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_ 'When Tamb' Itam, paddling madly, came into the town-reach,
the women, thronging the platforms before the houses, were looking
out for the return of Dain Waris's little fleet of boats. The town
had a festive air; here and there men, still with spears or guns
in their hands, could be seen moving or standing on the shore in
groups. Chinamen's shops had been opened early; but the market-place
was empty, and a sentry, still posted at the corner of the fort,
made out Tamb' Itam, and shouted to those within. The gate was
wide open. Tamb' Itam jumped ashore and ran in headlong. The
first person he met was the girl coming down from the house.
'Tamb' Itam, disordered, panting, with trembling lips and wild
eyes, stood for a time before her as if a sudden spell had been laid
on him. Then he broke out very quickly: "They have killed Dain
Waris and many more." She clapped her hands, and her first words
were, "Shut the gates." Most of the fortmen had gone back to their
houses, but Tamb' Itam hurried on the few who remained for their
turn of duty within. The girl stood in the middle of the courtyard
while the others ran about. "Doramin," she cried despairingly, as
Tamb' Itam passed her. Next time he went by he answered her
thought rapidly, "Yes. But we have all the powder in Patusan."
She caught him by the arm, and, pointing at the house, "Call him
out," she whispered, trembling.
'Tamb' Itam ran up the steps. His master was sleeping. "It is I,
Tamb' Itam," he cried at the door, "with tidings that cannot wait."
He saw Jim turn over on the pillow and open his eyes, and he burst
out at once. "This, Tuan, is a day of evil, an accursed day." His
master raised himself on his elbow to listen--just as Dain Waris
had done. And then Tamb' Itam began his tale, trying to relate the
story in order, calling Dain Waris Panglima, and saying: "The
Panglima then called out to the chief of his own boatmen, 'Give
Tamb' Itam something to eat' "--when his master put his feet to
the ground and looked at him with such a discomposed face that
the words remained in his throat.
' "Speak out," said Jim. "Is he dead?" "May you live long,"
cried Tamb' Itam. "It was a most cruel treachery. He ran out at the
first shots and fell." . . . His master walked to the window and with
his fist struck at the shutter. The room was made light; and then in
a steady voice, but speaking fast, he began to give him orders to
assemble a fleet of boats for immediate pursuit, go to this man, to
the other--send messengers; and as he talked he sat down on the
bed, stooping to lace his boots hurriedly, and suddenly looked up.
"Why do you stand here?" he asked very red-faced. "Waste no
time." Tamb' Itam did not move. "Forgive me, Tuan, but . . .
but," he began to stammer. "What?" cried his master aloud, looking
terrible, leaning forward with his hands gripping the edge of
the bed. "It is not safe for thy servant to go out amongst the people,"
said Tamb' Itam, after hesitating a moment.
'Then Jim understood. He had retreated from one world, for a
small matter of an impulsive jump, and now the other, the work of
his own hands, had fallen in ruins upon his head. It was not safe
for his servant to go out amongst his own people! I believe that in
that very moment he had decided to defy the disaster in the only
way it occurred to him such a disaster could be defied; but all
I know is that, without a word, he came out of his room and sat
before the long table, at the head of which he was accustomed to
regulate the affairs of his world, proclaiming daily the truth that
surely lived in his heart. The dark powers should not rob him twice
of his peace. He sat like a stone figure. Tamb' Itam, deferential,
hinted at preparations for defence. The girl he loved came in and
spoke to him, but he made a sign with his hand, and she was awed
by the dumb appeal for silence in it. She went out on the verandah
and sat on the threshold, as if to guard him with her body from
dangers outside.
'What thoughts passed through his head--what memories? Who can tell?
Everything was gone, and he who had been once unfaithful to his trust
had lost again all men's confidence. It was then, I believe, he
tried to write--to somebody--and gave it up. Loneliness was closing
on him. People had trusted him with their lives--only for that; and
yet they could never, as he had said, never be made to understand him.
