our failures, the\nhints of our undying fears, the bodies of our dead friends. Perhaps he\ndid take it too much to heart. And if so then--Chester's offer. . . . At\nthis point I took up a fresh sheet and began to write resolutely. There\nwas nothing but myself between him and the dark ocean. I had a sense of\nresponsibility. If I spoke, would that motionless and suffering youth\nleap into the obscurity--clutch at the straw? I found out how difficult\nit may be sometimes to make a sound. There is a weird power in a spoken\nword. And why the devil not? I was asking myself persistently while I\ndrove on with my writing. All at once, on the blank page, under the very\npoint of the pen, the two figures of Chester and his antique partner,\nvery distinct and complete, would dodge into view with stride and\ngestures, as if reproduced in the field of some optical toy. I would\nwatch them for a while. No! They were too phantasmal and extravagant\nto enter into any one's fate. And a word carries far--very far--deals\ndestruction through time as the bullets go flying through space. I said\nnothing; and he, out there with his back to the light, as if bound\nand gagged by all the invisible foes of man, made no stir and made no\nsound.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\n\n'The time was coming when I should see him loved, trusted, admired, with\na legend of strength and prowess forming round his name as though he\nhad been the stuff of a hero. It's true--I assure you; as true as\nI'm sitting here talking about him in vain. He, on his side, had that\nfaculty of beholding at a hint the face of his desire and the shape\nof his dream, without which the earth would know no lover and no\nadventurer. He captured much honour and an Arcadian happiness (I won't\nsay anything about innocence) in the bush, and it was as good to him\nas the honour and the Arcadian happiness of the streets to another man.\nFelicity, felicity--how shall I say it?--is quaffed out of a golden cup\nin every latitude: the flavour is with you--with you alone, and you can\nmake it as intoxicating as you please. He was of the sort that would\ndrink deep, as you may guess from what went before. I found him, if not\nexactly intoxicated, then at least flushed with the elixir at his lips.\nHe had not obtained it at once. There had been, as you know, a period of\nprobation amongst infernal ship-chandlers, during which he had suffered\nand I had worried about--about--my trust--you may call it. I don't\nknow that I am completely reassured now, after beholding him in all his\nbrilliance. That was my last view of him--in a strong light, dominating,\nand yet in complete accord with his surroundings--with the life of the\nforests and with the life of men. I own that I was impressed, but I must\nadmit to myself that after all this is not the lasting impression. He\nwas protected by his isolation, alone of his own superior kind, in close\ntouch with Nature, that keeps faith on such easy terms with her lovers.\nBut I cannot fix before my eye the image of his safety. I shall always\nremember him as seen through the open door of my room, taking, perhaps,\ntoo much to heart the mere consequences of his failure. I am pleased,\nof course, that some good--and even some splendour--came out of my\nendeavours; but at times it seems to me it would have been better for my\npeace of mind if I had not stood between him and Chester's confoundedly\ngenerous offer. I wonder what his exuberant imagination would have made\nof Walpole islet--that most hopelessly forsaken crumb of dry land on the\nface of the waters. It is not likely I would ever have heard, for I must\ntell you that Chester, after calling at some Australian port to patch\nup his brig-rigged sea-anachronism, steamed out into the Pacific with a\ncrew of twenty-two hands all told, and the only news having a possible\nbearing upon the mystery of his fate was the news of a hurricane which\nis supposed to have swept in its course over the Walpole shoals, a month\nor so afterwards. Not a vestige of the Argonauts ever turned up; not a\nsound came out of the waste. Finis! The Pacific is the most discreet of\nlive, hot-tempered oceans: the chilly Antarctic can keep a secret too,\nbut more in the manner of a grave.\n\n'And there is a sense of blessed finality in such discretion, which is\nwhat we all more or less sincerely are ready to admit--for what else is\nit that makes the idea of death supportable? End! Finis! the potent word\nthat exorcises from the house of life the haunting shadow of fate. This\nis what--notwithstanding the testimony of my eyes and his own earnest\nassurances--I miss when I look back upon Jim's success. While there's\nlife there is hope, truly; but there is fear too. I don't mean to say\nthat I regret my action, nor will I pretend that I can't sleep o' nights\nin consequence; still, the idea obtrudes itself that he made so much of\nhis disgrace while it is the guilt alone that matters. He was not--if I\nmay say so--clear to me. He was not clear. And there is a suspicion he\nwas not clear to himself either. There were his fine sensibilities,\nhis fine feelings, his fine longings--a sort of sublimated, idealised\nselfishness. He was--if you allow me to say so--very fine; very\nfine--and very unfortunate. A little coarser nature would not have borne\nthe strain; it would have had to come to terms with itself--with a sigh,\nwith a grunt, or even with a guffaw; a still coarser one would have\nremained invulnerably ignorant and completely uninteresting.\n\n'But he was too interesting or too unfortunate to be thrown to the dogs,\nor even to Chester. I felt this while I sat with my face over the paper\nand he fought and gasped, struggling for his breath in that terribly\nstealthy way, in my room; I felt it when he rushed out on the verandah\nas if to fling himself over--and didn't; I felt it more and more all the\ntime he remained outside, faintly lighted on the background of night, as\nif standing on the shore of a sombre and hopeless sea.\n\n'An abrupt heavy rumble made me lift my head. The noise seemed to roll\naway, and suddenly a searching and violent glare fell on the blind face\nof the night. The sustained and dazzling flickers seemed to last for an\nunconscionable time. The growl of the thunder increased steadily while I\nlooked at him, distinct and black, planted solidly upon the shores of a\nsea of light. At the moment of greatest brilliance the darkness leaped\nback with a culminating crash, and he vanished before my dazzled eyes as\nutterly as though he had been blown to atoms. A blustering sigh passed;\nfurious hands seemed to tear at the shrubs, shake the tops of the\ntrees below, slam doors, break window-panes, all along the front of\nthe building. He stepped in, closing the door behind him, and found me\nbending over the table: my sudden anxiety as to what he would say was\nvery great, and akin to a fright. \"May I have a cigarette?\" he asked. I\ngave a push to the box without raising my head. \"I want--want--tobacco,\"\nhe muttered. I became extremely buoyant. \"Just a moment.\" I grunted\npleasantly. He took a few steps here and there. \"That's over,\" I heard\nhim say. A single distant clap of thunder came from the sea like a\ngun of distress. \"The monsoon breaks up early this year,\" he remarked\nconversationally, somewhere behind me. This encouraged me to turn round,\nwhich I did as soon as I had finished addressing the last envelope. He\nwas smoking greedily in the middle of the room, and though he heard the\nstir I made, he remained with his back to me for a time.\n\n'\"Come--I carried it off pretty well,\" he said, wheeling suddenly.\n\"Something's paid off--not much. I wonder what's to come.\" His face did\nnot show any emotion, only it appeared a little darkened and swollen, as\nthough he had been holding his breath. He smiled reluctantly as it\nwere, and went on while I gazed up at him mutely. . . . \"Thank you,\nthough--your room--jolly convenient--for a chap--badly hipped.\" . . .\nThe rain pattered and swished in the garden; a water-pipe (it must\nhave had a hole in it) performed just outside the window a parody of\nblubbering woe with funny sobs and gurgling lamentations, interrupted\nby jerky spasms of silence. . . . \"A bit of shelter,\" he mumbled and\nceased.\n\n'A flash of faded lightning darted in through the black framework of the\nwindows and ebbed out without any noise. I was thinking how I had best\napproach him (I did not want to be flung off again) when he gave a\nlittle laugh. \"No better than a vagabond now\" . . . the end of\nthe cigarette smouldered between his fingers . . . \"without a\nsingle--single,\" he pronounced slowly; \"and yet . . .\" He paused; the\nrain fell with redoubled violence. \"Some day one's bound to come upon\nsome sort of chance to get it all back again. Must!\" he whispered\ndistinctly, glaring at my boots.\n\n'I did not even know what it was he wished so much to regain, what it\nwas he had so terribly missed. It might have been so much that it was\nimpossible to say. A piece of ass's skin, according to Chester. . . .\nHe looked up at me inquisitively. \"Perhaps. If life's long enough,\" I\nmuttered through my teeth with unreasonable animosity. \"Don't reckon too\nmuch on it.\"\n\n'\"Jove! I feel as if nothing could ever touch me,\" he said in a tone\nof sombre conviction. \"If this business couldn't knock me over, then\nthere's no fear of there being not enough time to--climb out, and . . .\"\nHe looked upwards.\n\n'It struck me that it is from such as he that the great army of waifs\nand strays is recruited, the army that marches down, down into all the\ngutters of the earth. As soon as he left my room, that \"bit of shelter,\"\nhe would take his place in the ranks, and begin the journey towards the\nbottomless pit. I at least had no illusions; but it was I, too, who a\nmoment ago had been so sure of the power of words, and now was afraid to\nspeak, in the same way one dares not move for fear of losing a slippery\nhold. It is when we try to grapple with another man's intimate need that\nwe perceive how incomprehensible, wavering, and misty are the beings\nthat share with us the sight of the stars and the warmth of the sun. It\nis as if loneliness were a hard and absolute condition of existence; the\nenvelope of flesh and blood on which our eyes are fixed melts before the\noutstretched hand, and there remains only the capricious, unconsolable,\nand elusive spirit that no eye can follow, no hand can grasp. It was\nthe fear of losing him that kept me silent, for it was borne upon me\nsuddenly and with unaccountable force that should I let him slip away\ninto the darkness I would never forgive myself.\n\n'\"Well. Thanks--once more. You've been--er--uncommonly--really there's\nno word to . . . Uncommonly! I don't know why, I am sure. I am afraid\nI don't feel as grateful as I would if the whole thing hadn't been so\nbrutally sprung on me. Because at bottom . . . you, yourself . . .\" He\nstuttered.\n\n'\"Possibly,\" I struck in. He frowned.\n\n'\"All the same, one is responsible.\" He watched me like a hawk.\n\n'\"And that's true, too,\" I said.\n\n'\"Well. I've gone with it to the end, and I don't intend to let any man\ncast it in my teeth without--without--resenting it.\" He clenched his\nfist.\n\n'\"There's yourself,\" I said with a smile--mirthless enough, God\nknows--but he looked at me menacingly. \"That's my business,\" he said.\nAn air of indomitable resolution came and went upon his face like a vain\nand passing shadow. Next moment he looked a dear good boy in trouble,\nas before. He flung away the cigarette. \"Good-bye,\" he said, with the\nsudden haste of a man who had lingered too long in view of a pressing\nbit of work waiting for him; and then for a second or so he made not the\nslightest movement. The downpour fell with the heavy uninterrupted rush\nof a sweeping flood, with a sound of unchecked overwhelming fury that\ncalled to one's mind the images of collapsing bridges, of uprooted\ntrees, of undermined mountains. No man could breast the colossal and\nheadlong stream that seemed to break and swirl against the dim stillness\nin which we were precariously sheltered as if on an island. The\nperforated pipe gurgled, choked, spat, and splashed in odious ridicule\nof a swimmer fighting for his life. \"It is raining,\" I remonstrated,\n\"and I . . .\" \"Rain or shine,\" he began brusquely, checked himself, and\nwalked to the window. \"Perfect deluge,\" he muttered after a while: he\nleaned his forehead on the glass. \"It's dark, too.\"\n\n'\"Yes, it is very dark,\" I said.\n\n'He pivoted on his heels, crossed the room, and had actually opened the\ndoor leading into the corridor before I leaped up from my chair. \"Wait,\"\nI cried, \"I want you to . . .\" \"I can't dine with you again to-night,\"\nhe flung at me, with one leg out of the room already. \"I haven't the\nslightest intention to ask you,\" I shouted. At this he drew back his\nfoot, but remained mistrustfully in the very doorway. I lost no time\nin entreating him earnestly not to be absurd; to come in and shut the\ndoor.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\n\n'He came in at last; but I believe it was mostly the rain that did it;\nit was falling just then with a devastating violence which quieted\ndown gradually while we talked. His manner was very sober and set; his\nbearing was that of a naturally taciturn man possessed by an idea. My\ntalk was of the material aspect of his position; it had the sole aim of\nsaving him from the degradation, ruin, and despair that out there close\nso swiftly upon a friendless, homeless man; I pleaded with him to\naccept my help; I argued reasonably: and every time I looked up at that\nabsorbed smooth face, so grave and youthful, I had a disturbing sense of\nbeing no help but rather an obstacle to some mysterious, inexplicable,\nimpalpable striving of his wounded spirit.\n\n'\"I suppose you intend to eat and drink and to sleep under shelter in\nthe usual way,\" I remember saying with irritation. \"You say you won't\ntouch the money that is due to you.\" . . . He came as near as his sort\ncan to making a gesture of horror. (There were three weeks and five\ndays' pay owing him as mate of the Patna.) \"Well, that's too little to\nmatter anyhow; but what will you do to-morrow? Where will you turn? You\nmust live . . .\" \"That isn't the thing,\" was the comment that escaped\nhim under his breath. I ignored it, and went on combating what I assumed\nto be the scruples of an exaggerated delicacy. \"On every conceivable\nground,\" I concluded, \"you must let me help you.\" \"You can't,\" he said\nvery simply and gently, and holding fast to some deep idea which I\ncould detect shimmering like a pool of water in the dark, but which\nI despaired of ever approaching near enough to fathom. I surveyed his\nwell-proportioned bulk. \"At any rate,\" I said, \"I am able to help what\nI can see of you. I don't pretend to do more.\" He shook his head\nsceptically without looking at me. I got very warm. \"But I can,\" I\ninsisted. \"I can do even more. I _am_ doing more. I am trusting\nyou . . .\" \"The money . . .\" he began. \"Upon my word you deserve being\ntold to go to the devil,\" I cried, forcing the note of indignation. He\nwas startled, smiled, and I pressed my attack home. \"It isn't a question\nof money at all. You are too superficial,\" I said (and at the same time\nI was thinking to myself: Well, here goes! And perhaps he is, after\nall). \"Look at the letter I want you to take. I am writing to a man of\nwhom I've never asked a favour, and I am writing about you in terms that\none only ventures to use when speaking of an intimate friend. I make\nmyself unreservedly responsible for you. That's what I am doing. And\nreally if you will only reflect a little what that means . . .\"\n\n'He lifted his head. The rain had passed away; only the water-pipe went\non shedding tears with an absurd drip, drip outside the window. It was\nvery quiet in the room, whose shadows huddled together in corners, away\nfrom the still flame of the candle flaring upright in the shape of a\ndagger; his face after a while seemed suffused by a reflection of a soft\nlight as if the dawn had broken already.\n\n'\"Jove!\" he gasped out. \"It is noble of you!\"\n\n'Had he suddenly put out his tongue at me in derision, I could not have\nfelt more humiliated. I thought to myself--Serve me right for a sneaking\nhumbug. . . . His eyes shone straight into my face, but I perceived\nit was not a mocking brightness. All at once he sprang into jerky\nagitation, like one of those flat wooden figures that are worked by a\nstring. His arms went up, then came down with a slap. He became another\nman altogether. \"And I had never seen,\" he shouted; then suddenly bit\nhis lip and frowned. \"What a bally ass I've been,\" he said very slow\nin an awed tone. . . . \"You are a brick!\" he cried next in a muffled\nvoice. He snatched my hand as though he had just then seen it for the\nfirst time, and dropped it at once. \"Why! this is what I--you--I . . .\"\nhe stammered, and then with a return of his old stolid, I may say\nmulish, manner he began heavily, \"I would be a brute now if I . . .\" and\nthen his voice seemed to break. \"That's all right,\" I said. I was almost\nalarmed by this display of feeling, through which pierced a strange\nelation. I had pulled the string accidentally, as it were; I did not\nfully understand the working of the toy. \"I must go now,\" he said.\n\"Jove! You _have_ helped me. Can't sit still. The very thing . . .\" He\nlooked at me with puzzled admiration. \"The very thing . . .\"\n\n'Of course it was the thing. It was ten to one that I had saved him from\nstarvation--of that peculiar sort that is almost invariably associated\nwith drink. This was all. I had not a single illusion on that score, but\nlooking at him, I allowed myself to wonder at the nature of the one he\nhad, within the last three minutes, so evidently taken into his bosom.\nI had forced into his hand the means to carry on decently the serious\nbusiness of life, to get food, drink, and shelter of the customary kind\nwhile his wounded spirit, like a bird with a broken wing, might hop and\nflutter into some hole to die quietly of inanition there. This is what\nI had thrust upon him: a definitely small thing; and--behold!--by the\nmanner of its reception it loomed in the dim light of the candle like\na big, indistinct, perhaps a dangerous shadow. \"You don't mind me not\nsaying anything appropriate,\" he burst out. \"There isn't anything one\ncould say. Last night already you had done me no end of good. Listening\nto me--you know. I give you my word I've thought more than once the top\nof my head would fly off. . .\" He darted--positively darted--here and\nthere, rammed his hands into his pockets, jerked them out again, flung\nhis cap on his head. I had no idea it was in him to be so airily\nbrisk. I thought of a dry leaf imprisoned in an eddy of wind, while a\nmysterious apprehension, a load of indefinite doubt, weighed me down in\nmy chair. He stood stock-still, as if struck motionless by a discovery.\n\"You have given me confidence,\" he declared, soberly. \"Oh! for God's\nsake, my dear fellow--don't!\" I entreated, as though he had hurt me.\n\"All right. I'll shut up now and henceforth. Can't prevent me thinking\nthough. . . . Never mind! . . . I'll show yet . . .\" He went to the\ndoor in a hurry, paused with his head down, and came back, stepping\ndeliberately. \"I always thought that if a fellow could begin with a\nclean slate . . . And now you . . . in a measure . . . yes . . . clean\nslate.\" I waved my hand, and he marched out without looking back; the\nsound of his footfalls died out gradually behind the closed door--the\nunhesitating tread of a man walking in broad daylight.\n\n'But as to me, left alone with the solitary candle, I remained strangely\nunenlightened. I was no longer young enough to behold at every turn\nthe magnificence that besets our insignificant footsteps in good and in\nevil. I smiled to think that, after all, it was yet he, of us two, who\nhad the light. And I felt sad. A clean slate, did he say? As if the\ninitial word of each our destiny were not graven in imperishable\ncharacters upon the face of a rock.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\n\n'Six months afterwards my friend (he was a cynical, more than\nmiddle-aged bachelor, with a reputation for eccentricity, and owned\na rice-mill) wrote to me, and judging, from the warmth of my\nrecommendation, that I would like to hear, enlarged a little upon Jim's\nperfections. These were apparently of a quiet and effective sort.\n\"Not having been able so far to find more in my heart than a resigned\ntoleration for any individual of my kind, I have lived till now alone\nin a house that even in this steaming climate could be considered as too\nbig for one man. I have had him to live with me for some time past. It\nseems I haven't made a mistake.\" It seemed to me on reading this letter\nthat my friend had found in his heart more than tolerance for Jim--that\nthere were the beginnings of active liking. Of course he stated his\ngrounds in a characteristic way. For one thing, Jim kept his freshness\nin the climate. Had he been a girl--my friend wrote--one could have\nsaid he was blooming--blooming modestly--like a violet, not like some of\nthese blatant tropical flowers. He had been in the house for six weeks,\nand had not as yet attempted to slap him on the back, or address him\nas \"old boy,\" or try to make him feel a superannuated fossil. He had\nnothing of the exasperating young man's chatter. He was good-tempered,\nhad not much to say for himself, was not clever by any means, thank\ngoodness--wrote my friend. It appeared, however, that Jim was clever\nenough to be quietly appreciative of his wit, while, on the other hand,\nhe amused him by his naiveness. \"The dew is yet on him, and since I\nhad the bright idea of giving him a room in the house and having him\nat meals I feel less withered myself. The other day he took it into his\nhead to cross the room with no other purpose but to open a door for\nme; and I felt more in touch with mankind than I had been for years.\nRidiculous, isn't it? Of course I guess there is something--some awful\nlittle scrape--which you know all about--but if I am sure that it is\nterribly heinous, I fancy one could manage to forgive it. For my part,\nI declare I am unable to imagine him guilty of anything much worse than\nrobbing an orchard. Is it much worse? Perhaps you ought to have told me;\nbut it is such a long time since we both turned saints that you may have\nforgotten we, too, had sinned in our time? It may be that some day I\nshall have to ask you, and then I shall expect to be told. I don't care\nto question him myself till I have some idea what it is. Moreover, it's\ntoo soon as yet. Let him open the door a few times more for me. . . .\"\nThus my friend. I was trebly pleased--at Jim's shaping so well, at the\ntone of the letter, at my own cleverness. Evidently I had known what\nI was doing. I had read characters aright, and so on. And what if\nsomething unexpected and wonderful were to come of it? That evening,\nreposing in a deck-chair under the shade of my own poop awning (it\nwas in Hong-Kong harbour), I laid on Jim's behalf the first stone of a\ncastle in Spain.\n\n'I made a trip to the northward, and when I returned I found another\nletter from my friend waiting for me. It was the first envelope I tore\nopen. \"There are no spoons missing, as far as I know,\" ran the first\nline; \"I haven't been interested enough to inquire. He is gone, leaving\non the breakfast-table a formal little note of apology, which is either\nsilly or heartless. Probably both--and it's all one to me. Allow me to\nsay, lest you should have some more mysterious young men in reserve,\nthat I have shut up shop, definitely and for ever. This is the last\neccentricity I shall be guilty of. Do not imagine for a moment that I\ncare a hang; but he is very much regretted at tennis-parties, and for\nmy own sake I've told a plausible lie at the club. . . .\" I flung the\nletter aside and started looking through the batch on my table, till\nI came upon Jim's handwriting. Would you believe it? One chance in a\nhundred! But it is always that hundredth chance! That little second\nengineer of the Patna had turned up in a more or less destitute state,\nand got a temporary job of looking after the machinery of the mill. \"I\ncouldn't stand the familiarity of the little beast,\" Jim wrote from a\nseaport seven hundred miles south of the place where he should have been\nin clover. \"I am now for the time with Egstrom & Blake, ship-chandlers,\nas their--well--runner, to call the thing by its right name. For\nreference I gave them your name, which they know of course, and if you\ncould write a word in my favour it would be a permanent employment.\" I\nwas utterly crushed under the ruins of my castle, but of course I wrote\nas desired. Before the end of the year my new charter took me that way,\nand I had an opportunity of seeing him.\n\n'He was still with Egstrom & Blake, and we met in what they called\n\"our parlour\" opening out of the store. He had that moment come in from\nboarding a ship, and confronted me head down, ready for a tussle. \"What\nhave you got to say for yourself?\" I began as soon as we had shaken\nhands. \"What I wrote you--nothing more,\" he said stubbornly. \"Did the\nfellow blab--or what?\" I asked. He looked up at me with a troubled\nsmile. \"Oh, no! He didn't. He made it a kind of confidential business\nbetween us. He was most damnably mysterious whenever I came over to the\nmill; he would wink at me in a respectful manner--as much as to say 'We\nknow what we know.' Infernally fawning and familiar--and that sort of\nthing . . .\" He threw himself into a chair and stared down his legs.\n\"One day we happened to be alone and the fellow had the cheek to say,\n'Well, Mr. James'--I was called Mr. James there as if I had been the\nson--'here we are together once more. This is better than the old\nship--ain't it?' . . . Wasn't it appalling, eh? I looked at him, and\nhe put on a knowing air. 'Don't you be uneasy, sir,' he says. 'I know\na gentleman when I see one, and I know how a gentleman feels. I hope,\nthough, you will be keeping me on this job. I had a hard time of it too,\nalong of that rotten old Patna racket.' Jove! It was awful. I don't know\nwhat I should have said or done if I had not just then heard Mr. Denver\ncalling me in the passage. It was tiffin-time, and we walked together\nacross the yard and through the garden to the bungalow. He began to\nchaff me in his kindly way . . . I believe he liked me . . .\"\n\n'Jim was silent for a while.\n\n'\"I know he liked me. That's what made it so hard. Such a splendid man!\n. . . That morning he slipped his hand under my arm. . . . He, too, was\nfamiliar with me.\" He burst into a short laugh, and dropped his chin on\nhis breast. \"Pah! When I remembered how that mean little beast had been\ntalking to me,\" he began suddenly in a vibrating voice, \"I couldn't bear\nto think of myself . . . I suppose you know . . .\" I nodded. . . . \"More\nlike a father,\" he cried; his voice sank. \"I would have had to tell him.\nI couldn't let it go on--could I?\" \"Well?\" I murmured, after waiting a\nwhile. \"I preferred to go,\" he said slowly; \"this thing must be buried.\"\n\n'We could hear in the shop Blake upbraiding Egstrom in an abusive,\nstrained voice. They had been associated for many years, and every day\nfrom the moment the doors were opened to the last minute before closing,\nBlake, a little man with sleek, jetty hair and unhappy, beady eyes,\ncould be heard rowing his partner incessantly with a sort of scathing\nand plaintive fury. The sound of that everlasting scolding was part of\nthe place like the other fixtures; even strangers would very soon come\nto disregard it completely unless it be perhaps to mutter \"Nuisance,\" or\nto get up suddenly and shut the door of the \"parlour.\" Egstrom himself,\na raw-boned, heavy Scandinavian, with a busy manner and immense blonde\nwhiskers, went on directing his people, checking parcels, making out\nbills or writing letters at a stand-up desk in the shop, and comported\nhimself in that clatter exactly as though he had been stone-deaf. Now\nand again he would emit a bothered perfunctory \"Sssh,\" which neither\nproduced nor was expected to produce the slightest effect. \"They are\nvery decent to me here,\" said Jim. \"Blake's a little cad, but Egstrom's\nall right.\" He stood up quickly, and walking with measured steps to a\ntripod telescope standing in the window and pointed at the roadstead,\nhe applied his eye to it. \"There's that ship which has been becalmed\noutside all the morning has got a breeze now and is coming in,\" he\nremarked patiently; \"I must go and board.\" We shook hands in silence,\nand he turned to go. \"Jim!\" I cried. He looked round with his hand on\nthe lock. \"You--you have thrown away something like a fortune.\" He came\nback to me all the way from the door. \"Such a splendid old chap,\" he\nsaid. \"How could I? How could I?\" His lips twitched. \"Here it does not\nmatter.\" \"Oh! you--you--\" I began, and had to cast about for a suitable\nword, but before I became aware that there was no name that would just\ndo, he was gone. I heard outside Egstrom's deep gentle voice saying\ncheerily, \"That's the Sarah W. Granger, Jimmy. You must manage to be\nfirst aboard\"; and directly Blake struck in, screaming after the manner\nof an outraged cockatoo, \"Tell the captain we've got some of his mail\nhere. That'll fetch him. D'ye hear, Mister What's-your-name?\" And there\nwas Jim answering Egstrom with something boyish in his tone. \"All right.\nI'll make a race of it.\" He seemed to take refuge in the boat-sailing\npart of that sorry business.\n\n'I did not see him again that trip, but on my next (I had a six months'\ncharter) I went up to the store. Ten yards away from the door Blake's\nscolding met my ears, and when I came in he gave me a glance of utter\nwretchedness; Egstrom, all smiles, advanced, extending a large bony\nhand. \"Glad to see you, captain. . . . Sssh. . . . Been thinking you\nwere about due back here. What did you say, sir? . . . Sssh. . . . Oh!\nhim! He has left us. Come into the parlour.\" . . . After the slam of the\ndoor Blake's strained voice became faint, as the voice of one scolding\ndesperately in a wilderness. . . . \"Put us to a great inconvenience,\ntoo. Used us badly--I must say . . .\" \"Where's he gone to? Do you\nknow?\" I asked. \"No. It's no use asking either,\" said Egstrom, standing\nbewhiskered and obliging before me with his arms hanging down his sides\nclumsily, and a thin silver watch-chain looped very low on a rucked-up\nblue serge waistcoat. \"A man like that don't go anywhere in particular.\"\nI was too concerned at the news to ask for the explanation of that\npronouncement, and he went on. \"He left--let's see--the very day a\nsteamer with returning pilgrims from the Red Sea put in here with\ntwo blades of her propeller gone. Three weeks ago now.\" \"Wasn't there\nsomething said about the Patna case?\" I asked, fearing the worst. He\ngave a start, and looked at me as if I had been a sorcerer. \"Why, yes!\nHow do you know? Some of them were talking about it here. There was a\ncaptain or two, the manager of Vanlo's engineering shop at the harbour,\ntwo or three others, and myself. Jim was in here too, having a sandwich\nand a glass of beer; when we are busy--you see, captain--there's no time\nfor a proper tiffin. He was standing by this table eating sandwiches,\nand the rest of us were round the telescope watching that steamer come\nin; and by-and-by Vanlo's manager began to talk about the chief of the\nPatna; he had done some repairs for him once, and from that he went on\nto tell us what an old ruin she was, and the money that had been made\nout of her. He came to mention her last voyage, and then we all struck\nin. Some said one thing and some another--not much--what you or any\nother man might say; and there was some laughing. Captain O'Brien of the\nSarah W. Granger, a large, noisy old man with a stick--he was sitting\nlistening to us in this arm-chair here--he let drive suddenly with his\nstick at the floor, and roars out, 'Skunks!' . . . Made us all jump.\nVanlo's manager winks at us and asks, 'What's the matter, Captain\nO'Brien?' 'Matter! matter!' the old man began to shout; 'what are you\nInjuns laughing at? It's no laughing matter. It's a disgrace to human\nnatur'--that's what it is. I would despise being seen in the same room\nwith one of those men. Yes, sir!' He seemed to catch my eye like, and\nI had to speak out of civility. 'Skunks!' says I, 'of course, Captain\nO'Brien, and I wouldn't care to have them here myself, so you're quite\nsafe in this room, Captain O'Brien. Have a little something cool to\ndrink.' 'Dam' your drink, Egstrom,' says he, with a twinkle in his eye;\n'when I want a drink I will shout for it. I am going to quit. It stinks\nhere now.' At this all the others burst out laughing, and out they go\nafter the old man. And then, sir, that blasted Jim he puts down the\nsandwich he had in his hand and walks round the table to me; there was\nhis glass of beer poured out quite full. 'I am off,' he says--just like\nthis. 'It isn't half-past one yet,' says I; 'you might snatch a smoke\nfirst.' I thought he meant it was time for him to go down to his work.\nWhen I understood what he was up to, my arms fell--so! Can't get a man\nlike that every day, you know, sir; a regular devil for sailing a boat;\nready to go out miles to sea to meet ships in any sort of weather. More\nthan once a captain would come in here full of it, and the first thing\nhe would say would be, 'That's a reckless sort of a lunatic you've got\nfor water-clerk, Egstrom. I was feeling my way in at daylight under\nshort canvas when there comes flying out of the mist right under my\nforefoot a boat half under water, sprays going over the mast-head, two\nfrightened niggers on the bottom boards, a yelling fiend at the tiller.\nHey! hey! Ship ahoy! ahoy! Captain! Hey! hey! Egstrom & Blake's man\nfirst to speak to you! Hey! hey! Egstrom & Blake! Hallo! hey! whoop!\nKick the niggers--out reefs--a squall on at the time--shoots ahead\nwhooping and yelling to me to make sail and he would give me a lead\nin--more like a demon than a man. Never saw a boat handled like that in\nall my life. Couldn't have been drunk--was he? Such a quiet, soft-spoken\nchap too--blush like a girl when he came on board. . . .' I tell you,\nCaptain Marlow, nobody had a chance against us with a strange ship when\nJim was out. The other ship-chandlers just kept their old customers, and\n. . .\"\n\n'Egstrom appeared overcome with emotion.\n\n'\"Why, sir--it seemed as though he wouldn't mind going a hundred miles\nout to sea in an old shoe to nab a ship for the firm. If the business\nhad been his own and all to make yet, he couldn't have done more in\nthat way. And now . . . all at once . . . like this! Thinks I to myself:\n'Oho! a rise in the screw--that's the trouble--is it?' 'All right,' says\nI, 'no need of all that fuss with me, Jimmy. Just mention your figure.\nAnything in reason.' He looks at me as if he wanted to swallow something\nthat stuck in his throat. 'I can't stop with you.' 'What's that blooming\njoke?' I asks. He shakes his head, and I could see in his eye he was as\ngood as gone already, sir. So I turned to him and slanged him till all\nwas blue. 'What is it you're running away from?' I asks. 'Who has been\ngetting at you? What scared you? You haven't as much sense as a rat;\nthey don't clear out from a good ship. Where do you expect to get a\nbetter berth?--you this and you that.' I made him look sick, I can tell\nyou. 'This business ain't going to sink,' says I. He gave a big jump.\n'Good-bye,' he says, nodding at me like a lord; 'you ain't half a\nbad chap, Egstrom. I give you my word that if you knew my reasons you\nwouldn't care to keep me.' 'That's the biggest lie you ever told in your\nlife,' says I; 'I know my own mind.' He made me so mad that I had to\nlaugh. 'Can't you really stop long enough to drink this glass of beer\nhere, you funny beggar, you?' I don't know what came over him; he didn't\nseem able to find the door; something comical, I can tell you, captain.\nI drank the beer myself. 'Well, if you're in such a hurry, here's luck\nto you in your own drink,' says I; 'only, you mark my words, if you keep\nup this game you'll very soon find that the earth ain't big enough to\nhold you--that's all.' He gave me one black look, and out he rushed with\na face fit to scare little children.\"\n\n'Egstrom snorted bitterly, and combed one auburn whisker with knotty\nfingers. \"Haven't been able to get a man that was any good since. It's\nnothing but worry, worry, worry in business. And where might you have\ncome across him, captain, if it's fair to ask?\"\n\n'\"He was the mate of the Patna that voyage,\" I said, feeling that I\nowed some explanation. For a time Egstrom remained very still, with his\nfingers plunged in the hair at the side of his face, and then exploded.\n\"And who the devil cares about that?\" \"I daresay no one,\" I began . . .\n\"And what the devil is he--anyhow--for to go on like this?\" He stuffed\nsuddenly his left whisker into his mouth and stood amazed. \"Jee!\" he\nexclaimed, \"I told him the earth wouldn't be big enough to hold his\ncaper.\"'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\n\n'I have told you these two episodes at length to show his manner of\ndealing with himself under the new conditions of his life. There were\nmany others of the sort, more than I could count on the fingers of my\ntwo hands. They were all equally tinged by a high-minded absurdity of\nintention which made their futility profound and touching. To fling away\nyour daily bread so as to get your hands free for a grapple with a ghost\nmay be an act of prosaic heroism. Men had done it before (though we who\nhave lived know full well that it is not the haunted soul but the hungry\nbody that makes an outcast), and men who had eaten and meant to eat\nevery day had applauded the creditable folly. He was indeed unfortunate,\nfor all his recklessness could not carry him out from under the shadow.\nThere was always a doubt of his courage. The truth seems to be that\nit is impossible to lay the ghost of a fact. You can face it or shirk\nit--and I have come across a man or two who could wink at their familiar\nshades. Obviously Jim was not of the winking sort; but what I could\nnever make up my mind about was whether his line of conduct amounted to\nshirking his ghost or to facing him out.\n\n'I strained my mental eyesight only to discover that, as with the\ncomplexion of all our actions, the shade of difference was so delicate\nthat it was impossible to say. It might have been flight and it might\nhave been a mode of combat. To the common mind he became known as a\nrolling stone, because this was the funniest part: he did after a time\nbecome perfectly known, and even notorious, within the circle of his\nwanderings (which had a diameter of, say, three thousand miles), in the\nsame way as an eccentric character is known to a whole countryside. For\ninstance, in Bankok, where he found employment with Yucker Brothers,\ncharterers and teak merchants, it was almost pathetic to see him go\nabout in sunshine hugging his secret, which was known to the very\nup-country logs on the river. Schomberg, the keeper of the hotel where\nhe boarded, a hirsute Alsatian of manly bearing and an irrepressible\nretailer of all the scandalous gossip of the place, would, with both\nelbows on the table, impart an adorned version of the story to any guest\nwho cared to imbibe knowledge along with the more costly liquors. \"And,\nmind you, the nicest fellow you could meet,\" would be his generous\nconclusion; \"quite superior.\" It says a lot for the casual crowd that\nfrequented Schomberg's establishment that Jim managed to hang out\nin Bankok for a whole six months. I remarked that people, perfect\nstrangers, took to him as one takes to a nice child. His manner was\nreserved, but it was as though his personal appearance, his hair, his\neyes, his smile, made friends for him wherever he went. And, of course,\nhe was no fool. I heard Siegmund Yucker (native of Switzerland), a\ngentle creature ravaged by a cruel dyspepsia, and so frightfully lame\nthat his head swung through a quarter of a circle at every step he took,\ndeclare appreciatively that for one so young he was \"of great gabasidy,\"\nas though it had been a mere question of cubic contents. \"Why not send\nhim up country?\" I suggested anxiously. (Yucker Brothers had concessions\nand teak forests in the interior.) \"If he has capacity, as you say,\nhe will soon get hold of the work. And physically he is very fit. His\nhealth is always excellent.\" \"Ach! It's a great ting in dis goundry\nto be vree vrom tispep-shia,\" sighed poor Yucker enviously, casting a\nstealthy glance at the pit of his ruined stomach. I left him drumming\npensively on his desk and muttering, \"Es ist ein' Idee. Es ist ein'\nIdee.\" Unfortunately, that very evening an unpleasant affair took place\nin the hotel.\n\n'I don't know that I blame Jim very much, but it was a truly regrettable\nincident. It belonged to the lamentable species of bar-room scuffles,\nand the other party to it was a cross-eyed Dane of sorts whose\nvisiting-card recited, under his misbegotten name: first lieutenant in\nthe Royal Siamese Navy. The fellow, of course, was utterly hopeless at\nbilliards, but did not like to be beaten, I suppose. He had had enough\nto drink to turn nasty after the sixth game, and make some scornful\nremark at Jim's expense. Most of the people there didn't hear what\nwas said, and those who had heard seemed to have had all precise\nrecollection scared out of them by the appalling nature of the\nconsequences that immediately ensued. It was very lucky for the Dane\nthat he could swim, because the room opened on a verandah and the Menam\nflowed below very wide and black. A boat-load of Chinamen, bound, as\nlikely as not, on some thieving expedition, fished out the officer of\nthe King of Siam, and Jim turned up at about midnight on board my ship\nwithout a hat. \"Everybody in the room seemed to know,\" he said, gasping\nyet from the contest, as it were. He was rather sorry, on general\nprinciples, for what had happened, though in this case there had been,\nhe said, \"no option.\" But what dismayed him was to find the nature of\nhis burden as well known to everybody as though he had gone about all\nthat time carrying it on his shoulders. Naturally after this he couldn't\nremain in the place. He was universally condemned for the brutal\nviolence, so unbecoming a man in his delicate position; some maintained\nhe had been disgracefully drunk at the time; others criticised his want\nof tact. Even Schomberg was very much annoyed. \"He is a very nice young\nman,\" he said argumentatively to me, \"but the lieutenant is a first-rate\nfellow too. He dines every night at my table d'hote, you know. And\nthere's a billiard-cue broken. I can't allow that. First thing this\nmorning I went over with my apologies to the lieutenant, and I think\nI've made it all right for myself; but only think, captain, if everybody\nstarted such games! Why, the man might have been drowned! And here I\ncan't run out into the next street and buy a new cue. I've got to write\nto Europe for them. No, no! A temper like that won't do!\" . . . He was\nextremely sore on the subject.\n\n'This was the worst incident of all in his--his retreat. Nobody could\ndeplore it more than myself; for if, as somebody said hearing him\nmentioned, \"Oh yes! I know. He has knocked about a good deal out here,\"\nyet he had somehow avoided being battered and chipped in the process.\nThis last affair, however, made me seriously uneasy, because if his\nexquisite sensibilities were to go the length of involving him in\npot-house shindies, he would lose his name of an inoffensive, if\naggravating, fool, and acquire that of a common loafer. For all my\nconfidence in him I could not help reflecting that in such cases\nfrom the name to the thing itself is but a step. I suppose you will\nunderstand that by that time I could not think of washing my hands\nof him. I took him away from Bankok in my ship, and we had a longish\npassage. It was pitiful to see how he shrank within himself. A seaman,\neven if a mere passenger, takes an interest in a ship, and looks at\nthe sea-life around him with the critical enjoyment of a painter,\nfor instance, looking at another man's work. In every sense of the\nexpression he is \"on deck\"; but my Jim, for the most part, skulked down\nbelow as though he had been a stowaway. He infected me so that I avoided\nspeaking on professional matters, such as would suggest themselves\nnaturally to two sailors during a passage. For whole days we did\nnot exchange a word; I felt extremely unwilling to give orders to my\nofficers in his presence. Often, when alone with him on deck or in the\ncabin, we didn't know what to do with our eyes.\n\n'I placed him with De Jongh, as you know, glad enough to dispose of him\nin any way, yet persuaded that his position was now growing intolerable.\nHe had lost some of that elasticity which had enabled him to rebound\nback into his uncompromising position after every overthrow. One\nday, coming ashore, I saw him standing on the quay; the water of the\nroadstead and the sea in the offing made one smooth ascending plane, and\nthe outermost ships at anchor seemed to ride motionless in the sky.\nHe was waiting for his boat, which was being loaded at our feet\nwith packages of small stores for some vessel ready to leave. After\nexchanging greetings, we remained silent--side by side. \"Jove!\" he said\nsuddenly, \"this is killing work.\"\n\n'He smiled at me; I must say he generally could manage a smile. I made\nno reply. I knew very well he was not alluding to his duties; he had an\neasy time of it with De Jongh. Nevertheless, as soon as he had spoken\nI became completely convinced that the work was killing. I did not even\nlook at him. \"Would you like,\" said I, \"to leave this part of the world\naltogether; try California or the West Coast? I'll see what I can\ndo . . .\" He interrupted me a little scornfully. \"What difference would\nit make?\" . . . I felt at once convinced that he was right. It would make\nno difference; it was not relief he wanted; I seemed to perceive dimly\nthat what he wanted, what he was, as it were, waiting for, was something\nnot easy to define--something in the nature of an opportunity. I had\ngiven him many opportunities, but they had been merely opportunities to\nearn his bread. Yet what more could any man do? The position struck me\nas hopeless, and poor Brierly's saying recurred to me, \"Let him creep\ntwenty feet underground and stay there.\" Better that, I thought, than\nthis waiting above ground for the impossible. Yet one could not be sure\neven of that. There and then, before his boat was three oars' lengths\naway from the quay, I had made up my mind to go and consult Stein in the\nevening.\n\n'This Stein was a wealthy and respected merchant. His \"house\" (because\nit was a house, Stein & Co., and there was some sort of partner who,\nas Stein said, \"looked after the Moluccas\") had a large inter-island\nbusiness, with a lot of trading posts established in the most\nout-of-the-way places for collecting the produce. His wealth and his\nrespectability were not exactly the reasons why I was anxious to seek\nhis advice. I desired to confide my difficulty to him because he was\none of the most trustworthy men I had ever known. The gentle light of a\nsimple, unwearied, as it were, and intelligent good-nature illumined his\nlong hairless face. It had deep downward folds, and was pale as of a\nman who had always led a sedentary life--which was indeed very far from\nbeing the case. His hair was thin, and brushed back from a massive and\nlofty forehead. One fancied that at twenty he must have looked very much\nlike what he was now at threescore. It was a student's face; only the\neyebrows nearly all white, thick and bushy, together with the resolute\nsearching glance that came from under them, were not in accord with his,\nI may say, learned appearance. He was tall and loose-jointed; his slight\nstoop, together with an innocent smile, made him appear benevolently\nready to lend you his ear; his long arms with pale big hands had rare\ndeliberate gestures of a pointing out, demonstrating kind. I speak of\nhim at length, because under this exterior, and in conjunction with\nan upright and indulgent nature, this man possessed an intrepidity of\nspirit and a physical courage that could have been called reckless had\nit not been like a natural function of the body--say good digestion, for\ninstance--completely unconscious of itself. It is sometimes said of a\nman that he carries his life in his hand. Such a saying would have been\ninadequate if applied to him; during the early part of his existence in\nthe East he had been playing ball with it. All this was in the past, but\nI knew the story of his life and the origin of his fortune. He was also\na naturalist of some distinction, or perhaps I should say a learned\ncollector. Entomology was his special study. His collection of\nBuprestidae and Longicorns--beetles all--horrible miniature monsters,\nlooking malevolent in death and immobility, and his cabinet of\nbutterflies, beautiful and hovering under the glass of cases on\nlifeless wings, had spread his fame far over the earth. The name of this\nmerchant, adventurer, sometime adviser of a Malay sultan (to whom he\nnever alluded otherwise than as \"my poor Mohammed Bonso\"), had, on\naccount of a few bushels of dead insects, become known to learned\npersons in Europe, who could have had no conception, and certainly would\nnot have cared to know anything, of his life or character. I, who knew,\nconsidered him an eminently suitable person to receive my confidences\nabout Jim's difficulties as well as my own.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 20\n\n\n'Late in the evening I entered his study, after traversing an imposing\nbut empty dining-room very dimly lit. The house was silent. I was\npreceded by an elderly grim Javanese servant in a sort of livery of\nwhite jacket and yellow sarong, who, after throwing the door open,\nexclaimed low, \"O master!\" and stepping aside, vanished in a mysterious\nway as though he had been a ghost only momentarily embodied for that\nparticular service. Stein turned round with the chair, and in the same\nmovement his spectacles seemed to get pushed up on his forehead. He\nwelcomed me in his quiet and humorous voice. Only one corner of the vast\nroom, the corner in which stood his writing-desk, was strongly lighted\nby a shaded reading-lamp, and the rest of the spacious apartment melted\ninto shapeless gloom like a cavern. Narrow shelves filled with dark\nboxes of uniform shape and colour ran round the walls, not from floor\nto ceiling, but in a sombre belt about four feet broad. Catacombs of\nbeetles. Wooden tablets were hung above at irregular intervals. The\nlight reached one of them, and the word Coleoptera written in gold\nletters glittered mysteriously upon a vast dimness. The glass cases\ncontaining the collection of butterflies were ranged in three long rows\nupon slender-legged little tables. One of these cases had been removed\nfrom its place and stood on the desk, which was bestrewn with oblong\nslips of paper blackened with minute handwriting.\n\n'\"So you see me--so,\" he said. His hand hovered over the case where\na butterfly in solitary grandeur spread out dark bronze wings, seven\ninches or more across, with exquisite white veinings and a gorgeous\nborder of yellow spots. \"Only one specimen like this they have in _your_\nLondon, and then--no more. To my small native town this my collection I\nshall bequeath. Something of me. The best.