Bab Bab 13 · ‘After these words, and without a change of attitude, he, so to speak,

. ‘After these words, and without a change of attitude, he, so to speak,

submitted himself passively to a state of silence. I kept him company;

and suddenly, but not abruptly, as if the appointed time had arrived

for his moderate and husky voice to come out of his immobility, he

pronounced, “Mon Dieu! how the time passes!” Nothing could have been

more commonplace than this remark; but its utterance coincided for me

with a moment of vision. It’s extraordinary how we go through life with

eyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts. Perhaps it’s just

as well; and it may be that it is this very dullness that makes life to

the incalculable majority so supportable and so welcome. Nevertheless,

there can be but few of us who had never known one of these rare moments

of awakening when we see, hear, understand ever so much--everything--in

a flash--before we fall back again into our agreeable somnolence. I

raised my eyes when he spoke, and I saw him as though I had never seen

him before. I saw his chin sunk on his breast, the clumsy folds of his

coat, his clasped hands, his motionless pose, so curiously suggestive

of his having been simply left there. Time had passed indeed: it had

overtaken him and gone ahead. It had left him hopelessly behind with

a few poor gifts: the iron-grey hair, the heavy fatigue of the tanned

face, two scars, a pair of tarnished shoulder-straps; one of those

steady, reliable men who are the raw material of great reputations,

one of those uncounted lives that are buried without drums and

trumpets under the foundations of monumental successes. “I am now third

lieutenant of the Victorieuse” (she was the flagship of the French

Pacific squadron at the time), he said, detaching his shoulders from

the wall a couple of inches to introduce himself. I bowed slightly on my

side of the table, and told him I commanded a merchant vessel at present

anchored in Rushcutters’ Bay. He had “remarked” her,--a pretty little

craft. He was very civil about it in his impassive way. I even fancy

he went the length of tilting his head in compliment as he repeated,

breathing visibly the while, “Ah, yes. A little craft painted

black--very pretty--very pretty (tres coquet).” After a time he twisted

his body slowly to face the glass door on our right. “A dull town

(triste ville),” he observed, staring into the street. It was a

brilliant day; a southerly buster was raging, and we could see the

passers-by, men and women, buffeted by the wind on the sidewalks, the

sunlit fronts of the houses across the road blurred by the tall whirls

of dust. “I descended on shore,” he said, “to stretch my legs a little,

but . . .” He didn’t finish, and sank into the depths of his repose.

“Pray--tell me,” he began, coming up ponderously, “what was there at the

bottom of this affair--precisely (au juste)? It is curious. That dead

man, for instance--and so on.”

‘“There were living men too,” I said; “much more curious.”

‘“No doubt, no doubt,” he agreed half audibly, then, as if after

mature consideration, murmured, “Evidently.” I made no difficulty in

communicating to him what had interested me most in this affair. It

seemed as though he had a right to know: hadn’t he spent thirty hours

on board the Patna--had he not taken the succession, so to speak, had

he not done “his possible”? He listened to me, looking more priest-like

than ever, and with what--probably on account of his downcast eyes--had

the appearance of devout concentration. Once or twice he elevated

his eyebrows (but without raising his eyelids), as one would say “The

devil!” Once he calmly exclaimed, “Ah, bah!” under his breath, and when

I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort

of sorrowful whistle.

‘In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of

indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility

appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an

egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a “Very

interesting,” pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before

I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself,

“That’s it. That _is_ it.” His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast,

his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he

meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person,

as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind

is felt. “And so that poor young man ran away along with the others,” he

said, with grave tranquillity.

‘I don’t know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine

I can remember in connection with Jim’s affair. But somehow this simple

statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . “S’est enfui avec

les autres,” had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the

discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did

get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking

professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness

was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one’s

perplexities are mere child’s-play. “Ah! The young, the young,” he said

indulgently. “And after all, one does not die of it.” “Die of what?” I

asked swiftly. “Of being afraid.” He elucidated his meaning and sipped

his drink.

‘I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff

and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his

tumbler with an ungainly clutch. “One is always afraid. One may talk,

but . . .” He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . “The fear, the

fear--look you--it is always there.” . . . He touched his breast near

a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his

own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I

suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, “Yes! yes! One

talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning

one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This

is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse),” he said,

using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, “in all parts

of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!” . . . He

drank carelessly. . . . “Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has

got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?” he

appealed to me reasonably. “Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them,

if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a

point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point

when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to

live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination

of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac

epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is

fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes.

Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!”

. . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had

been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened

the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. “It’s

evident--parbleu!” he continued; “for, make up your mind as much as you

like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement

d’estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my

proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . .”

‘He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. “No, no; one does

not die of it,” he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean

to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the

more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well

press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him

better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move.

“That is so,” he resumed placidly. “Man is born a coward (L’homme est ne

poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise.

But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One

puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than

yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . .”

‘His voice ceased.

‘“That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at

least at the moment,” I remarked.

‘He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: “I don’t say; I don’t say. The

young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best

dispositions,” he repeated, wheezing a little.

