“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 bystanders, 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 watergate. 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 armchair with the pair of flintlock pistols on his knees, faced by an 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, then 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,1 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.
Appendix
Author's Note
When this novel first appeared in book form a notion got about that I had been bolted away with. Some reviewers maintained that the work starting as a short story had got beyond the writer's control. One or two discovered internal evidence1 of the fact, which seemed to amuse them. They pointed out the limitations of the narrative form. They argued that no man could have been expected to talk all that time,2 and other men to listen so long. It was not, they said, very credible.
After thinking it over for something like sixteen years, I am not so sure about that. Men have been known, both in the tropics and in the temperate zone, to sit up half the night “swapping yarns.” This, however, is but one yarn, yet with interruptions affording some measure of relief; and in regard to the listeners’ endurance, the postulate must be accepted that the story was interesting. It is the necessary preliminary assumption. If I hadn't believed that it was interesting I could never have begun to write it. As to the mere physical possibility we all know that some speeches in Parliament have taken nearer six than three hours in delivery; whereas all that part of the book which is Marlow's narrative can be read through aloud, I should say, in less than three hours. Besides—though I have kept strictly all such insignificant details out of the tale—we may presume that there must have been refreshments on that night, a glass of mineral water of some sort to help the narrator on.
But, seriously, the truth of the matter is, that my first thought was of a short story, concerned only with the pilgrim ship episode; nothing more. And that was a legitimate conception. After writing a few pages, however, I became for some reason discontented and I laid them aside for a time. I didn't take them out of the drawer till the late Mr. William Blackwood3 suggested I should give something again to his magazine.
It was only then that I perceived that the pilgrim ship episode4 was a good starting-point for a free and wandering tale; that it was an event, too, which could conceivably colour the whole “sentiment of existence” in a simple and sensitive character. But all these preliminary moods and stirrings of spirit were rather obscure at the time, and they do not appear clearer to me now after the lapse of so many years.
The few pages I had laid aside were not without their weight in the choice of subject. But the whole was re-written deliberately. When I sat down to it I knew it would be a long book, though I didn't foresee that it would spread itself over thirteen numbers5 of “Maga.”
I have been asked at times whether this was not the book of mine I liked best. I am a great foe to favouritism in public life, in private life, and even in the delicate relationship of an author to his works. As a matter of principle I will have no favourites; but I don't go so far as to feel grieved and annoyed by the preference some people give to my Lord Jim. I won't even say that I “fail to understand….”No! But once I had occasion to be puzzled and surprised.
A friend of mine returning from Italy had talked with a lady there who did not like the book. I regretted that, of course, but what surprised me was the ground of her dislike. “You know,” she said, “it is all so morbid.”
The pronouncement gave me food for an hour's anxious thought. Finally I arrived at the conclusion that, making due allowances for the subject itself being rather foreign to women's normal sensibilities, the lady could not have been an Italian. I wonder whether she was European at all? In any case, no Latin temperament would have perceived anything morbid in the acute consciousness of lost honour. Such a consciousness may be wrong, or it may be right, or it may be condemned as artificial; and, perhaps, my Jim6 is not a type of wide commonness. But I can safely assure my readers that he is not the product of coldly perverted thinking. He's not a figure of Northern Mists either. One sunny morning, in the commonplace surroundings of an Eastern roadstead,7 I saw his form pass by—appealing—significant—under a cloud—perfectly silent. Which is as it should be. It was for me, with all the sympathy of which I was capable, to seek fit words for his meaning. He was “one of us.”8
J.C.
1917.
NOTES
1. internal evidence: Although Marlow states at the end of Chapter XXI that his ‘last words about Jim shall be few’, the novel continues for another twenty-four chapters.
2. talk all that time: Several reviewers complained about the story's unrealistic length, perhaps most notably the novelist and playwright Arnold Bennett (1867–1931), who wrote, in an unsigned review: ‘This after-dinner story, told without a break, consists of about 99,000 words. Now it is unreasonable to suppose that the narrator, who chose his words with care, spoke at a greater rate than 150 words a minute, which means that he was telling that after-dinner story to his companions for eleven solid hours’ (Academy, 10 November 1900, 443; reprinted in Conrad: The Critical Heritage, ed. Norman Sherry, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1973, p. 117).
3. William Blackwood: The head of the long-established Scottish publishing house, William Blackwood (1836–1912) was also the editor of the conservative and popular monthly Blackwood's Magazine (familiarly called ‘Maga’), which published fiction as well as articles on current events and general topics.
4. pilgrim ship episode: In August 1880, the Jeddah, a steamship carrying almost a thousand pilgrims to Mecca from Singapore for the Hajj (the once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage imposed by the Koran) was abandoned by her European crew after severe damage from heavy weather. She was towed to Aden and an inquiry into her abandonment was held.
5. thirteen numbers: The novel was serialized from October 1899 to November 1900: thus, in fact, fourteen numbers.
6. my Jim: Jim is a composite character, partly a feat of imagination but drawing as well on real-life sources. The first thirty or so chapters freely play up material from the Jeddah incident and her disgraced first mate, Conrad learning of the affair from newspapers and port gossip. The last ten chapters of the novel draw on the life of James Brooke (1803–68; knighted 1848), the first rajah of Sarawak, who lived adventurously and explored large stretches of the Malay Archipelago, particularly Borneo.
7. Eastern roadstead: The roadstead (see Glossary of Nautical Terms) is Singapore's, where Conrad saw George Augustine (Austin) Podmore Williams (1852–1916), the first mate of Jeddah and the historical figure providing aspects of Jim. When Conrad saw him, Williams was employed in the w
ell-known ship's chandlers McAlister & Company.
8. one of us: Some critics link this phrase to Genesis 3:22 (King James version): ‘the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil’. It more immediately affirms social identity and group allegiance. Another source may be a letter from Conrad's French translator H.-D. Davray (1873–1944), to which Conrad replied on 10 July 1899: ‘The phrase “who is one of ours” touched me, for, truly, I feel bound to France by deep sympathy, by some old friendships… by the lasting charm of memories untinged by bitterness’ (Letters, vol. II, p. 185).
Notes
Topics adequately covered in a standard desk dictionary are not glossed here, and unless contextual information might be useful place-names are identified on the map. In the notes below, where a place-name has changed since the novel's writing, the present-day name is given on the first occurrence. The Riverside Shakespeare (2nd edition, 1997) is used for quotations from Shakespeare's plays, and biblical quotations are from the King James Bible. Nautical terms and foreign words are explained in the Glossaries.
Conrad drew on and borrowed from a large number of sources; the notes indicate the most important of these and do not attempt to catalogue all source materials.
Abbreviations
Letters
The Collected Letters of Joseph Conrad, ed. Frederick R. Karl and Laurence Davies, with Owen Knowles (vol. VI), J. H. Stape (vol. VII) and Gene M. Moore (vol. VIII), 8 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983–).
Lord Jim Page 41