\"\n\n'He bent forward in the chair and gazed intently, his chin over the\nfront of the case. I stood at his back. \"Marvellous,\" he whispered, and\nseemed to forget my presence. His history was curious. He had been born\nin Bavaria, and when a youth of twenty-two had taken an active part in\nthe revolutionary movement of 1848. Heavily compromised, he managed\nto make his escape, and at first found a refuge with a poor republican\nwatchmaker in Trieste. From there he made his way to Tripoli with a\nstock of cheap watches to hawk about,--not a very great opening truly,\nbut it turned out lucky enough, because it was there he came upon a\nDutch traveller--a rather famous man, I believe, but I don't remember\nhis name. It was that naturalist who, engaging him as a sort of\nassistant, took him to the East. They travelled in the Archipelago\ntogether and separately, collecting insects and birds, for four years or\nmore. Then the naturalist went home, and Stein, having no home to go to,\nremained with an old trader he had come across in his journeys in the\ninterior of Celebes--if Celebes may be said to have an interior. This\nold Scotsman, the only white man allowed to reside in the country at the\ntime, was a privileged friend of the chief ruler of Wajo States, who\nwas a woman. I often heard Stein relate how that chap, who was slightly\nparalysed on one side, had introduced him to the native court a short\ntime before another stroke carried him off. He was a heavy man with\na patriarchal white beard, and of imposing stature. He came into\nthe council-hall where all the rajahs, pangerans, and headmen were\nassembled, with the queen, a fat wrinkled woman (very free in her\nspeech, Stein said), reclining on a high couch under a canopy. He\ndragged his leg, thumping with his stick, and grasped Stein's arm,\nleading him right up to the couch. \"Look, queen, and you rajahs, this is\nmy son,\" he proclaimed in a stentorian voice. \"I have traded with your\nfathers, and when I die he shall trade with you and your sons.\"\n\n'By means of this simple formality Stein inherited the Scotsman's\nprivileged position and all his stock-in-trade, together with a\nfortified house on the banks of the only navigable river in the country.\nShortly afterwards the old queen, who was so free in her speech, died,\nand the country became disturbed by various pretenders to the throne.\nStein joined the party of a younger son, the one of whom thirty years\nlater he never spoke otherwise but as \"my poor Mohammed Bonso.\" They\nboth became the heroes of innumerable exploits; they had wonderful\nadventures, and once stood a siege in the Scotsman's house for a month,\nwith only a score of followers against a whole army. I believe the\nnatives talk of that war to this day. Meantime, it seems, Stein never\nfailed to annex on his own account every butterfly or beetle he could\nlay hands on. After some eight years of war, negotiations, false truces,\nsudden outbreaks, reconciliation, treachery, and so on, and just as\npeace seemed at last permanently established, his \"poor Mohammed\nBonso\" was assassinated at the gate of his own royal residence while\ndismounting in the highest spirits on his return from a successful\ndeer-hunt. This event rendered Stein's position extremely insecure,\nbut he would have stayed perhaps had it not been that a short time\nafterwards he lost Mohammed's sister (\"my dear wife the princess,\" he\nused to say solemnly), by whom he had had a daughter--mother and child\nboth dying within three days of each other from some infectious fever.\nHe left the country, which this cruel loss had made unbearable to\nhim. Thus ended the first and adventurous part of his existence. What\nfollowed was so different that, but for the reality of sorrow which\nremained with him, this strange part must have resembled a dream. He\nhad a little money; he started life afresh, and in the course of years\nacquired a considerable fortune. At first he had travelled a good deal\namongst the islands, but age had stolen upon him, and of late he seldom\nleft his spacious house three miles out of town, with an extensive\ngarden, and surrounded by stables, offices, and bamboo cottages for\nhis servants and dependants, of whom he had many. He drove in his buggy\nevery morning to town, where he had an office with white and Chinese\nclerks. He owned a small fleet of schooners and native craft, and dealt\nin island produce on a large scale. For the rest he lived solitary,\nbut not misanthropic, with his books and his collection, classing and\narranging specimens, corresponding with entomologists in Europe, writing\nup a descriptive catalogue of his treasures. Such was the history of\nthe man whom I had come to consult upon Jim's case without any definite\nhope. Simply to hear what he would have to say would have been a relief.\nI was very anxious, but I respected the intense, almost passionate,\nabsorption with which he looked at a butterfly, as though on the bronze\nsheen of these frail wings, in the white tracings, in the gorgeous\nmarkings, he could see other things, an image of something as perishable\nand defying destruction as these delicate and lifeless tissues\ndisplaying a splendour unmarred by death.\n\n'\"Marvellous!\" he repeated, looking up at me. \"Look! The beauty--but\nthat is nothing--look at the accuracy, the harmony. And so fragile! And\nso strong! And so exact! This is Nature--the balance of colossal forces.\nEvery star is so--and every blade of grass stands so--and the mighty\nKosmos ib perfect equilibrium produces--this. This wonder; this\nmasterpiece of Nature--the great artist.\"\n\n'\"Never heard an entomologist go on like this,\" I observed cheerfully.\n\"Masterpiece! And what of man?\"\n\n'\"Man is amazing, but he is not a masterpiece,\" he said, keeping his\neyes fixed on the glass case. \"Perhaps the artist was a little mad. Eh?\nWhat do you think? Sometimes it seems to me that man is come where he is\nnot wanted, where there is no place for him; for if not, why should\nhe want all the place? Why should he run about here and there making\na great noise about himself, talking about the stars, disturbing the\nblades of grass? . . .\"\n\n'\"Catching butterflies,\" I chimed in.\n\n'He smiled, threw himself back in his chair, and stretched his legs.\n\"Sit down,\" he said. \"I captured this rare specimen myself one very fine\nmorning. And I had a very big emotion. You don't know what it is for a\ncollector to capture such a rare specimen. You can't know.\"\n\n'I smiled at my ease in a rocking-chair. His eyes seemed to look far\nbeyond the wall at which they stared; and he narrated how, one night,\na messenger arrived from his \"poor Mohammed,\" requiring his presence\nat the \"residenz\"--as he called it--which was distant some nine or ten\nmiles by a bridle-path over a cultivated plain, with patches of forest\nhere and there. Early in the morning he started from his fortified\nhouse, after embracing his little Emma, and leaving the \"princess,\" his\nwife, in command. He described how she came with him as far as the\ngate, walking with one hand on the neck of his horse; she had on a white\njacket, gold pins in her hair, and a brown leather belt over her left\nshoulder with a revolver in it. \"She talked as women will talk,\" he\nsaid, \"telling me to be careful, and to try to get back before dark, and\nwhat a great wickedness it was for me to go alone. We were at war, and\nthe country was not safe; my men were putting up bullet-proof shutters\nto the house and loading their rifles, and she begged me to have no fear\nfor her. She could defend the house against anybody till I returned. And\nI laughed with pleasure a little. I liked to see her so brave and young\nand strong. I too was young then. At the gate she caught hold of my\nhand and gave it one squeeze and fell back. I made my horse stand still\noutside till I heard the bars of the gate put up behind me. There was a\ngreat enemy of mine, a great noble--and a great rascal too--roaming with\na band in the neighbourhood. I cantered for four or five miles; there\nhad been rain in the night, but the musts had gone up, up--and the\nface of the earth was clean; it lay smiling to me, so fresh and\ninnocent--like a little child. Suddenly somebody fires a volley--twenty\nshots at least it seemed to me. I hear bullets sing in my ear, and\nmy hat jumps to the back of my head. It was a little intrigue, you\nunderstand. They got my poor Mohammed to send for me and then laid\nthat ambush. I see it all in a minute, and I think--This wants a little\nmanagement. My pony snort, jump, and stand, and I fall slowly forward\nwith my head on his mane. He begins to walk, and with one eye I could\nsee over his neck a faint cloud of smoke hanging in front of a clump\nof bamboos to my left. I think--Aha! my friends, why you not wait long\nenough before you shoot? This is not yet gelungen. Oh no! I get hold of\nmy revolver with my right hand--quiet--quiet. After all, there were only\nseven of these rascals. They get up from the grass and start running\nwith their sarongs tucked up, waving spears above their heads, and\nyelling to each other to look out and catch the horse, because I was\ndead. I let them come as close as the door here, and then bang, bang,\nbang--take aim each time too. One more shot I fire at a man's back, but\nI miss. Too far already. And then I sit alone on my horse with the clean\nearth smiling at me, and there are the bodies of three men lying on the\nground. One was curled up like a dog, another on his back had an arm\nover his eyes as if to keep off the sun, and the third man he draws up\nhis leg very slowly and makes it with one kick straight again. I watch\nhim very carefully from my horse, but there is no more--bleibt ganz\nruhig--keep still, so. And as I looked at his face for some sign of life\nI observed something like a faint shadow pass over his forehead. It was\nthe shadow of this butterfly. Look at the form of the wing. This species\nfly high with a strong flight. I raised my eyes and I saw him fluttering\naway. I think--Can it be possible? And then I lost him. I dismounted\nand went on very slow, leading my horse and holding my revolver with one\nhand and my eyes darting up and down and right and left, everywhere! At\nlast I saw him sitting on a small heap of dirt ten feet away. At once\nmy heart began to beat quick. I let go my horse, keep my revolver in one\nhand, and with the other snatch my soft felt hat off my head. One step.\nSteady. Another step. Flop! I got him! When I got up I shook like a leaf\nwith excitement, and when I opened these beautiful wings and made sure\nwhat a rare and so extraordinary perfect specimen I had, my head went\nround and my legs became so weak with emotion that I had to sit on the\nground. I had greatly desired to possess myself of a specimen of that\nspecies when collecting for the professor. I took long journeys and\nunderwent great privations; I had dreamed of him in my sleep, and here\nsuddenly I had him in my fingers--for myself! In the words of the poet\"\n(he pronounced it \"boet\")--\n\n     \"'So halt' ich's endlich denn in meinen Handen,\n     Und nenn' es in gewissem Sinne mein.'\"\n\nHe gave to the last word the emphasis of a suddenly lowered voice, and\nwithdrew his eyes slowly from my face. He began to charge a long-stemmed\npipe busily and in silence, then, pausing with his thumb on the orifice\nof the bowl, looked again at me significantly.\n\n'\"Yes, my good friend. On that day I had nothing to desire; I had\ngreatly annoyed my principal enemy; I was young, strong; I had\nfriendship; I had the love\" (he said \"lof\") \"of woman, a child I had,\nto make my heart very full--and even what I had once dreamed in my sleep\nhad come into my hand too!\"\n\n'He struck a match, which flared violently. His thoughtful placid face\ntwitched once.\n\n'\"Friend, wife, child,\" he said slowly, gazing at the small\nflame--\"phoo!\" The match was blown out. He sighed and turned again to\nthe glass case. The frail and beautiful wings quivered faintly, as if\nhis breath had for an instant called back to life that gorgeous object\nof his dreams.\n\n'\"The work,\" he began suddenly, pointing to the scattered slips, and in\nhis usual gentle and cheery tone, \"is making great progress. I have been\nthis rare specimen describing. . . . Na! And what is your good news?\"\n\n'\"To tell you the truth, Stein,\" I said with an effort that surprised\nme, \"I came here to describe a specimen. . . .\"\n\n'\"Butterfly?\" he asked, with an unbelieving and humorous eagerness.\n\n'\"Nothing so perfect,\" I answered, feeling suddenly dispirited with all\nsorts of doubts. \"A man!\"\n\n'\"Ach so!\" he murmured, and his smiling countenance, turned to me,\nbecame grave. Then after looking at me for a while he said slowly,\n\"Well--I am a man too.\"\n\n'Here you have him as he was; he knew how to be so generously\nencouraging as to make a scrupulous man hesitate on the brink of\nconfidence; but if I did hesitate it was not for long.\n\n'He heard me out, sitting with crossed legs. Sometimes his head would\ndisappear completely in a great eruption of smoke, and a sympathetic\ngrowl would come out from the cloud. When I finished he uncrossed his\nlegs, laid down his pipe, leaned forward towards me earnestly with his\nelbows on the arms of his chair, the tips of his fingers together.\n\n'\"I understand very well. He is romantic.\"\n\n'He had diagnosed the case for me, and at first I was quite startled to\nfind how simple it was; and indeed our conference resembled so much a\nmedical consultation--Stein, of learned aspect, sitting in an arm-chair\nbefore his desk; I, anxious, in another, facing him, but a little to one\nside--that it seemed natural to ask--\n\n'\"What's good for it?\"\n\n'He lifted up a long forefinger.\n\n'\"There is only one remedy! One thing alone can us from being ourselves\ncure!\" The finger came down on the desk with a smart rap. The case\nwhich he had made to look so simple before became if possible still\nsimpler--and altogether hopeless. There was a pause. \"Yes,\" said I,\n\"strictly speaking, the question is not how to get cured, but how to\nlive.\"\n\n'He approved with his head, a little sadly as it seemed. \"Ja! ja! In\ngeneral, adapting the words of your great poet: That is the\nquestion. . . .\" He went on nodding sympathetically. . . . \"How to be!\nAch! How to be.\"\n\n'He stood up with the tips of his fingers resting on the desk.\n\n'\"We want in so many different ways to be,\" he began again. \"This\nmagnificent butterfly finds a little heap of dirt and sits still on it;\nbut man he will never on his heap of mud keep still. He want to be so,\nand again he want to be so. . . .\" He moved his hand up, then down. . . .\n\"He wants to be a saint, and he wants to be a devil--and every time he\nshuts his eyes he sees himself as a very fine fellow--so fine as he can\nnever be. . . . In a dream. . . .\"\n\n'He lowered the glass lid, the automatic lock clicked sharply, and\ntaking up the case in both hands he bore it religiously away to its\nplace, passing out of the bright circle of the lamp into the ring of\nfainter light--into shapeless dusk at last. It had an odd effect--as\nif these few steps had carried him out of this concrete and perplexed\nworld. His tall form, as though robbed of its substance, hovered\nnoiselessly over invisible things with stooping and indefinite\nmovements; his voice, heard in that remoteness where he could be\nglimpsed mysteriously busy with immaterial cares, was no longer\nincisive, seemed to roll voluminous and grave--mellowed by distance.\n\n'\"And because you not always can keep your eyes shut there comes the\nreal trouble--the heart pain--the world pain. I tell you, my friend, it\nis not good for you to find you cannot make your dream come true, for\nthe reason that you not strong enough are, or not clever enough. . . .\nJa! . . . And all the time you are such a fine fellow too! Wie? Was?\nGott im Himmel! How can that be? Ha! ha! ha!\"\n\n'The shadow prowling amongst the graves of butterflies laughed\nboisterously.\n\n'\"Yes! Very funny this terrible thing is. A man that is born falls into\na dream like a man who falls into the sea. If he tries to climb out into\nthe air as inexperienced people endeavour to do, he drowns--nicht wahr?\n. . . No! I tell you! The way is to the destructive element submit\nyourself, and with the exertions of your hands and feet in the water\nmake the deep, deep sea keep you up. So if you ask me--how to be?\"\n\n'His voice leaped up extraordinarily strong, as though away there in\nthe dusk he had been inspired by some whisper of knowledge. \"I will tell\nyou! For that too there is only one way.\"\n\n'With a hasty swish-swish of his slippers he loomed up in the ring of\nfaint light, and suddenly appeared in the bright circle of the lamp. His\nextended hand aimed at my breast like a pistol; his deepset eyes seemed\nto pierce through me, but his twitching lips uttered no word, and the\naustere exaltation of a certitude seen in the dusk vanished from his\nface. The hand that had been pointing at my breast fell, and by-and-by,\ncoming a step nearer, he laid it gently on my shoulder. There were\nthings, he said mournfully, that perhaps could never be told, only he\nhad lived so much alone that sometimes he forgot--he forgot. The light\nhad destroyed the assurance which had inspired him in the distant\nshadows. He sat down and, with both elbows on the desk, rubbed his\nforehead. \"And yet it is true--it is true. In the destructive element\nimmerse.\" . . . He spoke in a subdued tone, without looking at me, one\nhand on each side of his face. \"That was the way. To follow the dream,\nand again to follow the dream--and so--ewig--usque ad finem. . . .\" The\nwhisper of his conviction seemed to open before me a vast and uncertain\nexpanse, as of a crepuscular horizon on a plain at dawn--or was it,\nperchance, at the coming of the night? One had not the courage to\ndecide; but it was a charming and deceptive light, throwing the\nimpalpable poesy of its dimness over pitfalls--over graves. His life had\nbegun in sacrifice, in enthusiasm for generous ideas; he had travelled\nvery far, on various ways, on strange paths, and whatever he followed\nit had been without faltering, and therefore without shame and without\nregret. In so far he was right. That was the way, no doubt. Yet for all\nthat, the great plain on which men wander amongst graves and pitfalls\nremained very desolate under the impalpable poesy of its crepuscular\nlight, overshadowed in the centre, circled with a bright edge as if\nsurrounded by an abyss full of flames. When at last I broke the silence\nit was to express the opinion that no one could be more romantic than\nhimself.\n\n'He shook his head slowly, and afterwards looked at me with a patient\nand inquiring glance. It was a shame, he said. There we were sitting\nand talking like two boys, instead of putting our heads together to find\nsomething practical--a practical remedy--for the evil--for the great\nevil--he repeated, with a humorous and indulgent smile. For all that,\nour talk did not grow more practical. We avoided pronouncing Jim's name\nas though we had tried to keep flesh and blood out of our discussion,\nor he were nothing but an erring spirit, a suffering and nameless shade.\n\"Na!\" said Stein, rising. \"To-night you sleep here, and in the morning\nwe shall do something practical--practical. . . .\" He lit a two-branched\ncandlestick and led the way. We passed through empty dark rooms,\nescorted by gleams from the lights Stein carried. They glided along the\nwaxed floors, sweeping here and there over the polished surface of\na table, leaped upon a fragmentary curve of a piece of furniture, or\nflashed perpendicularly in and out of distant mirrors, while the forms\nof two men and the flicker of two flames could be seen for a moment\nstealing silently across the depths of a crystalline void. He walked\nslowly a pace in advance with stooping courtesy; there was a profound,\nas it were a listening, quietude on his face; the long flaxen locks\nmixed with white threads were scattered thinly upon his slightly bowed\nneck.\n\n'\"He is romantic--romantic,\" he repeated. \"And that is very bad--very\nbad. . . . Very good, too,\" he added. \"But _is he_?\" I queried.\n\n'\"Gewiss,\" he said, and stood still holding up the candelabrum, but\nwithout looking at me. \"Evident! What is it that by inward pain makes\nhim know himself? What is it that for you and me makes him--exist?\"\n\n'At that moment it was difficult to believe in Jim's existence--starting\nfrom a country parsonage, blurred by crowds of men as by clouds of\ndust, silenced by the clashing claims of life and death in a material\nworld--but his imperishable reality came to me with a convincing, with\nan irresistible force! I saw it vividly, as though in our progress\nthrough the lofty silent rooms amongst fleeting gleams of light and\nthe sudden revelations of human figures stealing with flickering flames\nwithin unfathomable and pellucid depths, we had approached nearer to\nabsolute Truth, which, like Beauty itself, floats elusive, obscure, half\nsubmerged, in the silent still waters of mystery. \"Perhaps he is,\" I\nadmitted with a slight laugh, whose unexpectedly loud reverberation\nmade me lower my voice directly; \"but I am sure you are.\" With his head\ndropping on his breast and the light held high he began to walk again.\n\"Well--I exist, too,\" he said.\n\n'He preceded me. My eyes followed his movements, but what I did see was\nnot the head of the firm, the welcome guest at afternoon receptions,\nthe correspondent of learned societies, the entertainer of stray\nnaturalists; I saw only the reality of his destiny, which he had known\nhow to follow with unfaltering footsteps, that life begun in humble\nsurroundings, rich in generous enthusiasms, in friendship, love, war--in\nall the exalted elements of romance. At the door of my room he faced me.\n\"Yes,\" I said, as though carrying on a discussion, \"and amongst other\nthings you dreamed foolishly of a certain butterfly; but when one\nfine morning your dream came in your way you did not let the splendid\nopportunity escape. Did you? Whereas he . . .\" Stein lifted his hand.\n\"And do you know how many opportunities I let escape; how many dreams\nI had lost that had come in my way?\" He shook his head regretfully. \"It\nseems to me that some would have been very fine--if I had made them come\ntrue. Do you know how many? Perhaps I myself don't know.\" \"Whether his\nwere fine or not,\" I said, \"he knows of one which he certainly did not\ncatch.\" \"Everybody knows of one or two like that,\" said Stein; \"and that\nis the trouble--the great trouble. . . .\"\n\n'He shook hands on the threshold, peered into my room under his\nraised arm. \"Sleep well. And to-morrow we must do something\npractical--practical. . . .\"\n\n'Though his own room was beyond mine I saw him return the way he came.\nHe was going back to his butterflies.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 21\n\n\n'I don't suppose any of you have ever heard of Patusan?' Marlow resumed,\nafter a silence occupied in the careful lighting of a cigar. 'It does\nnot matter; there's many a heavenly body in the lot crowding upon us of\na night that mankind had never heard of, it being outside the sphere\nof its activities and of no earthly importance to anybody but to the\nastronomers who are paid to talk learnedly about its composition,\nweight, path--the irregularities of its conduct, the aberrations of its\nlight--a sort of scientific scandal-mongering. Thus with Patusan. It\nwas referred to knowingly in the inner government circles in Batavia,\nespecially as to its irregularities and aberrations, and it was known\nby name to some few, very few, in the mercantile world. Nobody, however,\nhad been there, and I suspect no one desired to go there in person,\njust as an astronomer, I should fancy, would strongly object to being\ntransported into a distant heavenly body, where, parted from his earthly\nemoluments, he would be bewildered by the view of an unfamiliar heavens.\nHowever, neither heavenly bodies nor astronomers have anything to do\nwith Patusan. It was Jim who went there. I only meant you to understand\nthat had Stein arranged to send him into a star of the fifth magnitude\nthe change could not have been greater. He left his earthly failings\nbehind him and what sort of reputation he had, and there was a totally\nnew set of conditions for his imaginative faculty to work upon. Entirely\nnew, entirely remarkable. And he got hold of them in a remarkable way.\n\n'Stein was the man who knew more about Patusan than anybody else. More\nthan was known in the government circles I suspect. I have no doubt he\nhad been there, either in his butterfly-hunting days or later on, when\nhe tried in his incorrigible way to season with a pinch of romance the\nfattening dishes of his commercial kitchen. There were very few places\nin the Archipelago he had not seen in the original dusk of their being,\nbefore light (and even electric light) had been carried into them for\nthe sake of better morality and--and--well--the greater profit, too.\nIt was at breakfast of the morning following our talk about Jim that he\nmentioned the place, after I had quoted poor Brierly's remark: \"Let him\ncreep twenty feet underground and stay there.\" He looked up at me with\ninterested attention, as though I had been a rare insect. \"This could be\ndone, too,\" he remarked, sipping his coffee. \"Bury him in some sort,\"\nI explained. \"One doesn't like to do it of course, but it would be the\nbest thing, seeing what he is.\" \"Yes; he is young,\" Stein mused. \"The\nyoungest human being now in existence,\" I affirmed. \"Schon. There's\nPatusan,\" he went on in the same tone. . . . \"And the woman is dead\nnow,\" he added incomprehensibly.\n\n'Of course I don't know that story; I can only guess that once before\nPatusan had been used as a grave for some sin, transgression, or\nmisfortune. It is impossible to suspect Stein. The only woman that\nhad ever existed for him was the Malay girl he called \"My wife the\nprincess,\" or, more rarely, in moments of expansion, \"the mother of my\nEmma.\" Who was the woman he had mentioned in connection with Patusan I\ncan't say; but from his allusions I understand she had been an educated\nand very good-looking Dutch-Malay girl, with a tragic or perhaps only a\npitiful history, whose most painful part no doubt was her marriage with\na Malacca Portuguese who had been clerk in some commercial house in\nthe Dutch colonies. I gathered from Stein that this man was an\nunsatisfactory person in more ways than one, all being more or less\nindefinite and offensive. It was solely for his wife's sake that Stein\nhad appointed him manager of Stein & Co.'s trading post in Patusan;\nbut commercially the arrangement was not a success, at any rate for\nthe firm, and now the woman had died, Stein was disposed to try another\nagent there. The Portuguese, whose name was Cornelius, considered\nhimself a very deserving but ill-used person, entitled by his abilities\nto a better position. This man Jim would have to relieve. \"But I don't\nthink he will go away from the place,\" remarked Stein. \"That has nothing\nto do with me. It was only for the sake of the woman that I . . . But as\nI think there is a daughter left, I shall let him, if he likes to stay,\nkeep the old house.\"\n\n'Patusan is a remote district of a native-ruled state, and the chief\nsettlement bears the same name. At a point on the river about forty\nmiles from the sea, where the first houses come into view, there can\nbe seen rising above the level of the forests the summits of two steep\nhills very close together, and separated by what looks like a deep\nfissure, the cleavage of some mighty stroke. As a matter of fact, the\nvalley between is nothing but a narrow ravine; the appearance from the\nsettlement is of one irregularly conical hill split in two, and with the\ntwo halves leaning slightly apart. On the third day after the full, the\nmoon, as seen from the open space in front of Jim's house (he had a very\nfine house in the native style when I visited him), rose exactly behind\nthese hills, its diffused light at first throwing the two masses into\nintensely black relief, and then the nearly perfect disc, glowing\nruddily, appeared, gliding upwards between the sides of the chasm, till\nit floated away above the summits, as if escaping from a yawning grave\nin gentle triumph. \"Wonderful effect,\" said Jim by my side. \"Worth\nseeing. Is it not?\"\n\n'And this question was put with a note of personal pride that made me\nsmile, as though he had had a hand in regulating that unique spectacle.\nHe had regulated so many things in Patusan--things that would have\nappeared as much beyond his control as the motions of the moon and the\nstars.\n\n'It was inconceivable. That was the distinctive quality of the part into\nwhich Stein and I had tumbled him unwittingly, with no other notion than\nto get him out of the way; out of his own way, be it understood. That\nwas our main purpose, though, I own, I might have had another motive\nwhich had influenced me a little. I was about to go home for a time;\nand it may be I desired, more than I was aware of myself, to dispose of\nhim--to dispose of him, you understand--before I left. I was going home,\nand he had come to me from there, with his miserable trouble and his\nshadowy claim, like a man panting under a burden in a mist. I cannot\nsay I had ever seen him distinctly--not even to this day, after I had\nmy last view of him; but it seemed to me that the less I understood\nthe more I was bound to him in the name of that doubt which is the\ninseparable part of our knowledge. I did not know so much more about\nmyself. And then, I repeat, I was going home--to that home distant\nenough for all its hearthstones to be like one hearthstone, by which the\nhumblest of us has the right to sit. We wander in our thousands over the\nface of the earth, the illustrious and the obscure, earning beyond the\nseas our fame, our money, or only a crust of bread; but it seems to me\nthat for each of us going home must be like going to render an account.\nWe return to face our superiors, our kindred, our friends--those whom we\nobey, and those whom we love; but even they who have neither, the most\nfree, lonely, irresponsible and bereft of ties,--even those for whom\nhome holds no dear face, no familiar voice,--even they have to meet the\nspirit that dwells within the land, under its sky, in its air, in its\nvalleys, and on its rises, in its fields, in its waters and its trees--a\nmute friend, judge, and inspirer. Say what you like, to get its joy,\nto breathe its peace, to face its truth, one must return with a clear\nconscience. All this may seem to you sheer sentimentalism; and indeed\nvery few of us have the will or the capacity to look consciously under\nthe surface of familiar emotions. There are the girls we love, the men\nwe look up to, the tenderness, the friendships, the opportunities, the\npleasures! But the fact remains that you must touch your reward with\nclean hands, lest it turn to dead leaves, to thorns, in your grasp. I\nthink it is the lonely, without a fireside or an affection they may call\ntheir own, those who return not to a dwelling but to the land itself, to\nmeet its disembodied, eternal, and unchangeable spirit--it is those who\nunderstand best its severity, its saving power, the grace of its secular\nright to our fidelity, to our obedience. Yes! few of us understand, but\nwe all feel it though, and I say _all_ without exception, because those\nwho do not feel do not count. Each blade of grass has its spot on earth\nwhence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land\nfrom which he draws his faith together with his life. I don't know\nhow much Jim understood; but I know he felt, he felt confusedly but\npowerfully, the demand of some such truth or some such illusion--I don't\ncare how you call it, there is so little difference, and the difference\nmeans so little. The thing is that in virtue of his feeling he mattered.\nHe would never go home now. Not he. Never. Had he been capable of\npicturesque manifestations he would have shuddered at the thought\nand made you shudder too. But he was not of that sort, though he was\nexpressive enough in his way. Before the idea of going home he would\ngrow desperately stiff and immovable, with lowered chin and pouted lips,\nand with those candid blue eyes of his glowering darkly under a frown,\nas if before something unbearable, as if before something revolting.\nThere was imagination in that hard skull of his, over which the thick\nclustering hair fitted like a cap. As to me, I have no imagination (I\nwould be more certain about him today, if I had), and I do not mean to\nimply that I figured to myself the spirit of the land uprising above the\nwhite cliffs of Dover, to ask me what I--returning with no bones broken,\nso to speak--had done with my very young brother. I could not make\nsuch a mistake. I knew very well he was of those about whom there is\nno inquiry; I had seen better men go out, disappear, vanish utterly,\nwithout provoking a sound of curiosity or sorrow. The spirit of\nthe land, as becomes the ruler of great enterprises, is careless of\ninnumerable lives. Woe to the stragglers! We exist only in so far as we\nhang together. He had straggled in a way; he had not hung on; but he was\naware of it with an intensity that made him touching, just as a man's\nmore intense life makes his death more touching than the death of a\ntree. I happened to be handy, and I happened to be touched. That's all\nthere is to it. I was concerned as to the way he would go out. It would\nhave hurt me if, for instance, he had taken to drink. The earth is so\nsmall that I was afraid of, some day, being waylaid by a blear-eyed,\nswollen-faced, besmirched loafer, with no soles to his canvas shoes,\nand with a flutter of rags about the elbows, who, on the strength of old\nacquaintance, would ask for a loan of five dollars. You know the awful\njaunty bearing of these scarecrows coming to you from a decent past,\nthe rasping careless voice, the half-averted impudent glances--those\nmeetings more trying to a man who believes in the solidarity of our\nlives than the sight of an impenitent death-bed to a priest. That, to\ntell you the truth, was the only danger I could see for him and for\nme; but I also mistrusted my want of imagination. It might even come\nto something worse, in some way it was beyond my powers of fancy to\nforesee. He wouldn't let me forget how imaginative he was, and your\nimaginative people swing farther in any direction, as if given a longer\nscope of cable in the uneasy anchorage of life. They do. They take to\ndrink too. It may be I was belittling him by such a fear. How could I\ntell? Even Stein could say no more than that he was romantic. I only\nknew he was one of us. And what business had he to be romantic? I\nam telling you so much about my own instinctive feelings and bemused\nreflections because there remains so little to be told of him. He\nexisted for me, and after all it is only through me that he exists for\nyou. I've led him out by the hand; I have paraded him before you. Were\nmy commonplace fears unjust? I won't say--not even now. You may be able\nto tell better, since the proverb has it that the onlookers see most of\nthe game. At any rate, they were superfluous. He did not go out, not at\nall; on the contrary, he came on wonderfully, came on straight as a die\nand in excellent form, which showed that he could stay as well as spurt.\nI ought to be delighted, for it is a victory in which I had taken my\npart; but I am not so pleased as I would have expected to be. I ask\nmyself whether his rush had really carried him out of that mist in\nwhich he loomed interesting if not very big, with floating outlines--a\nstraggler yearning inconsolably for his humble place in the ranks. And\nbesides, the last word is not said,--probably shall never be said. Are\nnot our lives too short for that full utterance which through all our\nstammerings is of course our only and abiding intention? I have given\nup expecting those last words, whose ring, if they could only be\npronounced, would shake both heaven and earth. There is never time to\nsay our last word--the last word of our love, of our desire, faith,\nremorse, submissions, revolt. The heaven and the earth must not be\nshaken, I suppose--at least, not by us who know so many truths about\neither. My last words about Jim shall be few. I affirm he had achieved\ngreatness; but the thing would be dwarfed in the telling, or rather in\nthe hearing. Frankly, it is not my words that I mistrust but your minds.\nI could be eloquent were I not afraid you fellows had starved your\nimaginations to feed your bodies. I do not mean to be offensive; it is\nrespectable to have no illusions--and safe--and profitable--and dull.\nYet you, too, in your time must have known the intensity of life, that\nlight of glamour created in the shock of trifles, as amazing as the glow\nof sparks struck from a cold stone--and as short-lived, alas!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 22\n\n\n'The conquest of love, honour, men's confidence--the pride of it, the\npower of it, are fit materials for a heroic tale; only our minds are\nstruck by the externals of such a success, and to Jim's successes there\nwere no externals. Thirty miles of forest shut it off from the sight of\nan indifferent world, and the noise of the white surf along the coast\noverpowered the voice of fame. The stream of civilisation, as if divided\non a headland a hundred miles north of Patusan, branches east and\nsouth-east, leaving its plains and valleys, its old trees and its old\nmankind, neglected and isolated, such as an insignificant and crumbling\nislet between the two branches of a mighty, devouring stream. You find\nthe name of the country pretty often in collections of old voyages. The\nseventeenth-century traders went there for pepper, because the passion\nfor pepper seemed to burn like a flame of love in the breast of Dutch\nand English adventurers about the time of James the First. Where\nwouldn't they go for pepper! For a bag of pepper they would cut each\nother's throats without hesitation, and would forswear their souls,\nof which they were so careful otherwise: the bizarre obstinacy of that\ndesire made them defy death in a thousand shapes--the unknown seas, the\nloathsome and strange diseases; wounds, captivity, hunger, pestilence,\nand despair. It made them great! By heavens! it made them heroic; and\nit made them pathetic too in their craving for trade with the inflexible\ndeath levying its toll on young and old. It seems impossible to believe\nthat mere greed could hold men to such a steadfastness of purpose, to\nsuch a blind persistence in endeavour and sacrifice. And indeed those\nwho adventured their persons and lives risked all they had for a slender\nreward. They left their bones to lie bleaching on distant shores, so\nthat wealth might flow to the living at home. To us, their less tried\nsuccessors, they appear magnified, not as agents of trade but as\ninstruments of a recorded destiny, pushing out into the unknown in\nobedience to an inward voice, to an impulse beating in the blood, to a\ndream of the future. They were wonderful; and it must be owned they\nwere ready for the wonderful. They recorded it complacently in their\nsufferings, in the aspect of the seas, in the customs of strange\nnations, in the glory of splendid rulers.\n\n'In Patusan they had found lots of pepper, and had been impressed by the\nmagnificence and the wisdom of the Sultan; but somehow, after a century\nof chequered intercourse, the country seems to drop gradually out of the\ntrade. Perhaps the pepper had given out. Be it as it may, nobody cares\nfor it now; the glory has departed, the Sultan is an imbecile youth\nwith two thumbs on his left hand and an uncertain and beggarly revenue\nextorted from a miserable population and stolen from him by his many\nuncles.\n\n'This of course I have from Stein. He gave me their names and a short\nsketch of the life and character of each. He was as full of information\nabout native states as an official report, but infinitely more amusing.\nHe _had_ to know. He traded in so many, and in some districts--as in\nPatusan, for instance--his firm was the only one to have an agency by\nspecial permit from the Dutch authorities. The Government trusted his\ndiscretion, and it was understood that he took all the risks. The men\nhe employed understood that too, but he made it worth their while\napparently. He was perfectly frank with me over the breakfast-table in\nthe morning. As far as he was aware (the last news was thirteen months\nold, he stated precisely), utter insecurity for life and property was\nthe normal condition. There were in Patusan antagonistic forces, and one\nof them was Rajah Allang, the worst of the Sultan's uncles, the governor\nof the river, who did the extorting and the stealing, and ground down\nto the point of extinction the country-born Malays, who, utterly\ndefenceless, had not even the resource of emigrating--\"For indeed,\" as\nStein remarked, \"where could they go, and how could they get away?\"\nNo doubt they did not even desire to get away. The world (which is\ncircumscribed by lofty impassable mountains) has been given into the\nhand of the high-born, and _this_ Rajah they knew: he was of their own\nroyal house. I had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman later on. He\nwas a dirty, little, used-up old man with evil eyes and a weak mouth,\nwho swallowed an opium pill every two hours, and in defiance of common\ndecency wore his hair uncovered and falling in wild stringy locks about\nhis wizened grimy face. When giving audience he would clamber upon a\nsort of narrow stage erected in a hall like a ruinous barn with a rotten\nbamboo floor, through the cracks of which you could see, twelve or\nfifteen feet below, the heaps of refuse and garbage of all kinds lying\nunder the house. That is where and how he received us when, accompanied\nby Jim, I paid him a visit of ceremony. There were about forty people in\nthe room, and perhaps three times as many in the great courtyard below.\nThere was constant movement, coming and going, pushing and murmuring,\nat our backs. A few youths in gay silks glared from the distance; the\nmajority, slaves and humble dependants, were half naked, in ragged\nsarongs, dirty with ashes and mud-stains. I had never seen Jim look so\ngrave, so self-possessed, in an impenetrable, impressive way. In the\nmidst of these dark-faced men, his stalwart figure in white apparel,\nthe gleaming clusters of his fair hair, seemed to catch all the sunshine\nthat trickled through the cracks in the closed shutters of that dim\nhall, with its walls of mats and a roof of thatch. He appeared like a\ncreature not only of another kind but of another essence. Had they not\nseen him come up in a canoe they might have thought he had descended\nupon them from the clouds. He did, however, come in a crazy dug-out,\nsitting (very still and with his knees together, for fear of overturning\nthe thing)--sitting on a tin box--which I had lent him--nursing on his\nlap a revolver of the Navy pattern--presented by me on parting--which,\nthrough an interposition of Providence, or through some wrong-headed\nnotion, that was just like him, or else from sheer instinctive sagacity,\nhe had decided to carry unloaded. That's how he ascended the Patusan\nriver. Nothing could have been more prosaic and more unsafe, more\nextravagantly casual, more lonely. Strange, this fatality that would\ncast the complexion of a flight upon all his acts, of impulsive\nunreflecting desertion of a jump into the unknown.\n\n'It is precisely the casualness of it that strikes me most. Neither\nStein nor I had a clear conception of what might be on the other side\nwhen we, metaphorically speaking, took him up and hove him over the\nwall with scant ceremony. At the moment I merely wished to achieve his\ndisappearance; Stein characteristically enough had a sentimental motive.\nHe had a notion of paying off (in kind, I suppose) the old debt he had\nnever forgotten. Indeed he had been all his life especially friendly to\nanybody from the British Isles. His late benefactor, it is true, was a\nScot--even to the length of being called Alexander McNeil--and Jim came\nfrom a long way south of the Tweed; but at the distance of six or\nseven thousand miles Great Britain, though never diminished, looks\nforeshortened enough even to its own children to rob such details of\ntheir importance. Stein was excusable, and his hinted intentions were\nso generous that I begged him most earnestly to keep them secret for\na time. I felt that no consideration of personal advantage should be\nallowed to influence Jim; that not even the risk of such influence\nshould be run. We had to deal with another sort of reality. He wanted\na refuge, and a refuge at the cost of danger should be offered\nhim--nothing more.\n\n'Upon every other point I was perfectly frank with him, and I even (as\nI believed at the time) exaggerated the danger of the undertaking. As\na matter of fact I did not do it justice; his first day in Patusan was\nnearly his last--would have been his last if he had not been so reckless\nor so hard on himself and had condescended to load that revolver. I\nremember, as I unfolded our precious scheme for his retreat, how his\nstubborn but weary resignation was gradually replaced by surprise,\ninterest, wonder, and by boyish eagerness. This was a chance he had been\ndreaming of. He couldn't think how he merited that I . . . He would be\nshot if he could see to what he owed . . . And it was Stein, Stein the\nmerchant, who . . . but of course it was me he had to . . . I cut him\nshort. He was not articulate, and his gratitude caused me inexplicable\npain. I told him that if he owed this chance to any one especially, it\nwas to an old Scot of whom he had never heard, who had died many years\nago, of whom little was remembered besides a roaring voice and a rough\nsort of honesty. There was really no one to receive his thanks. Stein\nwas passing on to a young man the help he had received in his own young\ndays, and I had done no more than to mention his name. Upon this he\ncoloured, and, twisting a bit of paper in his fingers, he remarked\nbashfully that I had always trusted him.\n\n'I admitted that such was the case, and added after a pause that I\nwished he had been able to follow my example. \"You think I don't?\" he\nasked uneasily, and remarked in a mutter that one had to get some sort\nof show first; then brightening up, and in a loud voice he protested he\nwould give me no occasion to regret my confidence, which--which . . .\n\n'\"Do not misapprehend,\" I interrupted. \"It is not in your power to make\nme regret anything.\" There would be no regrets; but if there were, it\nwould be altogether my own affair: on the other hand, I wished him to\nunderstand clearly that this arrangement, this--this--experiment, was\nhis own doing; he was responsible for it and no one else. \"Why? Why,\" he\nstammered, \"this is the very thing that I . . .\" I begged him not to\nbe dense, and he looked more puzzled than ever. He was in a fair way\nto make life intolerable to himself . . . \"Do you think so?\" he asked,\ndisturbed; but in a moment added confidently, \"I was going on though.\nWas I not?\" It was impossible to be angry with him: I could not help a\nsmile, and told him that in the old days people who went on like\nthis were on the way of becoming hermits in a wilderness. \"Hermits be\nhanged!\" he commented with engaging impulsiveness. Of course he didn't\nmind a wilderness. . . . \"I was glad of it,\" I said. That was where\nhe would be going to. He would find it lively enough, I ventured to\npromise. \"Yes, yes,\" he said, keenly. He had shown a desire, I continued\ninflexibly, to go out and shut the door after him. . . . \"Did I?\" he\ninterrupted in a strange access of gloom that seemed to envelop him\nfrom head to foot like the shadow of a passing cloud. He was wonderfully\nexpressive after all. Wonderfully! \"Did I?\" he repeated bitterly. \"You\ncan't say I made much noise about it. And I can keep it up, too--only,\nconfound it! you show me a door.\" . . . \"Very well. Pass on,\" I struck\nin. I could make him a solemn promise that it would be shut behind him\nwith a vengeance. His fate, whatever it was, would be ignored,\nbecause the country, for all its rotten state, was not judged ripe\nfor interference. Once he got in, it would be for the outside world as\nthough he had never existed. He would have nothing but the soles of his\ntwo feet to stand upon, and he would have first to find his ground at\nthat. \"Never existed--that's it, by Jove,\" he murmured to himself. His\neyes, fastened upon my lips, sparkled. If he had thoroughly understood\nthe conditions, I concluded, he had better jump into the first gharry he\ncould see and drive on to Stein's house for his final instructions. He\nflung out of the room before I had fairly finished speaking.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 23\n\n\n'He did not return till next morning. He had been kept to dinner and for\nthe night. There never had been such a wonderful man as Mr. Stein. He\nhad in his pocket a letter for Cornelius (\"the Johnnie who's going to\nget the sack,\" he explained, with a momentary drop in his elation), and\nhe exhibited with glee a silver ring, such as natives use, worn down\nvery thin and showing faint traces of chasing.\n\n'This was his introduction to an old chap called Doramin--one of the\nprincipal men out there--a big pot--who had been Mr. Stein's friend in\nthat country where he had all these adventures. Mr. Stein called him\n\"war-comrade.\" War-comrade was good. Wasn't it? And didn't Mr. Stein\nspeak English wonderfully well? Said he had learned it in Celebes--of\nall places! That was awfully funny. Was it not? He did speak with an\naccent--a twang--did I notice? That chap Doramin had given him the ring.\nThey had exchanged presents when they parted for the last time. Sort of\npromising eternal friendship. He called it fine--did I not? They had\nto make a dash for dear life out of the country when that\nMohammed--Mohammed--What's-his-name had been killed. I knew the story,\nof course. Seemed a beastly shame, didn't it? . . .\n\n'He ran on like this, forgetting his plate, with a knife and fork in\nhand (he had found me at tiffin), slightly flushed, and with his eyes\ndarkened many shades, which was with him a sign of excitement. The ring\nwas a sort of credential--(\"It's like something you read of in books,\"\nhe threw in appreciatively)--and Doramin would do his best for him. Mr.\nStein had been the means of saving that chap's life on some occasion;\npurely by accident, Mr. Stein had said, but he--Jim--had his own opinion\nabout that. Mr. Stein was just the man to look out for such accidents.\nNo matter. Accident or purpose, this would serve his turn immensely.\nHoped to goodness the jolly old beggar had not gone off the hooks\nmeantime. Mr. Stein could not tell. There had been no news for more\nthan a year; they were kicking up no end of an all-fired row amongst\nthemselves, and the river was closed. Jolly awkward, this; but, no fear;\nhe would manage to find a crack to get in.\n\n'He impressed, almost frightened, me with his elated rattle. He was\nvoluble like a youngster on the eve of a long holiday with a prospect of\ndelightful scrapes, and such an attitude of mind in a grown man and in\nthis connection had in it something phenomenal, a little mad, dangerous,\nunsafe. I was on the point of entreating him to take things seriously\nwhen he dropped his knife and fork (he had begun eating, or rather\nswallowing food, as it were, unconsciously), and began a search all\nround his plate. The ring! The ring! Where the devil . . . Ah! Here it\nwas . . . He closed his big hand on it, and tried all his pockets one\nafter another. Jove! wouldn't do to lose the thing. He meditated gravely\nover his fist. Had it? Would hang the bally affair round his neck! And\nhe proceeded to do this immediately, producing a string (which looked\nlike a bit of a cotton shoe-lace) for the purpose. There! That would do\nthe trick! It would be the deuce if . . . He seemed to catch sight of my\nface for the first time, and it steadied him a little. I probably didn't\nrealise, he said with a naive gravity, how much importance he attached\nto that token. It meant a friend; and it is a good thing to have a\nfriend. He knew something about that. He nodded at me expressively, but\nbefore my disclaiming gesture he leaned his head on his hand and for\na while sat silent, playing thoughtfully with the bread-crumbs on the\ncloth . . . \"Slam the door--that was jolly well put,\" he cried, and\njumping up, began to pace the room, reminding me by the set of the\nshoulders, the turn of his head, the headlong and uneven stride, of\nthat night when he had paced thus, confessing, explaining--what you\nwill--but, in the last instance, living--living before me, under his\nown little cloud, with all his unconscious subtlety which could draw\nconsolation from the very source of sorrow. It was the same mood, the\nsame and different, like a fickle companion that to-day guiding you\non the true path, with the same eyes, the same step, the same impulse,\nto-morrow will lead you hopelessly astray. His tread was assured, his\nstraying, darkened eyes seemed to search the room for something. One of\nhis footfalls somehow sounded louder than the other--the fault of his\nboots probably--and gave a curious impression of an invisible halt in\nhis gait. One of his hands was rammed deep into his trousers' pocket,\nthe other waved suddenly above his head. \"Slam the door!