Those without did not hear him make a sound. Later, towards the
evening, he came to the door and called for Tamb' Itam. "Well?" he
asked. "There is much weeping. Much anger too," said Tamb' Itam.
Jim looked up at him. "You know," he murmured. "Yes, Tuan," said
Tamb' Itam. "Thy servant does know, and the gates are closed.
We shall have to fight." "Fight! What for?" he asked. "For our
lives." "I have no life," he said. Tamb' Itam heard a cry from
the girl at the door. "Who knows?" said Tamb' Itam. "By audacity and
cunning we may even escape. There is much fear in men's hearts too."
He went out, thinking vaguely of boats and of open sea, leaving Jim
and the girl together.
'I haven't the heart to set down here such glimpses as she had
given me of the hour or more she passed in there wrestling with
him for the possession of her happiness. Whether he had any hope--
what he expected, what he imagined--it is impossible to say. He
was inflexible, and with the growing loneliness of his obstinacy his
spirit seemed to rise above the ruins of his existence. She cried
"Fight!" into his ear. She could not understand. There was nothing
to fight for. He was going to prove his power in another way and
conquer the fatal destiny itself. He came out into the courtyard,
and behind him, with streaming hair, wild of face, breathless, she
staggered out and leaned on the side of the doorway. "Open the
gates," he ordered. Afterwards, turning to those of his men who
were inside, he gave them leave to depart to their homes. "For how
long, Tuan?" asked one of them timidly. "For all life," he said,
in a sombre tone.
'A hush had fallen upon the town after the outburst of wailing
and lamentation that had swept over the river, like a gust of wind
from the opened abode of sorrow. But rumours flew in whispers,
filling the hearts with consternation and horrible doubts. The
robbers were coming back, bringing many others with them, in a great
ship, and there would be no refuge in the land for any one. A sense
of utter insecurity as during an earthquake pervaded the minds of
men, who whispered their suspicions, looking at each other as if in
the presence of some awful portent.
'The sun was sinking towards the forests when Dain Waris's body
was brought into Doramin's campong. Four men carried it in, covered
decently with a white sheet which the old mother had sent out down to
the gate to meet her son on his return. They laid him at Doramin's
feet, and the old man sat still for a long time, one hand on each
knee, looking down. The fronds of palms swayed gently, and the foliage
of fruit trees stirred above his head. Every single man of his people
was there, fully armed, when the old nakhoda at last raised his eyes.
He moved them slowly over the crowd, as if seeking for a missing face.
Again his chin sank on his breast. The whispers of many men mingled
with the slight rustling of the leaves.
'The Malay who had brought Tamb' Itam and the girl to Samarang was
there too. "Not so angry as many," he said to me, but struck with a
great awe and wonder at the "suddenness of men's fate, which hangs
over their heads like a cloud charged with thunder." He told me that
when Dain Waris's body was uncovered at a sign of Doramin's, he whom
they often called the white lord's friend was disclosed lying unchanged
with his eyelids a little open as if about to wake. Doramin leaned
forward a little more, like one looking for something fallen on the
ground. His eyes searched the body from its feet to its head, for the
wound maybe. It was in the forehead and small; and there was no word
spoken while one of the by-standers, stooping, took off the silver
ring from the cold stiff hand. In silence he held it up before Doramin.
A murmur of dismay and horror ran through the crowd at the sight of
that familiar token. The old nakhoda stared at it, and suddenly let
out one great fierce cry, deep from the chest, a roar of pain and fury,
as mighty as the bellow of a wounded bull, bringing great fear into
men's hearts, by the magnitude of his anger and his sorrow that could
be plainly discerned without words. There was a great stillness
afterwards for a space, while the body was being borne aside by four
men. They laid it down under a tree, and on the instant, with one
long shriek, all the women of the household began to wail together;
they mourned with shrill cries; the sun was setting, and in the
intervals of screamed lamentations the high sing-song voices of two
old men intoning the Koran chanted alone.