\" he shouted.\n\"I've been waiting for that. I'll show yet . . . I'll . . . I'm ready\nfor any confounded thing . . . I've been dreaming of it . . . Jove! Get\nout of this. Jove! This is luck at last . . . You wait. I'll . . .\"\n\n'He tossed his head fearlessly, and I confess that for the first and\nlast time in our acquaintance I perceived myself unexpectedly to be\nthoroughly sick of him. Why these vapourings? He was stumping about\nthe room flourishing his arm absurdly, and now and then feeling on\nhis breast for the ring under his clothes. Where was the sense of such\nexaltation in a man appointed to be a trading-clerk, and in a place\nwhere there was no trade--at that? Why hurl defiance at the universe?\nThis was not a proper frame of mind to approach any undertaking; an\nimproper frame of mind not only for him, I said, but for any man. He\nstood still over me. Did I think so? he asked, by no means subdued, and\nwith a smile in which I seemed to detect suddenly something insolent.\nBut then I am twenty years his senior. Youth is insolent; it is its\nright--its necessity; it has got to assert itself, and all assertion in\nthis world of doubts is a defiance, is an insolence. He went off into a\nfar corner, and coming back, he, figuratively speaking, turned to rend\nme. I spoke like that because I--even I, who had been no end kind\nto him--even I remembered--remembered--against him--what--what had\nhappened. And what about others--the--the--world? Where's the wonder he\nwanted to get out, meant to get out, meant to stay out--by heavens! And\nI talked about proper frames of mind!\n\n'\"It is not I or the world who remember,\" I shouted. \"It is you--you,\nwho remember.\"\n\n'He did not flinch, and went on with heat, \"Forget everything,\neverybody, everybody.\" . . . His voice fell. . . \"But you,\" he added.\n\n'\"Yes--me too--if it would help,\" I said, also in a low tone. After this\nwe remained silent and languid for a time as if exhausted. Then he began\nagain, composedly, and told me that Mr. Stein had instructed him to wait\nfor a month or so, to see whether it was possible for him to remain,\nbefore he began building a new house for himself, so as to avoid\n\"vain expense.\" He did make use of funny expressions--Stein did. \"Vain\nexpense\" was good. . . . Remain? Why! of course. He would hang on. Let\nhim only get in--that's all; he would answer for it he would remain.\nNever get out. It was easy enough to remain.\n\n'\"Don't be foolhardy,\" I said, rendered uneasy by his threatening tone.\n\"If you only live long enough you will want to come back.\"\n\n'\"Come back to what?\" he asked absently, with his eyes fixed upon the\nface of a clock on the wall.\n\n'I was silent for a while. \"Is it to be never, then?\" I said. \"Never,\"\nhe repeated dreamily without looking at me, and then flew into sudden\nactivity. \"Jove! Two o'clock, and I sail at four!\"\n\n'It was true. A brigantine of Stein's was leaving for the westward that\nafternoon, and he had been instructed to take his passage in her, only\nno orders to delay the sailing had been given. I suppose Stein forgot.\nHe made a rush to get his things while I went aboard my ship, where\nhe promised to call on his way to the outer roadstead. He turned up\naccordingly in a great hurry and with a small leather valise in his\nhand. This wouldn't do, and I offered him an old tin trunk of mine\nsupposed to be water-tight, or at least damp-tight. He effected the\ntransfer by the simple process of shooting out the contents of his\nvalise as you would empty a sack of wheat. I saw three books in the\ntumble; two small, in dark covers, and a thick green-and-gold volume--a\nhalf-crown complete Shakespeare. \"You read this?\" I asked. \"Yes. Best\nthing to cheer up a fellow,\" he said hastily. I was struck by this\nappreciation, but there was no time for Shakespearian talk. A\nheavy revolver and two small boxes of cartridges were lying on the\ncuddy-table. \"Pray take this,\" I said. \"It may help you to remain.\"\nNo sooner were these words out of my mouth than I perceived what grim\nmeaning they could bear. \"May help you to get in,\" I corrected myself\nremorsefully. He however was not troubled by obscure meanings; he\nthanked me effusively and bolted out, calling Good-bye over his\nshoulder. I heard his voice through the ship's side urging his boatmen\nto give way, and looking out of the stern-port I saw the boat rounding\nunder the counter. He sat in her leaning forward, exciting his men with\nvoice and gestures; and as he had kept the revolver in his hand and\nseemed to be presenting it at their heads, I shall never forget the\nscared faces of the four Javanese, and the frantic swing of their stroke\nwhich snatched that vision from under my eyes. Then turning away, the\nfirst thing I saw were the two boxes of cartridges on the cuddy-table.\nHe had forgotten to take them.\n\n'I ordered my gig manned at once; but Jim's rowers, under the impression\nthat their lives hung on a thread while they had that madman in the\nboat, made such excellent time that before I had traversed half the\ndistance between the two vessels I caught sight of him clambering over\nthe rail, and of his box being passed up. All the brigantine's canvas\nwas loose, her mainsail was set, and the windlass was just beginning to\nclink as I stepped upon her deck: her master, a dapper little half-caste\nof forty or so, in a blue flannel suit, with lively eyes, his round\nface the colour of lemon-peel, and with a thin little black moustache\ndrooping on each side of his thick, dark lips, came forward smirking. He\nturned out, notwithstanding his self-satisfied and cheery exterior, to\nbe of a careworn temperament. In answer to a remark of mine (while Jim\nhad gone below for a moment) he said, \"Oh yes. Patusan.\" He was going to\ncarry the gentleman to the mouth of the river, but would \"never ascend.\"\nHis flowing English seemed to be derived from a dictionary compiled by\na lunatic. Had Mr. Stein desired him to \"ascend,\" he would have\n\"reverentially\"--(I think he wanted to say respectfully--but devil only\nknows)--\"reverentially made objects for the safety of properties.\"\nIf disregarded, he would have presented \"resignation to quit.\" Twelve\nmonths ago he had made his last voyage there, and though Mr. Cornelius\n\"propitiated many offertories\" to Mr. Rajah Allang and the \"principal\npopulations,\" on conditions which made the trade \"a snare and ashes\nin the mouth,\" yet his ship had been fired upon from the woods by\n\"irresponsive parties\" all the way down the river; which causing his\ncrew \"from exposure to limb to remain silent in hidings,\" the brigantine\nwas nearly stranded on a sandbank at the bar, where she \"would have\nbeen perishable beyond the act of man.\" The angry disgust at the\nrecollection, the pride of his fluency, to which he turned an attentive\near, struggled for the possession of his broad simple face. He scowled\nand beamed at me, and watched with satisfaction the undeniable effect\nof his phraseology. Dark frowns ran swiftly over the placid sea, and\nthe brigantine, with her fore-topsail to the mast and her main-boom\namidships, seemed bewildered amongst the cat's-paws. He told me further,\ngnashing his teeth, that the Rajah was a \"laughable hyaena\" (can't\nimagine how he got hold of hyaenas); while somebody else was many\ntimes falser than the \"weapons of a crocodile.\" Keeping one eye on the\nmovements of his crew forward, he let loose his volubility--comparing\nthe place to a \"cage of beasts made ravenous by long impenitence.\" I\nfancy he meant impunity. He had no intention, he cried, to \"exhibit\nhimself to be made attached purposefully to robbery.\" The long-drawn\nwails, giving the time for the pull of the men catting the anchor,\ncame to an end, and he lowered his voice. \"Plenty too much enough of\nPatusan,\" he concluded, with energy.\n\n'I heard afterwards he had been so indiscreet as to get himself tied up\nby the neck with a rattan halter to a post planted in the middle of a\nmud-hole before the Rajah's house. He spent the best part of a day and a\nwhole night in that unwholesome situation, but there is every reason\nto believe the thing had been meant as a sort of joke. He brooded for\na while over that horrid memory, I suppose, and then addressed in a\nquarrelsome tone the man coming aft to the helm. When he turned to me\nagain it was to speak judicially, without passion. He would take the\ngentleman to the mouth of the river at Batu Kring (Patusan town \"being\nsituated internally,\" he remarked, \"thirty miles\"). But in his eyes,\nhe continued--a tone of bored, weary conviction replacing his previous\nvoluble delivery--the gentleman was already \"in the similitude of a\ncorpse.\" \"What? What do you say?\" I asked. He assumed a startlingly\nferocious demeanour, and imitated to perfection the act of stabbing from\nbehind. \"Already like the body of one deported,\" he explained, with the\ninsufferably conceited air of his kind after what they imagine a display\nof cleverness. Behind him I perceived Jim smiling silently at me, and\nwith a raised hand checking the exclamation on my lips.\n\n'Then, while the half-caste, bursting with importance, shouted his\norders, while the yards swung creaking and the heavy boom came surging\nover, Jim and I, alone as it were, to leeward of the mainsail, clasped\neach other's hands and exchanged the last hurried words. My heart was\nfreed from that dull resentment which had existed side by side with\ninterest in his fate. The absurd chatter of the half-caste had given\nmore reality to the miserable dangers of his path than Stein's careful\nstatements. On that occasion the sort of formality that had been always\npresent in our intercourse vanished from our speech; I believe I\ncalled him \"dear boy,\" and he tacked on the words \"old man\" to some\nhalf-uttered expression of gratitude, as though his risk set off against\nmy years had made us more equal in age and in feeling. There was a\nmoment of real and profound intimacy, unexpected and short-lived like a\nglimpse of some everlasting, of some saving truth. He exerted himself to\nsoothe me as though he had been the more mature of the two. \"All right,\nall right,\" he said, rapidly, and with feeling. \"I promise to take care\nof myself. Yes; I won't take any risks. Not a single blessed risk. Of\ncourse not. I mean to hang out. Don't you worry. Jove! I feel as if\nnothing could touch me. Why! this is luck from the word Go. I wouldn't\nspoil such a magnificent chance!\" . . . A magnificent chance! Well, it\n_was_ magnificent, but chances are what men make them, and how was I\nto know? As he had said, even I--even I remembered--his--his misfortune\nagainst him. It was true. And the best thing for him was to go.\n\n'My gig had dropped in the wake of the brigantine, and I saw him aft\ndetached upon the light of the westering sun, raising his cap high above\nhis head. I heard an indistinct shout, \"You--shall--hear--of--me.\" Of\nme, or from me, I don't know which. I think it must have been of me. My\neyes were too dazzled by the glitter of the sea below his feet to see\nhim clearly; I am fated never to see him clearly; but I can assure you\nno man could have appeared less \"in the similitude of a corpse,\" as that\nhalf-caste croaker had put it. I could see the little wretch's face,\nthe shape and colour of a ripe pumpkin, poked out somewhere under Jim's\nelbow. He, too, raised his arm as if for a downward thrust. Absit omen!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 24\n\n\n'The coast of Patusan (I saw it nearly two years afterwards) is straight\nand sombre, and faces a misty ocean. Red trails are seen like cataracts\nof rust streaming under the dark-green foliage of bushes and creepers\nclothing the low cliffs. Swampy plains open out at the mouth of rivers,\nwith a view of jagged blue peaks beyond the vast forests. In the offing\na chain of islands, dark, crumbling shapes, stand out in the everlasting\nsunlit haze like the remnants of a wall breached by the sea.\n\n'There is a village of fisher-folk at the mouth of the Batu Kring branch\nof the estuary. The river, which had been closed so long, was open then,\nand Stein's little schooner, in which I had my passage, worked her\nway up in three tides without being exposed to a fusillade from\n\"irresponsive parties.\" Such a state of affairs belonged already to\nancient history, if I could believe the elderly headman of the fishing\nvillage, who came on board to act as a sort of pilot. He talked to me\n(the second white man he had ever seen) with confidence, and most of his\ntalk was about the first white man he had ever seen. He called him Tuan\nJim, and the tone of his references was made remarkable by a strange\nmixture of familiarity and awe. They, in the village, were under that\nlord's special protection, which showed that Jim bore no grudge. If\nhe had warned me that I would hear of him it was perfectly true. I was\nhearing of him. There was already a story that the tide had turned\ntwo hours before its time to help him on his journey up the river. The\ntalkative old man himself had steered the canoe and had marvelled at the\nphenomenon. Moreover, all the glory was in his family. His son and his\nson-in-law had paddled; but they were only youths without experience,\nwho did not notice the speed of the canoe till he pointed out to them\nthe amazing fact.\n\n'Jim's coming to that fishing village was a blessing; but to them, as to\nmany of us, the blessing came heralded by terrors. So many generations\nhad been released since the last white man had visited the river that\nthe very tradition had been lost. The appearance of the being that\ndescended upon them and demanded inflexibly to be taken up to Patusan\nwas discomposing; his insistence was alarming; his generosity more than\nsuspicious. It was an unheard-of request. There was no precedent. What\nwould the Rajah say to this? What would he do to them? The best part\nof the night was spent in consultation; but the immediate risk from the\nanger of that strange man seemed so great that at last a cranky dug-out\nwas got ready. The women shrieked with grief as it put off. A fearless\nold hag cursed the stranger.\n\n'He sat in it, as I've told you, on his tin box, nursing the unloaded\nrevolver on his lap. He sat with precaution--than which there is nothing\nmore fatiguing--and thus entered the land he was destined to fill with\nthe fame of his virtues, from the blue peaks inland to the white ribbon\nof surf on the coast. At the first bend he lost sight of the sea with\nits labouring waves for ever rising, sinking, and vanishing to rise\nagain--the very image of struggling mankind--and faced the immovable\nforests rooted deep in the soil, soaring towards the sunshine,\neverlasting in the shadowy might of their tradition, like life itself.\nAnd his opportunity sat veiled by his side like an Eastern bride waiting\nto be uncovered by the hand of the master. He too was the heir of a\nshadowy and mighty tradition! He told me, however, that he had never in\nhis life felt so depressed and tired as in that canoe. All the movement\nhe dared to allow himself was to reach, as it were by stealth, after the\nshell of half a cocoa-nut floating between his shoes, and bale some of\nthe water out with a carefully restrained action. He discovered how hard\nthe lid of a block-tin case was to sit upon. He had heroic health; but\nseveral times during that journey he experienced fits of giddiness, and\nbetween whiles he speculated hazily as to the size of the blister the\nsun was raising on his back. For amusement he tried by looking ahead to\ndecide whether the muddy object he saw lying on the water's edge was a\nlog of wood or an alligator. Only very soon he had to give that up. No\nfun in it. Always alligator. One of them flopped into the river and all\nbut capsized the canoe. But this excitement was over directly. Then in\na long empty reach he was very grateful to a troop of monkeys who came\nright down on the bank and made an insulting hullabaloo on his passage.\nSuch was the way in which he was approaching greatness as genuine as any\nman ever achieved. Principally, he longed for sunset; and meantime\nhis three paddlers were preparing to put into execution their plan of\ndelivering him up to the Rajah.\n\n'\"I suppose I must have been stupid with fatigue, or perhaps I did doze\noff for a time,\" he said. The first thing he knew was his canoe coming\nto the bank. He became instantaneously aware of the forest having been\nleft behind, of the first houses being visible higher up, of a stockade\non his left, and of his boatmen leaping out together upon a low point of\nland and taking to their heels. Instinctively he leaped out after them.\nAt first he thought himself deserted for some inconceivable reason, but\nhe heard excited shouts, a gate swung open, and a lot of people poured\nout, making towards him. At the same time a boat full of armed men\nappeared on the river and came alongside his empty canoe, thus shutting\noff his retreat.\n\n'\"I was too startled to be quite cool--don't you know? and if that\nrevolver had been loaded I would have shot somebody--perhaps two, three\nbodies, and that would have been the end of me. But it wasn't. . . .\"\n\"Why not?\" I asked. \"Well, I couldn't fight the whole population, and\nI wasn't coming to them as if I were afraid of my life,\" he said, with\njust a faint hint of his stubborn sulkiness in the glance he gave me.\nI refrained from pointing out to him that they could not have known the\nchambers were actually empty. He had to satisfy himself in his own way.\n. . . \"Anyhow it wasn't,\" he repeated good-humouredly, \"and so I just\nstood still and asked them what was the matter. That seemed to strike\nthem dumb. I saw some of these thieves going off with my box. That\nlong-legged old scoundrel Kassim (I'll show him to you to-morrow)\nran out fussing to me about the Rajah wanting to see me. I said, 'All\nright.' I too wanted to see the Rajah, and I simply walked in through\nthe gate and--and--here I am.\" He laughed, and then with unexpected\nemphasis, \"And do you know what's the best in it?\" he asked. \"I'll tell\nyou. It's the knowledge that had I been wiped out it is this place that\nwould have been the loser.\"\n\n'He spoke thus to me before his house on that evening I've\nmentioned--after we had watched the moon float away above the chasm\nbetween the hills like an ascending spirit out of a grave; its sheen\ndescended, cold and pale, like the ghost of dead sunlight. There\nis something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the\ndispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its\ninconceivable mystery. It is to our sunshine, which--say what you\nlike--is all we have to live by, what the echo is to the sound:\nmisleading and confusing whether the note be mocking or sad. It robs all\nforms of matter--which, after all, is our domain--of their substance,\nand gives a sinister reality to shadows alone. And the shadows were\nvery real around us, but Jim by my side looked very stalwart, as though\nnothing--not even the occult power of moonlight--could rob him of his\nreality in my eyes. Perhaps, indeed, nothing could touch him since he\nhad survived the assault of the dark powers. All was silent, all was\nstill; even on the river the moonbeams slept as on a pool. It was the\nmoment of high water, a moment of immobility that accentuated the utter\nisolation of this lost corner of the earth. The houses crowding along\nthe wide shining sweep without ripple or glitter, stepping into the\nwater in a line of jostling, vague, grey, silvery forms mingled with\nblack masses of shadow, were like a spectral herd of shapeless creatures\npressing forward to drink in a spectral and lifeless stream. Here and\nthere a red gleam twinkled within the bamboo walls, warm, like a living\nspark, significant of human affections, of shelter, of repose.\n\n'He confessed to me that he often watched these tiny warm gleams go\nout one by one, that he loved to see people go to sleep under his eyes,\nconfident in the security of to-morrow. \"Peaceful here, eh?\" he asked.\nHe was not eloquent, but there was a deep meaning in the words that\nfollowed. \"Look at these houses; there's not one where I am not trusted.\nJove! I told you I would hang on. Ask any man, woman, or child . . .\" He\npaused. \"Well, I am all right anyhow.\"\n\n'I observed quickly that he had found that out in the end. I had been\nsure of it, I added. He shook his head. \"Were you?\" He pressed my arm\nlightly above the elbow. \"Well, then--you were right.\"\n\n'There was elation and pride, there was awe almost, in that low\nexclamation. \"Jove!\" he cried, \"only think what it is to me.\" Again he\npressed my arm. \"And you asked me whether I thought of leaving. Good\nGod! I! want to leave! Especially now after what you told me of Mr.\nStein's . . . Leave! Why! That's what I was afraid of. It would have\nbeen--it would have been harder than dying. No--on my word. Don't\nlaugh. I must feel--every day, every time I open my eyes--that I am\ntrusted--that nobody has a right--don't you know? Leave! For where? What\nfor? To get what?\"\n\n'I had told him (indeed it was the main object of my visit) that it was\nStein's intention to present him at once with the house and the stock\nof trading goods, on certain easy conditions which would make the\ntransaction perfectly regular and valid. He began to snort and plunge at\nfirst. \"Confound your delicacy!\" I shouted. \"It isn't Stein at all. It's\ngiving you what you had made for yourself. And in any case keep your\nremarks for McNeil--when you meet him in the other world. I hope it\nwon't happen soon. . . .\" He had to give in to my arguments, because all\nhis conquests, the trust, the fame, the friendships, the love--all these\nthings that made him master had made him a captive, too. He looked with\nan owner's eye at the peace of the evening, at the river, at the houses,\nat the everlasting life of the forests, at the life of the old mankind,\nat the secrets of the land, at the pride of his own heart; but it was\nthey that possessed him and made him their own to the innermost thought,\nto the slightest stir of blood, to his last breath.\n\n'It was something to be proud of. I, too, was proud--for him, if not so\ncertain of the fabulous value of the bargain. It was wonderful. It was\nnot so much of his fearlessness that I thought. It is strange how little\naccount I took of it: as if it had been something too conventional to be\nat the root of the matter. No. I was more struck by the other gifts he\nhad displayed. He had proved his grasp of the unfamiliar situation,\nhis intellectual alertness in that field of thought. There was his\nreadiness, too! Amazing. And all this had come to him in a manner like\nkeen scent to a well-bred hound. He was not eloquent, but there was a\ndignity in this constitutional reticence, there was a high seriousness\nin his stammerings. He had still his old trick of stubborn blushing. Now\nand then, though, a word, a sentence, would escape him that showed how\ndeeply, how solemnly, he felt about that work which had given him the\ncertitude of rehabilitation. That is why he seemed to love the land\nand the people with a sort of fierce egoism, with a contemptuous\ntenderness.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 25\n\n\n'\"This is where I was prisoner for three days,\" he murmured to me (it\nwas on the occasion of our visit to the Rajah), while we were making our\nway slowly through a kind of awestruck riot of dependants across Tunku\nAllang's courtyard. \"Filthy place, isn't it? And I couldn't get anything\nto eat either, unless I made a row about it, and then it was only\na small plate of rice and a fried fish not much bigger than a\nstickleback--confound them! Jove! I've been hungry prowling inside this\nstinking enclosure with some of these vagabonds shoving their mugs right\nunder my nose. I had given up that famous revolver of yours at the first\ndemand. Glad to get rid of the bally thing. Look like a fool walking\nabout with an empty shooting-iron in my hand.\" At that moment we came\ninto the presence, and he became unflinchingly grave and complimentary\nwith his late captor. Oh! magnificent! I want to laugh when I think of\nit. But I was impressed, too. The old disreputable Tunku Allang could\nnot help showing his fear (he was no hero, for all the tales of his hot\nyouth he was fond of telling); and at the same time there was a wistful\nconfidence in his manner towards his late prisoner. Note! Even where he\nwould be most hated he was still trusted. Jim--as far as I could follow\nthe conversation--was improving the occasion by the delivery of a\nlecture. Some poor villagers had been waylaid and robbed while on their\nway to Doramin's house with a few pieces of gum or beeswax which they\nwished to exchange for rice. \"It was Doramin who was a thief,\" burst\nout the Rajah. A shaking fury seemed to enter that old frail body.\nHe writhed weirdly on his mat, gesticulating with his hands and feet,\ntossing the tangled strings of his mop--an impotent incarnation of rage.\nThere were staring eyes and dropping jaws all around us. Jim began to\nspeak. Resolutely, coolly, and for some time he enlarged upon the text\nthat no man should be prevented from getting his food and his children's\nfood honestly. The other sat like a tailor at his board, one palm on\neach knee, his head low, and fixing Jim through the grey hair that\nfell over his very eyes. When Jim had done there was a great stillness.\nNobody seemed to breathe even; no one made a sound till the old Rajah\nsighed faintly, and looking up, with a toss of his head, said quickly,\n\"You hear, my people! No more of these little games.\" This decree\nwas received in profound silence. A rather heavy man, evidently in a\nposition of confidence, with intelligent eyes, a bony, broad, very dark\nface, and a cheerily of officious manner (I learned later on he was the\nexecutioner), presented to us two cups of coffee on a brass tray, which\nhe took from the hands of an inferior attendant. \"You needn't drink,\"\nmuttered Jim very rapidly. I didn't perceive the meaning at first, and\nonly looked at him. He took a good sip and sat composedly, holding the\nsaucer in his left hand. In a moment I felt excessively annoyed. \"Why\nthe devil,\" I whispered, smiling at him amiably, \"do you expose me to\nsuch a stupid risk?\" I drank, of course, there was nothing for it, while\nhe gave no sign, and almost immediately afterwards we took our leave.\nWhile we were going down the courtyard to our boat, escorted by the\nintelligent and cheery executioner, Jim said he was very sorry. It was\nthe barest chance, of course. Personally he thought nothing of poison.\nThe remotest chance. He was--he assured me--considered to be infinitely\nmore useful than dangerous, and so . . . \"But the Rajah is afraid of\nyou abominably. Anybody can see that,\" I argued with, I own, a certain\npeevishness, and all the time watching anxiously for the first twist of\nsome sort of ghastly colic. I was awfully disgusted. \"If I am to do any\ngood here and preserve my position,\" he said, taking his seat by my\nside in the boat, \"I must stand the risk: I take it once every month, at\nleast. Many people trust me to do that--for them. Afraid of me! That's\njust it. Most likely he is afraid of me because I am not afraid of his\ncoffee.\" Then showing me a place on the north front of the stockade\nwhere the pointed tops of several stakes were broken, \"This is where\nI leaped over on my third day in Patusan. They haven't put new stakes\nthere yet. Good leap, eh?\" A moment later we passed the mouth of a muddy\ncreek. \"This is my second leap. I had a bit of a run and took this one\nflying, but fell short. Thought I would leave my skin there. Lost my\nshoes struggling. And all the time I was thinking to myself how beastly\nit would be to get a jab with a bally long spear while sticking in the\nmud like this. I remember how sick I felt wriggling in that slime. I\nmean really sick--as if I had bitten something rotten.\"\n\n'That's how it was--and the opportunity ran by his side, leaped over the\ngap, floundered in the mud . . . still veiled. The unexpectedness of his\ncoming was the only thing, you understand, that saved him from being at\nonce dispatched with krisses and flung into the river. They had him, but\nit was like getting hold of an apparition, a wraith, a portent. What did\nit mean? What to do with it? Was it too late to conciliate him? Hadn't\nhe better be killed without more delay? But what would happen then?\nWretched old Allang went nearly mad with apprehension and through the\ndifficulty of making up his mind. Several times the council was broken\nup, and the advisers made a break helter-skelter for the door and out\non to the verandah. One--it is said--even jumped down to the\nground--fifteen feet, I should judge--and broke his leg. The royal\ngovernor of Patusan had bizarre mannerisms, and one of them was to\nintroduce boastful rhapsodies into every arduous discussion, when,\ngetting gradually excited, he would end by flying off his perch with a\nkriss in his hand. But, barring such interruptions, the deliberations\nupon Jim's fate went on night and day.\n\n'Meanwhile he wandered about the courtyard, shunned by some, glared at\nby others, but watched by all, and practically at the mercy of the first\ncasual ragamuffin with a chopper, in there. He took possession of a\nsmall tumble-down shed to sleep in; the effluvia of filth and rotten\nmatter incommoded him greatly: it seems he had not lost his appetite\nthough, because--he told me--he had been hungry all the blessed time.\nNow and again \"some fussy ass\" deputed from the council-room would\ncome out running to him, and in honeyed tones would administer amazing\ninterrogatories: \"Were the Dutch coming to take the country? Would the\nwhite man like to go back down the river? What was the object of coming\nto such a miserable country? The Rajah wanted to know whether the white\nman could repair a watch?\" They did actually bring out to him a nickel\nclock of New England make, and out of sheer unbearable boredom he busied\nhimself in trying to get the alarum to work. It was apparently when\nthus occupied in his shed that the true perception of his extreme peril\ndawned upon him. He dropped the thing--he says--\"like a hot potato,\"\nand walked out hastily, without the slightest idea of what he would,\nor indeed could, do. He only knew that the position was intolerable. He\nstrolled aimlessly beyond a sort of ramshackle little granary on posts,\nand his eyes fell on the broken stakes of the palisade; and then--he\nsays--at once, without any mental process as it were, without any stir\nof emotion, he set about his escape as if executing a plan matured for a\nmonth. He walked off carelessly to give himself a good run, and when he\nfaced about there was some dignitary, with two spearmen in attendance,\nclose at his elbow ready with a question. He started off \"from under his\nvery nose,\" went over \"like a bird,\" and landed on the other side with\na fall that jarred all his bones and seemed to split his head. He picked\nhimself up instantly. He never thought of anything at the time; all he\ncould remember--he said--was a great yell; the first houses of Patusan\nwere before him four hundred yards away; he saw the creek, and as it\nwere mechanically put on more pace. The earth seemed fairly to fly\nbackwards under his feet. He took off from the last dry spot, felt\nhimself flying through the air, felt himself, without any shock, planted\nupright in an extremely soft and sticky mudbank. It was only when he\ntried to move his legs and found he couldn't that, in his own words,\n\"he came to himself.\" He began to think of the \"bally long spears.\" As\na matter of fact, considering that the people inside the stockade had to\nrun to the gate, then get down to the landing-place, get into boats,\nand pull round a point of land, he had more advance than he imagined.\nBesides, it being low water, the creek was without water--you couldn't\ncall it dry--and practically he was safe for a time from everything but\na very long shot perhaps. The higher firm ground was about six feet in\nfront of him. \"I thought I would have to die there all the same,\"\nhe said. He reached and grabbed desperately with his hands, and only\nsucceeded in gathering a horrible cold shiny heap of slime against his\nbreast--up to his very chin. It seemed to him he was burying himself\nalive, and then he struck out madly, scattering the mud with his fists.\nIt fell on his head, on his face, over his eyes, into his mouth. He told\nme that he remembered suddenly the courtyard, as you remember a place\nwhere you had been very happy years ago. He longed--so he said--to be\nback there again, mending the clock. Mending the clock--that was the\nidea. He made efforts, tremendous sobbing, gasping efforts, efforts that\nseemed to burst his eyeballs in their sockets and make him blind, and\nculminating into one mighty supreme effort in the darkness to crack the\nearth asunder, to throw it off his limbs--and he felt himself creeping\nfeebly up the bank. He lay full length on the firm ground and saw the\nlight, the sky. Then as a sort of happy thought the notion came to him\nthat he would go to sleep. He will have it that he _did_ actually go to\nsleep; that he slept--perhaps for a minute, perhaps for twenty seconds,\nor only for one second, but he recollects distinctly the violent\nconvulsive start of awakening. He remained lying still for a while, and\nthen he arose muddy from head to foot and stood there, thinking he\nwas alone of his kind for hundreds of miles, alone, with no help, no\nsympathy, no pity to expect from any one, like a hunted animal. The\nfirst houses were not more than twenty yards from him; and it was the\ndesperate screaming of a frightened woman trying to carry off a child\nthat started him again. He pelted straight on in his socks, beplastered\nwith filth out of all semblance to a human being. He traversed more\nthan half the length of the settlement. The nimbler women fled right and\nleft, the slower men just dropped whatever they had in their hands, and\nremained petrified with dropping jaws. He was a flying terror. He says\nhe noticed the little children trying to run for life, falling on their\nlittle stomachs and kicking. He swerved between two houses up a slope,\nclambered in desperation over a barricade of felled trees (there wasn't\na week without some fight in Patusan at that time), burst through a\nfence into a maize-patch, where a scared boy flung a stick at him,\nblundered upon a path, and ran all at once into the arms of several\nstartled men. He just had breath enough to gasp out, \"Doramin! Doramin!\"\nHe remembers being half-carried, half-rushed to the top of the slope,\nand in a vast enclosure with palms and fruit trees being run up to a\nlarge man sitting massively in a chair in the midst of the greatest\npossible commotion and excitement. He fumbled in mud and clothes to\nproduce the ring, and, finding himself suddenly on his back, wondered\nwho had knocked him down. They had simply let him go--don't you\nknow?--but he couldn't stand. At the foot of the slope random shots were\nfired, and above the roofs of the settlement there rose a dull roar of\namazement. But he was safe. Doramin's people were barricading the gate\nand pouring water down his throat; Doramin's old wife, full of business\nand commiseration, was issuing shrill orders to her girls. \"The old\nwoman,\" he said softly, \"made a to-do over me as if I had been her own\nson. They put me into an immense bed--her state bed--and she ran in\nand out wiping her eyes to give me pats on the back. I must have been a\npitiful object. I just lay there like a log for I don't know how long.\"\n\n'He seemed to have a great liking for Doramin's old wife. She on her\nside had taken a motherly fancy to him. She had a round, nut-brown,\nsoft face, all fine wrinkles, large, bright red lips (she chewed\nbetel assiduously), and screwed up, winking, benevolent eyes. She was\nconstantly in movement, scolding busily and ordering unceasingly a troop\nof young women with clear brown faces and big grave eyes, her daughters,\nher servants, her slave-girls. You know how it is in these households:\nit's generally impossible to tell the difference. She was very spare,\nand even her ample outer garment, fastened in front with jewelled\nclasps, had somehow a skimpy effect. Her dark bare feet were thrust into\nyellow straw slippers of Chinese make. I have seen her myself flitting\nabout with her extremely thick, long, grey hair falling about her\nshoulders. She uttered homely shrewd sayings, was of noble birth, and\nwas eccentric and arbitrary. In the afternoon she would sit in a very\nroomy arm-chair, opposite her husband, gazing steadily through a wide\nopening in the wall which gave an extensive view of the settlement and\nthe river.\n\n'She invariably tucked up her feet under her, but old Doramin sat\nsquarely, sat imposingly as a mountain sits on a plain. He was only\nof the nakhoda or merchant class, but the respect shown to him and\nthe dignity of his bearing were very striking. He was the chief of\nthe second power in Patusan. The immigrants from Celebes (about sixty\nfamilies that, with dependants and so on, could muster some two hundred\nmen \"wearing the kriss\") had elected him years ago for their head. The\nmen of that race are intelligent, enterprising, revengeful, but with a\nmore frank courage than the other Malays, and restless under oppression.\nThey formed the party opposed to the Rajah. Of course the quarrels were\nfor trade. This was the primary cause of faction fights, of the sudden\noutbreaks that would fill this or that part of the settlement with\nsmoke, flame, the noise of shots and shrieks. Villages were burnt, men\nwere dragged into the Rajah's stockade to be killed or tortured for the\ncrime of trading with anybody else but himself. Only a day or two before\nJim's arrival several heads of households in the very fishing village\nthat was afterwards taken under his especial protection had been driven\nover the cliffs by a party of the Rajah's spearmen, on suspicion of\nhaving been collecting edible birds' nests for a Celebes trader. Rajah\nAllang pretended to be the only trader in his country, and the penalty\nfor the breach of the monopoly was death; but his idea of trading was\nindistinguishable from the commonest forms of robbery. His cruelty and\nrapacity had no other bounds than his cowardice, and he was afraid of\nthe organised power of the Celebes men, only--till Jim came--he was not\nafraid enough to keep quiet. He struck at them through his subjects, and\nthought himself pathetically in the right. The situation was complicated\nby a wandering stranger, an Arab half-breed, who, I believe, on\npurely religious grounds, had incited the tribes in the interior (the\nbush-folk, as Jim himself called them) to rise, and had established\nhimself in a fortified camp on the summit of one of the twin hills. He\nhung over the town of Patusan like a hawk over a poultry-yard, but he\ndevastated the open country. Whole villages, deserted, rotted on their\nblackened posts over the banks of clear streams, dropping piecemeal into\nthe water the grass of their walls, the leaves of their roofs, with a\ncurious effect of natural decay as if they had been a form of vegetation\nstricken by a blight at its very root. The two parties in Patusan were\nnot sure which one this partisan most desired to plunder. The Rajah\nintrigued with him feebly. Some of the Bugis settlers, weary with\nendless insecurity, were half inclined to call him in. The younger\nspirits amongst them, chaffing, advised to \"get Sherif Ali with his wild\nmen and drive the Rajah Allang out of the country.\" Doramin restrained\nthem with difficulty. He was growing old, and, though his influence had\nnot diminished, the situation was getting beyond him. This was the state\nof affairs when Jim, bolting from the Rajah's stockade, appeared before\nthe chief of the Bugis, produced the ring, and was received, in a manner\nof speaking, into the heart of the community.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 26\n\n\n'Doramin was one of the most remarkable men of his race I had ever seen.\nHis bulk for a Malay was immense, but he did not look merely fat; he\nlooked imposing, monumental. This motionless body, clad in rich stuffs,\ncoloured silks, gold embroideries; this huge head, enfolded in a\nred-and-gold headkerchief; the flat, big, round face, wrinkled,\nfurrowed, with two semicircular heavy folds starting on each side of\nwide, fierce nostrils, and enclosing a thick-lipped mouth; the throat\nlike a bull; the vast corrugated brow overhanging the staring proud\neyes--made a whole that, once seen, can never be forgotten. His\nimpassive repose (he seldom stirred a limb when once he sat down) was\nlike a display of dignity. He was never known to raise his voice. It\nwas a hoarse and powerful murmur, slightly veiled as if heard from a\ndistance. When he walked, two short, sturdy young fellows, naked to the\nwaist, in white sarongs and with black skull-caps on the backs of their\nheads, sustained his elbows; they would ease him down and stand behind\nhis chair till he wanted to rise, when he would turn his head slowly,\nas if with difficulty, to the right and to the left, and then they would\ncatch him under his armpits and help him up. For all that, there was\nnothing of a cripple about him: on the contrary, all his ponderous\nmovements were like manifestations of a mighty deliberate force. It\nwas generally believed he consulted his wife as to public affairs; but\nnobody, as far as I know, had ever heard them exchange a single word.\nWhen they sat in state by the wide opening it was in silence. They could\nsee below them in the declining light the vast expanse of the forest\ncountry, a dark sleeping sea of sombre green undulating as far as the\nviolet and purple range of mountains; the shining sinuosity of the river\nlike an immense letter S of beaten silver; the brown ribbon of houses\nfollowing the sweep of both banks, overtopped by the twin hills uprising\nabove the nearer tree-tops. They were wonderfully contrasted: she,\nlight, delicate, spare, quick, a little witch-like, with a touch of\nmotherly fussiness in her repose; he, facing her, immense and heavy,\nlike a figure of a man roughly fashioned of stone, with something\nmagnanimous and ruthless in his immobility. The son of these old people\nwas a most distinguished youth.\n\n'They had him late in life. Perhaps he was not really so young as he\nlooked. Four- or five-and-twenty is not so young when a man is already\nfather of a family at eighteen. When he entered the large room, lined\nand carpeted with fine mats, and with a high ceiling of white sheeting,\nwhere the couple sat in state surrounded by a most deferential retinue,\nhe would make his way straight to Doramin, to kiss his hand--which the\nother abandoned to him, majestically--and then would step across to\nstand by his mother's chair. I suppose I may say they idolised him, but\nI never caught them giving him an overt glance. Those, it is true, were\npublic functions. The room was generally thronged. The solemn formality\nof greetings and leave-takings, the profound respect expressed in\ngestures, on the faces, in the low whispers, is simply indescribable.\n\"It's well worth seeing,\" Jim had assured me while we were crossing the\nriver, on our way back. \"They are like people in a book, aren't they?\"\nhe said triumphantly. \"And Dain Waris--their son--is the best\nfriend (barring you) I ever had. What Mr. Stein would call a good\n'war-comrade.' I was in luck. Jove! I was in luck when I tumbled amongst\nthem at my last gasp.\" He meditated with bowed head, then rousing\nhimself he added--'\"Of course I didn't go to sleep over it, but . . .\"\nHe paused again. \"It seemed to come to me,\" he murmured. \"All at once I\nsaw what I had to do . . .\"\n\n'There was no doubt that it had come to him; and it had come through\nwar, too, as is natural, since this power that came to him was the power\nto make peace. It is in this sense alone that might so often is right.\nYou must not think he had seen his way at once. When he arrived the\nBugis community was in a most critical position. \"They were all afraid,\"\nhe said to me--\"each man afraid for himself; while I could see as plain\nas possible that they must do something at once, if they did not want\nto go under one after another, what between the Rajah and that vagabond\nSherif.\" But to see that was nothing. When he got his idea he had\nto drive it into reluctant minds, through the bulwarks of fear, of\nselfishness. He drove it in at last. And that was nothing. He had to\ndevise the means. He devised them--an audacious plan; and his task\nwas only half done. He had to inspire with his own confidence a lot\nof people who had hidden and absurd reasons to hang back; he had to\nconciliate imbecile jealousies, and argue away all sorts of senseless\nmistrusts. Without the weight of Doramin's authority, and his son's\nfiery enthusiasm, he would have failed. Dain Waris, the distinguished\nyouth, was the first to believe in him; theirs was one of those strange,\nprofound, rare friendships between brown and white, in which the very\ndifference of race seems to draw two human beings closer by some mystic\nelement of sympathy. Of Dain Waris, his own people said with pride that\nhe knew how to fight like a white man. This was true; he had that\nsort of courage--the courage in the open, I may say--but he had also a\nEuropean mind. You meet them sometimes like that, and are surprised to\ndiscover unexpectedly a familiar turn of thought, an unobscured vision,\na tenacity of purpose, a touch of altruism. Of small stature, but\nadmirably well proportioned, Dain Waris had a proud carriage, a\npolished, easy bearing, a temperament like a clear flame. His dusky\nface, with big black eyes, was in action expressive, and in repose\nthoughtful. He was of a silent disposition; a firm glance, an ironic\nsmile, a courteous deliberation of manner seemed to hint at great\nreserves of intelligence and power. Such beings open to the Western eye,\nso often concerned with mere surfaces, the hidden possibilities of races\nand lands over which hangs the mystery of unrecorded ages. He not only\ntrusted Jim, he understood him, I firmly believe. I speak of him because\nhe had captivated me. His--if I may say so--his caustic placidity,\nand, at the same time, his intelligent sympathy with Jim's aspirations,\nappealed to me. I seemed to behold the very origin of friendship. If\nJim took the lead, the other had captivated his leader. In fact, Jim\nthe leader was a captive in every sense. The land, the people, the\nfriendship, the love, were like the jealous guardians of his body.\nEvery day added a link to the fetters of that strange freedom. I felt\nconvinced of it, as from day to day I learned more of the story.\n\n'The story! Haven't I heard the story? I've heard it on the march, in\ncamp (he made me scour the country after invisible game); I've listened\nto a good part of it on one of the twin summits, after climbing the last\nhundred feet or so on my hands and knees. Our escort (we had volunteer\nfollowers from village to village) had camped meantime on a bit of level\nground half-way up the slope, and in the still breathless evening the\nsmell of wood-smoke reached our nostrils from below with the penetrating\ndelicacy of some choice scent. Voices also ascended, wonderful in their\ndistinct and immaterial clearness. Jim sat on the trunk of a felled\ntree, and pulling out his pipe began to smoke. A new growth of grass and\nbushes was springing up; there were traces of an earthwork under a mass\nof thorny twigs. \"It all started from here,\" he said, after a long and\nmeditative silence. On the other hill, two hundred yards across a sombre\nprecipice, I saw a line of high blackened stakes, showing here and there\nruinously--the remnants of Sherif Ali's impregnable camp.\n\n'But it had been taken, though. That had been his idea. He had\nmounted Doramin's old ordnance on the top of that hill; two rusty iron\n7-pounders, a lot of small brass cannon--currency cannon. But if the\nbrass guns represent wealth, they can also, when crammed recklessly to\nthe muzzle, send a solid shot to some little distance. The thing was\nto get them up there. He showed me where he had fastened the cables,\nexplained how he had improvised a rude capstan out of a hollowed log\nturning upon a pointed stake, indicated with the bowl of his pipe the\noutline of the earthwork. The last hundred feet of the ascent had been\nthe most difficult. He had made himself responsible for success on his\nown head. He had induced the war party to work hard all night. Big\nfires lighted at intervals blazed all down the slope, \"but up here,\" he\nexplained, \"the hoisting gang had to fly around in the dark.\" From the\ntop he saw men moving on the hillside like ants at work. He himself on\nthat night had kept on rushing down and climbing up like a squirrel,\ndirecting, encouraging, watching all along the line. Old Doramin had\nhimself carried up the hill in his arm-chair. They put him down on the\nlevel place upon the slope, and he sat there in the light of one of the\nbig fires--\"amazing old chap--real old chieftain,\" said Jim, \"with his\nlittle fierce eyes--a pair of immense flintlock pistols on his knees.\nMagnificent things, ebony, silver-mounted, with beautiful locks and\na calibre like an old blunderbuss. A present from Stein, it seems--in\nexchange for that ring, you know. Used to belong to good old McNeil. God\nonly knows how _he_ came by them. There he sat, moving neither hand nor\nfoot, a flame of dry brushwood behind him, and lots of people rushing\nabout, shouting and pulling round him--the most solemn, imposing old\nchap you can imagine. He wouldn't have had much chance if Sherif Ali had\nlet his infernal crew loose at us and stampeded my lot. Eh? Anyhow, he\nhad come up there to die if anything went wrong. No mistake! Jove! It\nthrilled me to see him there--like a rock. But the Sherif must have\nthought us mad, and never troubled to come and see how we got on. Nobody\nbelieved it could be done. Why! I think the very chaps who pulled and\nshoved and sweated over it did not believe it could be done! Upon my\nword I don't think they did. . . .\"\n\n'He stood erect, the smouldering brier-wood in his clutch, with a smile\non his lips and a sparkle in his boyish eyes. I sat on the stump of a\ntree at his feet, and below us stretched the land, the great expanse of\nthe forests, sombre under the sunshine, rolling like a sea, with glints\nof winding rivers, the grey spots of villages, and here and there a\nclearing, like an islet of light amongst the dark waves of continuous\ntree-tops. A brooding gloom lay over this vast and monotonous landscape;\nthe light fell on it as if into an abyss. The land devoured the\nsunshine; only far off, along the coast, the empty ocean, smooth and\npolished within the faint haze, seemed to rise up to the sky in a wall\nof steel.\n\n'And there I was with him, high in the sunshine on the top of that\nhistoric hill of his. He dominated the forest, the secular gloom, the\nold mankind. He was like a figure set up on a pedestal, to represent in\nhis persistent youth the power, and perhaps the virtues, of races that\nnever grow old, that have emerged from the gloom. I don't know why he\nshould always have appeared to me symbolic. Perhaps this is the real\ncause of my interest in his fate. I don't know whether it was exactly\nfair to him to remember the incident which had given a new direction to\nhis life, but at that very moment I remembered very distinctly. It was\nlike a shadow in the light.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 27\n\n\n'Already the legend had gifted him with supernatural powers. Yes, it\nwas said, there had been many ropes cunningly disposed, and a strange\ncontrivance that turned by the efforts of many men, and each gun went\nup tearing slowly through the bushes, like a wild pig rooting its way in\nthe undergrowth, but . . . and the wisest shook their heads. There was\nsomething occult in all this, no doubt; for what is the strength of\nropes and of men's arms? There is a rebellious soul in things which must\nbe overcome by powerful charms and incantations. Thus old Sura--a very\nrespectable householder of Patusan--with whom I had a quiet chat one\nevening. However, Sura was a professional sorcerer also, who attended\nall the rice sowings and reapings for miles around for the purpose of\nsubduing the stubborn souls of things. This occupation he seemed to\nthink a most arduous one, and perhaps the souls of things are more\nstubborn than the souls of men. As to the simple folk of outlying\nvillages, they believed and said (as the most natural thing in the\nworld) that Jim had carried the guns up the hill on his back--two at a\ntime.\n\n'This would make Jim stamp his foot in vexation and exclaim with an\nexasperated little laugh, \"What can you do with such silly beggars? They\nwill sit up half the night talking bally rot, and the greater the lie\nthe more they seem to like it.\" You could trace the subtle influence of\nhis surroundings in this irritation. It was part of his captivity. The\nearnestness of his denials was amusing, and at last I said, \"My dear\nfellow, you don't suppose _I_ believe this.\" He looked at me quite\nstartled. \"Well, no! I suppose not,\" he said, and burst into a Homeric\npeal of laughter. \"Well, anyhow the guns were there, and went off all\ntogether at sunrise. Jove! You should have seen the splinters fly,\" he\ncried. By his side Dain Waris, listening with a quiet smile, dropped his\neyelids and shuffled his feet a little. It appears that the success in\nmounting the guns had given Jim's people such a feeling of confidence\nthat he ventured to leave the battery under charge of two elderly Bugis\nwho had seen some fighting in their day, and went to join Dain Waris and\nthe storming party who were concealed in the ravine. In the small hours\nthey began creeping up, and when two-thirds of the way up, lay in the\nwet grass waiting for the appearance of the sun, which was the agreed\nsignal. He told me with what impatient anguishing emotion he watched the\nswift coming of the dawn; how, heated with the work and the climbing,\nhe felt the cold dew chilling his very bones; how afraid he was he\nwould begin to shiver and shake like a leaf before the time came for\nthe advance. \"It was the slowest half-hour in my life,\" he declared.\nGradually the silent stockade came out on the sky above him. Men\nscattered all down the slope were crouching amongst the dark stones and\ndripping bushes. Dain Waris was lying flattened by his side. \"We\nlooked at each other,\" Jim said, resting a gentle hand on his friend's\nshoulder. \"He smiled at me as cheery as you please, and I dared not stir\nmy lips for fear I would break out into a shivering fit. 'Pon my word,\nit's true! I had been streaming with perspiration when we took cover--so\nyou may imagine . . .\" He declared, and I believe him, that he had no\nfears as to the result. He was only anxious as to his ability to repress\nthese shivers. He didn't bother about the result. He was bound to get to\nthe top of that hill and stay there, whatever might happen. There could\nbe no going back for him. Those people had trusted him implicitly. Him\nalone! His bare word. . . .\n\n'I remember how, at this point, he paused with his eyes fixed upon me.\n\"As far as he knew, they never had an occasion to regret it yet,\"\nhe said. \"Never. He hoped to God they never would. Meantime--worse\nluck!--they had got into the habit of taking his word for anything and\neverything. I could have no idea! Why, only the other day an old fool he\nhad never seen in his life came from some village miles away to find\nout if he should divorce his wife. Fact. Solemn word. That's the sort\nof thing. . . He wouldn't have believed it. Would I? Squatted on the\nverandah chewing betel-nut, sighing and spitting all over the place for\nmore than an hour, and as glum as an undertaker before he came out with\nthat dashed conundrum. That's the kind of thing that isn't so funny as\nit looks. What was a fellow to say?--Good wife?--Yes. Good wife--old\nthough. Started a confounded long story about some brass pots. Been\nliving together for fifteen years--twenty years--could not tell. A long,\nlong time. Good wife. Beat her a little--not much--just a little, when\nshe was young. Had to--for the sake of his honour. Suddenly in her old\nage she goes and lends three brass pots to her sister's son's wife, and\nbegins to abuse him every day in a loud voice. His enemies jeered at\nhim; his face was utterly blackened. Pots totally lost. Awfully cut up\nabout it. Impossible to fathom a story like that; told him to go home,\nand promised to come along myself and settle it all. It's all very well\nto grin, but it was the dashedest nuisance! A day's journey through the\nforest, another day lost in coaxing a lot of silly villagers to get at\nthe rights of the affair. There was the making of a sanguinary shindy\nin the thing. Every bally idiot took sides with one family or the other,\nand one half of the village was ready to go for the other half with\nanything that came handy. Honour bright! No joke! . . . Instead of\nattending to their bally crops. Got him the infernal pots back of\ncourse--and pacified all hands. No trouble to settle it. Of course not.\nCould settle the deadliest quarrel in the country by crooking his little\nfinger. The trouble was to get at the truth of anything. Was not sure\nto this day whether he had been fair to all parties. It worried him. And\nthe talk! Jove! There didn't seem to be any head or tail to it. Rather\nstorm a twenty-foot-high old stockade any day. Much! Child's play to\nthat other job. Wouldn't take so long either. Well, yes; a funny set\nout, upon the whole--the fool looked old enough to be his grandfather.\nBut from another point of view it was no joke. His word decided\neverything--ever since the smashing of Sherif Ali. An awful\nresponsibility,\" he repeated. \"No, really--joking apart, had it been\nthree lives instead of three rotten brass pots it would have been the\nsame. . . .\"\n\n'Thus he illustrated the moral effect of his victory in war. It was in\ntruth immense. It had led him from strife to peace, and through death\ninto the innermost life of the people; but the gloom of the land spread\nout under the sunshine preserved its appearance of inscrutable, of\nsecular repose. The sound of his fresh young voice--it's extraordinary\nhow very few signs of wear he showed--floated lightly, and passed away\nover the unchanged face of the forests like the sound of the big guns\non that cold dewy morning when he had no other concern on earth but\nthe proper control of the chills in his body. With the first slant of\nsun-rays along these immovable tree-tops the summit of one hill wreathed\nitself, with heavy reports, in white clouds of smoke, and the other\nburst into an amazing noise of yells, war-cries, shouts of anger, of\nsurprise, of dismay. Jim and Dain Waris were the first to lay their\nhands on the stakes. The popular story has it that Jim with a touch\nof one finger had thrown down the gate. He was, of course, anxious\nto disclaim this achievement. The whole stockade--he would insist on\nexplaining to you--was a poor affair (Sherif Ali trusted mainly to the\ninaccessible position); and, anyway, the thing had been already knocked\nto pieces and only hung together by a miracle. He put his shoulder to it\nlike a little fool and went in head over heels. Jove! If it hadn't been\nfor Dain Waris, a pock-marked tattooed vagabond would have pinned him\nwith his spear to a baulk of timber like one of Stein's beetles. The\nthird man in, it seems, had been Tamb' Itam, Jim's own servant. This was\na Malay from the north, a stranger who had wandered into Patusan, and\nhad been forcibly detained by Rajah Allang as paddler of one of the\nstate boats. He had made a bolt of it at the first opportunity, and\nfinding a precarious refuge (but very little to eat) amongst the Bugis\nsettlers, had attached himself to Jim's person. His complexion was very\ndark, his face flat, his eyes prominent and injected with bile. There\nwas something excessive, almost fanatical, in his devotion to his\n\"white lord.\" He was inseparable from Jim like a morose shadow. On state\noccasions he would tread on his master's heels, one hand on the haft\nof his kriss, keeping the common people at a distance by his truculent\nbrooding glances. Jim had made him the headman of his establishment, and\nall Patusan respected and courted him as a person of much influence. At\nthe taking of the stockade he had distinguished himself greatly by the\nmethodical ferocity of his fighting. The storming party had come on so\nquick--Jim said--that notwithstanding the panic of the garrison, there\nwas a \"hot five minutes hand-to-hand inside that stockade, till some\nbally ass set fire to the shelters of boughs and dry grass, and we all\nhad to clear out for dear life.\"\n\n'The rout, it seems, had been complete. Doramin, waiting immovably in\nhis chair on the hillside, with the smoke of the guns spreading slowly\nabove his big head, received the news with a deep grunt. When informed\nthat his son was safe and leading the pursuit, he, without another\nsound, made a mighty effort to rise; his attendants hurried to his help,\nand, held up reverently, he shuffled with great dignity into a bit of\nshade, where he laid himself down to sleep, covered entirely with a\npiece of white sheeting. In Patusan the excitement was intense. Jim told\nme that from the hill, turning his back on the stockade with its embers,\nblack ashes, and half-consumed corpses, he could see time after time the\nopen spaces between the houses on both sides of the stream fill suddenly\nwith a seething rush of people and get empty in a moment. His ears\ncaught feebly from below the tremendous din of gongs and drums; the wild\nshouts of the crowd reached him in bursts of faint roaring. A lot of\nstreamers made a flutter as of little white, red, yellow birds amongst\nthe brown ridges of roofs. \"You must have enjoyed it,\" I murmured,\nfeeling the stir of sympathetic emotion.\n\n'\"It was . . . it was immense! Immense!\" he cried aloud, flinging his\narms open. The sudden movement startled me as though I had seen him bare\nthe secrets of his breast to the sunshine, to the brooding forests, to\nthe steely sea. Below us the town reposed in easy curves upon the banks\nof a stream whose current seemed to sleep. \"Immense!\" he repeated for a\nthird time, speaking in a whisper, for himself alone.\n\n'Immense! No doubt it was immense; the seal of success upon his words,\nthe conquered ground for the soles of his feet, the blind trust of\nmen, the belief in himself snatched from the fire, the solitude of his\nachievement. All this, as I've warned you, gets dwarfed in the telling.\nI can't with mere words convey to you the impression of his total and\nutter isolation. I know, of course, he was in every sense alone of his\nkind there, but the unsuspected qualities of his nature had brought him\nin such close touch with his surroundings that this isolation seemed\nonly the effect of his power. His loneliness added to his stature. There\nwas nothing within sight to compare him with, as though he had been one\nof those exceptional men who can be only measured by the greatness of\ntheir fame; and his fame, remember, was the greatest thing around for\nmany a day's journey. You would have to paddle, pole, or track a long\nweary way through the jungle before you passed beyond the reach of its\nvoice. Its voice was not the trumpeting of the disreputable goddess we\nall know--not blatant--not brazen. It took its tone from the stillness\nand gloom of the land without a past, where his word was the one truth\nof every passing day. It shared something of the nature of that\nsilence through which it accompanied you into unexplored depths, heard\ncontinuously by your side, penetrating, far-reaching--tinged with wonder\nand mystery on the lips of whispering men.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 28\n\n\n'The defeated Sherif Ali fled the country without making another stand,\nand when the miserable hunted villagers began to crawl out of the jungle\nback to their rotting houses, it was Jim who, in consultation with Dain\nWaris, appointed the headmen. Thus he became the virtual ruler of the\nland. As to old Tunku Allang, his fears at first had known no bounds. It\nis said that at the intelligence of the successful storming of the hill\nhe flung himself, face down, on the bamboo floor of his audience-hall,\nand lay motionless for a whole night and a whole day, uttering stifled\nsounds of such an appalling nature that no man dared approach his\nprostrate form nearer than a spear's length. Already he could see\nhimself driven ignominiously out of Patusan, wandering abandoned,\nstripped, without opium, without his women, without followers, a fair\ngame for the first comer to kill. After Sherif Ali his turn would come,\nand who could resist an attack led by such a devil? And indeed he owed\nhis life and such authority as he still possessed at the time of my\nvisit to Jim's idea of what was fair alone. The Bugis had been extremely\nanxious to pay off old scores, and the impassive old Doramin cherished\nthe hope of yet seeing his son ruler of Patusan. During one of our\ninterviews he deliberately allowed me to get a glimpse of this secret\nambition. Nothing could be finer in its way than the dignified wariness\nof his approaches. He himself--he began by declaring--had used his\nstrength in his young days, but now he had grown old and tired. . . .\nWith his imposing bulk and haughty little eyes darting sagacious,\ninquisitive glances, he reminded one irresistibly of a cunning old\nelephant; the slow rise and fall of his vast breast went on powerful and\nregular, like the heave of a calm sea. He too, as he protested, had an\nunbounded confidence in Tuan Jim's wisdom. If he could only obtain a\npromise! One word would be enough! . . . His breathing silences, the\nlow rumblings of his voice, recalled the last efforts of a spent\nthunderstorm.\n\n'I tried to put the subject aside. It was difficult, for there could be\nno question that Jim had the power; in his new sphere there did not seem\nto be anything that was not his to hold or to give. But that, I repeat,\nwas nothing in comparison with the notion, which occurred to me, while I\nlistened with a show of attention, that he seemed to have come very near\nat last to mastering his fate. Doramin was anxious about the future of\nthe country, and I was struck by the turn he gave to the argument. The\nland remains where God had put it; but white men--he said--they come to\nus and in a little while they go. They go away. Those they leave behind\ndo not know when to look for their return. They go to their own land, to\ntheir people, and so this white man too would. . . . I don't know what\ninduced me to commit myself at this point by a vigorous \"No, no.\" The\nwhole extent of this indiscretion became apparent when Doramin, turning\nfull upon me his face, whose expression, fixed in rugged deep folds,\nremained unalterable, like a huge brown mask, said that this was good\nnews indeed, reflectively; and then wanted to know why.\n\n'His little, motherly witch of a wife sat on my other hand, with\nher head covered and her feet tucked up, gazing through the great\nshutter-hole. I could only see a straying lock of grey hair, a high\ncheek-bone, the slight masticating motion of the sharp chin. Without\nremoving her eyes from the vast prospect of forests stretching as far as\nthe hills, she asked me in a pitying voice why was it that he so young\nhad wandered from his home, coming so far, through so many dangers?\nHad he no household there, no kinsmen in his own country? Had he no old\nmother, who would always remember his face? . . .\n\n'I was completely unprepared for this. I could only mutter and shake my\nhead vaguely. Afterwards I am perfectly aware I cut a very poor figure\ntrying to extricate myself out of this difficulty. From that moment,\nhowever, the old nakhoda became taciturn. He was not very pleased, I\nfear, and evidently I had given him food for thought. Strangely enough,\non the evening of that very day (which was my last in Patusan) I was\nonce more confronted with the same question, with the unanswerable why\nof Jim's fate. And this brings me to the story of his love.\n\n'I suppose you think it is a story that you can imagine for yourselves.\nWe have heard so many such stories, and the majority of us don't believe\nthem to be stories of love at all. For the most part we look upon them\nas stories of opportunities: episodes of passion at best, or perhaps\nonly of youth and temptation, doomed to forgetfulness in the end, even\nif they pass through the reality of tenderness and regret. This view\nmostly is right, and perhaps in this case too. . . . Yet I don't know.\nTo tell this story is by no means so easy as it should be--were the\nordinary standpoint adequate. Apparently it is a story very much like\nthe others: for me, however, there is visible in its background the\nmelancholy figure of a woman, the shadow of a cruel wisdom buried in a\nlonely grave, looking on wistfully, helplessly, with sealed lips. The\ngrave itself, as I came upon it during an early morning stroll, was a\nrather shapeless brown mound, with an inlaid neat border of white lumps\nof coral at the base, and enclosed within a circular fence made of split\nsaplings, with the bark left on. A garland of leaves and flowers was\nwoven about the heads of the slender posts--and the flowers were fresh.\n\n'Thus, whether the shadow is of my imagination or not, I can at all\nevents point out the significant fact of an unforgotten grave. When I\ntell you besides that Jim with his own hands had worked at the rustic\nfence, you will perceive directly the difference, the individual side of\nthe story. There is in his espousal of memory and affection belonging to\nanother human being something characteristic of his seriousness. He had\na conscience, and it was a romantic conscience. Through her whole life\nthe wife of the unspeakable Cornelius had no other companion, confidant,\nand friend but her daughter. How the poor woman had come to marry the\nawful little Malacca Portuguese--after the separation from the father\nof her girl--and how that separation had been brought about, whether by\ndeath, which can be sometimes merciful, or by the merciless pressure of\nconventions, is a mystery to me. From the little which Stein (who knew\nso many stories) had let drop in my hearing, I am convinced that she was\nno ordinary woman. Her own father had been a white; a high official;\none of the brilliantly endowed men who are not dull enough to nurse a\nsuccess, and whose careers so often end under a cloud. I suppose she too\nmust have lacked the saving dullness--and her career ended in Patusan.\nOur common fate . . . for where is the man--I mean a real sentient\nman--who does not remember vaguely having been deserted in the fullness\nof possession by some one or something more precious than life? . . .\nour common fate fastens upon the women with a peculiar cruelty. It\ndoes not punish like a master, but inflicts lingering torment, as if to\ngratify a secret, unappeasable spite. One would think that, appointed\nto rule on earth, it seeks to revenge itself upon the beings that come\nnearest to rising above the trammels of earthly caution; for it is\nonly women who manage to put at times into their love an element just\npalpable enough to give one a fright--an extra-terrestrial touch. I ask\nmyself with wonder--how the world can look to them--whether it has the\nshape and substance _we_ know, the air _we_ breathe! Sometimes I fancy\nit must be a region of unreasonable sublimities seething with the\nexcitement of their adventurous souls, lighted by the glory of all\npossible risks and renunciations. However, I suspect there are very few\nwomen in the world, though of course I am aware of the multitudes of\nmankind and of the equality of sexes--in point of numbers, that is. But\nI am sure that the mother was as much of a woman as the daughter seemed\nto be. I cannot help picturing to myself these two, at first the young\nwoman and the child, then the old woman and the young girl, the awful\nsameness and the swift passage of time, the barrier of forest, the\nsolitude and the turmoil round these two lonely lives, and every word\nspoken between them penetrated with sad meaning. There must have\nbeen confidences, not so much of fact, I suppose, as of innermost\nfeelings--regrets--fears--warnings, no doubt: warnings that the younger\ndid not fully understand till the elder was dead--and Jim came along.\nThen I am sure she understood much--not everything--the fear mostly, it\nseems. Jim called her by a word that means precious, in the sense of a\nprecious gem--jewel. Pretty, isn't it? But he was capable of anything.\nHe was equal to his fortune, as he--after all--must have been equal to\nhis misfortune. Jewel he called her; and he would say this as he might\nhave said \"Jane,\" don't you know--with a marital, homelike, peaceful\neffect. I heard the name for the first time ten minutes after I had\nlanded in his courtyard, when, after nearly shaking my arm off, he\ndarted up the steps and began to make a joyous, boyish disturbance at\nthe door under the heavy eaves. \"Jewel! O Jewel! Quick! Here's a friend\ncome,\" . . . and suddenly peering at me in the dim verandah, he mumbled\nearnestly, \"You know--this--no confounded nonsense about it--can't tell\nyou how much I owe to her--and so--you understand--I--exactly as\nif . . .\" His hurried, anxious whispers were cut short by the flitting of\na white form within the house, a faint exclamation, and a child-like but\nenergetic little face with delicate features and a profound, attentive\nglance peeped out of the inner gloom, like a bird out of the recess of a\nnest. I was struck by the name, of course; but it was not till later\non that I connected it with an astonishing rumour that had met me on my\njourney, at a little place on the coast about 230 miles south of Patusan\nRiver. Stein's schooner, in which I had my passage, put in there, to\ncollect some produce, and, going ashore, I found to my great surprise\nthat the wretched locality could boast of a third-class deputy-assistant\nresident, a big, fat, greasy, blinking fellow of mixed descent, with\nturned-out, shiny lips. I found him lying extended on his back in a cane\nchair, odiously unbuttoned, with a large green leaf of some sort on the\ntop of his steaming head, and another in his hand which he used lazily\nas a fan . . . Going to Patusan? Oh yes. Stein's Trading Company. He\nknew. Had a permission? No business of his. It was not so bad there now,\nhe remarked negligently, and, he went on drawling, \"There's some sort of\nwhite vagabond has got in there, I hear. . . . Eh? What you say?\nFriend of yours? So! . . . Then it was true there was one of these\nverdammte--What was he up to? Found his way in, the rascal. Eh? I had\nnot been sure. Patusan--they cut throats there--no business of ours.\" He\ninterrupted himself to groan. \"Phoo! Almighty! The heat! The heat! Well,\nthen, there might be something in the story too, after all, and . . .\"\nHe shut one of his beastly glassy eyes (the eyelid went on quivering)\nwhile he leered at me atrociously with the other. \"Look here,\" says\nhe mysteriously, \"if--do you understand?--if he has really got hold of\nsomething fairly good--none of your bits of green glass--understand?--I\nam a Government official--you tell the rascal . . . Eh? What? Friend of\nyours?\" . . . He continued wallowing calmly in the chair . . . \"You said\nso; that's just it; and I am pleased to give you the hint. I suppose\nyou too would like to get something out of it? Don't interrupt. You\njust tell him I've heard the tale, but to my Government I have made no\nreport. Not yet. See? Why make a report? Eh? Tell him to come to me if\nthey let him get alive out of the country. He had better look out\nfor himself. Eh? I promise to ask no questions. On the quiet--you\nunderstand? You too--you shall get something from me. Small commission\nfor the trouble. Don't interrupt. I am a Government official, and make\nno report. That's business. Understand? I know some good people that\nwill buy anything worth having, and can give him more money than\nthe scoundrel ever saw in his life. I know his sort.\" He fixed me\nsteadfastly with both his eyes open, while I stood over him utterly\namazed, and asking myself whether he was mad or drunk. He perspired,\npuffed, moaning feebly, and scratching himself with such horrible\ncomposure that I could not bear the sight long enough to find out. Next\nday, talking casually with the people of the little native court of the\nplace, I discovered that a story was travelling slowly down the\ncoast about a mysterious white man in Patusan who had got hold of\nan extraordinary gem--namely, an emerald of an enormous size, and\naltogether priceless. The emerald seems to appeal more to the Eastern\nimagination than any other precious stone. The white man had obtained\nit, I was told, partly by the exercise of his wonderful strength and\npartly by cunning, from the ruler of a distant country, whence he had\nfled instantly, arriving in Patusan in utmost distress, but frightening\nthe people by his extreme ferocity, which nothing seemed able to subdue.\nMost of my informants were of the opinion that the stone was probably\nunlucky,--like the famous stone of the Sultan of Succadana, which in\nthe old times had brought wars and untold calamities upon that country.\nPerhaps it was the same stone--one couldn't say. Indeed the story of a\nfabulously large emerald is as old as the arrival of the first white men\nin the Archipelago; and the belief in it is so persistent that less than\nforty years ago there had been an official Dutch inquiry into the truth\nof it. Such a jewel--it was explained to me by the old fellow from whom\nI heard most of this amazing Jim-myth--a sort of scribe to the wretched\nlittle Rajah of the place;--such a jewel, he said, cocking his poor\npurblind eyes up at me (he was sitting on the cabin floor out of\nrespect), is best preserved by being concealed about the person of a\nwoman. Yet it is not every woman that would do. She must be young--he\nsighed deeply--and insensible to the seductions of love. He shook his\nhead sceptically. But such a woman seemed to be actually in existence.\nHe had been told of a tall girl, whom the white man treated with great\nrespect and care, and who never went forth from the house unattended.\nPeople said the white man could be seen with her almost any day; they\nwalked side by side, openly, he holding her arm under his--pressed to\nhis side--thus--in a most extraordinary way. This might be a lie, he\nconceded, for it was indeed a strange thing for any one to do: on the\nother hand, there could be no doubt she wore the white man's jewel\nconcealed upon her bosom.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 29\n\n\n'This was the theory of Jim's marital evening walks. I made a third on\nmore than one occasion, unpleasantly aware every time of Cornelius,\nwho nursed the aggrieved sense of his legal paternity, slinking in\nthe neighbourhood with that peculiar twist of his mouth as if he were\nperpetually on the point of gnashing his teeth. But do you notice how,\nthree hundred miles beyond the end of telegraph cables and mail-boat\nlines, the haggard utilitarian lies of our civilisation wither and die,\nto be replaced by pure exercises of imagination, that have the futility,\noften the charm, and sometimes the deep hidden truthfulness, of works of\nart? Romance had singled Jim for its own--and that was the true part of\nthe story, which otherwise was all wrong. He did not hide his jewel. In\nfact, he was extremely proud of it.\n\n'It comes to me now that I had, on the whole, seen very little of her.\nWhat I remember best is the even, olive pallor of her complexion, and\nthe intense blue-black gleams of her hair, flowing abundantly from under\na small crimson cap she wore far back on her shapely head. Her movements\nwere free, assured, and she blushed a dusky red. While Jim and I were\ntalking, she would come and go with rapid glances at us, leaving on her\npassage an impression of grace and charm and a distinct suggestion of\nwatchfulness. Her manner presented a curious combination of shyness and\naudacity. Every pretty smile was succeeded swiftly by a look of silent,\nrepressed anxiety, as if put to flight by the recollection of some\nabiding danger. At times she would sit down with us and, with her soft\ncheek dimpled by the knuckles of her little hand, she would listen\nto our talk; her big clear eyes would remain fastened on our lips, as\nthough each pronounced word had a visible shape. Her mother had taught\nher to read and write; she had learned a good bit of English from\nJim, and she spoke it most amusingly, with his own clipping, boyish\nintonation. Her tenderness hovered over him like a flutter of wings. She\nlived so completely in his contemplation that she had acquired something\nof his outward aspect, something that recalled him in her movements, in\nthe way she stretched her arm, turned her head, directed her glances.\nHer vigilant affection had an intensity that made it almost perceptible\nto the senses; it seemed actually to exist in the ambient matter\nof space, to envelop him like a peculiar fragrance, to dwell in the\nsunshine like a tremulous, subdued, and impassioned note. I suppose you\nthink that I too am romantic, but it is a mistake. I am relating to you\nthe sober impressions of a bit of youth, of a strange uneasy romance\nthat had come in my way. I observed with interest the work of\nhis--well--good fortune. He was jealously loved, but why she should\nbe jealous, and of what, I could not tell. The land, the people, the\nforests were her accomplices, guarding him with vigilant accord, with\nan air of seclusion, of mystery, of invincible possession. There was\nno appeal, as it were; he was imprisoned within the very freedom of his\npower, and she, though ready to make a footstool of her head for his\nfeet, guarded her conquest inflexibly--as though he were hard to keep.\nThe very Tamb' Itam, marching on our journeys upon the heels of his\nwhite lord, with his head thrown back, truculent and be-weaponed like a\njanissary, with kriss, chopper, and lance (besides carrying Jim's gun);\neven Tamb' Itam allowed himself to put on the airs of uncompromising\nguardianship, like a surly devoted jailer ready to lay down his life for\nhis captive. On the evenings when we sat up late, his silent, indistinct\nform would pass and repass under the verandah, with noiseless footsteps,\nor lifting my head I would unexpectedly make him out standing rigidly\nerect in the shadow. As a general rule he would vanish after a time,\nwithout a sound; but when we rose he would spring up close to us as if\nfrom the ground, ready for any orders Jim might wish to give. The girl\ntoo, I believe, never went to sleep till we had separated for the night.\nMore than once I saw her and Jim through the window of my room come out\ntogether quietly and lean on the rough balustrade--two white forms very\nclose, his arm about her waist, her head on his shoulder. Their soft\nmurmurs reached me, penetrating, tender, with a calm sad note in the\nstillness of the night, like a self-communion of one being carried on\nin two tones. Later on, tossing on my bed under the mosquito-net, I\nwas sure to hear slight creakings, faint breathing, a throat cleared\ncautiously--and I would know that Tamb' Itam was still on the prowl.\nThough he had (by the favour of the white lord) a house in the compound,\nhad \"taken wife,\" and had lately been blessed with a child, I believe\nthat, during my stay at all events, he slept on the verandah every\nnight. It was very difficult to make this faithful and grim retainer\ntalk. Even Jim himself was answered in jerky short sentences, under\nprotest as it were. Talking, he seemed to imply, was no business of his.\nThe longest speech I heard him volunteer was one morning when, suddenly\nextending his hand towards the courtyard, he pointed at Cornelius and\nsaid, \"Here comes the Nazarene.\" I don't think he was addressing me,\nthough I stood at his side; his object seemed rather to awaken the\nindignant attention of the universe. Some muttered allusions, which\nfollowed, to dogs and the smell of roast-meat, struck me as singularly\nfelicitous. The courtyard, a large square space, was one torrid blaze of\nsunshine, and, bathed in intense light, Cornelius was creeping across\nin full view with an inexpressible effect of stealthiness, of dark and\nsecret slinking. He reminded one of everything that is unsavoury. His\nslow laborious walk resembled the creeping of a repulsive beetle, the\nlegs alone moving with horrid industry while the body glided evenly. I\nsuppose he made straight enough for the place where he wanted to get to,\nbut his progress with one shoulder carried forward seemed oblique. He\nwas often seen circling slowly amongst the sheds, as if following\na scent; passing before the verandah with upward stealthy glances;\ndisappearing without haste round the corner of some hut. That he seemed\nfree of the place demonstrated Jim's absurd carelessness or else his\ninfinite disdain, for Cornelius had played a very dubious part (to say\nthe least of it) in a certain episode which might have ended fatally for\nJim. As a matter of fact, it had redounded to his glory. But everything\nredounded to his glory; and it was the irony of his good fortune that\nhe, who had been too careful of it once, seemed to bear a charmed life.\n\n'You must know he had left Doramin's place very soon after his\narrival--much too soon, in fact, for his safety, and of course a long\ntime before the war. In this he was actuated by a sense of duty; he had\nto look after Stein's business, he said. Hadn't he? To that end, with an\nutter disregard of his personal safety, he crossed the river and took up\nhis quarters with Cornelius. How the latter had managed to exist through\nthe troubled times I can't say. As Stein's agent, after all, he must\nhave had Doramin's protection in a measure; and in one way or another\nhe had managed to wriggle through all the deadly complications, while I\nhave no doubt that his conduct, whatever line he was forced to take, was\nmarked by that abjectness which was like the stamp of the man. That was\nhis characteristic; he was fundamentally and outwardly abject, as other\nmen are markedly of a generous, distinguished, or venerable appearance.\nIt was the element of his nature which permeated all his acts and\npassions and emotions; he raged abjectly, smiled abjectly, was abjectly\nsad; his civilities and his indignations were alike abject. I am sure\nhis love would have been the most abject of sentiments--but can one\nimagine a loathsome insect in love? And his loathsomeness, too, was\nabject, so that a simply disgusting person would have appeared noble\nby his side. He has his place neither in the background nor in the\nforeground of the story; he is simply seen skulking on its outskirts,\nenigmatical and unclean, tainting the fragrance of its youth and of its\nnaiveness.\n\n'His position in any case could not have been other than extremely\nmiserable, yet it may very well be that he found some advantages in it.\nJim told me he had been received at first with an abject display of\nthe most amicable sentiments. \"The fellow apparently couldn't contain\nhimself for joy,\" said Jim with disgust. \"He flew at me every morning to\nshake both my hands--confound him!--but I could never tell whether there\nwould be any breakfast. If I got three meals in two days I considered\nmyself jolly lucky, and he made me sign a chit for ten dollars every\nweek. Said he was sure Mr. Stein did not mean him to keep me for\nnothing. Well--he kept me on nothing as near as possible. Put it down to\nthe unsettled state of the country, and made as if to tear his hair out,\nbegging my pardon twenty times a day, so that I had at last to entreat\nhim not to worry. It made me sick. Half the roof of his house had\nfallen in, and the whole place had a mangy look, with wisps of dry grass\nsticking out and the corners of broken mats flapping on every wall. He\ndid his best to make out that Mr. Stein owed him money on the last three\nyears' trading, but his books were all torn, and some were missing. He\ntried to hint it was his late wife's fault. Disgusting scoundrel! At\nlast I had to forbid him to mention his late wife at all. It made Jewel\ncry. I couldn't discover what became of all the trade-goods; there was\nnothing in the store but rats, having a high old time amongst a litter\nof brown paper and old sacking. I was assured on every hand that he had\na lot of money buried somewhere, but of course could get nothing out of\nhim. It was the most miserable existence I led there in that wretched\nhouse. I tried to do my duty by Stein, but I had also other matters to\nthink of. When I escaped to Doramin old Tunku Allang got frightened and\nreturned all my things. It was done in a roundabout way, and with no end\nof mystery, through a Chinaman who keeps a small shop here; but as soon\nas I left the Bugis quarter and went to live with Cornelius it began\nto be said openly that the Rajah had made up his mind to have me killed\nbefore long. Pleasant, wasn't it? And I couldn't see what there was to\nprevent him if he really _had_ made up his mind. The worst of it was,\nI couldn't help feeling I wasn't doing any good either for Stein or for\nmyself. Oh! it was beastly--the whole six weeks of it.\"'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 30\n\n\n'He told me further that he didn't know what made him hang on--but of\ncourse we may guess. He sympathised deeply with the defenceless girl, at\nthe mercy of that \"mean, cowardly scoundrel.\" It appears Cornelius led\nher an awful life, stopping only short of actual ill-usage, for which\nhe had not the pluck, I suppose. He insisted upon her calling him\nfather--\"and with respect, too--with respect,\" he would scream, shaking\na little yellow fist in her face. \"I am a respectable man, and what are\nyou? Tell me--what are you? You think I am going to bring up somebody\nelse's child and not be treated with respect? You ought to be glad I let\nyou. Come--say Yes, father. . . . No? . . . You wait a bit.\" Thereupon\nhe would begin to abuse the dead woman, till the girl would run off with\nher hands to her head. He pursued her, dashing in and out and round the\nhouse and amongst the sheds, would drive her into some corner, where she\nwould fall on her knees stopping her ears, and then he would stand at a\ndistance and declaim filthy denunciations at her back for half an hour\nat a stretch. \"Your mother was a devil, a deceitful devil--and you too\nare a devil,\" he would shriek in a final outburst, pick up a bit of dry\nearth or a handful of mud (there was plenty of mud around the house),\nand fling it into her hair. Sometimes, though, she would hold out full\nof scorn, confronting him in silence, her face sombre and contracted,\nand only now and then uttering a word or two that would make the other\njump and writhe with the sting. Jim told me these scenes were terrible.\nIt was indeed a strange thing to come upon in a wilderness. The\nendlessness of such a subtly cruel situation was appalling--if you think\nof it. The respectable Cornelius (Inchi 'Nelyus the Malays called him,\nwith a grimace that meant many things) was a much-disappointed man. I\ndon't know what he had expected would be done for him in consideration\nof his marriage; but evidently the liberty to steal, and embezzle, and\nappropriate to himself for many years and in any way that suited him\nbest, the goods of Stein's Trading Company (Stein kept the supply up\nunfalteringly as long as he could get his skippers to take it there) did\nnot seem to him a fair equivalent for the sacrifice of his honourable\nname. Jim would have enjoyed exceedingly thrashing Cornelius within an\ninch of his life; on the other hand, the scenes were of so painful\na character, so abominable, that his impulse would be to get out of\nearshot, in order to spare the girl's feelings. They left her agitated,\nspeechless, clutching her bosom now and then with a stony,\ndesperate face, and then Jim would lounge up and say unhappily,\n\"Now--come--really--what's the use--you must try to eat a bit,\" or give\nsome such mark of sympathy. Cornelius would keep on slinking through\nthe doorways, across the verandah and back again, as mute as a fish, and\nwith malevolent, mistrustful, underhand glances. \"I can stop his game,\"\nJim said to her once. \"Just say the word.\" And do you know what she\nanswered? She said--Jim told me impressively--that if she had not been\nsure he was intensely wretched himself, she would have found the courage\nto kill him with her own hands. \"Just fancy that! The poor devil of a\ngirl, almost a child, being driven to talk like that,\" he exclaimed in\nhorror. It seemed impossible to save her not only from that mean\nrascal but even from herself! It wasn't that he pitied her so much, he\naffirmed; it was more than pity; it was as if he had something on his\nconscience, while that life went on. To leave the house would have\nappeared a base desertion. He had understood at last that there was\nnothing to expect from a longer stay, neither accounts nor money, nor\ntruth of any sort, but he stayed on, exasperating Cornelius to the\nverge, I won't say of insanity, but almost of courage. Meantime he felt\nall sorts of dangers gathering obscurely about him. Doramin had sent\nover twice a trusty servant to tell him seriously that he could do\nnothing for his safety unless he would recross the river again and live\namongst the Bugis as at first. People of every condition used to call,\noften in the dead of night, in order to disclose to him plots for\nhis assassination. He was to be poisoned. He was to be stabbed in the\nbath-house. Arrangements were being made to have him shot from a boat\non the river. Each of these informants professed himself to be his very\ngood friend. It was enough--he told me--to spoil a fellow's rest for\never. Something of the kind was extremely possible--nay, probable--but\nthe lying warnings gave him only the sense of deadly scheming going on\nall around him, on all sides, in the dark. Nothing more calculated to\nshake the best of nerve. Finally, one night, Cornelius himself, with a\ngreat apparatus of alarm and secrecy, unfolded in solemn wheedling tones\na little plan wherein for one hundred dollars--or even for eighty; let's\nsay eighty--he, Cornelius, would procure a trustworthy man to smuggle\nJim out of the river, all safe. There was nothing else for it now--if\nJim cared a pin for his life. What's eighty dollars? A trifle. An\ninsignificant sum. While he, Cornelius, who had to remain behind, was\nabsolutely courting death by this proof of devotion to Mr. Stein's young\nfriend. The sight of his abject grimacing was--Jim told me--very hard\nto bear: he clutched at his hair, beat his breast, rocked himself to\nand fro with his hands pressed to his stomach, and actually pretended to\nshed tears. \"Your blood be on your own head,\" he squeaked at last, and\nrushed out. It is a curious question how far Cornelius was sincere in\nthat performance. Jim confessed to me that he did not sleep a wink after\nthe fellow had gone. He lay on his back on a thin mat spread over the\nbamboo flooring, trying idly to make out the bare rafters, and listening\nto the rustlings in the torn thatch. A star suddenly twinkled through a\nhole in the roof. His brain was in a whirl; but, nevertheless, it was on\nthat very night that he matured his plan for overcoming Sherif Ali. It\nhad been the thought of all the moments he could spare from the hopeless\ninvestigation into Stein's affairs, but the notion--he says--came to him\nthen all at once. He could see, as it were, the guns mounted on the top\nof the hill. He got very hot and excited lying there; sleep was out of\nthe question more than ever. He jumped up, and went out barefooted\non the verandah. Walking silently, he came upon the girl, motionless\nagainst the wall, as if on the watch. In his then state of mind it did\nnot surprise him to see her up, nor yet to hear her ask in an anxious\nwhisper where Cornelius could be. He simply said he did not know. She\nmoaned a little, and peered into the campong. Everything was very quiet.\nHe was possessed by his new idea, and so full of it that he could not\nhelp telling the girl all about it at once. She listened, clapped her\nhands lightly, whispered softly her admiration, but was evidently on the\nalert all the time. It seems he had been used to make a confidant of\nher all along--and that she on her part could and did give him a lot of\nuseful hints as to Patusan affairs there is no doubt. He assured me more\nthan once that he had never found himself the worse for her advice. At\nany rate, he was proceeding to explain his plan fully to her there and\nthen, when she pressed his arm once, and vanished from his side. Then\nCornelius appeared from somewhere, and, perceiving Jim, ducked sideways,\nas though he had been shot at, and afterwards stood very still in the\ndusk. At last he came forward prudently, like a suspicious cat. \"There\nwere some fishermen there--with fish,\" he said in a shaky voice. \"To\nsell fish--you understand.\" . . . It must have been then two o'clock in\nthe morning--a likely time for anybody to hawk fish about!\n\n'Jim, however, let the statement pass, and did not give it a single\nthought. Other matters occupied his mind, and besides he had neither\nseen nor heard anything. He contented himself by saying, \"Oh!\" absently,\ngot a drink of water out of a pitcher standing there, and leaving\nCornelius a prey to some inexplicable emotion--that made him embrace\nwith both arms the worm-eaten rail of the verandah as if his legs had\nfailed--went in again and lay down on his mat to think. By-and-by he\nheard stealthy footsteps. They stopped. A voice whispered tremulously\nthrough the wall, \"Are you asleep?\" \"No! What is it?\" he answered\nbriskly, and there was an abrupt movement outside, and then all was\nstill, as if the whisperer had been startled. Extremely annoyed at this,\nJim came out impetuously, and Cornelius with a faint shriek fled\nalong the verandah as far as the steps, where he hung on to the broken\nbanister. Very puzzled, Jim called out to him from the distance to know\nwhat the devil he meant. \"Have you given your consideration to what\nI spoke to you about?\" asked Cornelius, pronouncing the words with\ndifficulty, like a man in the cold fit of a fever. \"No!\" shouted Jim in\na passion. \"I have not, and I don't intend to. I am going to live here,\nin Patusan.\" \"You shall d-d-die h-h-here,\" answered Cornelius,\nstill shaking violently, and in a sort of expiring voice. The whole\nperformance was so absurd and provoking that Jim didn't know whether he\nought to be amused or angry. \"Not till I have seen you tucked away,\nyou bet,\" he called out, exasperated yet ready to laugh. Half seriously\n(being excited with his own thoughts, you know) he went on shouting,\n\"Nothing can touch me! You can do your damnedest.\" Somehow the shadowy\nCornelius far off there seemed to be the hateful embodiment of all the\nannoyances and difficulties he had found in his path. He let himself\ngo--his nerves had been over-wrought for days--and called him many\npretty names,--swindler, liar, sorry rascal: in fact, carried on in an\nextraordinary way. He admits he passed all bounds, that he was quite\nbeside himself--defied all Patusan to scare him away--declared he would\nmake them all dance to his own tune yet, and so on, in a menacing,\nboasting strain. Perfectly bombastic and ridiculous, he said. His ears\nburned at the bare recollection. Must have been off his chump in some\nway. . . . The girl, who was sitting with us, nodded her little head at\nme quickly, frowned faintly, and said, \"I heard him,\" with child-like\nsolemnity. He laughed and blushed. What stopped him at last, he said,\nwas the silence, the complete deathlike silence, of the indistinct\nfigure far over there, that seemed to hang collapsed, doubled over the\nrail in a weird immobility. He came to his senses, and ceasing suddenly,\nwondered greatly at himself. He watched for a while. Not a stir, not a\nsound. \"Exactly as if the chap had died while I had been making all that\nnoise,\" he said. He was so ashamed of himself that he went indoors in a\nhurry without another word, and flung himself down again. The row seemed\nto have done him good though, because he went to sleep for the rest of\nthe night like a baby. Hadn't slept like that for weeks. \"But _I_ didn't\nsleep,\" struck in the girl, one elbow on the table and nursing her\ncheek. \"I watched.\" Her big eyes flashed, rolling a little, and then she\nfixed them on my face intently.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 31\n\n\n'You may imagine with what interest I listened. All these details were\nperceived to have some significance twenty-four hours later. In the\nmorning Cornelius made no allusion to the events of the night. \"I\nsuppose you will come back to my poor house,\" he muttered, surlily,\nslinking up just as Jim was entering the canoe to go over to Doramin's\ncampong. Jim only nodded, without looking at him. \"You find it good fun,\nno doubt,\" muttered the other in a sour tone. Jim spent the day with the\nold nakhoda, preaching the necessity of vigorous action to the principal\nmen of the Bugis community, who had been summoned for a big talk. He\nremembered with pleasure how very eloquent and persuasive he had been.\n\"I managed to put some backbone into them that time, and no mistake,\" he\nsaid. Sherif Ali's last raid had swept the outskirts of the settlement,\nand some women belonging to the town had been carried off to the\nstockade. Sherif Ali's emissaries had been seen in the market-place the\nday before, strutting about haughtily in white cloaks, and boasting of\nthe Rajah's friendship for their master. One of them stood forward\nin the shade of a tree, and, leaning on the long barrel of a rifle,\nexhorted the people to prayer and repentance, advising them to kill all\nthe strangers in their midst, some of whom, he said, were infidels and\nothers even worse--children of Satan in the guise of Moslems. It was\nreported that several of the Rajah's people amongst the listeners had\nloudly expressed their approbation. The terror amongst the common people\nwas intense. Jim, immensely pleased with his day's work, crossed the\nriver again before sunset.\n\n'As he had got the Bugis irretrievably committed to action and had made\nhimself responsible for success on his own head, he was so elated that\nin the lightness of his heart he absolutely tried to be civil with\nCornelius. But Cornelius became wildly jovial in response, and it was\nalmost more than he could stand, he says, to hear his little squeaks of\nfalse laughter, to see him wriggle and blink, and suddenly catch hold of\nhis chin and crouch low over the table with a distracted stare. The\ngirl did not show herself, and Jim retired early. When he rose to say\ngood-night, Cornelius jumped up, knocking his chair over, and ducked out\nof sight as if to pick up something he had dropped. His good-night came\nhuskily from under the table. Jim was amazed to see him emerge with a\ndropping jaw, and staring, stupidly frightened eyes. He clutched the\nedge of the table. \"What's the matter? Are you unwell?