'About this time Jim, leaning on a gun-carriage, looked at the
river, and turned his back on the house; and the girl, in the doorway,
panting as if she had run herself to a standstill, was looking at
him across the yard. Tamb' Itam stood not far from his master,
waiting patiently for what might happen. All at once Jim, who
seemed to be lost in quiet thought, turned to him and said, "Time
to finish this."
' "Tuan?" said Tamb' Itam, advancing with alacrity. He did not
know what his master meant, but as soon as Jim made a movement
the girl started too and walked down into the open space. It seems
that no one else of the people of the house was in sight. She tottered
slightly, and about half-way down called out to Jim, who had apparently
resumed his peaceful contemplation of the river. He turned round,
setting his back against the gun. "Will you fight?" she cried.
"There is nothing to fight for," he said; "nothing is lost." Saying
this he made a step towards her. "Will you fly?" she cried again.
"There is no escape," he said, stopping short, and she stood still
also, silent, devouring him with her eyes. "And you shall go?" she
said slowly. He bent his head. "Ah!" she exclaimed, peering at him
as it were, "you are mad or false. Do you remember the night I
prayed you to leave me, and you said that you could not? That it
was impossible! Impossible! Do you remember you said you would
never leave me? Why? I asked you for no promise. You promised
unasked--remember." "Enough, poor girl," he said. "I should not
be worth having."
'Tamb' Itam said that while they were talking she would laugh
loud and senselessly like one under the visitation of God. His master
put his hands to his head. He was fully dressed as for every day,
but without a hat. She stopped laughing suddenly. "For the last
time," she cried menacingly, "will you defend yourself?" "Nothing
can touch me," he said in a last flicker of superb egoism. Tamb'
Itam saw her lean forward where she stood, open her arms, and run
at him swiftly. She flung herself upon his breast and clasped him
round the neck.
' "Ah! but I shall hold thee thus," she cried. . . . "Thou art mine!"
'She sobbed on his shoulder. The sky over Patusan was blood-red,
immense, streaming like an open vein. An enormous sun nestled crimson
amongst the tree-tops, and the forest below had a black and forbidding
face.
'Tamb' Itam tells me that on that evening the aspect of the
heavens was angry and frightful. I may well believe it, for I know
that on that very day a cyclone passed within sixty miles of the
coast, though there was hardly more than a languid stir of air in the
place.
'Suddenly Tamb' Itam saw Jim catch her arms, trying to unclasp her
hands. She hung on them with her head fallen back; her hair touched
the ground. "Come here!" his master called, and Tamb' Itam helped
to ease her down. It was difficult to separate her fingers. Jim,
bending over her, looked earnestly upon her face, and all at once
ran to the landing-stage. Tamb' Itam followed him, but turning his
head, he saw that she had struggled up to her feet. She ran after
them a few steps, then fell down heavily on her knees. "Tuan! Tuan!"
called Tamb' Itam, "look back;" but Jim was already in a canoe,
standing up paddle in hand. He did not look back. Tamb' Itam had just
time to scramble in after him when the canoe floated clear. The girl
was then on her knees, with clasped hands, at the water-gate.
She remained thus for a time in a supplicating attitude before
she sprang up. "You are false!" she screamed out after Jim.
"Forgive me," he cried. "Never! Never!" she called back.
'Tamb' Itam took the paddle from Jim's hands, it being unseemly
that he should sit while his lord paddled. When they reached the
other shore his master forbade him to come any farther; but Tamb'
Itam did follow him at a distance, walking up the slope to Doramin's
campong.
'It was beginning to grow dark. Torches twinkled here and there.
Those they met seemed awestruck, and stood aside hastily to let Jim
pass. The wailing of women came from above. The courtyard was full
of armed Bugis with their followers, and of Patusan people.