\" asked Jim. \"Yes,\nyes, yes. A great colic in my stomach,\" says the other; and it is\nJim's opinion that it was perfectly true. If so, it was, in view of his\ncontemplated action, an abject sign of a still imperfect callousness for\nwhich he must be given all due credit.\n\n'Be it as it may, Jim's slumbers were disturbed by a dream of heavens\nlike brass resounding with a great voice, which called upon him to\nAwake! Awake! so loud that, notwithstanding his desperate determination\nto sleep on, he did wake up in reality. The glare of a red spluttering\nconflagration going on in mid-air fell on his eyes. Coils of black thick\nsmoke curved round the head of some apparition, some unearthly being,\nall in white, with a severe, drawn, anxious face. After a second or so\nhe recognised the girl. She was holding a dammar torch at arm's-length\naloft, and in a persistent, urgent monotone she was repeating, \"Get up!\nGet up! Get up!\"\n\n'Suddenly he leaped to his feet; at once she put into his hand a\nrevolver, his own revolver, which had been hanging on a nail, but loaded\nthis time. He gripped it in silence, bewildered, blinking in the light.\nHe wondered what he could do for her.\n\n'She asked rapidly and very low, \"Can you face four men with this?\"\nHe laughed while narrating this part at the recollection of his polite\nalacrity. It seems he made a great display of it. \"Certainly--of\ncourse--certainly--command me.\" He was not properly awake, and had a\nnotion of being very civil in these extraordinary circumstances, of\nshowing his unquestioning, devoted readiness. She left the room, and\nhe followed her; in the passage they disturbed an old hag who did the\ncasual cooking of the household, though she was so decrepit as to be\nhardly able to understand human speech. She got up and hobbled behind\nthem, mumbling toothlessly. On the verandah a hammock of sail-cloth,\nbelonging to Cornelius, swayed lightly to the touch of Jim's elbow. It\nwas empty.\n\n'The Patusan establishment, like all the posts of Stein's Trading\nCompany, had originally consisted of four buildings. Two of them were\nrepresented by two heaps of sticks, broken bamboos, rotten thatch,\nover which the four corner-posts of hardwood leaned sadly at different\nangles: the principal storeroom, however, stood yet, facing the agent's\nhouse. It was an oblong hut, built of mud and clay; it had at one end a\nwide door of stout planking, which so far had not come off the hinges,\nand in one of the side walls there was a square aperture, a sort of\nwindow, with three wooden bars. Before descending the few steps the girl\nturned her face over her shoulder and said quickly, \"You were to be set\nupon while you slept.\" Jim tells me he experienced a sense of deception.\nIt was the old story. He was weary of these attempts upon his life. He\nhad had his fill of these alarms. He was sick of them. He assured me he\nwas angry with the girl for deceiving him. He had followed her under the\nimpression that it was she who wanted his help, and now he had half\na mind to turn on his heel and go back in disgust. \"Do you know,\" he\ncommented profoundly, \"I rather think I was not quite myself for whole\nweeks on end about that time.\" \"Oh yes. You were though,\" I couldn't\nhelp contradicting.\n\n'But she moved on swiftly, and he followed her into the courtyard. All\nits fences had fallen in a long time ago; the neighbours' buffaloes\nwould pace in the morning across the open space, snorting profoundly,\nwithout haste; the very jungle was invading it already. Jim and the girl\nstopped in the rank grass. The light in which they stood made a dense\nblackness all round, and only above their heads there was an opulent\nglitter of stars. He told me it was a beautiful night--quite cool, with\na little stir of breeze from the river. It seems he noticed its friendly\nbeauty. Remember this is a love story I am telling you now. A lovely\nnight seemed to breathe on them a soft caress. The flame of the torch\nstreamed now and then with a fluttering noise like a flag, and for\na time this was the only sound. \"They are in the storeroom waiting,\"\nwhispered the girl; \"they are waiting for the signal.\" \"Who's to give\nit?\" he asked. She shook the torch, which blazed up after a shower of\nsparks. \"Only you have been sleeping so restlessly,\" she continued in\na murmur; \"I watched your sleep, too.\" \"You!\" he exclaimed, craning his\nneck to look about him. \"You think I watched on this night only!\" she\nsaid, with a sort of despairing indignation.\n\n'He says it was as if he had received a blow on the chest. He gasped.\nHe thought he had been an awful brute somehow, and he felt remorseful,\ntouched, happy, elated. This, let me remind you again, is a love story;\nyou can see it by the imbecility, not a repulsive imbecility, the\nexalted imbecility of these proceedings, this station in torchlight, as\nif they had come there on purpose to have it out for the edification of\nconcealed murderers. If Sherif Ali's emissaries had been possessed--as\nJim remarked--of a pennyworth of spunk, this was the time to make a\nrush. His heart was thumping--not with fear--but he seemed to hear the\ngrass rustle, and he stepped smartly out of the light. Something dark,\nimperfectly seen, flitted rapidly out of sight. He called out in a\nstrong voice, \"Cornelius! O Cornelius!\" A profound silence succeeded:\nhis voice did not seem to have carried twenty feet. Again the girl was\nby his side. \"Fly!\" she said. The old woman was coming up; her broken\nfigure hovered in crippled little jumps on the edge of the light; they\nheard her mumbling, and a light, moaning sigh. \"Fly!\" repeated the girl\nexcitedly. \"They are frightened now--this light--the voices. They know\nyou are awake now--they know you are big, strong, fearless . . .\" \"If\nI am all that,\" he began; but she interrupted him: \"Yes--to-night! But\nwhat of to-morrow night? Of the next night? Of the night after--of all\nthe many, many nights? Can I be always watching?\" A sobbing catch of her\nbreath affected him beyond the power of words.\n\n'He told me that he had never felt so small, so powerless--and as to\ncourage, what was the good of it? he thought. He was so helpless that\neven flight seemed of no use; and though she kept on whispering, \"Go to\nDoramin, go to Doramin,\" with feverish insistence, he realised that for\nhim there was no refuge from that loneliness which centupled all his\ndangers except--in her. \"I thought,\" he said to me, \"that if I went\naway from her it would be the end of everything somehow.\" Only as they\ncouldn't stop there for ever in the middle of that courtyard, he made\nup his mind to go and look into the storehouse. He let her follow\nhim without thinking of any protest, as if they had been indissolubly\nunited. \"I am fearless--am I?\" he muttered through his teeth. She\nrestrained his arm. \"Wait till you hear my voice,\" she said, and,\ntorch in hand, ran lightly round the corner. He remained alone in the\ndarkness, his face to the door: not a sound, not a breath came from\nthe other side. The old hag let out a dreary groan somewhere behind his\nback. He heard a high-pitched almost screaming call from the girl. \"Now!\nPush!\" He pushed violently; the door swung with a creak and a clatter,\ndisclosing to his intense astonishment the low dungeon-like interior\nilluminated by a lurid, wavering glare. A turmoil of smoke eddied down\nupon an empty wooden crate in the middle of the floor, a litter of rags\nand straw tried to soar, but only stirred feebly in the draught. She had\nthrust the light through the bars of the window. He saw her bare round\narm extended and rigid, holding up the torch with the steadiness of\nan iron bracket. A conical ragged heap of old mats cumbered a distant\ncorner almost to the ceiling, and that was all.\n\n'He explained to me that he was bitterly disappointed at this. His\nfortitude had been tried by so many warnings, he had been for weeks\nsurrounded by so many hints of danger, that he wanted the relief of\nsome reality, of something tangible that he could meet. \"It would have\ncleared the air for a couple of hours at least, if you know what I\nmean,\" he said to me. \"Jove! I had been living for days with a stone on\nmy chest.\" Now at last he had thought he would get hold of something,\nand--nothing! Not a trace, not a sign of anybody. He had raised his\nweapon as the door flew open, but now his arm fell. \"Fire! Defend\nyourself,\" the girl outside cried in an agonising voice. She, being in\nthe dark and with her arm thrust in to the shoulder through the small\nhole, couldn't see what was going on, and she dared not withdraw\nthe torch now to run round. \"There's nobody here!\" yelled Jim\ncontemptuously, but his impulse to burst into a resentful exasperated\nlaugh died without a sound: he had perceived in the very act of turning\naway that he was exchanging glances with a pair of eyes in the heap of\nmats. He saw a shifting gleam of whites. \"Come out!\" he cried in a fury,\na little doubtful, and a dark-faced head, a head without a body, shaped\nitself in the rubbish, a strangely detached head, that looked at him\nwith a steady scowl. Next moment the whole mound stirred, and with a\nlow grunt a man emerged swiftly, and bounded towards Jim. Behind him the\nmats as it were jumped and flew, his right arm was raised with a crooked\nelbow, and the dull blade of a kriss protruded from his fist held off,\na little above his head. A cloth wound tight round his loins seemed\ndazzlingly white on his bronze skin; his naked body glistened as if wet.\n\n'Jim noted all this. He told me he was experiencing a feeling of\nunutterable relief, of vengeful elation. He held his shot, he says,\ndeliberately. He held it for the tenth part of a second, for three\nstrides of the man--an unconscionable time. He held it for the pleasure\nof saying to himself, That's a dead man! He was absolutely positive\nand certain. He let him come on because it did not matter. A dead man,\nanyhow. He noticed the dilated nostrils, the wide eyes, the intent,\neager stillness of the face, and then he fired.\n\n'The explosion in that confined space was stunning. He stepped back a\npace. He saw the man jerk his head up, fling his arms forward, and drop\nthe kriss. He ascertained afterwards that he had shot him through the\nmouth, a little upwards, the bullet coming out high at the back of the\nskull. With the impetus of his rush the man drove straight on, his face\nsuddenly gaping disfigured, with his hands open before him gropingly, as\nthough blinded, and landed with terrific violence on his forehead, just\nshort of Jim's bare toes. Jim says he didn't lose the smallest detail\nof all this. He found himself calm, appeased, without rancour, without\nuneasiness, as if the death of that man had atoned for everything. The\nplace was getting very full of sooty smoke from the torch, in which\nthe unswaying flame burned blood-red without a flicker. He walked in\nresolutely, striding over the dead body, and covered with his revolver\nanother naked figure outlined vaguely at the other end. As he was about\nto pull the trigger, the man threw away with force a short heavy spear,\nand squatted submissively on his hams, his back to the wall and his\nclasped hands between his legs. \"You want your life?\" Jim said. The\nother made no sound. \"How many more of you?\" asked Jim again. \"Two more,\nTuan,\" said the man very softly, looking with big fascinated eyes into\nthe muzzle of the revolver. Accordingly two more crawled from under the\nmats, holding out ostentatiously their empty hands.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 32\n\n\n'Jim took up an advantageous position and shepherded them out in a bunch\nthrough the doorway: all that time the torch had remained vertical in\nthe grip of a little hand, without so much as a tremble. The three men\nobeyed him, perfectly mute, moving automatically. He ranged them in a\nrow. \"Link arms!\" he ordered. They did so. \"The first who withdraws his\narm or turns his head is a dead man,\" he said. \"March!\" They stepped out\ntogether, rigidly; he followed, and at the side the girl, in a trailing\nwhite gown, her black hair falling as low as her waist, bore the light.\nErect and swaying, she seemed to glide without touching the earth; the\nonly sound was the silky swish and rustle of the long grass. \"Stop!\"\ncried Jim.\n\n'The river-bank was steep; a great freshness ascended, the light fell on\nthe edge of smooth dark water frothing without a ripple; right and left\nthe shapes of the houses ran together below the sharp outlines of the\nroofs. \"Take my greetings to Sherif Ali--till I come myself,\" said\nJim. Not one head of the three budged. \"Jump!\" he thundered. The\nthree splashes made one splash, a shower flew up, black heads bobbed\nconvulsively, and disappeared; but a great blowing and spluttering went\non, growing faint, for they were diving industriously in great fear of\na parting shot. Jim turned to the girl, who had been a silent and\nattentive observer. His heart seemed suddenly to grow too big for his\nbreast and choke him in the hollow of his throat. This probably made\nhim speechless for so long, and after returning his gaze she flung the\nburning torch with a wide sweep of the arm into the river. The ruddy\nfiery glare, taking a long flight through the night, sank with a vicious\nhiss, and the calm soft starlight descended upon them, unchecked.\n\n'He did not tell me what it was he said when at last he recovered his\nvoice. I don't suppose he could be very eloquent. The world was still,\nthe night breathed on them, one of those nights that seem created for\nthe sheltering of tenderness, and there are moments when our souls, as\nif freed from their dark envelope, glow with an exquisite sensibility\nthat makes certain silences more lucid than speeches. As to the girl,\nhe told me, \"She broke down a bit. Excitement--don't you know.\nReaction. Deucedly tired she must have been--and all that kind of thing.\nAnd--and--hang it all--she was fond of me, don't you see. . . . I\ntoo . . . didn't know, of course . . . never entered my head . . .\"\n\n'Then he got up and began to walk about in some agitation. \"I--I love\nher dearly. More than I can tell. Of course one cannot tell. You take a\ndifferent view of your actions when you come to understand, when you\nare _made_ to understand every day that your existence is necessary--you\nsee, absolutely necessary--to another person. I am made to feel that.\nWonderful! But only try to think what her life has been. It is too\nextravagantly awful! Isn't it? And me finding her here like this--as you\nmay go out for a stroll and come suddenly upon somebody drowning in a\nlonely dark place. Jove! No time to lose. Well, it is a trust too . . .\nI believe I am equal to it . . .\"\n\n'I must tell you the girl had left us to ourselves some time before. He\nslapped his chest. \"Yes! I feel that, but I believe I am equal to all my\nluck!\" He had the gift of finding a special meaning in everything that\nhappened to him. This was the view he took of his love affair; it was\nidyllic, a little solemn, and also true, since his belief had all the\nunshakable seriousness of youth. Some time after, on another occasion,\nhe said to me, \"I've been only two years here, and now, upon my word, I\ncan't conceive being able to live anywhere else. The very thought of the\nworld outside is enough to give me a fright; because, don't you see,\" he\ncontinued, with downcast eyes watching the action of his boot busied in\nsquashing thoroughly a tiny bit of dried mud (we were strolling on the\nriver-bank)--\"because I have not forgotten why I came here. Not yet!\"\n\n'I refrained from looking at him, but I think I heard a short sigh; we\ntook a turn or two in silence. \"Upon my soul and conscience,\" he began\nagain, \"if such a thing can be forgotten, then I think I have a right to\ndismiss it from my mind. Ask any man here\" . . . his voice changed. \"Is\nit not strange,\" he went on in a gentle, almost yearning tone, \"that all\nthese people, all these people who would do anything for me, can never\nbe made to understand? Never! If you disbelieved me I could not call\nthem up. It seems hard, somehow. I am stupid, am I not? What more can I\nwant? If you ask them who is brave--who is true--who is just--who is it\nthey would trust with their lives?--they would say, Tuan Jim. And yet\nthey can never know the real, real truth . . .\"\n\n'That's what he said to me on my last day with him. I did not let a\nmurmur escape me: I felt he was going to say more, and come no nearer\nto the root of the matter. The sun, whose concentrated glare dwarfs the\nearth into a restless mote of dust, had sunk behind the forest, and\nthe diffused light from an opal sky seemed to cast upon a world without\nshadows and without brilliance the illusion of a calm and pensive\ngreatness. I don't know why, listening to him, I should have noted\nso distinctly the gradual darkening of the river, of the air; the\nirresistible slow work of the night settling silently on all the visible\nforms, effacing the outlines, burying the shapes deeper and deeper, like\na steady fall of impalpable black dust.\n\n'\"Jove!\" he began abruptly, \"there are days when a fellow is too absurd\nfor anything; only I know I can tell you what I like. I talk about\nbeing done with it--with the bally thing at the back of my head . . .\nForgetting . . . Hang me if I know! I can think of it quietly. After\nall, what has it proved? Nothing. I suppose you don't think so . . .\"\n\n'I made a protesting murmur.\n\n'\"No matter,\" he said. \"I am satisfied . . . nearly. I've got to\nlook only at the face of the first man that comes along, to regain my\nconfidence. They can't be made to understand what is going on in me.\nWhat of that? Come! I haven't done so badly.\"\n\n'\"Not so badly,\" I said.\n\n'\"But all the same, you wouldn't like to have me aboard your own ship\nhey?\"\n\n'\"Confound you!\" I cried. \"Stop this.\"\n\n'\"Aha! You see,\" he said, crowing, as it were, over me placidly. \"Only,\"\nhe went on, \"you just try to tell this to any of them here. They would\nthink you a fool, a liar, or worse. And so I can stand it. I've done a\nthing or two for them, but this is what they have done for me.\"\n\n'\"My dear chap,\" I cried, \"you shall always remain for them an insoluble\nmystery.\" Thereupon we were silent.\n\n'\"Mystery,\" he repeated, before looking up. \"Well, then let me always\nremain here.\"\n\n'After the sun had set, the darkness seemed to drive upon us, borne in\nevery faint puff of the breeze. In the middle of a hedged path I saw the\narrested, gaunt, watchful, and apparently one-legged silhouette of Tamb'\nItam; and across the dusky space my eye detected something white moving\nto and fro behind the supports of the roof. As soon as Jim, with Tamb'\nItam at his heels, had started upon his evening rounds, I went up to the\nhouse alone, and, unexpectedly, found myself waylaid by the girl, who\nhad been clearly waiting for this opportunity.\n\n'It is hard to tell you what it was precisely she wanted to wrest\nfrom me. Obviously it would be something very simple--the simplest\nimpossibility in the world; as, for instance, the exact description of\nthe form of a cloud. She wanted an assurance, a statement, a promise, an\nexplanation--I don't know how to call it: the thing has no name. It was\ndark under the projecting roof, and all I could see were the flowing\nlines of her gown, the pale small oval of her face, with the white flash\nof her teeth, and, turned towards me, the big sombre orbits of her eyes,\nwhere there seemed to be a faint stir, such as you may fancy you can\ndetect when you plunge your gaze to the bottom of an immensely deep\nwell. What is it that moves there? you ask yourself. Is it a blind\nmonster or only a lost gleam from the universe? It occurred to me--don't\nlaugh--that all things being dissimilar, she was more inscrutable in\nher childish ignorance than the Sphinx propounding childish riddles\nto wayfarers. She had been carried off to Patusan before her eyes\nwere open. She had grown up there; she had seen nothing, she had known\nnothing, she had no conception of anything. I ask myself whether she\nwere sure that anything else existed. What notions she may have formed\nof the outside world is to me inconceivable: all that she knew of its\ninhabitants were a betrayed woman and a sinister pantaloon. Her lover\nalso came to her from there, gifted with irresistible seductions; but\nwhat would become of her if he should return to these inconceivable\nregions that seemed always to claim back their own? Her mother had\nwarned her of this with tears, before she died . . .\n\n'She had caught hold of my arm firmly, and as soon as I had stopped she\nhad withdrawn her hand in haste. She was audacious and shrinking. She\nfeared nothing, but she was checked by the profound incertitude and the\nextreme strangeness--a brave person groping in the dark. I belonged to\nthis Unknown that might claim Jim for its own at any moment. I was,\nas it were, in the secret of its nature and of its intentions--the\nconfidant of a threatening mystery--armed with its power perhaps! I\nbelieve she supposed I could with a word whisk Jim away out of her very\narms; it is my sober conviction she went through agonies of apprehension\nduring my long talks with Jim; through a real and intolerable anguish\nthat might have conceivably driven her into plotting my murder, had the\nfierceness of her soul been equal to the tremendous situation it had\ncreated. This is my impression, and it is all I can give you: the whole\nthing dawned gradually upon me, and as it got clearer and clearer I was\noverwhelmed by a slow incredulous amazement. She made me believe her,\nbut there is no word that on my lips could render the effect of the\nheadlong and vehement whisper, of the soft, passionate tones, of the\nsudden breathless pause and the appealing movement of the white arms\nextended swiftly. They fell; the ghostly figure swayed like a slender\ntree in the wind, the pale oval of the face drooped; it was impossible\nto distinguish her features, the darkness of the eyes was unfathomable;\ntwo wide sleeves uprose in the dark like unfolding wings, and she stood\nsilent, holding her head in her hands.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 33\n\n\n'I was immensely touched: her youth, her ignorance, her pretty beauty,\nwhich had the simple charm and the delicate vigour of a wild-flower,\nher pathetic pleading, her helplessness, appealed to me with almost\nthe strength of her own unreasonable and natural fear. She feared the\nunknown as we all do, and her ignorance made the unknown infinitely\nvast. I stood for it, for myself, for you fellows, for all the world\nthat neither cared for Jim nor needed him in the least. I would have\nbeen ready enough to answer for the indifference of the teeming earth\nbut for the reflection that he too belonged to this mysterious unknown\nof her fears, and that, however much I stood for, I did not stand for\nhim. This made me hesitate. A murmur of hopeless pain unsealed my lips.\nI began by protesting that I at least had come with no intention to take\nJim away.\n\n'Why did I come, then? After a slight movement she was as still as a\nmarble statue in the night. I tried to explain briefly: friendship,\nbusiness; if I had any wish in the matter it was rather to see him stay.\n. . . \"They always leave us,\" she murmured. The breath of sad wisdom\nfrom the grave which her piety wreathed with flowers seemed to pass in a\nfaint sigh. . . . Nothing, I said, could separate Jim from her.\n\n'It is my firm conviction now; it was my conviction at the time; it was\nthe only possible conclusion from the facts of the case. It was not made\nmore certain by her whispering in a tone in which one speaks to oneself,\n\"He swore this to me.\" \"Did you ask him?\" I said.\n\n'She made a step nearer. \"No. Never!\" She had asked him only to go away.\nIt was that night on the river-bank, after he had killed the man--after\nshe had flung the torch in the water because he was looking at her so.\nThere was too much light, and the danger was over then--for a little\ntime--for a little time. He said then he would not abandon her to\nCornelius. She had insisted. She wanted him to leave her. He said that\nhe could not--that it was impossible. He trembled while he said this.\nShe had felt him tremble. . . . One does not require much imagination\nto see the scene, almost to hear their whispers. She was afraid for him\ntoo. I believe that then she saw in him only a predestined victim of\ndangers which she understood better than himself. Though by nothing\nbut his mere presence he had mastered her heart, had filled all\nher thoughts, and had possessed himself of all her affections, she\nunderestimated his chances of success. It is obvious that at about\nthat time everybody was inclined to underestimate his chances. Strictly\nspeaking he didn't seem to have any. I know this was Cornelius's view.\nHe confessed that much to me in extenuation of the shady part he had\nplayed in Sherif Ali's plot to do away with the infidel. Even Sherif Ali\nhimself, as it seems certain now, had nothing but contempt for the white\nman. Jim was to be murdered mainly on religious grounds, I believe. A\nsimple act of piety (and so far infinitely meritorious), but otherwise\nwithout much importance. In the last part of this opinion Cornelius\nconcurred. \"Honourable sir,\" he argued abjectly on the only occasion he\nmanaged to have me to himself--\"honourable sir, how was I to know? Who\nwas he? What could he do to make people believe him? What did Mr. Stein\nmean sending a boy like that to talk big to an old servant? I was ready\nto save him for eighty dollars. Only eighty dollars. Why didn't the\nfool go? Was I to get stabbed myself for the sake of a stranger?\" He\ngrovelled in spirit before me, with his body doubled up insinuatingly\nand his hands hovering about my knees, as though he were ready to\nembrace my legs. \"What's eighty dollars? An insignificant sum to give to\na defenceless old man ruined for life by a deceased she-devil.\" Here he\nwept. But I anticipate. I didn't that night chance upon Cornelius till I\nhad had it out with the girl.\n\n'She was unselfish when she urged Jim to leave her, and even to leave\nthe country. It was his danger that was foremost in her thoughts--even\nif she wanted to save herself too--perhaps unconsciously: but then look\nat the warning she had, look at the lesson that could be drawn from\nevery moment of the recently ended life in which all her memories were\ncentred. She fell at his feet--she told me so--there by the river, in\nthe discreet light of stars which showed nothing except great masses of\nsilent shadows, indefinite open spaces, and trembling faintly upon the\nbroad stream made it appear as wide as the sea. He had lifted her up.\nHe lifted her up, and then she would struggle no more. Of course not.\nStrong arms, a tender voice, a stalwart shoulder to rest her poor lonely\nlittle head upon. The need--the infinite need--of all this for the\naching heart, for the bewildered mind;--the promptings of youth--the\nnecessity of the moment. What would you have? One understands--unless\none is incapable of understanding anything under the sun. And so she was\ncontent to be lifted up--and held. \"You know--Jove! this is serious--no\nnonsense in it!\" as Jim had whispered hurriedly with a troubled\nconcerned face on the threshold of his house. I don't know so much about\nnonsense, but there was nothing light-hearted in their romance: they\ncame together under the shadow of a life's disaster, like knight and\nmaiden meeting to exchange vows amongst haunted ruins. The starlight was\ngood enough for that story, a light so faint and remote that it cannot\nresolve shadows into shapes, and show the other shore of a stream. I\ndid look upon the stream that night and from the very place; it rolled\nsilent and as black as Styx: the next day I went away, but I am not\nlikely to forget what it was she wanted to be saved from when she\nentreated him to leave her while there was time. She told me what\nit was, calmed--she was now too passionately interested for mere\nexcitement--in a voice as quiet in the obscurity as her white half-lost\nfigure. She told me, \"I didn't want to die weeping.\" I thought I had not\nheard aright.\n\n'\"You did not want to die weeping?\" I repeated after her. \"Like my\nmother,\" she added readily. The outlines of her white shape did not\nstir in the least. \"My mother had wept bitterly before she died,\" she\nexplained. An inconceivable calmness seemed to have risen from the\nground around us, imperceptibly, like the still rise of a flood in the\nnight, obliterating the familiar landmarks of emotions. There came\nupon me, as though I had felt myself losing my footing in the midst of\nwaters, a sudden dread, the dread of the unknown depths. She went on\nexplaining that, during the last moments, being alone with her mother,\nshe had to leave the side of the couch to go and set her back against\nthe door, in order to keep Cornelius out. He desired to get in, and\nkept on drumming with both fists, only desisting now and again to shout\nhuskily, \"Let me in! Let me in! Let me in!\" In a far corner upon a few\nmats the moribund woman, already speechless and unable to lift her arm,\nrolled her head over, and with a feeble movement of her hand seemed to\ncommand--\"No! No!\" and the obedient daughter, setting her shoulders with\nall her strength against the door, was looking on. \"The tears fell from\nher eyes--and then she died,\" concluded the girl in an imperturbable\nmonotone, which more than anything else, more than the white statuesque\nimmobility of her person, more than mere words could do, troubled my\nmind profoundly with the passive, irremediable horror of the scene. It\nhad the power to drive me out of my conception of existence, out of\nthat shelter each of us makes for himself to creep under in moments of\ndanger, as a tortoise withdraws within its shell. For a moment I had\na view of a world that seemed to wear a vast and dismal aspect of\ndisorder, while, in truth, thanks to our unwearied efforts, it is\nas sunny an arrangement of small conveniences as the mind of man can\nconceive. But still--it was only a moment: I went back into my shell\ndirectly. One _must_--don't you know?--though I seemed to have lost all\nmy words in the chaos of dark thoughts I had contemplated for a second\nor two beyond the pale. These came back, too, very soon, for words also\nbelong to the sheltering conception of light and order which is our\nrefuge. I had them ready at my disposal before she whispered softly, \"He\nswore he would never leave me, when we stood there alone! He swore to\nme!\". . . \"And it is possible that you--you! do not believe him?\"\nI asked, sincerely reproachful, genuinely shocked. Why couldn't she\nbelieve? Wherefore this craving for incertitude, this clinging to fear,\nas if incertitude and fear had been the safeguards of her love. It was\nmonstrous. She should have made for herself a shelter of inexpugnable\npeace out of that honest affection. She had not the knowledge--not the\nskill perhaps. The night had come on apace; it had grown pitch-dark\nwhere we were, so that without stirring she had faded like the\nintangible form of a wistful and perverse spirit. And suddenly I heard\nher quiet whisper again, \"Other men had sworn the same thing.\" It was\nlike a meditative comment on some thoughts full of sadness, of awe. And\nshe added, still lower if possible, \"My father did.\" She paused the\ntime to draw an inaudible breath. \"Her father too.\" . . . These were the\nthings she knew! At once I said, \"Ah! but he is not like that.\" This,\nit seemed, she did not intend to dispute; but after a time the strange\nstill whisper wandering dreamily in the air stole into my ears. \"Why\nis he different? Is he better? Is he . . .\" \"Upon my word of honour,\" I\nbroke in, \"I believe he is.\" We subdued our tones to a mysterious pitch.\nAmongst the huts of Jim's workmen (they were mostly liberated slaves\nfrom the Sherif's stockade) somebody started a shrill, drawling song.\nAcross the river a big fire (at Doramin's, I think) made a glowing\nball, completely isolated in the night. \"Is he more true?\" she murmured.\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"More true than any other man,\" she repeated in\nlingering accents. \"Nobody here,\" I said, \"would dream of doubting his\nword--nobody would dare--except you.\"\n\n'I think she made a movement at this. \"More brave,\" she went on in a\nchanged tone. \"Fear will never drive him away from you,\" I said a little\nnervously. The song stopped short on a shrill note, and was succeeded by\nseveral voices talking in the distance. Jim's voice too. I was struck\nby her silence. \"What has he been telling you? He has been telling you\nsomething?\" I asked. There was no answer. \"What is it he told you?\" I\ninsisted.\n\n'\"Do you think I can tell you? How am I to know? How am I to\nunderstand?\" she cried at last. There was a stir. I believe she was\nwringing her hands. \"There is something he can never forget.\"\n\n'\"So much the better for you,\" I said gloomily.\n\n'\"What is it? What is it?\" She put an extraordinary force of appeal into\nher supplicating tone. \"He says he had been afraid. How can I believe\nthis? Am I a mad woman to believe this? You all remember something! You\nall go back to it. What is it? You tell me! What is this thing? Is it\nalive?--is it dead? I hate it. It is cruel. Has it got a face and a\nvoice--this calamity? Will he see it--will he hear it? In his sleep\nperhaps when he cannot see me--and then arise and go. Ah! I shall never\nforgive him. My mother had forgiven--but I, never! Will it be a sign--a\ncall?\"\n\n'It was a wonderful experience. She mistrusted his very slumbers--and\nshe seemed to think I could tell her why! Thus a poor mortal seduced by\nthe charm of an apparition might have tried to wring from another\nghost the tremendous secret of the claim the other world holds over a\ndisembodied soul astray amongst the passions of this earth. The very\nground on which I stood seemed to melt under my feet. And it was so\nsimple too; but if the spirits evoked by our fears and our unrest have\never to vouch for each other's constancy before the forlorn magicians\nthat we are, then I--I alone of us dwellers in the flesh--have shuddered\nin the hopeless chill of such a task. A sign, a call! How telling in its\nexpression was her ignorance. A few words! How she came to know them,\nhow she came to pronounce them, I can't imagine. Women find their\ninspiration in the stress of moments that for us are merely awful,\nabsurd, or futile. To discover that she had a voice at all was enough\nto strike awe into the heart. Had a spurned stone cried out in pain it\ncould not have appeared a greater and more pitiful miracle. These few\nsounds wandering in the dark had made their two benighted lives tragic\nto my mind. It was impossible to make her understand. I chafed silently\nat my impotence. And Jim, too--poor devil! Who would need him? Who would\nremember him? He had what he wanted. His very existence probably had\nbeen forgotten by this time. They had mastered their fates. They were\ntragic.\n\n'Her immobility before me was clearly expectant, and my part was to\nspeak for my brother from the realm of forgetful shade. I was deeply\nmoved at my responsibility and at her distress. I would have given\nanything for the power to soothe her frail soul, tormenting itself in\nits invincible ignorance like a small bird beating about the cruel\nwires of a cage. Nothing easier than to say, Have no fear! Nothing more\ndifficult. How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a spectre\nthrough the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral\nthroat? It is an enterprise you rush into while you dream, and are glad\nto make your escape with wet hair and every limb shaking. The bullet is\nnot run, the blade not forged, the man not born; even the winged words\nof truth drop at your feet like lumps of lead. You require for such a\ndesperate encounter an enchanted and poisoned shaft dipped in a lie too\nsubtle to be found on earth. An enterprise for a dream, my masters!\n\n'I began my exorcism with a heavy heart, with a sort of sullen anger in\nit too. Jim's voice, suddenly raised with a stern intonation, carried\nacross the courtyard, reproving the carelessness of some dumb sinner by\nthe river-side. Nothing--I said, speaking in a distinct murmur--there\ncould be nothing, in that unknown world she fancied so eager to rob her\nof her happiness, there was nothing, neither living nor dead, there was\nno face, no voice, no power, that could tear Jim from her side. I drew\nbreath and she whispered softly, \"He told me so.\" \"He told you the\ntruth,\" I said. \"Nothing,\" she sighed out, and abruptly turned upon me\nwith a barely audible intensity of tone: \"Why did you come to us from\nout there? He speaks of you too often. You make me afraid. Do you--do\nyou want him?\" A sort of stealthy fierceness had crept into our hurried\nmutters. \"I shall never come again,\" I said bitterly. \"And I don't want\nhim. No one wants him.\" \"No one,\" she repeated in a tone of doubt. \"No\none,\" I affirmed, feeling myself swayed by some strange excitement. \"You\nthink him strong, wise, courageous, great--why not believe him to be\ntrue too? I shall go to-morrow--and that is the end. You shall never be\ntroubled by a voice from there again. This world you don't know is too\nbig to miss him. You understand? Too big. You've got his heart in your\nhand. You must feel that. You must know that.\" \"Yes, I know that,\" she\nbreathed out, hard and still, as a statue might whisper.\n\n'I felt I had done nothing. And what is it that I had wished to do? I am\nnot sure now. At the time I was animated by an inexplicable ardour, as\nif before some great and necessary task--the influence of the moment\nupon my mental and emotional state. There are in all our lives\nsuch moments, such influences, coming from the outside, as it were,\nirresistible, incomprehensible--as if brought about by the mysterious\nconjunctions of the planets. She owned, as I had put it to her, his\nheart. She had that and everything else--if she could only believe it.\nWhat I had to tell her was that in the whole world there was no one who\never would need his heart, his mind, his hand. It was a common fate, and\nyet it seemed an awful thing to say of any man. She listened without\na word, and her stillness now was like the protest of an invincible\nunbelief. What need she care for the world beyond the forests? I asked.\nFrom all the multitudes that peopled the vastness of that unknown there\nwould come, I assured her, as long as he lived, neither a call nor a\nsign for him. Never. I was carried away. Never! Never! I remember with\nwonder the sort of dogged fierceness I displayed. I had the illusion\nof having got the spectre by the throat at last. Indeed the whole real\nthing has left behind the detailed and amazing impression of a dream.\nWhy should she fear? She knew him to be strong, true, wise, brave. He\nwas all that. Certainly. He was more. He was great--invincible--and the\nworld did not want him, it had forgotten him, it would not even know\nhim.\n\n'I stopped; the silence over Patusan was profound, and the feeble dry\nsound of a paddle striking the side of a canoe somewhere in the middle\nof the river seemed to make it infinite. \"Why?\" she murmured. I felt\nthat sort of rage one feels during a hard tussle. The spectre was trying\nto slip out of my grasp. \"Why?\" she repeated louder; \"tell me!\" And as\nI remained confounded, she stamped with her foot like a spoilt child.\n\"Why? Speak.\" \"You want to know?\" I asked in a fury. \"Yes!\" she cried.\n\"Because he is not good enough,\" I said brutally. During the moment's\npause I noticed the fire on the other shore blaze up, dilating the\ncircle of its glow like an amazed stare, and contract suddenly to a\nred pin-point. I only knew how close to me she had been when I felt\nthe clutch of her fingers on my forearm. Without raising her voice, she\nthrew into it an infinity of scathing contempt, bitterness, and despair.\n\n'\"This is the very thing he said. . . . You lie!\"\n\n'The last two words she cried at me in the native dialect. \"Hear me\nout!\" I entreated; she caught her breath tremulously, flung my arm away.\n\"Nobody, nobody is good enough,\" I began with the greatest earnestness.\nI could hear the sobbing labour of her breath frightfully quickened. I\nhung my head. What was the use? Footsteps were approaching; I slipped\naway without another word. . . .'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 34\n\n\nMarlow swung his legs out, got up quickly, and staggered a little, as\nthough he had been set down after a rush through space. He leaned his\nback against the balustrade and faced a disordered array of long cane\nchairs. The bodies prone in them seemed startled out of their torpor by\nhis movement. One or two sat up as if alarmed; here and there a cigar\nglowed yet; Marlow looked at them all with the eyes of a man returning\nfrom the excessive remoteness of a dream. A throat was cleared; a calm\nvoice encouraged negligently, 'Well.'\n\n'Nothing,' said Marlow with a slight start. 'He had told her--that's\nall. She did not believe him--nothing more. As to myself, I do not know\nwhether it be just, proper, decent for me to rejoice or to be sorry. For\nmy part, I cannot say what I believed--indeed I don't know to this day,\nand never shall probably. But what did the poor devil believe himself?\nTruth shall prevail--don't you know Magna est veritas el . . . Yes, when\nit gets a chance. There is a law, no doubt--and likewise a law regulates\nyour luck in the throwing of dice. It is not Justice the servant of men,\nbut accident, hazard, Fortune--the ally of patient Time--that holds an\neven and scrupulous balance. Both of us had said the very same thing.\nDid we both speak the truth--or one of us did--or neither? . . .'\n\nMarlow paused, crossed his arms on his breast, and in a changed tone--\n\n'She said we lied. Poor soul! Well--let's leave it to Chance, whose ally\nis Time, that cannot be hurried, and whose enemy is Death, that will not\nwait. I had retreated--a little cowed, I must own. I had tried a fall\nwith fear itself and got thrown--of course. I had only succeeded in\nadding to her anguish the hint of some mysterious collusion, of an\ninexplicable and incomprehensible conspiracy to keep her for ever in the\ndark. And it had come easily, naturally, unavoidably, by his act, by her\nown act! It was as though I had been shown the working of the implacable\ndestiny of which we are the victims--and the tools. It was appalling\nto think of the girl whom I had left standing there motionless; Jim's\nfootsteps had a fateful sound as he tramped by, without seeing me, in\nhis heavy laced boots. \"What? No lights!\" he said in a loud, surprised\nvoice. \"What are you doing in the dark--you two?\" Next moment he caught\nsight of her, I suppose. \"Hallo, girl!\" he cried cheerily. \"Hallo, boy!\"\nshe answered at once, with amazing pluck.\n\n'This was their usual greeting to each other, and the bit of swagger she\nwould put into her rather high but sweet voice was very droll, pretty,\nand childlike. It delighted Jim greatly. This was the last occasion on\nwhich I heard them exchange this familiar hail, and it struck a chill\ninto my heart. There was the high sweet voice, the pretty effort, the\nswagger; but it all seemed to die out prematurely, and the playful call\nsounded like a moan. It was too confoundedly awful. \"What have you done\nwith Marlow?\" Jim was asking; and then, \"Gone down--has he? Funny I\ndidn't meet him. . . . You there, Marlow?\"\n\n'I didn't answer. I wasn't going in--not yet at any rate. I really\ncouldn't. While he was calling me I was engaged in making my escape\nthrough a little gate leading out upon a stretch of newly cleared\nground. No; I couldn't face them yet. I walked hastily with lowered head\nalong a trodden path. The ground rose gently, the few big trees had been\nfelled, the undergrowth had been cut down and the grass fired. He had a\nmind to try a coffee-plantation there. The big hill, rearing its double\nsummit coal-black in the clear yellow glow of the rising moon, seemed\nto cast its shadow upon the ground prepared for that experiment. He was\ngoing to try ever so many experiments; I had admired his energy, his\nenterprise, and his shrewdness. Nothing on earth seemed less real now\nthan his plans, his energy, and his enthusiasm; and raising my eyes, I\nsaw part of the moon glittering through the bushes at the bottom of the\nchasm. For a moment it looked as though the smooth disc, falling from\nits place in the sky upon the earth, had rolled to the bottom of that\nprecipice: its ascending movement was like a leisurely rebound; it\ndisengaged itself from the tangle of twigs; the bare contorted limb of\nsome tree, growing on the slope, made a black crack right across its\nface. It threw its level rays afar as if from a cavern, and in this\nmournful eclipse-like light the stumps of felled trees uprose very dark,\nthe heavy shadows fell at my feet on all sides, my own moving shadow,\nand across my path the shadow of the solitary grave perpetually\ngarlanded with flowers. In the darkened moonlight the interlaced\nblossoms took on shapes foreign to one's memory and colours indefinable\nto the eye, as though they had been special flowers gathered by no man,\ngrown not in this world, and destined for the use of the dead alone.\nTheir powerful scent hung in the warm air, making it thick and heavy\nlike the fumes of incense. The lumps of white coral shone round the dark\nmound like a chaplet of bleached skulls, and everything around was so\nquiet that when I stood still all sound and all movement in the world\nseemed to come to an end.\n\n'It was a great peace, as if the earth had been one grave, and for a\ntime I stood there thinking mostly of the living who, buried in remote\nplaces out of the knowledge of mankind, still are fated to share in its\ntragic or grotesque miseries. In its noble struggles too--who knows?\nThe human heart is vast enough to contain all the world. It is valiant\nenough to bear the burden, but where is the courage that would cast it\noff?\n\n'I suppose I must have fallen into a sentimental mood; I only know that\nI stood there long enough for the sense of utter solitude to get hold\nof me so completely that all I had lately seen, all I had heard, and the\nvery human speech itself, seemed to have passed away out of existence,\nliving only for a while longer in my memory, as though I had been the\nlast of mankind. It was a strange and melancholy illusion, evolved\nhalf-consciously like all our illusions, which I suspect only to be\nvisions of remote unattainable truth, seen dimly. This was, indeed, one\nof the lost, forgotten, unknown places of the earth; I had looked under\nits obscure surface; and I felt that when to-morrow I had left it for\never, it would slip out of existence, to live only in my memory till I\nmyself passed into oblivion. I have that feeling about me now; perhaps\nit is that feeling which has incited me to tell you the story, to try to\nhand over to you, as it were, its very existence, its reality--the truth\ndisclosed in a moment of illusion.\n\n'Cornelius broke upon it. He bolted out, vermin-like, from the long\ngrass growing in a depression of the ground. I believe his house was\nrotting somewhere near by, though I've never seen it, not having been\nfar enough in that direction. He ran towards me upon the path; his feet,\nshod in dirty white shoes, twinkled on the dark earth; he pulled himself\nup, and began to whine and cringe under a tall stove-pipe hat. His\ndried-up little carcass was swallowed up, totally lost, in a suit of\nblack broadcloth. That was his costume for holidays and ceremonies, and\nit reminded me that this was the fourth Sunday I had spent in Patusan.\nAll the time of my stay I had been vaguely aware of his desire to\nconfide in me, if he only could get me all to himself. He hung about\nwith an eager craving look on his sour yellow little face; but his\ntimidity had kept him back as much as my natural reluctance to have\nanything to do with such an unsavoury creature. He would have succeeded,\nnevertheless, had he not been so ready to slink off as soon as you\nlooked at him. He would slink off before Jim's severe gaze, before my\nown, which I tried to make indifferent, even before Tamb' Itam's surly,\nsuperior glance. He was perpetually slinking away; whenever seen he was\nseen moving off deviously, his face over his shoulder, with either a\nmistrustful snarl or a woe-begone, piteous, mute aspect; but no assumed\nexpression could conceal this innate irremediable abjectness of his\nnature, any more than an arrangement of clothing can conceal some\nmonstrous deformity of the body.\n\n'I don't know whether it was the demoralisation of my utter defeat in\nmy encounter with a spectre of fear less than an hour ago, but I let\nhim capture me without even a show of resistance. I was doomed to be\nthe recipient of confidences, and to be confronted with unanswerable\nquestions. It was trying; but the contempt, the unreasoned contempt, the\nman's appearance provoked, made it easier to bear. He couldn't possibly\nmatter. Nothing mattered, since I had made up my mind that Jim, for\nwhom alone I cared, had at last mastered his fate. He had told me he\nwas satisfied . . . nearly. This is going further than most of us dare.\nI--who have the right to think myself good enough--dare not. Neither\ndoes any of you here, I suppose? . . .'\n\nMarlow paused, as if expecting an answer. Nobody spoke.\n\n'Quite right,' he began again. 'Let no soul know, since the truth can be\nwrung out of us only by some cruel, little, awful catastrophe. But he\nis one of us, and he could say he was satisfied . . . nearly. Just\nfancy this! Nearly satisfied. One could almost envy him his catastrophe.\nNearly satisfied. After this nothing could matter. It did not matter who\nsuspected him, who trusted him, who loved him, who hated him--especially\nas it was Cornelius who hated him.\n\n'Yet after all this was a kind of recognition. You shall judge of a man\nby his foes as well as by his friends, and this enemy of Jim was such as\nno decent man would be ashamed to own, without, however, making too\nmuch of him. This was the view Jim took, and in which I shared; but Jim\ndisregarded him on general grounds. \"My dear Marlow,\" he said, \"I feel\nthat if I go straight nothing can touch me. Indeed I do. Now you have\nbeen long enough here to have a good look round--and, frankly, don't\nyou think I am pretty safe? It all depends upon me, and, by Jove! I have\nlots of confidence in myself. The worst thing he could do would be to\nkill me, I suppose. I don't think for a moment he would. He couldn't,\nyou know--not if I were myself to hand him a loaded rifle for the\npurpose, and then turn my back on him. That's the sort of thing he is.\nAnd suppose he would--suppose he could? Well--what of that? I didn't\ncome here flying for my life--did I? I came here to set my back against\nthe wall, and I am going to stay here . . .\"\n\n'\"Till you are _quite_ satisfied,\" I struck in.\n\n'We were sitting at the time under the roof in the stern of his boat;\ntwenty paddles flashed like one, ten on a side, striking the water with\na single splash, while behind our backs Tamb' Itam dipped silently right\nand left, and stared right down the river, attentive to keep the long\ncanoe in the greatest strength of the current. Jim bowed his head, and\nour last talk seemed to flicker out for good. He was seeing me off as\nfar as the mouth of the river. The schooner had left the day before,\nworking down and drifting on the ebb, while I had prolonged my stay\novernight. And now he was seeing me off.\n\n'Jim had been a little angry with me for mentioning Cornelius at all.\nI had not, in truth, said much. The man was too insignificant to be\ndangerous, though he was as full of hate as he could hold. He had called\nme \"honourable sir\" at every second sentence, and had whined at my elbow\nas he followed me from the grave of his \"late wife\" to the gate of Jim's\ncompound. He declared himself the most unhappy of men, a victim, crushed\nlike a worm; he entreated me to look at him. I wouldn't turn my head to\ndo so; but I could see out of the corner of my eye his obsequious shadow\ngliding after mine, while the moon, suspended on our right hand, seemed\nto gloat serenely upon the spectacle. He tried to explain--as I've told\nyou--his share in the events of the memorable night. It was a matter of\nexpediency. How could he know who was going to get the upper hand? \"I\nwould have saved him, honourable sir! I would have saved him for eighty\ndollars,\" he protested in dulcet tones, keeping a pace behind me. \"He\nhas saved himself,\" I said, \"and he has forgiven you.\" I heard a sort of\ntittering, and turned upon him; at once he appeared ready to take to his\nheels. \"What are you laughing at?\" I asked, standing still. \"Don't be\ndeceived, honourable sir!\" he shrieked, seemingly losing all control\nover his feelings. \"_He_ save himself! He knows nothing, honourable\nsir--nothing whatever. Who is he? What does he want here--the big thief?\nWhat does he want here? He throws dust into everybody's eyes; he throws\ndust into your eyes, honourable sir; but he can't throw dust into my\neyes. He is a big fool, honourable sir.\" I laughed contemptuously, and,\nturning on my heel, began to walk on again. He ran up to my elbow and\nwhispered forcibly, \"He's no more than a little child here--like a\nlittle child--a little child.\" Of course I didn't take the slightest\nnotice, and seeing the time pressed, because we were approaching the\nbamboo fence that glittered over the blackened ground of the clearing,\nhe came to the point. He commenced by being abjectly lachrymose. His\ngreat misfortunes had affected his head. He hoped I would kindly forget\nwhat nothing but his troubles made him say. He didn't mean anything\nby it; only the honourable sir did not know what it was to be ruined,\nbroken down, trampled upon. After this introduction he approached the\nmatter near his heart, but in such a rambling, ejaculatory, craven\nfashion, that for a long time I couldn't make out what he was driving\nat. He wanted me to intercede with Jim in his favour. It seemed, too,\nto be some sort of money affair. I heard time and again the words,\n\"Moderate provision--suitable present.\" He seemed to be claiming value\nfor something, and he even went the length of saying with some warmth\nthat life was not worth having if a man were to be robbed of everything.\nI did not breathe a word, of course, but neither did I stop my ears.\nThe gist of the affair, which became clear to me gradually, was in this,\nthat he regarded himself as entitled to some money in exchange for the\ngirl. He had brought her up. Somebody else's child. Great trouble and\npains--old man now--suitable present. If the honourable sir would say\na word. . . . I stood still to look at him with curiosity, and fearful\nlest I should think him extortionate, I suppose, he hastily brought\nhimself to make a concession. In consideration of a \"suitable present\"\ngiven at once, he would, he declared, be willing to undertake the charge\nof the girl, \"without any other provision--when the time came for the\ngentleman to go home.\" His little yellow face, all crumpled as though it\nhad been squeezed together, expressed the most anxious, eager avarice.\nHis voice whined coaxingly, \"No more trouble--natural guardian--a sum of\nmoney . . .\"\n\n'I stood there and marvelled. That kind of thing, with him, was\nevidently a vocation. I discovered suddenly in his cringing attitude\na sort of assurance, as though he had been all his life dealing in\ncertitudes. He must have thought I was dispassionately considering his\nproposal, because he became as sweet as honey. \"Every gentleman made\na provision when the time came to go home,\" he began insinuatingly. I\nslammed the little gate. \"In this case, Mr. Cornelius,\" I said, \"the\ntime will never come.\" He took a few seconds to gather this in. \"What!\"\nhe fairly squealed. \"Why,\" I continued from my side of the gate,\n\"haven't you heard him say so himself? He will never go home.\" \"Oh! this\nis too much,\" he shouted. He would not address me as \"honoured sir\" any\nmore. He was very still for a time, and then without a trace of humility\nbegan very low: \"Never go--ah! He--he--he comes here devil knows\nfrom where--comes here--devil knows why--to trample on me till I\ndie--ah--trample\" (he stamped softly with both feet), \"trample like\nthis--nobody knows why--till I die. . . .\" His voice became quite\nextinct; he was bothered by a little cough; he came up close to the\nfence and told me, dropping into a confidential and piteous tone,\nthat he would not be trampled upon. \"Patience--patience,\" he muttered,\nstriking his breast. I had done laughing at him, but unexpectedly he\ntreated me to a wild cracked burst of it. \"Ha! ha! ha! We shall see! We\nshall see! What! Steal from me! Steal from me everything! Everything!\nEverything!\" His head drooped on one shoulder, his hands were hanging\nbefore him lightly clasped. One would have thought he had cherished\nthe girl with surpassing love, that his spirit had been crushed and his\nheart broken by the most cruel of spoliations. Suddenly he lifted his\nhead and shot out an infamous word. \"Like her mother--she is like her\ndeceitful mother. Exactly. In her face, too. In her face. The devil!\"\nHe leaned his forehead against the fence, and in that position\nuttered threats and horrible blasphemies in Portuguese in very weak\nejaculations, mingled with miserable plaints and groans, coming out with\na heave of the shoulders as though he had been overtaken by a deadly fit\nof sickness. It was an inexpressibly grotesque and vile performance,\nand I hastened away. He tried to shout something after me. Some\ndisparagement of Jim, I believe--not too loud though, we were too near\nthe house. All I heard distinctly was, \"No more than a little child--a\nlittle child.\"'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 35\n\n\n'But next morning, at the first bend of the river shutting off the\nhouses of Patusan, all this dropped out of my sight bodily, with its\ncolour, its design, and its meaning, like a picture created by fancy on\na canvas, upon which, after long contemplation, you turn your back for\nthe last time. It remains in the memory motionless, unfaded, with its\nlife arrested, in an unchanging light. There are the ambitions, the\nfears, the hate, the hopes, and they remain in my mind just as I had\nseen them--intense and as if for ever suspended in their expression. I\nhad turned away from the picture and was going back to the world where\nevents move, men change, light flickers, life flows in a clear stream,\nno matter whether over mud or over stones. I wasn't going to dive into\nit; I would have enough to do to keep my head above the surface. But\nas to what I was leaving behind, I cannot imagine any alteration. The\nimmense and magnanimous Doramin and his little motherly witch of a\nwife, gazing together upon the land and nursing secretly their dreams\nof parental ambition; Tunku Allang, wizened and greatly perplexed;\nDain Waris, intelligent and brave, with his faith in Jim, with his\nfirm glance and his ironic friendliness; the girl, absorbed in her\nfrightened, suspicious adoration; Tamb' Itam, surly and faithful;\nCornelius, leaning his forehead against the fence under the moonlight--I\nam certain of them. They exist as if under an enchanter's wand. But the\nfigure round which all these are grouped--that one lives, and I am not\ncertain of him. No magician's wand can immobilise him under my eyes. He\nis one of us.\n\n'Jim, as I've told you, accompanied me on the first stage of my journey\nback to the world he had renounced, and the way at times seemed to\nlead through the very heart of untouched wilderness. The empty reaches\nsparkled under the high sun; between the high walls of vegetation the\nheat drowsed upon the water, and the boat, impelled vigorously, cut her\nway through the air that seemed to have settled dense and warm under the\nshelter of lofty trees.\n\n'The shadow of the impending separation had already put an immense space\nbetween us, and when we spoke it was with an effort, as if to force our\nlow voices across a vast and increasing distance. The boat fairly flew;\nwe sweltered side by side in the stagnant superheated air; the smell of\nmud, of mush, the primeval smell of fecund earth, seemed to sting our\nfaces; till suddenly at a bend it was as if a great hand far away had\nlifted a heavy curtain, had flung open un immense portal. The light\nitself seemed to stir, the sky above our heads widened, a far-off murmur\nreached our ears, a freshness enveloped us, filled our lungs, quickened\nour thoughts, our blood, our regrets--and, straight ahead, the forests\nsank down against the dark-blue ridge of the sea.\n\n'I breathed deeply, I revelled in the vastness of the opened horizon, in\nthe different atmosphere that seemed to vibrate with the toil of life,\nwith the energy of an impeccable world. This sky and this sea were open\nto me. The girl was right--there was a sign, a call in them--something\nto which I responded with every fibre of my being. I let my eyes roam\nthrough space, like a man released from bonds who stretches his cramped\nlimbs, runs, leaps, responds to the inspiring elation of freedom. \"This\nis glorious!\" I cried, and then I looked at the sinner by my side. He\nsat with his head sunk on his breast and said \"Yes,\" without raising his\neyes, as if afraid to see writ large on the clear sky of the offing the\nreproach of his romantic conscience.\n\n'I remember the smallest details of that afternoon. We landed on a bit\nof white beach. It was backed by a low cliff wooded on the brow, draped\nin creepers to the very foot. Below us the plain of the sea, of a serene\nand intense blue, stretched with a slight upward tilt to the thread-like\nhorizon drawn at the height of our eyes. Great waves of glitter blew\nlightly along the pitted dark surface, as swift as feathers chased by\nthe breeze. A chain of islands sat broken and massive facing the wide\nestuary, displayed in a sheet of pale glassy water reflecting faithfully\nthe contour of the shore. High in the colourless sunshine a solitary\nbird, all black, hovered, dropping and soaring above the same spot with\na slight rocking motion of the wings. A ragged, sooty bunch of flimsy\nmat hovels was perched over its own inverted image upon a crooked\nmultitude of high piles the colour of ebony. A tiny black canoe put off\nfrom amongst them with two tiny men, all black, who toiled exceedingly,\nstriking down at the pale water: and the canoe seemed to slide painfully\non a mirror. This bunch of miserable hovels was the fishing village\nthat boasted of the white lord's especial protection, and the two men\ncrossing over were the old headman and his son-in-law. They landed\nand walked up to us on the white sand, lean, dark-brown as if dried\nin smoke, with ashy patches on the skin of their naked shoulders\nand breasts. Their heads were bound in dirty but carefully folded\nheadkerchiefs, and the old man began at once to state a complaint,\nvoluble, stretching a lank arm, screwing up at Jim his old bleared eyes\nconfidently. The Rajah's people would not leave them alone; there had\nbeen some trouble about a lot of turtles' eggs his people had collected\non the islets there--and leaning at arm's-length upon his paddle, he\npointed with a brown skinny hand over the sea. Jim listened for a time\nwithout looking up, and at last told him gently to wait. He would hear\nhim by-and-by. They withdrew obediently to some little distance, and sat\non their heels, with their paddles lying before them on the sand; the\nsilvery gleams in their eyes followed our movements patiently; and the\nimmensity of the outspread sea, the stillness of the coast, passing\nnorth and south beyond the limits of my vision, made up one colossal\nPresence watching us four dwarfs isolated on a strip of glistening sand.\n\n'\"The trouble is,\" remarked Jim moodily, \"that for generations these\nbeggars of fishermen in that village there had been considered as the\nRajah's personal slaves--and the old rip can't get it into his head that\n. . .\"\n\n'He paused. \"That you have changed all that,\" I said.\n\n'\"Yes I've changed all that,\" he muttered in a gloomy voice.\n\n'\"You have had your opportunity,\" I pursued.\n\n'\"Have I?\" he said. \"Well, yes. I suppose so. Yes. I have got back my\nconfidence in myself--a good name--yet sometimes I wish . . . No! I\nshall hold what I've got. Can't expect anything more.\" He flung his arm\nout towards the sea. \"Not out there anyhow.\" He stamped his foot upon\nthe sand. \"This is my limit, because nothing less will do.\"\n\n'We continued pacing the beach. \"Yes, I've changed all that,\" he went\non, with a sidelong glance at the two patient squatting fishermen; \"but\nonly try to think what it would be if I went away. Jove! can't you see\nit? Hell loose. No! To-morrow I shall go and take my chance of drinking\nthat silly old Tunku Allang's coffee, and I shall make no end of fuss\nover these rotten turtles' eggs. No. I can't say--enough. Never. I must\ngo on, go on for ever holding up my end, to feel sure that nothing can\ntouch me. I must stick to their belief in me to feel safe and to--to\"\n. . . He cast about for a word, seemed to look for it on the sea . . .\n\"to keep in touch with\" . . . His voice sank suddenly to a murmur . . .\n\"with those whom, perhaps, I shall never see any more. With--with--you,\nfor instance.\"\n\n'I was profoundly humbled by his words. \"For God's sake,\" I said, \"don't\nset me up, my dear fellow; just look to yourself.\" I felt a gratitude,\nan affection, for that straggler whose eyes had singled me out, keeping\nmy place in the ranks of an insignificant multitude. How little that\nwas to boast of, after all! I turned my burning face away; under the\nlow sun, glowing, darkened and crimson, like un ember snatched from the\nfire, the sea lay outspread, offering all its immense stillness to the\napproach of the fiery orb. Twice he was going to speak, but checked\nhimself; at last, as if he had found a formula--\n\n'\"I shall be faithful,\" he said quietly. \"I shall be faithful,\" he\nrepeated, without looking at me, but for the first time letting his eyes\nwander upon the waters, whose blueness had changed to a gloomy purple\nunder the fires of sunset. Ah! he was romantic, romantic. I recalled\nsome words of Stein's. . . . \"In the destructive element immerse! . . .\nTo follow the dream, and again to follow the dream--and\nso--always--usque ad finem . . .\" He was romantic, but none the\nless true. Who could tell what forms, what visions, what faces, what\nforgiveness he could see in the glow of the west! . . . A small boat,\nleaving the schooner, moved slowly, with a regular beat of two oars,\ntowards the sandbank to take me off. \"And then there's Jewel,\" he said,\nout of the great silence of earth, sky, and sea, which had mastered my\nvery thoughts so that his voice made me start. \"There's Jewel.\" \"Yes,\"\nI murmured. \"I need not tell you what she is to me,\" he pursued.\n\"You've seen. In time she will come to understand . . .\" \"I hope so,\" I\ninterrupted. \"She trusts me, too,\" he mused, and then changed his tone.\n\"When shall we meet next, I wonder?\" he said.\n\n'\"Never--unless you come out,\" I answered, avoiding his glance. He\ndidn't seem to be surprised; he kept very quiet for a while.\n\n'\"Good-bye, then,\" he said, after a pause. \"Perhaps it's just as well.\"\n\n'We shook hands, and I walked to the boat, which waited with her nose\non the beach. The schooner, her mainsail set and jib-sheet to windward,\ncurveted on the purple sea; there was a rosy tinge on her sails. \"Will\nyou be going home again soon?\" asked Jim, just as I swung my leg over\nthe gunwale. \"In a year or so if I live,\" I said. The forefoot grated on\nthe sand, the boat floated, the wet oars flashed and dipped once, twice.\nJim, at the water's edge, raised his voice. \"Tell them . . .\" he began.\nI signed to the men to cease rowing, and waited in wonder. Tell who? The\nhalf-submerged sun faced him; I could see its red gleam in his eyes that\nlooked dumbly at me. . . . \"No--nothing,\" he said, and with a slight\nwave of his hand motioned the boat away. I did not look again at the\nshore till I had clambered on board the schooner.\n\n'By that time the sun had set. The twilight lay over the east, and the\ncoast, turned black, extended infinitely its sombre wall that seemed the\nvery stronghold of the night; the western horizon was one great blaze of\ngold and crimson in which a big detached cloud floated dark and still,\ncasting a slaty shadow on the water beneath, and I saw Jim on the beach\nwatching the schooner fall off and gather headway.\n\n'The two half-naked fishermen had arisen as soon as I had gone; they\nwere no doubt pouring the plaint of their trifling, miserable, oppressed\nlives into the ears of the white lord, and no doubt he was listening to\nit, making it his own, for was it not a part of his luck--the luck \"from\nthe word Go\"--the luck to which he had assured me he was so completely\nequal? They, too, I should think, were in luck, and I was sure their\npertinacity would be equal to it. Their dark-skinned bodies vanished on\nthe dark background long before I had lost sight of their protector. He\nwas white from head to foot, and remained persistently visible with\nthe stronghold of the night at his back, the sea at his feet, the\nopportunity by his side--still veiled. What do you say? Was it still\nveiled? I don't know. For me that white figure in the stillness of coast\nand sea seemed to stand at the heart of a vast enigma. The twilight\nwas ebbing fast from the sky above his head, the strip of sand had sunk\nalready under his feet, he himself appeared no bigger than a child--then\nonly a speck, a tiny white speck, that seemed to catch all the light\nleft in a darkened world. . . . And, suddenly, I lost him. . . .\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 36\n\n\nWith these words Marlow had ended his narrative, and his audience had\nbroken up forthwith, under his abstract, pensive gaze. Men drifted off\nthe verandah in pairs or alone without loss of time, without offering\na remark, as if the last image of that incomplete story, its\nincompleteness itself, and the very tone of the speaker, had made\ndiscussion in vain and comment impossible. Each of them seemed to carry\naway his own impression, to carry it away with him like a secret; but\nthere was only one man of all these listeners who was ever to hear the\nlast word of the story. It came to him at home, more than two years\nlater, and it came contained in a thick packet addressed in Marlow's\nupright and angular handwriting.\n\nThe privileged man opened the packet, looked in, then, laying it down,\nwent to the window. His rooms were in the highest flat of a lofty\nbuilding, and his glance could travel afar beyond the clear panes of\nglass, as though he were looking out of the lantern of a lighthouse.\nThe slopes of the roofs glistened, the dark broken ridges succeeded each\nother without end like sombre, uncrested waves, and from the depths of\nthe town under his feet ascended a confused and unceasing mutter. The\nspires of churches, numerous, scattered haphazard, uprose like beacons\non a maze of shoals without a channel; the driving rain mingled with the\nfalling dusk of a winter's evening; and the booming of a big clock on a\ntower, striking the hour, rolled past in voluminous, austere bursts\nof sound, with a shrill vibrating cry at the core. He drew the heavy\ncurtains.\n\nThe light of his shaded reading-lamp slept like a sheltered pool, his\nfootfalls made no sound on the carpet, his wandering days were over. No\nmore horizons as boundless as hope, no more twilights within the forests\nas solemn as temples, in the hot quest for the Ever-undiscovered\nCountry over the hill, across the stream, beyond the wave. The hour\nwas striking! No more! No more!--but the opened packet under the lamp\nbrought back the sounds, the visions, the very savour of the past--a\nmultitude of fading faces, a tumult of low voices, dying away upon the\nshores of distant seas under a passionate and unconsoling sunshine. He\nsighed and sat down to read.\n\nAt first he saw three distinct enclosures. A good many pages closely\nblackened and pinned together; a loose square sheet of greyish paper\nwith a few words traced in a handwriting he had never seen before, and\nan explanatory letter from Marlow. From this last fell another letter,\nyellowed by time and frayed on the folds. He picked it up and, laying it\naside, turned to Marlow's message, ran swiftly over the opening lines,\nand, checking himself, thereafter read on deliberately, like one\napproaching with slow feet and alert eyes the glimpse of an undiscovered\ncountry.\n\n'. . . I don't suppose you've forgotten,' went on the letter. 'You alone\nhave showed an interest in him that survived the telling of his story,\nthough I remember well you would not admit he had mastered his fate.\nYou prophesied for him the disaster of weariness and of disgust with\nacquired honour, with the self-appointed task, with the love sprung from\npity and youth. You had said you knew so well \"that kind of thing,\" its\nillusory satisfaction, its unavoidable deception. You said also--I call\nto mind--that \"giving your life up to them\" (them meaning all of mankind\nwith skins brown, yellow, or black in colour) \"was like selling your\nsoul to a brute.\" You contended that \"that kind of thing\" was only\nendurable and enduring when based on a firm conviction in the truth of\nideas racially our own, in whose name are established the order, the\nmorality of an ethical progress. \"We want its strength at our backs,\"\nyou had said. \"We want a belief in its necessity and its justice, to\nmake a worthy and conscious sacrifice of our lives. Without it the\nsacrifice is only forgetfulness, the way of offering is no better than\nthe way to perdition.\" In other words, you maintained that we must fight\nin the ranks or our lives don't count. Possibly! You ought to know--be\nit said without malice--you who have rushed into one or two places\nsingle-handed and came out cleverly, without singeing your wings. The\npoint, however, is that of all mankind Jim had no dealings but with\nhimself, and the question is whether at the last he had not confessed to\na faith mightier than the laws of order and progress.\n\n'I affirm nothing. Perhaps you may pronounce--after you've read. There\nis much truth--after all--in the common expression \"under a cloud.\" It\nis impossible to see him clearly--especially as it is through the eyes\nof others that we take our last look at him. I have no hesitation in\nimparting to you all I know of the last episode that, as he used to say,\nhad \"come to him.\" One wonders whether this was perhaps that supreme\nopportunity, that last and satisfying test for which I had always\nsuspected him to be waiting, before he could frame a message to the\nimpeccable world. You remember that when I was leaving him for the last\ntime he had asked whether I would be going home soon, and suddenly cried\nafter me, \"Tell them . . .\" I had waited--curious I'll own, and hopeful\ntoo--only to hear him shout, \"No--nothing.\" That was all then--and there\nwill be nothing more; there will be no message, unless such as each of\nus can interpret for himself from the language of facts, that are so\noften more enigmatic than the craftiest arrangement of words. He made,\nit is true, one more attempt to deliver himself; but that too failed, as\nyou may perceive if you look at the sheet of greyish foolscap enclosed\nhere. He had tried to write; do you notice the commonplace hand? It is\nheaded \"The Fort, Patusan.\" I suppose he had carried out his intention\nof making out of his house a place of defence. It was an excellent plan:\na deep ditch, an earth wall topped by a palisade, and at the angles\nguns mounted on platforms to sweep each side of the square. Doramin had\nagreed to furnish him the guns; and so each man of his party would know\nthere was a place of safety, upon which every faithful partisan could\nrally in case of some sudden danger. All this showed his judicious\nforesight, his faith in the future. What he called \"my own people\"--the\nliberated captives of the Sherif--were to make a distinct quarter of\nPatusan, with their huts and little plots of ground under the walls of\nthe stronghold. Within he would be an invincible host in himself \"The\nFort, Patusan.\" No date, as you observe. What is a number and a name to\na day of days? It is also impossible to say whom he had in his mind when\nhe seized the pen: Stein--myself--the world at large--or was this only\nthe aimless startled cry of a solitary man confronted by his fate? \"An\nawful thing has happened,\" he wrote before he flung the pen down for the\nfirst time; look at the ink blot resembling the head of an arrow under\nthese words. After a while he had tried again, scrawling heavily, as if\nwith a hand of lead, another line. \"I must now at once . . .\" The pen\nhad spluttered, and that time he gave it up. There's nothing more;\nhe had seen a broad gulf that neither eye nor voice could span. I\ncan understand this. He was overwhelmed by the inexplicable; he was\noverwhelmed by his own personality--the gift of that destiny which he\nhad done his best to master.\n\n'I send you also an old letter--a very old letter. It was found\ncarefully preserved in his writing-case. It is from his father, and\nby the date you can see he must have received it a few days before he\njoined the Patna. Thus it must be the last letter he ever had from home.\nHe had treasured it all these years. The good old parson fancied his\nsailor son. I've looked in at a sentence here and there. There is\nnothing in it except just affection. He tells his \"dear James\" that the\nlast long letter from him was very \"honest and entertaining.\" He would\nnot have him \"judge men harshly or hastily.\" There are four pages of it,\neasy morality and family news. Tom had \"taken orders.\" Carrie's husband\nhad \"money losses.\" The old chap goes on equably trusting Providence and\nthe established order of the universe, but alive to its small dangers\nand its small mercies. One can almost see him, grey-haired and serene in\nthe inviolable shelter of his book-lined, faded, and comfortable study,\nwhere for forty years he had conscientiously gone over and over again\nthe round of his little thoughts about faith and virtue, about the\nconduct of life and the only proper manner of dying; where he had\nwritten so many sermons, where he sits talking to his boy, over there,\non the other side of the earth. But what of the distance? Virtue is one\nall over the world, and there is only one faith, one conceivable conduct\nof life, one manner of dying. He hopes his \"dear James\" will never\nforget that \"who once gives way to temptation, in the very instant\nhazards his total depravity and everlasting ruin. Therefore resolve\nfixedly never, through any possible motives, to do anything which you\nbelieve to be wrong.\" There is also some news of a favourite dog; and a\npony, \"which all you boys used to ride,\" had gone blind from old age and\nhad to be shot. The old chap invokes Heaven's blessing; the mother and\nall the girls then at home send their love. . . . No, there is nothing\nmuch in that yellow frayed letter fluttering out of his cherishing\ngrasp after so many years. It was never answered, but who can say what\nconverse he may have held with all these placid, colourless forms of men\nand women peopling that quiet corner of the world as free of danger\nor strife as a tomb, and breathing equably the air of undisturbed\nrectitude. It seems amazing that he should belong to it, he to whom so\nmany things \"had come.\" Nothing ever came to them; they would never be\ntaken unawares, and never be called upon to grapple with fate. Here they\nall are, evoked by the mild gossip of the father, all these brothers\nand sisters, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, gazing with clear\nunconscious eyes, while I seem to see him, returned at last, no longer\na mere white speck at the heart of an immense mystery, but of full\nstature, standing disregarded amongst their untroubled shapes, with a\nstern and romantic aspect, but always mute, dark--under a cloud.\n\n'The story of the last events you will find in the few pages enclosed\nhere. You must admit that it is romantic beyond the wildest dreams\nof his boyhood, and yet there is to my mind a sort of profound and\nterrifying logic in it, as if it were our imagination alone that could\nset loose upon us the might of an overwhelming destiny. The imprudence\nof our thoughts recoils upon our heads; who toys with the sword shall\nperish by the sword. This astounding adventure, of which the most\nastounding part is that it is true, comes on as an unavoidable\nconsequence. Something of the sort had to happen. You repeat this to\nyourself while you marvel that such a thing could happen in the year of\ngrace before last. But it has happened--and there is no disputing its\nlogic.\n\n'I put it down here for you as though I had been an eyewitness. My\ninformation was fragmentary, but I've fitted the pieces together, and\nthere is enough of them to make an intelligible picture. I wonder how\nhe would have related it himself. He has confided so much in me that at\ntimes it seems as though he must come in presently and tell the story\nin his own words, in his careless yet feeling voice, with his offhand\nmanner, a little puzzled, a little bothered, a little hurt, but now and\nthen by a word or a phrase giving one of these glimpses of his very\nown self that were never any good for purposes of orientation. It's\ndifficult to believe he will never come. I shall never hear his voice\nagain, nor shall I see his smooth tan-and-pink face with a white line\non the forehead, and the youthful eyes darkened by excitement to a\nprofound, unfathomable blue.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 37\n\n\n'It all begins with a remarkable exploit of a man called Brown, who\nstole with complete success a Spanish schooner out of a small bay near\nZamboanga. Till I discovered the fellow my information was incomplete,\nbut most unexpectedly I did come upon him a few hours before he gave up\nhis arrogant ghost. Fortunately he was willing and able to talk between\nthe choking fits of asthma, and his racked body writhed with malicious\nexultation at the bare thought of Jim. He exulted thus at the idea that\nhe had \"paid out the stuck-up beggar after all.\" He gloated over his\naction. I had to bear the sunken glare of his fierce crow-footed eyes if\nI wanted to know; and so I bore it, reflecting how much certain forms\nof evil are akin to madness, derived from intense egoism, inflamed by\nresistance, tearing the soul to pieces, and giving factitious vigour to\nthe body. The story also reveals unsuspected depths of cunning in the\nwretched Cornelius, whose abject and intense hate acts like a subtle\ninspiration, pointing out an unerring way towards revenge.\n\n'\"I could see directly I set my eyes on him what sort of a fool he was,\"\ngasped the dying Brown. \"He a man! Hell! He was a hollow sham. As if he\ncouldn't have said straight out, 'Hands off my plunder!' blast him! That\nwould have been like a man! Rot his superior soul! He had me there--but\nhe hadn't devil enough in him to make an end of me. Not he! A thing like\nthat letting me off as if I wasn't worth a kick! . . .\" Brown struggled\ndesperately for breath. . . . \"Fraud. . . . Letting me off. . . . And\nso I did make an end of him after all. . . .\" He choked again. . . . \"I\nexpect this thing'll kill me, but I shall die easy now. You . . . you\nhere . . . I don't know your name--I would give you a five-pound note\nif--if I had it--for the news--or my name's not Brown. . . .\" He grinned\nhorribly. . . . \"Gentleman Brown.\"\n\n'He said all these things in profound gasps, staring at me with his\nyellow eyes out of a long, ravaged, brown face; he jerked his left arm;\na pepper-and-salt matted beard hung almost into his lap; a dirty ragged\nblanket covered his legs. I had found him out in Bankok through that\nbusybody Schomberg, the hotel-keeper, who had, confidentially, directed\nme where to look. It appears that a sort of loafing, fuddled vagabond--a\nwhite man living amongst the natives with a Siamese woman--had\nconsidered it a great privilege to give a shelter to the last days of\nthe famous Gentleman Brown. While he was talking to me in the wretched\nhovel, and, as it were, fighting for every minute of his life, the\nSiamese woman, with big bare legs and a stupid coarse face, sat in a\ndark corner chewing betel stolidly. Now and then she would get up for\nthe purpose of shooing a chicken away from the door. The whole hut shook\nwhen she walked. An ugly yellow child, naked and pot-bellied like a\nlittle heathen god, stood at the foot of the couch, finger in mouth,\nlost in a profound and calm contemplation of the dying man.\n\n'He talked feverishly; but in the middle of a word, perhaps, an\ninvisible hand would take him by the throat, and he would look at me\ndumbly with an expression of doubt and anguish. He seemed to fear that\nI would get tired of waiting and go away, leaving him with his tale\nuntold, with his exultation unexpressed. He died during the night, I\nbelieve, but by that time I had nothing more to learn.\n\n'So much as to Brown, for the present.\n\n'Eight months before this, coming into Samarang, I went as usual to see\nStein. On the garden side of the house a Malay on the verandah greeted\nme shyly, and I remembered that I had seen him in Patusan, in Jim's\nhouse, amongst other Bugis men who used to come in the evening to talk\ninterminably over their war reminiscences and to discuss State affairs.\nJim had pointed him out to me once as a respectable petty trader owning\na small seagoing native craft, who had showed himself \"one of the best\nat the taking of the stockade.\" I was not very surprised to see him,\nsince any Patusan trader venturing as far as Samarang would naturally\nfind his way to Stein's house. I returned his greeting and passed on. At\nthe door of Stein's room I came upon another Malay in whom I recognised\nTamb' Itam.\n\n'I asked him at once what he was doing there; it occurred to me that\nJim might have come on a visit. I own I was pleased and excited at the\nthought. Tamb' Itam looked as if he did not know what to say. \"Is Tuan\nJim inside?\" I asked impatiently. \"No,\" he mumbled, hanging his head\nfor a moment, and then with sudden earnestness, \"He would not fight. He\nwould not fight,\" he repeated twice. As he seemed unable to say anything\nelse, I pushed him aside and went in.\n\n'Stein, tall and stooping, stood alone in the middle of the room between\nthe rows of butterfly cases. \"Ach! is it you, my friend?\" he said\nsadly, peering through his glasses. A drab sack-coat of alpaca hung,\nunbuttoned, down to his knees. He had a Panama hat on his head, and\nthere were deep furrows on his pale cheeks. \"What's the matter now?\"\nI asked nervously. \"There's Tamb' Itam there. . . .\" \"Come and see the\ngirl. Come and see the girl. She is here,\" he said, with a half-hearted\nshow of activity. I tried to detain him, but with gentle obstinacy he\nwould take no notice of my eager questions. \"She is here, she is here,\"\nhe repeated, in great perturbation. \"They came here two days ago. An old\nman like me, a stranger--sehen Sie--cannot do much. . . . Come this way.\n. . . Young hearts are unforgiving. . . .\" I could see he was in utmost\ndistress. . . . \"The strength of life in them, the cruel strength of\nlife. . . .\" He mumbled, leading me round the house; I followed him,\nlost in dismal and angry conjectures. At the door of the drawing-room he\nbarred my way. \"He loved her very much,\" he said interrogatively, and\nI only nodded, feeling so bitterly disappointed that I would not trust\nmyself to speak. \"Very frightful,\" he murmured. \"She can't understand\nme. I am only a strange old man. Perhaps you . . . she knows you. Talk\nto her. We can't leave it like this. Tell her to forgive him. It was\nvery frightful.\" \"No doubt,\" I said, exasperated at being in the dark;\n\"but have you forgiven him?\" He looked at me queerly. \"You shall hear,\"\nhe said, and opening the door, absolutely pushed me in.\n\n'You know Stein's big house and the two immense reception-rooms,\nuninhabited and uninhabitable, clean, full of solitude and of shining\nthings that look as if never beheld by the eye of man? They are cool\non the hottest days, and you enter them as you would a scrubbed cave\nunderground. I passed through one, and in the other I saw the girl\nsitting at the end of a big mahogany table, on which she rested her\nhead, the face hidden in her arms. The waxed floor reflected her dimly\nas though it had been a sheet of frozen water. The rattan screens were\ndown, and through the strange greenish gloom made by the foliage of the\ntrees outside a strong wind blew in gusts, swaying the long draperies\nof windows and doorways. Her white figure seemed shaped in snow; the\npendent crystals of a great chandelier clicked above her head like\nglittering icicles. She looked up and watched my approach. I was chilled\nas if these vast apartments had been the cold abode of despair.\n\n'She recognised me at once, and as soon as I had stopped, looking down\nat her: \"He has left me,\" she said quietly; \"you always leave us--for\nyour own ends.\" Her face was set. All the heat of life seemed withdrawn\nwithin some inaccessible spot in her breast. \"It would have been easy to\ndie with him,\" she went on, and made a slight weary gesture as if giving\nup the incomprehensible. \"He would not! It was like a blindness--and yet\nit was I who was speaking to him; it was I who stood before his eyes;\nit was at me that he looked all the time! Ah! you are hard, treacherous,\nwithout truth, without compassion. What makes you so wicked? Or is it\nthat you are all mad?\"\n\n'I took her hand; it did not respond, and when I dropped it, it hung\ndown to the floor. That indifference, more awful than tears, cries, and\nreproaches, seemed to defy time and consolation. You felt that nothing\nyou could say would reach the seat of the still and benumbing pain.\n\n'Stein had said, \"You shall hear.\" I did hear. I heard it all, listening\nwith amazement, with awe, to the tones of her inflexible weariness.\nShe could not grasp the real sense of what she was telling me, and her\nresentment filled me with pity for her--for him too. I stood rooted to\nthe spot after she had finished. Leaning on her arm, she stared with\nhard eyes, and the wind passed in gusts, the crystals kept on clicking\nin the greenish gloom. She went on whispering to herself: \"And yet he\nwas looking at me! He could see my face, hear my voice, hear my grief!\nWhen I used to sit at his feet, with my cheek against his knee and his\nhand on my head, the curse of cruelty and madness was already within\nhim, waiting for the day. The day came! . . . and before the sun had\nset he could not see me any more--he was made blind and deaf and without\npity, as you all are. He shall have no tears from me. Never, never. Not\none tear. I will not! He went away from me as if I had been worse than\ndeath. He fled as if driven by some accursed thing he had heard or seen\nin his sleep. . . .\"\n\n'Her steady eyes seemed to strain after the shape of a man torn out of\nher arms by the strength of a dream. She made no sign to my silent bow.\nI was glad to escape.\n\n'I saw her once again, the same afternoon. On leaving her I had gone\nin search of Stein, whom I could not find indoors; and I wandered out,\npursued by distressful thoughts, into the gardens, those famous gardens\nof Stein, in which you can find every plant and tree of tropical\nlowlands. I followed the course of the canalised stream, and sat for\na long time on a shaded bench near the ornamental pond, where some\nwaterfowl with clipped wings were diving and splashing noisily. The\nbranches of casuarina trees behind me swayed lightly, incessantly,\nreminding me of the soughing of fir trees at home.\n\n'This mournful and restless sound was a fit accompaniment to my\nmeditations. She had said he had been driven away from her by a\ndream,--and there was no answer one could make her--there seemed to be\nno forgiveness for such a transgression. And yet is not mankind itself,\npushing on its blind way, driven by a dream of its greatness and\nits power upon the dark paths of excessive cruelty and of excessive\ndevotion? And what is the pursuit of truth, after all?\n\n'When I rose to get back to the house I caught sight of Stein's drab\ncoat through a gap in the foliage, and very soon at a turn of the path\nI came upon him walking with the girl. Her little hand rested on his\nforearm, and under the broad, flat rim of his Panama hat he bent over\nher, grey-haired, paternal, with compassionate and chivalrous deference.\nI stood aside, but they stopped, facing me. His gaze was bent on the\nground at his feet; the girl, erect and slight on his arm, stared\nsombrely beyond my shoulder with black, clear, motionless eyes.\n\"Schrecklich,\" he murmured. \"Terrible! Terrible! What can one do?\" He\nseemed to be appealing to me, but her youth, the length of the days\nsuspended over her head, appealed to me more; and suddenly, even as I\nrealised that nothing could be said, I found myself pleading his cause\nfor her sake. \"You must forgive him,\" I concluded, and my own voice\nseemed to me muffled, lost in un irresponsive deaf immensity. \"We all\nwant to be forgiven,\" I added after a while.\n\n'\"What have I done?\" she asked with her lips only.\n\n'\"You always mistrusted him,\" I said.\n\n'\"He was like the others,\" she pronounced slowly.\n\n'\"Not like the others,\" I protested, but she continued evenly, without\nany feeling--\n\n'\"He was false.\" And suddenly Stein broke in. \"No! no! no! My poor\nchild! . . .\" He patted her hand lying passively on his sleeve. \"No! no!\nNot false! True! True! True!\" He tried to look into her stony face. \"You\ndon't understand. Ach! Why you do not understand? . . . Terrible,\" he\nsaid to me. \"Some day she _shall_ understand.\"\n\n'\"Will you explain?\" I asked, looking hard at him. They moved on.\n\n'I watched them. Her gown trailed on the path, her black hair fell\nloose. She walked upright and light by the side of the tall man, whose\nlong shapeless coat hung in perpendicular folds from the stooping\nshoulders, whose feet moved slowly. They disappeared beyond that\nspinney (you may remember) where sixteen different kinds of bamboo grow\ntogether, all distinguishable to the learned eye. For my part, I was\nfascinated by the exquisite grace and beauty of that fluted grove,\ncrowned with pointed leaves and feathery heads, the lightness, the\nvigour, the charm as distinct as a voice of that unperplexed luxuriating\nlife. I remember staying to look at it for a long time, as one would\nlinger within reach of a consoling whisper. The sky was pearly grey. It\nwas one of those overcast days so rare in the tropics, in which memories\ncrowd upon one, memories of other shores, of other faces.\n\n'I drove back to town the same afternoon, taking with me Tamb' Itam\nand the other Malay, in whose seagoing craft they had escaped in the\nbewilderment, fear, and gloom of the disaster. The shock of it seemed to\nhave changed their natures. It had turned her passion into stone, and\nit made the surly taciturn Tamb' Itam almost loquacious. His surliness,\ntoo, was subdued into puzzled humility, as though he had seen the\nfailure of a potent charm in a supreme moment. The Bugis trader, a shy\nhesitating man, was very clear in the little he had to say. Both were\nevidently over-awed by a sense of deep inexpressible wonder, by the\ntouch of an inscrutable mystery.'\n\nThere with Marlow's signature the letter proper ended. The privileged\nreader screwed up his lamp, and solitary above the billowy roofs of the\ntown, like a lighthouse-keeper above the sea, he turned to the pages of\nthe story.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 38\n\n\n'It all begins, as I've told you, with the man called Brown,' ran the\nopening sentence of Marlow's narrative. 'You who have knocked about the\nWestern Pacific must have heard of him. He was the show ruffian on the\nAustralian coast--not that he was often to be seen there, but because\nhe was always trotted out in the stories of lawless life a visitor from\nhome is treated to; and the mildest of these stories which were told\nabout him from Cape York to Eden Bay was more than enough to hang a man\nif told in the right place. They never failed to let you know, too,\nthat he was supposed to be the son of a baronet. Be it as it may, it is\ncertain he had deserted from a home ship in the early gold-digging days,\nand in a few years became talked about as the terror of this or that\ngroup of islands in Polynesia. He would kidnap natives, he would strip\nsome lonely white trader to the very pyjamas he stood in, and after he\nhad robbed the poor devil, he would as likely as not invite him to fight\na duel with shot-guns on the beach--which would have been fair enough\nas these things go, if the other man hadn't been by that time already\nhalf-dead with fright. Brown was a latter-day buccaneer, sorry enough,\nlike his more celebrated prototypes; but what distinguished him from\nhis contemporary brother ruffians, like Bully Hayes or the mellifluous\nPease, or that perfumed, Dundreary-whiskered, dandified scoundrel known\nas Dirty Dick, was the arrogant temper of his misdeeds and a vehement\nscorn for mankind at large and for his victims in particular. The\nothers were merely vulgar and greedy brutes, but he seemed moved by some\ncomplex intention. He would rob a man as if only to demonstrate his poor\nopinion of the creature, and he would bring to the shooting or maiming\nof some quiet, unoffending stranger a savage and vengeful earnestness\nfit to terrify the most reckless of desperadoes. In the days of his\ngreatest glory he owned an armed barque, manned by a mixed crew of\nKanakas and runaway whalers, and boasted, I don't know with what truth,\nof being financed on the quiet by a most respectable firm of copra\nmerchants. Later on he ran off--it was reported--with the wife of a\nmissionary, a very young girl from Clapham way, who had married the\nmild, flat-footed fellow in a moment of enthusiasm, and, suddenly\ntransplanted to Melanesia, lost her bearings somehow. It was a dark\nstory. She was ill at the time he carried her off, and died on board his\nship. It is said--as the most wonderful put of the tale--that over her\nbody he gave way to an outburst of sombre and violent grief. His luck\nleft him, too, very soon after. He lost his ship on some rocks off\nMalaita, and disappeared for a time as though he had gone down with her.\nHe is heard of next at Nuka-Hiva, where he bought an old French schooner\nout of Government service. What creditable enterprise he might have had\nin view when he made that purchase I can't say, but it is evident that\nwhat with High Commissioners, consuls, men-of-war, and international\ncontrol, the South Seas were getting too hot to hold gentlemen of his\nkidney. Clearly he must have shifted the scene of his operations farther\nwest, because a year later he plays an incredibly audacious, but not a\nvery profitable part, in a serio-comic business in Manila Bay, in which\na peculating governor and an absconding treasurer are the principal\nfigures; thereafter he seems to have hung around the Philippines in his\nrotten schooner battling with un adverse fortune, till at last, running\nhis appointed course, he sails into Jim's history, a blind accomplice of\nthe Dark Powers.\n\n'His tale goes that when a Spanish patrol cutter captured him he was\nsimply trying to run a few guns for the insurgents. If so, then I can't\nunderstand what he was doing off the south coast of Mindanao. My belief,\nhowever, is that he was blackmailing the native villages along the\ncoast. The principal thing is that the cutter, throwing a guard on\nboard, made him sail in company towards Zamboanga. On the way, for some\nreason or other, both vessels had to call at one of these new Spanish\nsettlements--which never came to anything in the end--where there was\nnot only a civil official in charge on shore, but a good stout coasting\nschooner lying at anchor in the little bay; and this craft, in every way\nmuch better than his own, Brown made up his mind to steal.\n\n'He was down on his luck--as he told me himself. The world he had\nbullied for twenty years with fierce, aggressive disdain, had yielded\nhim nothing in the way of material advantage except a small bag of\nsilver dollars, which was concealed in his cabin so that \"the devil\nhimself couldn't smell it out.\" And that was all--absolutely all. He\nwas tired of his life, and not afraid of death. But this man, who would\nstake his existence on a whim with a bitter and jeering recklessness,\nstood in mortal fear of imprisonment. He had an unreasoning cold-sweat,\nnerve-shaking, blood-to-water-turning sort of horror at the bare\npossibility of being locked up--the sort of terror a superstitious man\nwould feel at the thought of being embraced by a spectre. Therefore the\ncivil official who came on board to make a preliminary investigation\ninto the capture, investigated arduously all day long, and only went\nashore after dark, muffled up in a cloak, and taking great care not to\nlet Brown's little all clink in its bag. Afterwards, being a man of his\nword, he contrived (the very next evening, I believe) to send off\nthe Government cutter on some urgent bit of special service. As her\ncommander could not spare a prize crew, he contented himself by taking\naway before he left all the sails of Brown's schooner to the very last\nrag, and took good care to tow his two boats on to the beach a couple of\nmiles off.\n\n'But in Brown's crew there was a Solomon Islander, kidnapped in his\nyouth and devoted to Brown, who was the best man of the whole gang. That\nfellow swam off to the coaster--five hundred yards or so--with the end\nof a warp made up of all the running gear unrove for the purpose. The\nwater was smooth, and the bay dark, \"like the inside of a cow,\" as Brown\ndescribed it. The Solomon Islander clambered over the bulwarks with the\nend of the rope in his teeth. The crew of the coaster--all Tagals--were\nashore having a jollification in the native village. The two shipkeepers\nleft on board woke up suddenly and saw the devil. It had glittering eyes\nand leaped quick as lightning about the deck. They fell on their knees,\nparalysed with fear, crossing themselves and mumbling prayers. With\na long knife he found in the caboose the Solomon Islander, without\ninterrupting their orisons, stabbed first one, then the other; with the\nsame knife he set to sawing patiently at the coir cable till suddenly it\nparted under the blade with a splash. Then in the silence of the bay\nhe let out a cautious shout, and Brown's gang, who meantime had been\npeering and straining their hopeful ears in the darkness, began to\npull gently at their end of the warp. In less than five minutes the two\nschooners came together with a slight shock and a creak of spars.\n\n'Brown's crowd transferred themselves without losing an instant, taking\nwith them their firearms and a large supply of ammunition. They were\nsixteen in all: two runaway blue-jackets, a lanky deserter from a Yankee\nman-of-war, a couple of simple, blond Scandinavians, a mulatto of sorts,\none bland Chinaman who cooked--and the rest of the nondescript spawn\nof the South Seas. None of them cared; Brown bent them to his will, and\nBrown, indifferent to gallows, was running away from the spectre of\na Spanish prison. He didn't give them the time to trans-ship enough\nprovisions; the weather was calm, the air was charged with dew, and when\nthey cast off the ropes and set sail to a faint off-shore draught there\nwas no flutter in the damp canvas; their old schooner seemed to detach\nitself gently from the stolen craft and slip away silently, together\nwith the black mass of the coast, into the night.