'I do not know what this gathering really meant. Were these
preparations for war, or for vengeance, or to repulse a threatened
invasion? Many days elapsed before the people had ceased to look
out, quaking, for the return of the white men with long beards and
in rags, whose exact relation to their own white man they could
never understand. Even for those simple minds poor Jim remains
under a cloud.
'Doramin, alone! immense and desolate, sat in his arm-chair with
the pair of flintlock pistols on his knees, faced by a armed throng.
When Jim appeared, at somebody's exclamation, all the heads
turned round together, and then the mass opened right and left,
and he walked up a lane of averted glances. Whispers followed him;
murmurs: "He has worked all the evil." "He hath a charm." . . .
He heard them--perhaps!
'When he came up into the light of torches the wailing of the
women ceased suddenly. Doramin did not lift his head, and Jim
stood silent before him for a time. Then he looked to the left, and
moved in that direction with measured steps. Dain Waris's mother
crouched at the head of the body, and the grey dishevelled hair
concealed her face. Jim came up slowly, looked at his dead friend,
lifting the sheet, than dropped it without a word. Slowly he walked
back.
' "He came! He came!" was running from lip to lip, making a murmur to
which he moved. "He hath taken it upon his own head," a voice said
aloud. He heard this and turned to the crowd. "Yes. Upon my head."
A few people recoiled. Jim waited awhile before Doramin, and then
said gently, "I am come in sorrow." He waited again. "I am come ready
and unarmed," he repeated.
'The unwieldy old man, lowering his big forehead like an ox under a
yoke, made an effort to rise, clutching at the flintlock pistols
on his knees. From his throat came gurgling, choking, inhuman
sounds, and his two attendants helped him from behind. People
remarked that the ring which he had dropped on his lap fell and
rolled against the foot of the white man, and that poor Jim glanced
down at the talisman that had opened for him the door of fame,
love, and success within the wall of forests fringed with white foam,
within the coast that under the western sun looks like the very
stronghold of the night. Doramin, struggling to keep his feet, made
with his two supporters a swaying, tottering group; his little eyes
stared with an expression of mad pain, of rage, with a ferocious
glitter, which the bystanders noticed; and then, while Jim stood
stiffened and with bared head in the light of torches, looking him
straight in the face, he clung heavily with his left arm round the
neck of a bowed youth, and lifting deliberately his right, shot his
son's friend through the chest.
'The crowd, which had fallen apart behind Jim as soon as Doramin had
raised his hand, rushed tumultuously forward after the shot. They say
that the white man sent right and left at all those faces a proud and
unflinching glance. Then with his hand over his lips he fell forward, dead.
'And that's the end. He passes away under a cloud, inscrutable
at heart, forgotten, unforgiven, and excessively romantic. Not in
the wildest days of his boyish visions could he have seen the alluring
shape of such an extraordinary success! For it may very well be that
in the short moment of his last proud and unflinching glance, he
had beheld the face of that opportunity which, like an Eastern
bride, had come veiled to his side.
'But we can see him, an obscure conqueror of fame, tearing himself
out of the arms of a jealous love at the sign, at the call of his
exalted egoism. He goes away from a living woman to celebrate his
pitiless wedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct. Is he satisfied--
quite, now, I wonder? We ought to know. He is one of us--and
have I not stood up once, like an evoked ghost, to answer for his
eternal constancy? Was I so very wrong after all? Now he is no
more, there are days when the reality of his existence comes to me
with an immense, with an overwhelming force; and yet upon my
honour there are moments, too when he passes from my eyes like a
disembodied spirit astray amongst the passions of this earth, ready
to surrender himself faithfully to the claim of his own world of
shades.
'Who knows? He is gone, inscrutable at heart, and the poor girl
is leading a sort of soundless, inert life in Stein's house. Stein has
aged greatly of late. He feels it himself, and says often that he is
"preparing to leave all this; preparing to leave . . ." while he waves
his hand sadly at his butterflies.'
September 1899--July 1900.
THE END.
Lord Jim, by Joseph Conrad _
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