\n\n'They got clear away. Brown related to me in detail their passage down\nthe Straits of Macassar. It is a harrowing and desperate story. They\nwere short of food and water; they boarded several native craft and got\na little from each. With a stolen ship Brown did not dare to put into\nany port, of course. He had no money to buy anything, no papers to show,\nand no lie plausible enough to get him out again. An Arab barque, under\nthe Dutch flag, surprised one night at anchor off Poulo Laut, yielded a\nlittle dirty rice, a bunch of bananas, and a cask of water; three days\nof squally, misty weather from the north-east shot the schooner across\nthe Java Sea. The yellow muddy waves drenched that collection of hungry\nruffians. They sighted mail-boats moving on their appointed routes;\npassed well-found home ships with rusty iron sides anchored in the\nshallow sea waiting for a change of weather or the turn of the tide; an\nEnglish gunboat, white and trim, with two slim masts, crossed their bows\none day in the distance; and on another occasion a Dutch corvette, black\nand heavily sparred, loomed up on their quarter, steaming dead slow\nin the mist. They slipped through unseen or disregarded, a wan,\nsallow-faced band of utter outcasts, enraged with hunger and hunted by\nfear. Brown's idea was to make for Madagascar, where he expected, on\ngrounds not altogether illusory, to sell the schooner in Tamatave, and\nno questions asked, or perhaps obtain some more or less forged papers\nfor her. Yet before he could face the long passage across the Indian\nOcean food was wanted--water too.\n\n'Perhaps he had heard of Patusan--or perhaps he just only happened to\nsee the name written in small letters on the chart--probably that of a\nlargish village up a river in a native state, perfectly defenceless, far\nfrom the beaten tracks of the sea and from the ends of submarine cables.\nHe had done that kind of thing before--in the way of business;\nand this now was an absolute necessity, a question of life and\ndeath--or rather of liberty. Of liberty! He was sure to get\nprovisions--bullocks--rice--sweet-potatoes. The sorry gang licked\ntheir chops. A cargo of produce for the schooner perhaps could be\nextorted--and, who knows?--some real ringing coined money! Some of these\nchiefs and village headmen can be made to part freely. He told me he\nwould have roasted their toes rather than be baulked. I believe him. His\nmen believed him too. They didn't cheer aloud, being a dumb pack, but\nmade ready wolfishly.\n\n'Luck served him as to weather. A few days of calm would have brought\nunmentionable horrors on board that schooner, but with the help of land\nand sea breezes, in less than a week after clearing the Sunda Straits,\nhe anchored off the Batu Kring mouth within a pistol-shot of the fishing\nvillage.\n\n'Fourteen of them packed into the schooner's long-boat (which was big,\nhaving been used for cargo-work) and started up the river, while two\nremained in charge of the schooner with food enough to keep starvation\noff for ten days. The tide and wind helped, and early one afternoon the\nbig white boat under a ragged sail shouldered its way before the sea\nbreeze into Patusan Reach, manned by fourteen assorted scarecrows\nglaring hungrily ahead, and fingering the breech-blocks of cheap rifles.\nBrown calculated upon the terrifying surprise of his appearance. They\nsailed in with the last of the flood; the Rajah's stockade gave no sign;\nthe first houses on both sides of the stream seemed deserted. A few\ncanoes were seen up the reach in full flight. Brown was astonished at\nthe size of the place. A profound silence reigned. The wind dropped\nbetween the houses; two oars were got out and the boat held on\nup-stream, the idea being to effect a lodgment in the centre of the town\nbefore the inhabitants could think of resistance.\n\n'It seems, however, that the headman of the fishing village at Batu\nKring had managed to send off a timely warning. When the long-boat came\nabreast of the mosque (which Doramin had built: a structure with gables\nand roof finials of carved coral) the open space before it was full of\npeople. A shout went up, and was followed by a clash of gongs all up the\nriver. From a point above two little brass 6-pounders were discharged,\nand the round-shot came skipping down the empty reach, spurting\nglittering jets of water in the sunshine. In front of the mosque a\nshouting lot of men began firing in volleys that whipped athwart the\ncurrent of the river; an irregular, rolling fusillade was opened on the\nboat from both banks, and Brown's men replied with a wild, rapid fire.\nThe oars had been got in.\n\n'The turn of the tide at high water comes on very quickly in that river,\nand the boat in mid-stream, nearly hidden in smoke, began to drift back\nstern foremost. Along both shores the smoke thickened also, lying below\nthe roofs in a level streak as you may see a long cloud cutting the\nslope of a mountain. A tumult of war-cries, the vibrating clang\nof gongs, the deep snoring of drums, yells of rage, crashes of\nvolley-firing, made an awful din, in which Brown sat confounded but\nsteady at the tiller, working himself into a fury of hate and rage\nagainst those people who dared to defend themselves. Two of his men\nhad been wounded, and he saw his retreat cut off below the town by some\nboats that had put off from Tunku Allang's stockade. There were six of\nthem, full of men. While he was thus beset he perceived the entrance of\nthe narrow creek (the same which Jim had jumped at low water). It was\nthen brim full. Steering the long-boat in, they landed, and, to make a\nlong story short, they established themselves on a little knoll about\n900 yards from the stockade, which, in fact, they commanded from that\nposition. The slopes of the knoll were bare, but there were a few trees\non the summit. They went to work cutting these down for a breastwork,\nand were fairly intrenched before dark; meantime the Rajah's boats\nremained in the river with curious neutrality. When the sun set the glue\nof many brushwood blazes lighted on the river-front, and between the\ndouble line of houses on the land side threw into black relief the\nroofs, the groups of slender palms, the heavy clumps of fruit trees.\nBrown ordered the grass round his position to be fired; a low ring of\nthin flames under the slow ascending smoke wriggled rapidly down the\nslopes of the knoll; here and there a dry bush caught with a tall,\nvicious roar. The conflagration made a clear zone of fire for the rifles\nof the small party, and expired smouldering on the edge of the forests\nand along the muddy bank of the creek. A strip of jungle luxuriating in\na damp hollow between the knoll and the Rajah's stockade stopped it\non that side with a great crackling and detonations of bursting bamboo\nstems. The sky was sombre, velvety, and swarming with stars. The\nblackened ground smoked quietly with low creeping wisps, till a little\nbreeze came on and blew everything away. Brown expected an attack to\nbe delivered as soon as the tide had flowed enough again to enable the\nwar-boats which had cut off his retreat to enter the creek. At any rate\nhe was sure there would be an attempt to carry off his long-boat,\nwhich lay below the hill, a dark high lump on the feeble sheen of a wet\nmud-flat. But no move of any sort was made by the boats in the river.\nOver the stockade and the Rajah's buildings Brown saw their lights on\nthe water. They seemed to be anchored across the stream. Other lights\nafloat were moving in the reach, crossing and recrossing from side to\nside. There were also lights twinkling motionless upon the long walls of\nhouses up the reach, as far as the bend, and more still beyond, others\nisolated inland. The loom of the big fires disclosed buildings, roofs,\nblack piles as far as he could see. It was an immense place. The\nfourteen desperate invaders lying flat behind the felled trees raised\ntheir chins to look over at the stir of that town that seemed to extend\nup-river for miles and swarm with thousands of angry men. They did not\nspeak to each other. Now and then they would hear a loud yell, or a\nsingle shot rang out, fired very far somewhere. But round their position\neverything was still, dark, silent. They seemed to be forgotten, as if\nthe excitement keeping awake all the population had nothing to do with\nthem, as if they had been dead already.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 39\n\n\n'All the events of that night have a great importance, since they\nbrought about a situation which remained unchanged till Jim's return.\nJim had been away in the interior for more than a week, and it was Dain\nWaris who had directed the first repulse. That brave and intelligent\nyouth (\"who knew how to fight after the manner of white men\") wished to\nsettle the business off-hand, but his people were too much for him.\nHe had not Jim's racial prestige and the reputation of invincible,\nsupernatural power. He was not the visible, tangible incarnation of\nunfailing truth and of unfailing victory. Beloved, trusted, and\nadmired as he was, he was still one of _them_, while Jim was one of\nus. Moreover, the white man, a tower of strength in himself, was\ninvulnerable, while Dain Waris could be killed. Those unexpressed\nthoughts guided the opinions of the chief men of the town, who elected\nto assemble in Jim's fort for deliberation upon the emergency, as if\nexpecting to find wisdom and courage in the dwelling of the absent white\nman. The shooting of Brown's ruffians was so far good, or lucky, that\nthere had been half-a-dozen casualties amongst the defenders. The\nwounded were lying on the verandah tended by their women-folk. The women\nand children from the lower part of the town had been sent into the\nfort at the first alarm. There Jewel was in command, very efficient and\nhigh-spirited, obeyed by Jim's \"own people,\" who, quitting in a body\ntheir little settlement under the stockade, had gone in to form the\ngarrison. The refugees crowded round her; and through the whole affair,\nto the very disastrous last, she showed an extraordinary martial ardour.\nIt was to her that Dain Waris had gone at once at the first intelligence\nof danger, for you must know that Jim was the only one in Patusan who\npossessed a store of gunpowder. Stein, with whom he had kept up intimate\nrelations by letters, had obtained from the Dutch Government a special\nauthorisation to export five hundred kegs of it to Patusan. The\npowder-magazine was a small hut of rough logs covered entirely with\nearth, and in Jim's absence the girl had the key. In the council, held\nat eleven o'clock in the evening in Jim's dining-room, she backed up\nWaris's advice for immediate and vigorous action. I am told that she\nstood up by the side of Jim's empty chair at the head of the long table\nand made a warlike impassioned speech, which for the moment extorted\nmurmurs of approbation from the assembled headmen. Old Doramin, who had\nnot showed himself outside his own gate for more than a year, had been\nbrought across with great difficulty. He was, of course, the chief man\nthere. The temper of the council was very unforgiving, and the old man's\nword would have been decisive; but it is my opinion that, well aware of\nhis son's fiery courage, he dared not pronounce the word. More dilatory\ncounsels prevailed. A certain Haji Saman pointed out at great length\nthat \"these tyrannical and ferocious men had delivered themselves to\na certain death in any case. They would stand fast on their hill and\nstarve, or they would try to regain their boat and be shot from ambushes\nacross the creek, or they would break and fly into the forest and perish\nsingly there.\" He argued that by the use of proper stratagems these\nevil-minded strangers could be destroyed without the risk of a battle,\nand his words had a great weight, especially with the Patusan men\nproper. What unsettled the minds of the townsfolk was the failure of\nthe Rajah's boats to act at the decisive moment. It was the diplomatic\nKassim who represented the Rajah at the council. He spoke very little,\nlistened smilingly, very friendly and impenetrable. During the sitting\nmessengers kept arriving every few minutes almost, with reports of the\ninvaders' proceedings. Wild and exaggerated rumours were flying: there\nwas a large ship at the mouth of the river with big guns and many more\nmen--some white, others with black skins and of bloodthirsty appearance.\nThey were coming with many more boats to exterminate every living thing.\nA sense of near, incomprehensible danger affected the common people.\nAt one moment there was a panic in the courtyard amongst the women;\nshrieking; a rush; children crying--Haji Sunan went out to quiet them.\nThen a fort sentry fired at something moving on the river, and nearly\nkilled a villager bringing in his women-folk in a canoe together with\nthe best of his domestic utensils and a dozen fowls. This caused more\nconfusion. Meantime the palaver inside Jim's house went on in the\npresence of the girl. Doramin sat fierce-faced, heavy, looking at the\nspeakers in turn, and breathing slow like a bull. He didn't speak till\nthe last, after Kassim had declared that the Rajah's boats would be\ncalled in because the men were required to defend his master's stockade.\nDain Waris in his father's presence would offer no opinion, though the\ngirl entreated him in Jim's name to speak out. She offered him Jim's own\nmen in her anxiety to have these intruders driven out at once. He only\nshook his head, after a glance or two at Doramin. Finally, when the\ncouncil broke up it had been decided that the houses nearest the creek\nshould be strongly occupied to obtain the command of the enemy's boat.\nThe boat itself was not to be interfered with openly, so that the\nrobbers on the hill should be tempted to embark, when a well-directed\nfire would kill most of them, no doubt. To cut off the escape of those\nwho might survive, and to prevent more of them coming up, Dain Waris was\nordered by Doramin to take an armed party of Bugis down the river to a\ncertain spot ten miles below Patusan, and there form a camp on the shore\nand blockade the stream with the canoes. I don't believe for a moment\nthat Doramin feared the arrival of fresh forces. My opinion is that his\nconduct was guided solely by his wish to keep his son out of harm's\nway. To prevent a rush being made into the town the construction of a\nstockade was to be commenced at daylight at the end of the street on\nthe left bank. The old nakhoda declared his intention to command there\nhimself. A distribution of powder, bullets, and percussion-caps was made\nimmediately under the girl's supervision. Several messengers were to be\ndispatched in different directions after Jim, whose exact whereabouts\nwere unknown. These men started at dawn, but before that time Kassim had\nmanaged to open communications with the besieged Brown.\n\n'That accomplished diplomatist and confidant of the Rajah, on leaving\nthe fort to go back to his master, took into his boat Cornelius, whom he\nfound slinking mutely amongst the people in the courtyard. Kassim had a\nlittle plan of his own and wanted him for an interpreter. Thus it came\nabout that towards morning Brown, reflecting upon the desperate nature\nof his position, heard from the marshy overgrown hollow an amicable,\nquavering, strained voice crying--in English--for permission to come up,\nunder a promise of personal safety and on a very important errand. He\nwas overjoyed. If he was spoken to he was no longer a hunted wild beast.\nThese friendly sounds took off at once the awful stress of vigilant\nwatchfulness as of so many blind men not knowing whence the deathblow\nmight come. He pretended a great reluctance. The voice declared itself\n\"a white man--a poor, ruined, old man who had been living here for\nyears.\" A mist, wet and chilly, lay on the slopes of the hill, and after\nsome more shouting from one to the other, Brown called out, \"Come on,\nthen, but alone, mind!\" As a matter of fact--he told me, writhing with\nrage at the recollection of his helplessness--it made no difference.\nThey couldn't see more than a few yards before them, and no treachery\ncould make their position worse. By-and-by Cornelius, in his\nweek-day attire of a ragged dirty shirt and pants, barefooted, with a\nbroken-rimmed pith hat on his head, was made out vaguely, sidling up to\nthe defences, hesitating, stopping to listen in a peering posture. \"Come\nalong! You are safe,\" yelled Brown, while his men stared. All their\nhopes of life became suddenly centered in that dilapidated, mean\nnewcomer, who in profound silence clambered clumsily over a felled\ntree-trunk, and shivering, with his sour, mistrustful face, looked about\nat the knot of bearded, anxious, sleepless desperadoes.\n\n'Half an hour's confidential talk with Cornelius opened Brown's eyes as\nto the home affairs of Patusan. He was on the alert at once. There were\npossibilities, immense possibilities; but before he would talk over\nCornelius's proposals he demanded that some food should be sent up as\na guarantee of good faith. Cornelius went off, creeping sluggishly down\nthe hill on the side of the Rajah's palace, and after some delay a\nfew of Tunku Allang's men came up, bringing a scanty supply of rice,\nchillies, and dried fish. This was immeasurably better than nothing.\nLater on Cornelius returned accompanying Kassim, who stepped out with\nan air of perfect good-humoured trustfulness, in sandals, and muffled\nup from neck to ankles in dark-blue sheeting. He shook hands with Brown\ndiscreetly, and the three drew aside for a conference. Brown's men,\nrecovering their confidence, were slapping each other on the back, and\ncast knowing glances at their captain while they busied themselves with\npreparations for cooking.\n\n'Kassim disliked Doramin and his Bugis very much, but he hated the new\norder of things still more. It had occurred to him that these whites,\ntogether with the Rajah's followers, could attack and defeat the\nBugis before Jim's return. Then, he reasoned, general defection of\nthe townsfolk was sure to follow, and the reign of the white man who\nprotected poor people would be over. Afterwards the new allies could be\ndealt with. They would have no friends. The fellow was perfectly able to\nperceive the difference of character, and had seen enough of white men\nto know that these newcomers were outcasts, men without country.\nBrown preserved a stern and inscrutable demeanour. When he first heard\nCornelius's voice demanding admittance, it brought merely the hope of a\nloophole for escape. In less than an hour other thoughts were seething\nin his head. Urged by an extreme necessity, he had come there to steal\nfood, a few tons of rubber or gum may be, perhaps a handful of dollars,\nand had found himself enmeshed by deadly dangers. Now in consequence\nof these overtures from Kassim he began to think of stealing the whole\ncountry. Some confounded fellow had apparently accomplished something of\nthe kind--single-handed at that. Couldn't have done it very well though.\nPerhaps they could work together--squeeze everything dry and then go out\nquietly. In the course of his negotiations with Kassim he became aware\nthat he was supposed to have a big ship with plenty of men outside.\nKassim begged him earnestly to have this big ship with his many guns and\nmen brought up the river without delay for the Rajah's service. Brown\nprofessed himself willing, and on this basis the negotiation was carried\non with mutual distrust. Three times in the course of the morning the\ncourteous and active Kassim went down to consult the Rajah and came up\nbusily with his long stride. Brown, while bargaining, had a sort of grim\nenjoyment in thinking of his wretched schooner, with nothing but a heap\nof dirt in her hold, that stood for an armed ship, and a Chinaman and\na lame ex-beachcomber of Levuka on board, who represented all his many\nmen. In the afternoon he obtained further doles of food, a promise\nof some money, and a supply of mats for his men to make shelters\nfor themselves. They lay down and snored, protected from the burning\nsunshine; but Brown, sitting fully exposed on one of the felled trees,\nfeasted his eyes upon the view of the town and the river. There was much\nloot there. Cornelius, who had made himself at home in the camp, talked\nat his elbow, pointing out the localities, imparting advice, giving his\nown version of Jim's character, and commenting in his own fashion upon\nthe events of the last three years. Brown, who, apparently indifferent\nand gazing away, listened with attention to every word, could not make\nout clearly what sort of man this Jim could be. \"What's his name?\nJim! Jim! That's not enough for a man's name.\" \"They call him,\" said\nCornelius scornfully, \"Tuan Jim here. As you may say Lord Jim.\" \"What is\nhe? Where does he come from?\" inquired Brown. \"What sort of man is he?\nIs he an Englishman?\" \"Yes, yes, he's an Englishman. I am an Englishman\ntoo. From Malacca. He is a fool. All you have to do is to kill him and\nthen you are king here. Everything belongs to him,\" explained Cornelius.\n\"It strikes me he may be made to share with somebody before very long,\"\ncommented Brown half aloud. \"No, no. The proper way is to kill him the\nfirst chance you get, and then you can do what you like,\" Cornelius\nwould insist earnestly. \"I have lived for many years here, and I am\ngiving you a friend's advice.\"\n\n'In such converse and in gloating over the view of Patusan, which he had\ndetermined in his mind should become his prey, Brown whiled away most\nof the afternoon, his men, meantime, resting. On that day Dain Waris's\nfleet of canoes stole one by one under the shore farthest from the\ncreek, and went down to close the river against his retreat. Of this\nBrown was not aware, and Kassim, who came up the knoll an hour before\nsunset, took good care not to enlighten him. He wanted the white\nman's ship to come up the river, and this news, he feared, would be\ndiscouraging. He was very pressing with Brown to send the \"order,\"\noffering at the same time a trusty messenger, who for greater secrecy\n(as he explained) would make his way by land to the mouth of the river\nand deliver the \"order\" on board. After some reflection Brown judged\nit expedient to tear a page out of his pocket-book, on which he simply\nwrote, \"We are getting on. Big job. Detain the man.\" The stolid youth\nselected by Kassim for that service performed it faithfully, and was\nrewarded by being suddenly tipped, head first, into the schooner's empty\nhold by the ex-beachcomber and the Chinaman, who thereupon hastened to\nput on the hatches. What became of him afterwards Brown did not say.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 40\n\n\n'Brown's object was to gain time by fooling with Kassim's diplomacy. For\ndoing a real stroke of business he could not help thinking the white man\nwas the person to work with. He could not imagine such a chap (who must\nbe confoundedly clever after all to get hold of the natives like\nthat) refusing a help that would do away with the necessity for slow,\ncautious, risky cheating, that imposed itself as the only possible\nline of conduct for a single-handed man. He, Brown, would offer him\nthe power. No man could hesitate. Everything was in coming to a clear\nunderstanding. Of course they would share. The idea of there being a\nfort--all ready to his hand--a real fort, with artillery (he knew this\nfrom Cornelius), excited him. Let him only once get in and . . . He\nwould impose modest conditions. Not too low, though. The man was no\nfool, it seemed. They would work like brothers till . . . till the time\ncame for a quarrel and a shot that would settle all accounts. With grim\nimpatience of plunder he wished himself to be talking with the man now.\nThe land already seemed to be his to tear to pieces, squeeze, and throw\naway. Meantime Kassim had to be fooled for the sake of food first--and\nfor a second string. But the principal thing was to get something to eat\nfrom day to day. Besides, he was not averse to begin fighting on that\nRajah's account, and teach a lesson to those people who had received him\nwith shots. The lust of battle was upon him.\n\n'I am sorry that I can't give you this part of the story, which of\ncourse I have mainly from Brown, in Brown's own words. There was in the\nbroken, violent speech of that man, unveiling before me his thoughts\nwith the very hand of Death upon his throat, an undisguised ruthlessness\nof purpose, a strange vengeful attitude towards his own past, and a\nblind belief in the righteousness of his will against all mankind,\nsomething of that feeling which could induce the leader of a horde of\nwandering cut-throats to call himself proudly the Scourge of God.\nNo doubt the natural senseless ferocity which is the basis of such\na character was exasperated by failure, ill-luck, and the recent\nprivations, as well as by the desperate position in which he found\nhimself; but what was most remarkable of all was this, that while he\nplanned treacherous alliances, had already settled in his own mind the\nfate of the white man, and intrigued in an overbearing, offhand manner\nwith Kassim, one could perceive that what he had really desired, almost\nin spite of himself, was to play havoc with that jungle town which had\ndefied him, to see it strewn over with corpses and enveloped in flames.\nListening to his pitiless, panting voice, I could imagine how he must\nhave looked at it from the hillock, peopling it with images of murder\nand rapine. The part nearest to the creek wore an abandoned aspect,\nthough as a matter of fact every house concealed a few armed men on the\nalert. Suddenly beyond the stretch of waste ground, interspersed with\nsmall patches of low dense bush, excavations, heaps of rubbish, with\ntrodden paths between, a man, solitary and looking very small, strolled\nout into the deserted opening of the street between the shut-up, dark,\nlifeless buildings at the end. Perhaps one of the inhabitants, who had\nfled to the other bank of the river, coming back for some object of\ndomestic use. Evidently he supposed himself quite safe at that distance\nfrom the hill on the other side of the creek. A light stockade, set up\nhastily, was just round the turn of the street, full of his friends.\nHe moved leisurely. Brown saw him, and instantly called to his side the\nYankee deserter, who acted as a sort of second in command. This lanky,\nloose-jointed fellow came forward, wooden-faced, trailing his rifle\nlazily. When he understood what was wanted from him a homicidal and\nconceited smile uncovered his teeth, making two deep folds down his\nsallow, leathery cheeks. He prided himself on being a dead shot. He\ndropped on one knee, and taking aim from a steady rest through the\nunlopped branches of a felled tree, fired, and at once stood up to look.\nThe man, far away, turned his head to the report, made another step\nforward, seemed to hesitate, and abruptly got down on his hands and\nknees. In the silence that fell upon the sharp crack of the rifle, the\ndead shot, keeping his eyes fixed upon the quarry, guessed that \"this\nthere coon's health would never be a source of anxiety to his friends\nany more.\" The man's limbs were seen to move rapidly under his body\nin an endeavour to run on all-fours. In that empty space arose a\nmultitudinous shout of dismay and surprise. The man sank flat, face\ndown, and moved no more. \"That showed them what we could do,\" said Brown\nto me. \"Struck the fear of sudden death into them. That was what we\nwanted. They were two hundred to one, and this gave them something to\nthink over for the night. Not one of them had an idea of such a long\nshot before. That beggar belonging to the Rajah scooted down-hill with\nhis eyes hanging out of his head.\"\n\n'As he was telling me this he tried with a shaking hand to wipe the thin\nfoam on his blue lips. \"Two hundred to one. Two hundred to one . . .\nstrike terror, . . . terror, terror, I tell you. . . .\" His own eyes\nwere starting out of their sockets. He fell back, clawing the air with\nskinny fingers, sat up again, bowed and hairy, glared at me sideways\nlike some man-beast of folk-lore, with open mouth in his miserable and\nawful agony before he got his speech back after that fit. There are\nsights one never forgets.\n\n'Furthermore, to draw the enemy's fire and locate such parties as\nmight have been hiding in the bushes along the creek, Brown ordered the\nSolomon Islander to go down to the boat and bring an oar, as you send a\nspaniel after a stick into the water. This failed, and the fellow came\nback without a single shot having been fired at him from anywhere.\n\"There's nobody,\" opined some of the men. It is \"onnatural,\" remarked\nthe Yankee. Kassim had gone, by that time, very much impressed, pleased\ntoo, and also uneasy. Pursuing his tortuous policy, he had dispatched a\nmessage to Dain Waris warning him to look out for the white men's\nship, which, he had had information, was about to come up the river.\nHe minimised its strength and exhorted him to oppose its passage. This\ndouble-dealing answered his purpose, which was to keep the Bugis forces\ndivided and to weaken them by fighting. On the other hand, he had in\nthe course of that day sent word to the assembled Bugis chiefs in town,\nassuring them that he was trying to induce the invaders to retire; his\nmessages to the fort asked earnestly for powder for the Rajah's men. It\nwas a long time since Tunku Allang had had ammunition for the score or\nso of old muskets rusting in their arm-racks in the audience-hall.\nThe open intercourse between the hill and the palace unsettled all the\nminds. It was already time for men to take sides, it began to be said.\nThere would soon be much bloodshed, and thereafter great trouble for\nmany people. The social fabric of orderly, peaceful life, when every man\nwas sure of to-morrow, the edifice raised by Jim's hands, seemed on that\nevening ready to collapse into a ruin reeking with blood. The poorer\nfolk were already taking to the bush or flying up the river. A good many\nof the upper class judged it necessary to go and pay their court to the\nRajah. The Rajah's youths jostled them rudely. Old Tunku Allang, almost\nout of his mind with fear and indecision, either kept a sullen silence\nor abused them violently for daring to come with empty hands: they\ndeparted very much frightened; only old Doramin kept his countrymen\ntogether and pursued his tactics inflexibly. Enthroned in a big chair\nbehind the improvised stockade, he issued his orders in a deep veiled\nrumble, unmoved, like a deaf man, in the flying rumours.\n\n'Dusk fell, hiding first the body of the dead man, which had been left\nlying with arms outstretched as if nailed to the ground, and then the\nrevolving sphere of the night rolled smoothly over Patusan and came to\na rest, showering the glitter of countless worlds upon the earth. Again,\nin the exposed part of the town big fires blazed along the only street,\nrevealing from distance to distance upon their glares the falling\nstraight lines of roofs, the fragments of wattled walls jumbled in\nconfusion, here and there a whole hut elevated in the glow upon the\nvertical black stripes of a group of high piles and all this line of\ndwellings, revealed in patches by the swaying flames, seemed to flicker\ntortuously away up-river into the gloom at the heart of the land. A\ngreat silence, in which the looms of successive fires played without\nnoise, extended into the darkness at the foot of the hill; but the\nother bank of the river, all dark save for a solitary bonfire at the\nriver-front before the fort, sent out into the air an increasing tremor\nthat might have been the stamping of a multitude of feet, the hum of\nmany voices, or the fall of an immensely distant waterfall. It was\nthen, Brown confessed to me, while, turning his back on his men, he sat\nlooking at it all, that notwithstanding his disdain, his ruthless faith\nin himself, a feeling came over him that at last he had run his head\nagainst a stone wall. Had his boat been afloat at the time, he believed\nhe would have tried to steal away, taking his chances of a long chase\ndown the river and of starvation at sea. It is very doubtful whether he\nwould have succeeded in getting away. However, he didn't try this. For\nanother moment he had a passing thought of trying to rush the town,\nbut he perceived very well that in the end he would find himself in the\nlighted street, where they would be shot down like dogs from the houses.\nThey were two hundred to one--he thought, while his men, huddling round\ntwo heaps of smouldering embers, munched the last of the bananas and\nroasted the few yams they owed to Kassim's diplomacy. Cornelius sat\namongst them dozing sulkily.\n\n'Then one of the whites remembered that some tobacco had been left in\nthe boat, and, encouraged by the impunity of the Solomon Islander,\nsaid he would go to fetch it. At this all the others shook off\ntheir despondency. Brown applied to, said, \"Go, and be d--d to you,\"\nscornfully. He didn't think there was any danger in going to the creek\nin the dark. The man threw a leg over the tree-trunk and disappeared. A\nmoment later he was heard clambering into the boat and then clambering\nout. \"I've got it,\" he cried. A flash and a report at the very foot of\nthe hill followed. \"I am hit,\" yelled the man. \"Look out, look out--I am\nhit,\" and instantly all the rifles went off. The hill squirted fire\nand noise into the night like a little volcano, and when Brown and\nthe Yankee with curses and cuffs stopped the panic-stricken firing, a\nprofound, weary groan floated up from the creek, succeeded by a plaint\nwhose heartrending sadness was like some poison turning the blood\ncold in the veins. Then a strong voice pronounced several distinct\nincomprehensible words somewhere beyond the creek. \"Let no one fire,\"\nshouted Brown. \"What does it mean?\" . . . \"Do you hear on the hill?\nDo you hear? Do you hear?\" repeated the voice three times. Cornelius\ntranslated, and then prompted the answer. \"Speak,\" cried Brown, \"we\nhear.\" Then the voice, declaiming in the sonorous inflated tone of a\nherald, and shifting continually on the edge of the vague waste-land,\nproclaimed that between the men of the Bugis nation living in Patusan\nand the white men on the hill and those with them, there would be no\nfaith, no compassion, no speech, no peace. A bush rustled; a haphazard\nvolley rang out. \"Dam' foolishness,\" muttered the Yankee, vexedly\ngrounding the butt. Cornelius translated. The wounded man below\nthe hill, after crying out twice, \"Take me up! take me up!\" went on\ncomplaining in moans. While he had kept on the blackened earth of the\nslope, and afterwards crouching in the boat, he had been safe enough.\nIt seems that in his joy at finding the tobacco he forgot himself and\njumped out on her off-side, as it were. The white boat, lying high and\ndry, showed him up; the creek was no more than seven yards wide in that\nplace, and there happened to be a man crouching in the bush on the other\nbank.\n\n'He was a Bugis of Tondano only lately come to Patusan, and a relation\nof the man shot in the afternoon. That famous long shot had indeed\nappalled the beholders. The man in utter security had been struck down,\nin full view of his friends, dropping with a joke on his lips, and they\nseemed to see in the act an atrocity which had stirred a bitter rage.\nThat relation of his, Si-Lapa by name, was then with Doramin in the\nstockade only a few feet away. You who know these chaps must admit that\nthe fellow showed an unusual pluck by volunteering to carry the message,\nalone, in the dark. Creeping across the open ground, he had deviated\nto the left and found himself opposite the boat. He was startled when\nBrown's man shouted. He came to a sitting position with his gun to his\nshoulder, and when the other jumped out, exposing himself, he pulled the\ntrigger and lodged three jagged slugs point-blank into the poor wretch's\nstomach. Then, lying flat on his face, he gave himself up for dead,\nwhile a thin hail of lead chopped and swished the bushes close on his\nright hand; afterwards he delivered his speech shouting, bent double,\ndodging all the time in cover. With the last word he leaped sideways,\nlay close for a while, and afterwards got back to the houses unharmed,\nhaving achieved on that night such a renown as his children will not\nwillingly allow to die.\n\n'And on the hill the forlorn band let the two little heaps of embers\ngo out under their bowed heads. They sat dejected on the ground with\ncompressed lips and downcast eyes, listening to their comrade below. He\nwas a strong man and died hard, with moans now loud, now sinking to a\nstrange confidential note of pain. Sometimes he shrieked, and again,\nafter a period of silence, he could be heard muttering deliriously a\nlong and unintelligible complaint. Never for a moment did he cease.\n\n'\"What's the good?\" Brown had said unmoved once, seeing the Yankee, who\nhad been swearing under his breath, prepare to go down. \"That's so,\"\nassented the deserter, reluctantly desisting. \"There's no encouragement\nfor wounded men here. Only his noise is calculated to make all the\nothers think too much of the hereafter, cap'n.\" \"Water!\" cried the\nwounded man in an extraordinarily clear vigorous voice, and then went\noff moaning feebly. \"Ay, water. Water will do it,\" muttered the other to\nhimself, resignedly. \"Plenty by-and-by. The tide is flowing.\"\n\n'At last the tide flowed, silencing the plaint and the cries of pain,\nand the dawn was near when Brown, sitting with his chin in the palm of\nhis hand before Patusan, as one might stare at the unscalable side of a\nmountain, heard the brief ringing bark of a brass 6-pounder far away\nin town somewhere. \"What's this?\" he asked of Cornelius, who hung about\nhim. Cornelius listened. A muffled roaring shout rolled down-river over\nthe town; a big drum began to throb, and others responded, pulsating and\ndroning. Tiny scattered lights began to twinkle in the dark half of the\ntown, while the part lighted by the loom of fires hummed with a deep and\nprolonged murmur. \"He has come,\" said Cornelius. \"What? Already? Are\nyou sure?\" Brown asked. \"Yes! yes! Sure. Listen to the noise.\" \"What\nare they making that row about?\" pursued Brown. \"For joy,\" snorted\nCornelius; \"he is a very great man, but all the same, he knows no more\nthan a child, and so they make a great noise to please him, because they\nknow no better.\" \"Look here,\" said Brown, \"how is one to get at him?\"\n\"He shall come to talk to you,\" Cornelius declared. \"What do you mean?\nCome down here strolling as it were?\" Cornelius nodded vigorously in the\ndark. \"Yes. He will come straight here and talk to you. He is just like\na fool. You shall see what a fool he is.\" Brown was incredulous. \"You\nshall see; you shall see,\" repeated Cornelius. \"He is not afraid--not\nafraid of anything. He will come and order you to leave his people\nalone. Everybody must leave his people alone. He is like a little child.\nHe will come to you straight.\" Alas! he knew Jim well--that \"mean little\nskunk,\" as Brown called him to me. \"Yes, certainly,\" he pursued with\nardour, \"and then, captain, you tell that tall man with a gun to shoot\nhim. Just you kill him, and you will frighten everybody so much that\nyou can do anything you like with them afterwards--get what you like--go\naway when you like. Ha! ha! ha! Fine . . .\" He almost danced with\nimpatience and eagerness; and Brown, looking over his shoulder at him,\ncould see, shown up by the pitiless dawn, his men drenched with dew,\nsitting amongst the cold ashes and the litter of the camp, haggard,\ncowed, and in rags.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 41\n\n\n'To the very last moment, till the full day came upon them with a\nspring, the fires on the west bank blazed bright and clear; and then\nBrown saw in a knot of coloured figures motionless between the advanced\nhouses a man in European clothes, in a helmet, all white. \"That's him;\nlook! look!\" Cornelius said excitedly. All Brown's men had sprung up and\ncrowded at his back with lustreless eyes. The group of vivid colours\nand dark faces with the white figure in their midst were observing the\nknoll. Brown could see naked arms being raised to shade the eyes and\nother brown arms pointing. What should he do? He looked around, and the\nforests that faced him on all sides walled the cock-pit of an unequal\ncontest. He looked once more at his men. A contempt, a weariness, the\ndesire of life, the wish to try for one more chance--for some other\ngrave--struggled in his breast. From the outline the figure presented\nit seemed to him that the white man there, backed up by all the power of\nthe land, was examining his position through binoculars. Brown jumped up\non the log, throwing his arms up, the palms outwards. The coloured group\nclosed round the white man, and fell back twice before he got clear of\nthem, walking slowly alone. Brown remained standing on the log till\nJim, appearing and disappearing between the patches of thorny scrub, had\nnearly reached the creek; then Brown jumped off and went down to meet\nhim on his side.\n\n'They met, I should think, not very far from the place, perhaps on the\nvery spot, where Jim took the second desperate leap of his life--the\nleap that landed him into the life of Patusan, into the trust, the love,\nthe confidence of the people. They faced each other across the creek,\nand with steady eyes tried to understand each other before they opened\ntheir lips. Their antagonism must have been expressed in their glances;\nI know that Brown hated Jim at first sight. Whatever hopes he might have\nhad vanished at once. This was not the man he had expected to see. He\nhated him for this--and in a checked flannel shirt with sleeves cut\noff at the elbows, grey bearded, with a sunken, sun-blackened face--he\ncursed in his heart the other's youth and assurance, his clear eyes and\nhis untroubled bearing. That fellow had got in a long way before him!\nHe did not look like a man who would be willing to give anything for\nassistance. He had all the advantages on his side--possession, security,\npower; he was on the side of an overwhelming force! He was not hungry\nand desperate, and he did not seem in the least afraid. And there was\nsomething in the very neatness of Jim's clothes, from the white helmet\nto the canvas leggings and the pipeclayed shoes, which in Brown's sombre\nirritated eyes seemed to belong to things he had in the very shaping of\nhis life condemned and flouted.\n\n'\"Who are you?\" asked Jim at last, speaking in his usual voice. \"My\nname's Brown,\" answered the other loudly; \"Captain Brown. What's yours?\"\nand Jim after a little pause went on quietly, as If he had not heard:\n\"What made you come here?\" \"You want to know,\" said Brown bitterly.\n\"It's easy to tell. Hunger. And what made you?\"\n\n'\"The fellow started at this,\" said Brown, relating to me the opening of\nthis strange conversation between those two men, separated only by\nthe muddy bed of a creek, but standing on the opposite poles of that\nconception of life which includes all mankind--\"The fellow started at\nthis and got very red in the face. Too big to be questioned, I suppose.\nI told him that if he looked upon me as a dead man with whom you may\ntake liberties, he himself was not a whit better off really. I had\na fellow up there who had a bead drawn on him all the time, and only\nwaited for a sign from me. There was nothing to be shocked at in this.\nHe had come down of his own free will. 'Let us agree,' said I, 'that we\nare both dead men, and let us talk on that basis, as equals. We are\nall equal before death,' I said. I admitted I was there like a rat in\na trap, but we had been driven to it, and even a trapped rat can give\na bite. He caught me up in a moment. 'Not if you don't go near the trap\ntill the rat is dead.' I told him that sort of game was good enough for\nthese native friends of his, but I would have thought him too white to\nserve even a rat so. Yes, I had wanted to talk with him. Not to beg\nfor my life, though. My fellows were--well--what they were--men like\nhimself, anyhow. All we wanted from him was to come on in the devil's\nname and have it out. 'God d--n it,' said I, while he stood there as\nstill as a wooden post, 'you don't want to come out here every day with\nyour glasses to count how many of us are left on our feet. Come. Either\nbring your infernal crowd along or let us go out and starve in the open\nsea, by God! You have been white once, for all your tall talk of this\nbeing your own people and you being one with them. Are you? And what the\ndevil do you get for it; what is it you've found here that is so d--d\nprecious? Hey? You don't want us to come down here perhaps--do you? You\nare two hundred to one. You don't want us to come down into the open.\nAh! I promise you we shall give you some sport before you've done. You\ntalk about me making a cowardly set upon unoffending people. What's\nthat to me that they are unoffending, when I am starving for next to no\noffence? But I am not a coward. Don't you be one. Bring them along or,\nby all the fiends, we shall yet manage to send half your unoffending\ntown to heaven with us in smoke!'\"\n\n'He was terrible--relating this to me--this tortured skeleton of a man\ndrawn up together with his face over his knees, upon a miserable bed in\nthat wretched hovel, and lifting his head to look at me with malignant\ntriumph.\n\n'\"That's what I told him--I knew what to say,\" he began again, feebly\nat first, but working himself up with incredible speed into a fiery\nutterance of his scorn. \"We aren't going into the forest to wander like\na string of living skeletons dropping one after another for ants to\ngo to work upon us before we are fairly dead. Oh no! . . . 'You don't\ndeserve a better fate,' he said. 'And what do you deserve,' I shouted\nat him, 'you that I find skulking here with your mouth full of your\nresponsibility, of innocent lives, of your infernal duty? What do\nyou know more of me than I know of you? I came here for food. D'ye\nhear?--food to fill our bellies. And what did _you_ come for? What did\nyou ask for when you came here? We don't ask you for anything but to\ngive us a fight or a clear road to go back whence we came. . . .' 'I\nwould fight with you now,' says he, pulling at his little moustache.\n'And I would let you shoot me, and welcome,' I said. 'This is as good a\njumping-off place for me as another. I am sick of my infernal luck. But\nit would be too easy. There are my men in the same boat--and, by God, I\nam not the sort to jump out of trouble and leave them in a d--d lurch,'\nI said. He stood thinking for a while and then wanted to know what I\nhad done ('out there' he says, tossing his head down-stream) to be hazed\nabout so. 'Have we met to tell each other the story of our lives?' I\nasked him. 'Suppose you begin. No? Well, I am sure I don't want to hear.\nKeep it to yourself. I know it is no better than mine. I've lived--and\nso did you, though you talk as if you were one of those people that\nshould have wings so as to go about without touching the dirty earth.\nWell--it is dirty. I haven't got any wings. I am here because I was\nafraid once in my life. Want to know what of? Of a prison. That scares\nme, and you may know it--if it's any good to you. I won't ask you what\nscared you into this infernal hole, where you seem to have found pretty\npickings. That's your luck and this is mine--the privilege to beg for\nthe favour of being shot quickly, or else kicked out to go free and\nstarve in my own way.' . . .\"\n\n'His debilitated body shook with an exultation so vehement, so assured,\nand so malicious that it seemed to have driven off the death waiting for\nhim in that hut. The corpse of his mad self-love uprose from rags and\ndestitution as from the dark horrors of a tomb. It is impossible to say\nhow much he lied to Jim then, how much he lied to me now--and to himself\nalways. Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory, and the truth of\nevery passion wants some pretence to make it live. Standing at the gate\nof the other world in the guise of a beggar, he had slapped this world's\nface, he had spat on it, he had thrown upon it an immensity of scorn\nand revolt at the bottom of his misdeeds. He had overcome them all--men,\nwomen, savages, traders, ruffians, missionaries--and Jim--\"that\nbeefy-faced beggar.\" I did not begrudge him this triumph in articulo\nmortis, this almost posthumous illusion of having trampled all the earth\nunder his feet. While he was boasting to me, in his sordid and repulsive\nagony, I couldn't help thinking of the chuckling talk relating to the\ntime of his greatest splendour when, during a year or more, Gentleman\nBrown's ship was to be seen, for many days on end, hovering off an islet\nbefringed with green upon azure, with the dark dot of the mission-house\non a white beach; while Gentleman Brown, ashore, was casting his spells\nover a romantic girl for whom Melanesia had been too much, and giving\nhopes of a remarkable conversion to her husband. The poor man, some time\nor other, had been heard to express the intention of winning \"Captain\nBrown to a better way of life.\" . . . \"Bag Gentleman Brown for\nGlory\"--as a leery-eyed loafer expressed it once--\"just to let them see\nup above what a Western Pacific trading skipper looks like.\" And this\nwas the man, too, who had run off with a dying woman, and had shed tears\nover her body. \"Carried on like a big baby,\" his then mate was never\ntired of telling, \"and where the fun came in may I be kicked to death by\ndiseased Kanakas if _I_ know. Why, gents! she was too far gone when he\nbrought her aboard to know him; she just lay there on her back in his\nbunk staring at the beam with awful shining eyes--and then she died.\nDam' bad sort of fever, I guess. . . .\" I remembered all these stories\nwhile, wiping his matted lump of a beard with a livid hand, he was\ntelling me from his noisome couch how he got round, got in, got home,\non that confounded, immaculate, don't-you-touch-me sort of fellow. He\nadmitted that he couldn't be scared, but there was a way, \"as broad as\na turnpike, to get in and shake his twopenny soul around and inside out\nand upside down--by God!\"'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 42\n\n\n'I don't think he could do more than perhaps look upon that straight\npath. He seemed to have been puzzled by what he saw, for he interrupted\nhimself in his narrative more than once to exclaim, \"He nearly slipped\nfrom me there. I could not make him out. Who was he?\" And after\nglaring at me wildly he would go on, jubilating and sneering. To me the\nconversation of these two across the creek appears now as the deadliest\nkind of duel on which Fate looked on with her cold-eyed knowledge of the\nend. No, he didn't turn Jim's soul inside out, but I am much mistaken if\nthe spirit so utterly out of his reach had not been made to taste to the\nfull the bitterness of that contest. These were the emissaries with whom\nthe world he had renounced was pursuing him in his retreat--white men\nfrom \"out there\" where he did not think himself good enough to live.\nThis was all that came to him--a menace, a shock, a danger to his\nwork. I suppose it is this sad, half-resentful, half-resigned feeling,\npiercing through the few words Jim said now and then, that puzzled Brown\nso much in the reading of his character. Some great men owe most of\ntheir greatness to the ability of detecting in those they destine for\ntheir tools the exact quality of strength that matters for their work;\nand Brown, as though he had been really great, had a satanic gift of\nfinding out the best and the weakest spot in his victims. He admitted\nto me that Jim wasn't of the sort that can be got over by truckling, and\naccordingly he took care to show himself as a man confronting without\ndismay ill-luck, censure, and disaster. The smuggling of a few guns was\nno great crime, he pointed out. As to coming to Patusan, who had the\nright to say he hadn't come to beg? The infernal people here let loose\nat him from both banks without staying to ask questions. He made\nthe point brazenly, for, in truth, Dain Waris's energetic action had\nprevented the greatest calamities; because Brown told me distinctly\nthat, perceiving the size of the place, he had resolved instantly in his\nmind that as soon as he had gained a footing he would set fire right and\nleft, and begin by shooting down everything living in sight, in order to\ncow and terrify the population. The disproportion of forces was so great\nthat this was the only way giving him the slightest chance of attaining\nhis ends--he argued in a fit of coughing. But he didn't tell Jim this.\nAs to the hardships and starvation they had gone through, these had been\nvery real; it was enough to look at his band. He made, at the sound of a\nshrill whistle, all his men appear standing in a row on the logs in full\nview, so that Jim could see them. For the killing of the man, it had\nbeen done--well, it had--but was not this war, bloody war--in a corner?\nand the fellow had been killed cleanly, shot through the chest, not like\nthat poor devil of his lying now in the creek. They had to listen to him\ndying for six hours, with his entrails torn with slugs. At any rate this\nwas a life for a life. . . . And all this was said with the weariness,\nwith the recklessness of a man spurred on and on by ill-luck till he\ncares not where he runs. When he asked Jim, with a sort of brusque\ndespairing frankness, whether he himself--straight now--didn't\nunderstand that when \"it came to saving one's life in the dark, one\ndidn't care who else went--three, thirty, three hundred people\"--it was\nas if a demon had been whispering advice in his ear. \"I made him wince,\"\nboasted Brown to me. \"He very soon left off coming the righteous over\nme. He just stood there with nothing to say, and looking as black as\nthunder--not at me--on the ground.\" He asked Jim whether he had nothing\nfishy in his life to remember that he was so damnedly hard upon a man\ntrying to get out of a deadly hole by the first means that came to\nhand--and so on, and so on. And there ran through the rough talk a\nvein of subtle reference to their common blood, an assumption of common\nexperience; a sickening suggestion of common guilt, of secret knowledge\nthat was like a bond of their minds and of their hearts.\n\n'At last Brown threw himself down full length and watched Jim out of\nthe corners of his eyes. Jim on his side of the creek stood thinking and\nswitching his leg. The houses in view were silent, as if a pestilence\nhad swept them clean of every breath of life; but many invisible eyes\nwere turned, from within, upon the two men with the creek between them,\na stranded white boat, and the body of the third man half sunk in the\nmud. On the river canoes were moving again, for Patusan was recovering\nits belief in the stability of earthly institutions since the return of\nthe white lord. The right bank, the platforms of the houses, the rafts\nmoored along the shores, even the roofs of bathing-huts, were covered\nwith people that, far away out of earshot and almost out of sight, were\nstraining their eyes towards the knoll beyond the Rajah's stockade.\nWithin the wide irregular ring of forests, broken in two places by the\nsheen of the river, there was a silence. \"Will you promise to leave the\ncoast?\" Jim asked. Brown lifted and let fall his hand, giving everything\nup as it were--accepting the inevitable. \"And surrender your arms?\" Jim\nwent on. Brown sat up and glared across. \"Surrender our arms! Not till\nyou come to take them out of our stiff hands. You think I am gone crazy\nwith funk? Oh no! That and the rags I stand in is all I have got in the\nworld, besides a few more breechloaders on board; and I expect to sell\nthe lot in Madagascar, if I ever get so far--begging my way from ship to\nship.\"\n\n'Jim said nothing to this. At last, throwing away the switch he held in\nhis hand, he said, as if speaking to himself, \"I don't know whether I\nhave the power.\" . . . \"You don't know! And you wanted me just now to\ngive up my arms! That's good, too,\" cried Brown; \"Suppose they say one\nthing to you, and do the other thing to me.\" He calmed down markedly. \"I\ndare say you have the power, or what's the meaning of all this talk?\" he\ncontinued. \"What did you come down here for? To pass the time of day?\"\n\n'\"Very well,\" said Jim, lifting his head suddenly after a long silence.\n\"You shall have a clear road or else a clear fight.\" He turned on his\nheel and walked away.\n\n'Brown got up at once, but he did not go up the hill till he had seen\nJim disappear between the first houses. He never set his eyes on him\nagain. On his way back he met Cornelius slouching down with his head\nbetween his shoulders. He stopped before Brown. \"Why didn't you kill\nhim?\" he demanded in a sour, discontented voice. \"Because I could do\nbetter than that,\" Brown said with an amused smile. \"Never! never!\"\nprotested Cornelius with energy. \"Couldn't. I have lived here for many\nyears.\" Brown looked up at him curiously. There were many sides to the\nlife of that place in arms against him; things he would never find out.\nCornelius slunk past dejectedly in the direction of the river. He was\nnow leaving his new friends; he accepted the disappointing course of\nevents with a sulky obstinacy which seemed to draw more together his\nlittle yellow old face; and as he went down he glanced askant here and\nthere, never giving up his fixed idea.\n\n'Henceforth events move fast without a check, flowing from the very\nhearts of men like a stream from a dark source, and we see Jim amongst\nthem, mostly through Tamb' Itam's eyes. The girl's eyes had watched him\ntoo, but her life is too much entwined with his: there is her passion,\nher wonder, her anger, and, above all, her fear and her unforgiving\nlove. Of the faithful servant, uncomprehending as the rest of them, it\nis the fidelity alone that comes into play; a fidelity and a belief in\nhis lord so strong that even amazement is subdued to a sort of saddened\nacceptance of a mysterious failure. He has eyes only for one figure,\nand through all the mazes of bewilderment he preserves his air of\nguardianship, of obedience, of care.\n\n'His master came back from his talk with the white men, walking slowly\ntowards the stockade in the street. Everybody was rejoiced to see him\nreturn, for while he was away every man had been afraid not only of him\nbeing killed, but also of what would come after. Jim went into one of\nthe houses, where old Doramin had retired, and remained alone for a\nlong time with the head of the Bugis settlers. No doubt he discussed\nthe course to follow with him then, but no man was present at the\nconversation. Only Tamb' Itam, keeping as close to the door as he could,\nheard his master say, \"Yes. I shall let all the people know that such\nis my wish; but I spoke to you, O Doramin, before all the others, and\nalone; for you know my heart as well as I know yours and its greatest\ndesire. And you know well also that I have no thought but for the\npeople's good.\" Then his master, lifting the sheeting in the doorway,\nwent out, and he, Tamb' Itam, had a glimpse of old Doramin within,\nsitting in the chair with his hands on his knees, and looking between\nhis feet. Afterwards he followed his master to the fort, where all the\nprincipal Bugis and Patusan inhabitants had been summoned for a talk.\nTamb' Itam himself hoped there would be some fighting. \"What was it but\nthe taking of another hill?\" he exclaimed regretfully. However, in the\ntown many hoped that the rapacious strangers would be induced, by the\nsight of so many brave men making ready to fight, to go away. It would\nbe a good thing if they went away. Since Jim's arrival had been made\nknown before daylight by the gun fired from the fort and the beating of\nthe big drum there, the fear that had hung over Patusan had broken and\nsubsided like a wave on a rock, leaving the seething foam of excitement,\ncuriosity, and endless speculation. Half of the population had been\nousted out of their homes for purposes of defence, and were living in\nthe street on the left side of the river, crowding round the fort, and\nin momentary expectation of seeing their abandoned dwellings on the\nthreatened bank burst into flames. The general anxiety was to see the\nmatter settled quickly. Food, through Jewel's care, had been served\nout to the refugees. Nobody knew what their white man would do. Some\nremarked that it was worse than in Sherif Ali's war. Then many people\ndid not care; now everybody had something to lose. The movements of\ncanoes passing to and fro between the two parts of the town were watched\nwith interest. A couple of Bugis war-boats lay anchored in the middle of\nthe stream to protect the river, and a thread of smoke stood at the bow\nof each; the men in them were cooking their midday rice when Jim, after\nhis interviews with Brown and Doramin, crossed the river and entered by\nthe water-gate of his fort. The people inside crowded round him, so that\nhe could hardly make his way to the house. They had not seen him before,\nbecause on his arrival during the night he had only exchanged a few\nwords with the girl, who had come down to the landing-stage for the\npurpose, and had then gone on at once to join the chiefs and the\nfighting men on the other bank. People shouted greetings after him.\nOne old woman raised a laugh by pushing her way to the front madly and\nenjoining him in a scolding voice to see to it that her two sons, who\nwere with Doramin, did not come to harm at the hands of the robbers.\nSeveral of the bystanders tried to pull her away, but she struggled and\ncried, \"Let me go. What is this, O Muslims? This laughter is unseemly.\nAre they not cruel, bloodthirsty robbers bent on killing?\" \"Let her be,\"\nsaid Jim, and as a silence fell suddenly, he said slowly, \"Everybody\nshall be safe.\" He entered the house before the great sigh, and the loud\nmurmurs of satisfaction, had died out.\n\n'There's no doubt his mind was made up that Brown should have his way\nclear back to the sea. His fate, revolted, was forcing his hand. He\nhad for the first time to affirm his will in the face of outspoken\nopposition. \"There was much talk, and at first my master was silent,\"\nTamb' Itam said. \"Darkness came, and then I lit the candles on the long\ntable. The chiefs sat on each side, and the lady remained by my master's\nright hand.\"\n\n'When he began to speak, the unaccustomed difficulty seemed only to\nfix his resolve more immovably. The white men were now waiting for his\nanswer on the hill. Their chief had spoken to him in the language of his\nown people, making clear many things difficult to explain in any other\nspeech. They were erring men whom suffering had made blind to right and\nwrong. It is true that lives had been lost already, but why lose more?\nHe declared to his hearers, the assembled heads of the people, that\ntheir welfare was his welfare, their losses his losses, their mourning\nhis mourning. He looked round at the grave listening faces and told them\nto remember that they had fought and worked side by side. They knew his\ncourage . . . Here a murmur interrupted him . . . And that he had never\ndeceived them. For many years they had dwelt together. He loved the\nland and the people living in it with a very great love. He was ready to\nanswer with his life for any harm that should come to them if the white\nmen with beards were allowed to retire. They were evil-doers, but their\ndestiny had been evil, too. Had he ever advised them ill? Had his words\never brought suffering to the people? he asked. He believed that it\nwould be best to let these whites and their followers go with their\nlives. It would be a small gift. \"I whom you have tried and found always\ntrue ask you to let them go.\" He turned to Doramin. The old nakhoda made\nno movement. \"Then,\" said Jim, \"call in Dain Waris, your son, my friend,\nfor in this business I shall not lead.\"'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 43\n\n\n'Tamb' Itam behind his chair was thunderstruck. The declaration produced\nan immense sensation. \"Let them go because this is best in my knowledge\nwhich has never deceived you,\" Jim insisted. There was a silence. In\nthe darkness of the courtyard could be heard the subdued whispering,\nshuffling noise of many people. Doramin raised his heavy head and said\nthat there was no more reading of hearts than touching the sky with the\nhand, but--he consented. The others gave their opinion in turn. \"It is\nbest,\" \"Let them go,\" and so on. But most of them simply said that they\n\"believed Tuan Jim.\"\n\n'In this simple form of assent to his will lies the whole gist of\nthe situation; their creed, his truth; and the testimony to that\nfaithfulness which made him in his own eyes the equal of the\nimpeccable men who never fall out of the ranks. Stein's words,\n\"Romantic!--Romantic!\" seem to ring over those distances that will never\ngive him up now to a world indifferent to his failings and his virtues,\nand to that ardent and clinging affection that refuses him the dole of\ntears in the bewilderment of a great grief and of eternal separation.\nFrom the moment the sheer truthfulness of his last three years of life\ncarries the day against the ignorance, the fear, and the anger of men,\nhe appears no longer to me as I saw him last--a white speck catching all\nthe dim light left upon a sombre coast and the darkened sea--but greater\nand more pitiful in the loneliness of his soul, that remains even for\nher who loved him best a cruel and insoluble mystery.\n\n'It is evident that he did not mistrust Brown; there was no reason to\ndoubt the story, whose truth seemed warranted by the rough frankness,\nby a sort of virile sincerity in accepting the morality and the\nconsequences of his acts. But Jim did not know the almost inconceivable\negotism of the man which made him, when resisted and foiled in his will,\nmad with the indignant and revengeful rage of a thwarted autocrat.\nBut if Jim did not mistrust Brown, he was evidently anxious that some\nmisunderstanding should not occur, ending perhaps in collision and\nbloodshed. It was for this reason that directly the Malay chiefs had\ngone he asked Jewel to get him something to eat, as he was going out of\nthe fort to take command in the town. On her remonstrating against this\non the score of his fatigue, he said that something might happen for\nwhich he would never forgive himself. \"I am responsible for every life\nin the land,\" he said. He was moody at first; she served him with her\nown hands, taking the plates and dishes (of the dinner-service presented\nhim by Stein) from Tamb' Itam. He brightened up after a while; told her\nshe would be again in command of the fort for another night. \"There's\nno sleep for us, old girl,\" he said, \"while our people are in danger.\"\nLater on he said jokingly that she was the best man of them all. \"If you\nand Dain Waris had done what you wanted, not one of these poor devils\nwould be alive to-day.\" \"Are they very bad?\" she asked, leaning over his\nchair. \"Men act badly sometimes without being much worse than others,\"\nhe said after some hesitation.\n\n'Tamb' Itam followed his master to the landing-stage outside the fort.\nThe night was clear but without a moon, and the middle of the river was\ndark, while the water under each bank reflected the light of many fires\n\"as on a night of Ramadan,\" Tamb' Itam said. War-boats drifted silently\nin the dark lane or, anchored, floated motionless with a loud ripple.\nThat night there was much paddling in a canoe and walking at his\nmaster's heels for Tamb' Itam: up and down the street they tramped,\nwhere the fires were burning, inland on the outskirts of the town where\nsmall parties of men kept guard in the fields. Tuan Jim gave his orders\nand was obeyed. Last of all they went to the Rajah's stockade, which a\ndetachment of Jim's people manned on that night. The old Rajah had fled\nearly in the morning with most of his women to a small house he had\nnear a jungle village on a tributary stream. Kassim, left behind, had\nattended the council with his air of diligent activity to explain away\nthe diplomacy of the day before. He was considerably cold-shouldered,\nbut managed to preserve his smiling, quiet alertness, and professed\nhimself highly delighted when Jim told him sternly that he proposed to\noccupy the stockade on that night with his own men. After the council\nbroke up he was heard outside accosting this and that deputing chief,\nand speaking in a loud, gratified tone of the Rajah's property being\nprotected in the Rajah's absence.\n\n'About ten or so Jim's men marched in. The stockade commanded the mouth\nof the creek, and Jim meant to remain there till Brown had passed below.\nA small fire was lit on the flat, grassy point outside the wall of\nstakes, and Tamb' Itam placed a little folding-stool for his master. Jim\ntold him to try and sleep. Tamb' Itam got a mat and lay down a little\nway off; but he could not sleep, though he knew he had to go on an\nimportant journey before the night was out. His master walked to and fro\nbefore the fire with bowed head and with his hands behind his back. His\nface was sad. Whenever his master approached him Tamb' Itam pretended to\nsleep, not wishing his master to know he had been watched. At last his\nmaster stood still, looking down on him as he lay, and said softly, \"It\nis time.\"\n\n'Tamb' Itam arose directly and made his preparations. His mission was\nto go down the river, preceding Brown's boat by an hour or more, to tell\nDain Waris finally and formally that the whites were to be allowed to\npass out unmolested. Jim would not trust anybody else with that service.\nBefore starting, Tamb' Itam, more as a matter of form (since his\nposition about Jim made him perfectly known), asked for a token.\n\"Because, Tuan,\" he said, \"the message is important, and these are thy\nvery words I carry.\" His master first put his hand into one pocket, then\ninto another, and finally took off his forefinger Stein's silver ring,\nwhich he habitually wore, and gave it to Tamb' Itam. When Tamb' Itam\nleft on his mission, Brown's camp on the knoll was dark but for a single\nsmall glow shining through the branches of one of the trees the white\nmen had cut down.\n\n'Early in the evening Brown had received from Jim a folded piece of\npaper on which was written, \"You get the clear road. Start as soon\nas your boat floats on the morning tide. Let your men be careful. The\nbushes on both sides of the creek and the stockade at the mouth are full\nof well-armed men. You would have no chance, but I don't believe you\nwant bloodshed.\" Brown read it, tore the paper into small pieces, and,\nturning to Cornelius, who had brought it, said jeeringly, \"Good-bye, my\nexcellent friend.\" Cornelius had been in the fort, and had been sneaking\naround Jim's house during the afternoon. Jim chose him to carry the note\nbecause he could speak English, was known to Brown, and was not likely\nto be shot by some nervous mistake of one of the men as a Malay,\napproaching in the dusk, perhaps might have been.\n\n'Cornelius didn't go away after delivering the paper. Brown was sitting\nup over a tiny fire; all the others were lying down. \"I could tell you\nsomething you would like to know,\" Cornelius mumbled crossly. Brown paid\nno attention. \"You did not kill him,\" went on the other, \"and what do\nyou get for it? You might have had money from the Rajah, besides the\nloot of all the Bugis houses, and now you get nothing.\" \"You had better\nclear out from here,\" growled Brown, without even looking at him. But\nCornelius let himself drop by his side and began to whisper very fast,\ntouching his elbow from time to time. What he had to say made Brown sit\nup at first, with a curse. He had simply informed him of Dain Waris's\narmed party down the river. At first Brown saw himself completely sold\nand betrayed, but a moment's reflection convinced him that there could\nbe no treachery intended. He said nothing, and after a while Cornelius\nremarked, in a tone of complete indifference, that there was another way\nout of the river which he knew very well. \"A good thing to know, too,\"\nsaid Brown, pricking up his ears; and Cornelius began to talk of\nwhat went on in town and repeated all that had been said in council,\ngossiping in an even undertone at Brown's ear as you talk amongst\nsleeping men you do not wish to wake. \"He thinks he has made me\nharmless, does he?\" mumbled Brown very low. . . . \"Yes. He is a fool. A\nlittle child. He came here and robbed me,\" droned on Cornelius, \"and he\nmade all the people believe him. But if something happened that they did\nnot believe him any more, where would he be? And the Bugis Dain who\nis waiting for you down the river there, captain, is the very man who\nchased you up here when you first came.\" Brown observed nonchalantly\nthat it would be just as well to avoid him, and with the same detached,\nmusing air Cornelius declared himself acquainted with a backwater broad\nenough to take Brown's boat past Waris's camp. \"You will have to be\nquiet,\" he said as an afterthought, \"for in one place we pass close\nbehind his camp. Very close. They are camped ashore with their boats\nhauled up.\" \"Oh, we know how to be as quiet as mice; never fear,\" said\nBrown. Cornelius stipulated that in case he were to pilot Brown out, his\ncanoe should be towed. \"I'll have to get back quick,\" he explained.\n\n'It was two hours before the dawn when word was passed to the stockade\nfrom outlying watchers that the white robbers were coming down to their\nboat. In a very short time every armed man from one end of Patusan\nto the other was on the alert, yet the banks of the river remained so\nsilent that but for the fires burning with sudden blurred flares the\ntown might have been asleep as if in peace-time. A heavy mist lay very\nlow on the water, making a sort of illusive grey light that showed\nnothing. When Brown's long-boat glided out of the creek into the\nriver, Jim was standing on the low point of land before the Rajah's\nstockade--on the very spot where for the first time he put his foot on\nPatusan shore. A shadow loomed up, moving in the greyness, solitary,\nvery bulky, and yet constantly eluding the eye. A murmur of low talking\ncame out of it. Brown at the tiller heard Jim speak calmly: \"A clear\nroad. You had better trust to the current while the fog lasts; but\nthis will lift presently.\" \"Yes, presently we shall see clear,\" replied\nBrown.\n\n'The thirty or forty men standing with muskets at ready outside the\nstockade held their breath. The Bugis owner of the prau, whom I saw\non Stein's verandah, and who was amongst them, told me that the boat,\nshaving the low point close, seemed for a moment to grow big and hang\nover it like a mountain. \"If you think it worth your while to wait a\nday outside,\" called out Jim, \"I'll try to send you down something--a\nbullock, some yams--what I can.\" The shadow went on moving. \"Yes. Do,\"\nsaid a voice, blank and muffled out of the fog. Not one of the many\nattentive listeners understood what the words meant; and then Brown\nand his men in their boat floated away, fading spectrally without the\nslightest sound.\n\n'Thus Brown, invisible in the mist, goes out of Patusan elbow to elbow\nwith Cornelius in the stern-sheets of the long-boat. \"Perhaps you shall\nget a small bullock,\" said Cornelius. \"Oh yes. Bullock. Yam. You'll get\nit if he said so. He always speaks the truth. He stole everything I had.\nI suppose you like a small bullock better than the loot of many houses.\"\n\"I would advise you to hold your tongue, or somebody here may fling\nyou overboard into this damned fog,\" said Brown. The boat seemed to be\nstanding still; nothing could be seen, not even the river alongside,\nonly the water-dust flew and trickled, condensed, down their beards and\nfaces. It was weird, Brown told me. Every individual man of them felt\nas though he were adrift alone in a boat, haunted by an almost\nimperceptible suspicion of sighing, muttering ghosts. \"Throw me out,\nwould you? But I would know where I was,\" mumbled Cornelius surlily.\n\"I've lived many years here.\" \"Not long enough to see through a fog like\nthis,\" Brown said, lolling back with his arm swinging to and fro on the\nuseless tiller. \"Yes. Long enough for that,\" snarled Cornelius. \"That's\nvery useful,\" commented Brown. \"Am I to believe you could find that\nbackway you spoke of blindfold, like this?\" Cornelius grunted. \"Are you\ntoo tired to row?\" he asked after a silence. \"No, by God!\" shouted Brown\nsuddenly. \"Out with your oars there.\" There was a great knocking in\nthe fog, which after a while settled into a regular grind of invisible\nsweeps against invisible thole-pins. Otherwise nothing was changed, and\nbut for the slight splash of a dipped blade it was like rowing a balloon\ncar in a cloud, said Brown. Thereafter Cornelius did not open his lips\nexcept to ask querulously for somebody to bale out his canoe, which\nwas towing behind the long-boat. Gradually the fog whitened and became\nluminous ahead. To the left Brown saw a darkness as though he had been\nlooking at the back of the departing night. All at once a big bough\ncovered with leaves appeared above his head, and ends of twigs, dripping\nand still, curved slenderly close alongside. Cornelius, without a word,\ntook the tiller from his hand.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 44\n\n\n'I don't think they spoke together again. The boat entered a narrow\nby-channel, where it was pushed by the oar-blades set into crumbling\nbanks, and there was a gloom as if enormous black wings had been\noutspread above the mist that filled its depth to the summits of the\ntrees. The branches overhead showered big drops through the gloomy fog.\nAt a mutter from Cornelius, Brown ordered his men to load. \"I'll\ngive you a chance to get even with them before we're done, you dismal\ncripples, you,\" he said to his gang. \"Mind you don't throw it away--you\nhounds.\" Low growls answered that speech. Cornelius showed much fussy\nconcern for the safety of his canoe.\n\n'Meantime Tamb' Itam had reached the end of his journey. The fog had\ndelayed him a little, but he had paddled steadily, keeping in touch with\nthe south bank. By-and-by daylight came like a glow in a ground glass\nglobe. The shores made on each side of the river a dark smudge, in which\none could detect hints of columnar forms and shadows of twisted branches\nhigh up. The mist was still thick on the water, but a good watch was\nbeing kept, for as Iamb' Itam approached the camp the figures of two men\nemerged out of the white vapour, and voices spoke to him boisterously.\nHe answered, and presently a canoe lay alongside, and he exchanged news\nwith the paddlers. All was well. The trouble was over. Then the men in\nthe canoe let go their grip on the side of his dug-out and incontinently\nfell out of sight. He pursued his way till he heard voices coming to him\nquietly over the water, and saw, under the now lifting, swirling mist,\nthe glow of many little fires burning on a sandy stretch, backed by\nlofty thin timber and bushes. There again a look-out was kept, for he\nwas challenged. He shouted his name as the two last sweeps of his paddle\nran his canoe up on the strand. It was a big camp. Men crouched in many\nlittle knots under a subdued murmur of early morning talk. Many thin\nthreads of smoke curled slowly on the white mist. Little shelters,\nelevated above the ground, had been built for the chiefs. Muskets were\nstacked in small pyramids, and long spears were stuck singly into the\nsand near the fires.\n\n'Tamb' Itam, assuming an air of importance, demanded to be led to Dain\nWaris. He found the friend of his white lord lying on a raised couch\nmade of bamboo, and sheltered by a sort of shed of sticks covered with\nmats. Dain Waris was awake, and a bright fire was burning before his\nsleeping-place, which resembled a rude shrine. The only son of nakhoda\nDoramin answered his greeting kindly. Tamb' Itam began by handing him\nthe ring which vouched for the truth of the messenger's words. Dain\nWaris, reclining on his elbow, bade him speak and tell all the news.\nBeginning with the consecrated formula, \"The news is good,\" Tamb' Itam\ndelivered Jim's own words. The white men, deputing with the consent of\nall the chiefs, were to be allowed to pass down the river. In answer to\na question or two Tamb' Itam then reported the proceedings of the last\ncouncil. Dain Waris listened attentively to the end, toying with the\nring which ultimately he slipped on the forefinger of his right hand.\nAfter hearing all he had to say he dismissed Tamb' Itam to have food\nand rest. Orders for the return in the afternoon were given immediately.\nAfterwards Dain Waris lay down again, open-eyed, while his personal\nattendants were preparing his food at the fire, by which Tamb' Itam also\nsat talking to the men who lounged up to hear the latest intelligence\nfrom the town. The sun was eating up the mist. A good watch was kept\nupon the reach of the main stream where the boat of the whites was\nexpected to appear every moment.\n\n'It was then that Brown took his revenge upon the world which, after\ntwenty years of contemptuous and reckless bullying, refused him the\ntribute of a common robber's success. It was an act of cold-blooded\nferocity, and it consoled him on his deathbed like a memory of an\nindomitable defiance. Stealthily he landed his men on the other side\nof the island opposite to the Bugis camp, and led them across. After a\nshort but quite silent scuffle, Cornelius, who had tried to slink away\nat the moment of landing, resigned himself to show the way where the\nundergrowth was most sparse. Brown held both his skinny hands together\nbehind his back in the grip of one vast fist, and now and then impelled\nhim forward with a fierce push. Cornelius remained as mute as a fish,\nabject but faithful to his purpose, whose accomplishment loomed before\nhim dimly. At the edge of the patch of forest Brown's men spread\nthemselves out in cover and waited. The camp was plain from end to end\nbefore their eyes, and no one looked their way. Nobody even dreamed that\nthe white men could have any knowledge of the narrow channel at the back\nof the island. When he judged the moment come, Brown yelled, \"Let them\nhave it,\" and fourteen shots rang out like one.\n\n'Tamb' Itam told me the surprise was so great that, except for those who\nfell dead or wounded, not a soul of them moved for quite an appreciable\ntime after the first discharge. Then a man screamed, and after that\nscream a great yell of amazement and fear went up from all the throats.\nA blind panic drove these men in a surging swaying mob to and fro along\nthe shore like a herd of cattle afraid of the water. Some few jumped\ninto the river then, but most of them did so only after the last\ndischarge. Three times Brown's men fired into the ruck, Brown, the only\none in view, cursing and yelling, \"Aim low! aim low!\"\n\n'Tamb' Itam says that, as for him, he understood at the first volley\nwhat had happened. Though untouched he fell down and lay as if dead,\nbut with his eyes open. At the sound of the first shots Dain Waris,\nreclining on the couch, jumped up and ran out upon the open shore, just\nin time to receive a bullet in his forehead at the second discharge.\nTamb' Itam saw him fling his arms wide open before he fell. Then, he\nsays, a great fear came upon him--not before. The white men retired as\nthey had come--unseen.\n\n'Thus Brown balanced his account with the evil fortune. Notice that even\nin this awful outbreak there is a superiority as of a man who carries\nright--the abstract thing--within the envelope of his common desires.\nIt was not a vulgar and treacherous massacre; it was a lesson, a\nretribution--a demonstration of some obscure and awful attribute of our\nnature which, I am afraid, is not so very far under the surface as we\nlike to think.\n\n'Afterwards the whites depart unseen by Tamb' Itam, and seem to vanish\nfrom before men's eyes altogether; and the schooner, too, vanishes after\nthe manner of stolen goods. But a story is told of a white long-boat\npicked up a month later in the Indian Ocean by a cargo steamer. Two\nparched, yellow, glassy-eyed, whispering skeletons in her recognised\nthe authority of a third, who declared that his name was Brown. His\nschooner, he reported, bound south with a cargo of Java sugar, had\nsprung a bad leak and sank under his feet. He and his companions were\nthe survivors of a crew of six. The two died on board the steamer which\nrescued them. Brown lived to be seen by me, and I can testify that he\nhad played his part to the last.\n\n'It seems, however, that in going away they had neglected to cast off\nCornelius's canoe. Cornelius himself Brown had let go at the beginning\nof the shooting, with a kick for a parting benediction. Tamb' Itam,\nafter arising from amongst the dead, saw the Nazarene running up and\ndown the shore amongst the corpses and the expiring fires. He uttered\nlittle cries. Suddenly he rushed to the water, and made frantic efforts\nto get one of the Bugis boats into the water. \"Afterwards, till he had\nseen me,\" related Tamb' Itam, \"he stood looking at the heavy canoe and\nscratching his head.\" \"What became of him?\" I asked. Tamb' Itam, staring\nhard at me, made an expressive gesture with his right arm. \"Twice I\nstruck, Tuan,\" he said. \"When he beheld me approaching he cast himself\nviolently on the ground and made a great outcry, kicking. He screeched\nlike a frightened hen till he felt the point; then he was still, and lay\nstaring at me while his life went out of his eyes.\"\n\n'This done, Tamb' Itam did not tarry. He understood the importance of\nbeing the first with the awful news at the fort. There were, of course,\nmany survivors of Dain Waris's party; but in the extremity of panic some\nhad swum across the river, others had bolted into the bush. The fact is\nthat they did not know really who struck that blow--whether more white\nrobbers were not coming, whether they had not already got hold of\nthe whole land. They imagined themselves to be the victims of a vast\ntreachery, and utterly doomed to destruction. It is said that some small\nparties did not come in till three days afterwards. However, a few tried\nto make their way back to Patusan at once, and one of the canoes that\nwere patrolling the river that morning was in sight of the camp at\nthe very moment of the attack. It is true that at first the men in her\nleaped overboard and swam to the opposite bank, but afterwards they\nreturned to their boat and started fearfully up-stream. Of these Tamb'\nItam had an hour's advance.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 45\n\n\n'When Tamb' Itam, paddling madly, came into the town-reach, the women,\nthronging the platforms before the houses, were looking out for the\nreturn of Dain Waris's little fleet of boats. The town had a festive\nair; here and there men, still with spears or guns in their hands, could\nbe seen moving or standing on the shore in groups. Chinamen's shops had\nbeen opened early; but the market-place was empty, and a sentry, still\nposted at the corner of the fort, made out Tamb' Itam, and shouted to\nthose within. The gate was wide open. Tamb' Itam jumped ashore and ran\nin headlong. The first person he met was the girl coming down from the\nhouse.\n\n'Tamb' Itam, disordered, panting, with trembling lips and wild eyes,\nstood for a time before her as if a sudden spell had been laid on him.\nThen he broke out very quickly: \"They have killed Dain Waris and many\nmore.\" She clapped her hands, and her first words were, \"Shut the\ngates.\" Most of the fortmen had gone back to their houses, but Tamb'\nItam hurried on the few who remained for their turn of duty within. The\ngirl stood in the middle of the courtyard while the others ran about.\n\"Doramin,\" she cried despairingly, as Tamb' Itam passed her. Next time\nhe went by he answered her thought rapidly, \"Yes. But we have all the\npowder in Patusan.\" She caught him by the arm, and, pointing at the\nhouse, \"Call him out,\" she whispered, trembling.\n\n'Tamb' Itam ran up the steps. His master was sleeping. \"It is I, Tamb'\nItam,\" he cried at the door, \"with tidings that cannot wait.\" He saw\nJim turn over on the pillow and open his eyes, and he burst out at\nonce. \"This, Tuan, is a day of evil, an accursed day.\" His master raised\nhimself on his elbow to listen--just as Dain Waris had done. And then\nTamb' Itam began his tale, trying to relate the story in order, calling\nDain Waris Panglima, and saying: \"The Panglima then called out to the\nchief of his own boatmen, 'Give Tamb' Itam something to eat'\"--when\nhis master put his feet to the ground and looked at him with such a\ndiscomposed face that the words remained in his throat.\n\n'\"Speak out,\" said Jim. \"Is he dead?\" \"May you live long,\" cried Tamb'\nItam. \"It was a most cruel treachery. He ran out at the first shots and\nfell.\" . . . His master walked to the window and with his fist struck\nat the shutter. The room was made light; and then in a steady voice, but\nspeaking fast, he began to give him orders to assemble a fleet of boats\nfor immediate pursuit, go to this man, to the other--send messengers;\nand as he talked he sat down on the bed, stooping to lace his boots\nhurriedly, and suddenly looked up. \"Why do you stand here?\" he asked\nvery red-faced. \"Waste no time.\" Tamb' Itam did not move. \"Forgive me,\nTuan, but . . . but,\" he began to stammer. \"What?\" cried his master\naloud, looking terrible, leaning forward with his hands gripping the\nedge of the bed. \"It is not safe for thy servant to go out amongst the\npeople,\" said Tamb' Itam, after hesitating a moment.\n\n'Then Jim understood. He had retreated from one world, for a small\nmatter of an impulsive jump, and now the other, the work of his own\nhands, had fallen in ruins upon his head. It was not safe for his\nservant to go out amongst his own people! I believe that in that very\nmoment he had decided to defy the disaster in the only way it occurred\nto him such a disaster could be defied; but all I know is that, without\na word, he came out of his room and sat before the long table, at the\nhead of which he was accustomed to regulate the affairs of his world,\nproclaiming daily the truth that surely lived in his heart. The dark\npowers should not rob him twice of his peace. He sat like a stone\nfigure. Tamb' Itam, deferential, hinted at preparations for defence.\nThe girl he loved came in and spoke to him, but he made a sign with his\nhand, and she was awed by the dumb appeal for silence in it. She went\nout on the verandah and sat on the threshold, as if to guard him with\nher body from dangers outside.\n\n'What thoughts passed through his head--what memories? Who can tell?\nEverything was gone, and he who had been once unfaithful to his trust\nhad lost again all men's confidence. It was then, I believe, he tried\nto write--to somebody--and gave it up. Loneliness was closing on him.\nPeople had trusted him with their lives--only for that; and yet they\ncould never, as he had said, never be made to understand him. Those\nwithout did not hear him make a sound. Later, towards the evening, he\ncame to the door and called for Tamb' Itam. \"Well?\" he asked. \"There is\nmuch weeping. Much anger too,\" said Tamb' Itam. Jim looked up at him.\n\"You know,\" he murmured. \"Yes, Tuan,\" said Tamb' Itam. \"Thy servant does\nknow, and the gates are closed. We shall have to fight.\" \"Fight! What\nfor?\" he asked. \"For our lives.\" \"I have no life,\" he said. Tamb' Itam\nheard a cry from the girl at the door. \"Who knows?\" said Tamb' Itam.\n\"By audacity and cunning we may even escape. There is much fear in men's\nhearts too.\" He went out, thinking vaguely of boats and of open sea,\nleaving Jim and the girl together.\n\n'I haven't the heart to set down here such glimpses as she had given\nme of the hour or more she passed in there wrestling with him for the\npossession of her happiness. Whether he had any hope--what he expected,\nwhat he imagined--it is impossible to say. He was inflexible, and with\nthe growing loneliness of his obstinacy his spirit seemed to rise above\nthe ruins of his existence. She cried \"Fight!\" into his ear. She could\nnot understand. There was nothing to fight for. He was going to prove\nhis power in another way and conquer the fatal destiny itself. He came\nout into the courtyard, and behind him, with streaming hair, wild\nof face, breathless, she staggered out and leaned on the side of the\ndoorway. \"Open the gates,\" he ordered. Afterwards, turning to those of\nhis men who were inside, he gave them leave to depart to their homes.\n\"For how long, Tuan?\" asked one of them timidly. \"For all life,\" he\nsaid, in a sombre tone.\n\n'A hush had fallen upon the town after the outburst of wailing and\nlamentation that had swept over the river, like a gust of wind from the\nopened abode of sorrow. But rumours flew in whispers, filling the hearts\nwith consternation and horrible doubts. The robbers were coming back,\nbringing many others with them, in a great ship, and there would be no\nrefuge in the land for any one. A sense of utter insecurity as during\nan earthquake pervaded the minds of men, who whispered their suspicions,\nlooking at each other as if in the presence of some awful portent.\n\n'The sun was sinking towards the forests when Dain Waris's body was\nbrought into Doramin's campong. Four men carried it in, covered decently\nwith a white sheet which the old mother had sent out down to the gate to\nmeet her son on his return. They laid him at Doramin's feet, and the old\nman sat still for a long time, one hand on each knee, looking down. The\nfronds of palms swayed gently, and the foliage of fruit trees stirred\nabove his head. Every single man of his people was there, fully armed,\nwhen the old nakhoda at last raised his eyes. He moved them slowly over\nthe crowd, as if seeking for a missing face. Again his chin sank on his\nbreast. The whispers of many men mingled with the slight rustling of the\nleaves.\n\n'The Malay who had brought Tamb' Itam and the girl to Samarang was there\ntoo. \"Not so angry as many,\" he said to me, but struck with a great\nawe and wonder at the \"suddenness of men's fate, which hangs over their\nheads like a cloud charged with thunder.\" He told me that when Dain\nWaris's body was uncovered at a sign of Doramin's, he whom they often\ncalled the white lord's friend was disclosed lying unchanged with his\neyelids a little open as if about to wake. Doramin leaned forward a\nlittle more, like one looking for something fallen on the ground. His\neyes searched the body from its feet to its head, for the wound maybe.\nIt was in the forehead and small; and there was no word spoken while\none of the by-standers, stooping, took off the silver ring from the cold\nstiff hand. In silence he held it up before Doramin. A murmur of dismay\nand horror ran through the crowd at the sight of that familiar token.\nThe old nakhoda stared at it, and suddenly let out one great fierce cry,\ndeep from the chest, a roar of pain and fury, as mighty as the bellow of\na wounded bull, bringing great fear into men's hearts, by the magnitude\nof his anger and his sorrow that could be plainly discerned without\nwords. There was a great stillness afterwards for a space, while the\nbody was being borne aside by four men. They laid it down under a tree,\nand on the instant, with one long shriek, all the women of the household\nbegan to wail together; they mourned with shrill cries; the sun\nwas setting, and in the intervals of screamed lamentations the high\nsing-song voices of two old men intoning the Koran chanted alone.\n\n'About this time Jim, leaning on a gun-carriage, looked at the river,\nand turned his back on the house; and the girl, in the doorway, panting\nas if she had run herself to a standstill, was looking at him across the\nyard. Tamb' Itam stood not far from his master, waiting patiently for\nwhat might happen. All at once Jim, who seemed to be lost in quiet\nthought, turned to him and said, \"Time to finish this.\"\n\n'\"Tuan?\" said Tamb' Itam, advancing with alacrity. He did not know what\nhis master meant, but as soon as Jim made a movement the girl started\ntoo and walked down into the open space. It seems that no one else of\nthe people of the house was in sight. She tottered slightly, and about\nhalf-way down called out to Jim, who had apparently resumed his peaceful\ncontemplation of the river. He turned round, setting his back against\nthe gun. \"Will you fight?\" she cried. \"There is nothing to fight for,\"\nhe said; \"nothing is lost.\" Saying this he made a step towards her.\n\"Will you fly?\" she cried again. \"There is no escape,\" he said, stopping\nshort, and she stood still also, silent, devouring him with her eyes.\n\"And you shall go?\" she said slowly. He bent his head. \"Ah!\" she\nexclaimed, peering at him as it were, \"you are mad or false. Do you\nremember the night I prayed you to leave me, and you said that you could\nnot? That it was impossible! Impossible! Do you remember you said you\nwould never leave me? Why? I asked you for no promise. You promised\nunasked--remember.\" \"Enough, poor girl,\" he said. \"I should not be worth\nhaving.\"\n\n'Tamb' Itam said that while they were talking she would laugh loud and\nsenselessly like one under the visitation of God. His master put his\nhands to his head. He was fully dressed as for every day, but without\na hat. She stopped laughing suddenly. \"For the last time,\" she cried\nmenacingly, \"will you defend yourself?\" \"Nothing can touch me,\" he said\nin a last flicker of superb egoism. Tamb' Itam saw her lean forward\nwhere she stood, open her arms, and run at him swiftly. She flung\nherself upon his breast and clasped him round the neck.\n\n'\"Ah! but I shall hold thee thus,\" she cried. . . . \"Thou art mine!\"\n\n'She sobbed on his shoulder. The sky over Patusan was blood-red,\nimmense, streaming like an open vein. An enormous sun nestled crimson\namongst the tree-tops, and the forest below had a black and forbidding\nface.\n\n'Tamb' Itam tells me that on that evening the aspect of the heavens was\nangry and frightful. I may well believe it, for I know that on that very\nday a cyclone passed within sixty miles of the coast, though there was\nhardly more than a languid stir of air in the place.\n\n'Suddenly Tamb' Itam saw Jim catch her arms, trying to unclasp her\nhands. She hung on them with her head fallen back; her hair touched the\nground. \"Come here!\" his master called, and Tamb' Itam helped to ease\nher down. It was difficult to separate her fingers. Jim, bending\nover her, looked earnestly upon her face, and all at once ran to the\nlanding-stage. Tamb' Itam followed him, but turning his head, he saw\nthat she had struggled up to her feet. She ran after them a few steps,\nthen fell down heavily on her knees. \"Tuan! Tuan!\" called Tamb' Itam,\n\"look back;\" but Jim was already in a canoe, standing up paddle in hand.\nHe did not look back. Tamb' Itam had just time to scramble in after\nhim when the canoe floated clear. The girl was then on her knees, with\nclasped hands, at the water-gate. She remained thus for a time in\na supplicating attitude before she sprang up. \"You are false!\" she\nscreamed out after Jim. \"Forgive me,\" he cried. \"Never! Never!\" she\ncalled back.\n\n'Tamb' Itam took the paddle from Jim's hands, it being unseemly that he\nshould sit while his lord paddled. When they reached the other shore his\nmaster forbade him to come any farther; but Tamb' Itam did follow him at\na distance, walking up the slope to Doramin's campong.\n\n'It was beginning to grow dark. Torches twinkled here and there. Those\nthey met seemed awestruck, and stood aside hastily to let Jim pass. The\nwailing of women came from above. The courtyard was full of armed Bugis\nwith their followers, and of Patusan people.\n\n'I do not know what this gathering really meant. Were these preparations\nfor war, or for vengeance, or to repulse a threatened invasion? Many\ndays elapsed before the people had ceased to look out, quaking, for\nthe return of the white men with long beards and in rags, whose exact\nrelation to their own white man they could never understand. Even for\nthose simple minds poor Jim remains under a cloud.\n\n'Doramin, alone! immense and desolate, sat in his arm-chair with the\npair of flintlock pistols on his knees, faced by a armed throng. When\nJim appeared, at somebody's exclamation, all the heads turned round\ntogether, and then the mass opened right and left, and he walked up a\nlane of averted glances. Whispers followed him; murmurs: \"He has worked\nall the evil.\" \"He hath a charm.\" . . . He heard them--perhaps!\n\n'When he came up into the light of torches the wailing of the women\nceased suddenly. Doramin did not lift his head, and Jim stood silent\nbefore him for a time. Then he looked to the left, and moved in that\ndirection with measured steps. Dain Waris's mother crouched at the head\nof the body, and the grey dishevelled hair concealed her face. Jim came\nup slowly, looked at his dead friend, lifting the sheet, than dropped it\nwithout a word. Slowly he walked back.\n\n'\"He came! He came!\" was running from lip to lip, making a murmur to\nwhich he moved. \"He hath taken it upon his own head,\" a voice said\naloud. He heard this and turned to the crowd. \"Yes. Upon my head.\" A few\npeople recoiled. Jim waited awhile before Doramin, and then said gently,\n\"I am come in sorrow.\" He waited again. \"I am come ready and unarmed,\"\nhe repeated.\n\n'The unwieldy old man, lowering his big forehead like an ox under a\nyoke, made an effort to rise, clutching at the flintlock pistols on his\nknees. From his throat came gurgling, choking, inhuman sounds, and his\ntwo attendants helped him from behind. People remarked that the ring\nwhich he had dropped on his lap fell and rolled against the foot of\nthe white man, and that poor Jim glanced down at the talisman that had\nopened for him the door of fame, love, and success within the wall of\nforests fringed with white foam, within the coast that under the western\nsun looks like the very stronghold of the night. Doramin, struggling to\nkeep his feet, made with his two supporters a swaying, tottering group;\nhis little eyes stared with an expression of mad pain, of rage, with\na ferocious glitter, which the bystanders noticed; and then, while Jim\nstood stiffened and with bared head in the light of torches, looking him\nstraight in the face, he clung heavily with his left arm round the neck\nof a bowed youth, and lifting deliberately his right, shot his son's\nfriend through the chest.\n\n'The crowd, which had fallen apart behind Jim as soon as Doramin had\nraised his hand, rushed tumultuously forward after the shot. They say\nthat the white man sent right and left at all those faces a proud and\nunflinching glance. Then with his hand over his lips he fell forward,\ndead.\n\n'And that's the end. He passes away under a cloud, inscrutable at heart,\nforgotten, unforgiven, and excessively romantic. Not in the wildest days\nof his boyish visions could he have seen the alluring shape of such an\nextraordinary success! For it may very well be that in the short moment\nof his last proud and unflinching glance, he had beheld the face of that\nopportunity which, like an Eastern bride, had come veiled to his side.\n\n'But we can see him, an obscure conqueror of fame, tearing himself out\nof the arms of a jealous love at the sign, at the call of his exalted\negoism. He goes away from a living woman to celebrate his pitiless\nwedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct. Is he satisfied--quite, now, I\nwonder? We ought to know. He is one of us--and have I not stood up once,\nlike an evoked ghost, to answer for his eternal constancy? Was I so very\nwrong after all? Now he is no more, there are days when the reality of\nhis existence comes to me with an immense, with an overwhelming force;\nand yet upon my honour there are moments, too when he passes from my\neyes like a disembodied spirit astray amongst the passions of this\nearth, ready to surrender himself faithfully to the claim of his own\nworld of shades.\n\n'Who knows? He is gone, inscrutable at heart, and the poor girl is\nleading a sort of soundless, inert life in Stein's house. Stein has\naged greatly of late. He feels it himself, and says often that he is\n\"preparing to leave all this; preparing to leave . . .\" while he waves\nhis hand sadly at his butterflies.'\n\nSeptember 1899--July 1900."