‘“I am glad to see you taking a lenient view,” I said. “His own feeling

in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . .”

‘The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up

his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the

steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to

me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel

rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance,

coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like

a razor-edge on a battle-axe. “Pardon,” he said punctiliously. His right

hand went up, and he swayed forward. “Allow me . . . I contended that

one may get on knowing very well that one’s courage does not come of

itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There’s nothing much in that to

get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life

impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour

. . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when” . . . he

got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might

scramble up from the grass . . . “when the honour is gone--ah

ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no

opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it.”

‘I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into

our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a

mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight

of futility that lies in wait for men’s speeches had fallen upon our

conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. “Very well,” I said,

with a disconcerted smile; “but couldn’t it reduce itself to not being

found out?” He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had

changed his mind. “This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I

don’t think about it.” He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held

before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his

wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at

each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked

on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. “Serviteur,”

said the Frenchman. Another scrape. “Monsieur” . . . “Monsieur.” . . .

The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster

get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his

shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs.

‘I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim’s case.

If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its

actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had

come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an

utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one

of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something

of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation.

Water-clerk. “My representative afloat,” as De Jongh called him. You

can’t imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of

being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an

insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had

gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying

to save a lady’s-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a

hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers

had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when

Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that

girl. How she had been left behind I can’t make out; anyhow, she had

gone completely crazy--wouldn’t leave the ship--held to the rail like

grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats;

but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and

the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse,

I’ve been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl

screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to

warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me,

hiding a smile at the recollection, “It was for all the world, sir, like

a naughty youngster fighting with his mother.” The same old chap said

that “At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling

at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought

afterwards he must’ve been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water

would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save

her. We daren’t come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old

ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck

in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up.”

Poor Bob’s spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a

love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for

ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it

came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up

to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh

till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized

and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and

say, “It’s all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul

was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that

work.” I don’t know how Jim’s soul accommodated itself to the new

conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to

do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his

adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had

certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing

to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for

which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding

with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his

fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could

carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse,

and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger’s

donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said

never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain

fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the

irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the

Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never

feel I had done with Jim for good.

‘I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not,

however, in connection with De Jongh’s cool and gloomy backshop, where

we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him

years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the

long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of

the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country’s law was

suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had

slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police

magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the

assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his

bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil

with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told

myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare

him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don’t pretend to explain

the reasons of my desire--I don’t think I could; but if you haven’t got

a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in

my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words.

I don’t defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which

induced me to lay before him Brierly’s plan of evasion--I may call

it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely

ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of

course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some

work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink,

and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I

was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for

the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of

Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write

in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had

done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of

that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I

am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would

appear more unintelligible than any man’s action has the right to be,

and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along

with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak

grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle

intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the

criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher

origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was

eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn’t say much,

for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he

believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine

in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. “Clear out!

Couldn’t think of it,” he said, with a shake of the head. “I make you

an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude,”

I said; “you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . .” “Awfully

good of you,” he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly:

the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not

falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart.

I felt angry--not for the first time that night. “The whole wretched

business,” I said, “is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your

kind . . .” “It is, it is,” he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on

the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could

see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth

skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously

heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. “Yes,” I said; “and allow me

to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can

expect from this licking of the dregs.” “Advantage!” he murmured out of

his stillness. “I am dashed if I do,” I said, enraged. “I’ve been trying

to tell you all there is in it,” he went on slowly, as if meditating

something unanswerable. “But after all, it is _my_ trouble.” I opened my

mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I’d lost all confidence in

myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a

man thinking half aloud. “Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not

one of them would face it. . . . They! . . .” He moved his hand slightly

to imply disdain. “But I’ve got to get over this thing, and I mustn’t

shirk any of it or . . . I won’t shirk any of it.” He was silent. He

gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the

passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected

them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of

unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere

shades. “Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow,” I began. He had a movement of

impatience. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said incisively; then

looking at me without a wink, “I may have jumped, but I don’t run away.”

“I meant no offence,” I said; and added stupidly, “Better men than you

have found it expedient to run, at times.” He coloured all over, while

in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. “Perhaps so,”

he said at last, “I am not good enough; I can’t afford it. I am bound to

fight this thing down--I am fighting it now.” I got out of my chair and

felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end

to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, “I had no idea it was so

late,” in an airy tone. . . . “I dare say you have had enough of this,”

he said brusquely: “and to tell you the truth”--he began to look round

for his hat--“so have I.”

‘Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping

hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed

to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its

prey. I heard his voice. “Ah! here it is.” He had found his hat. For a

few seconds we hung in the wind. “What will you do after--after . . .”

I asked very low. “Go to the dogs as likely as not,” he answered in a

gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to

take it lightly. “Pray remember,” I said, “that I should like very much

to see you again before you go.” “I don’t know what’s to prevent

you. The damned thing won’t make me invisible,” he said with intense

bitterness,--“no such luck.” And then at the moment of taking leave he

treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an

awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it

into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to

shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly

at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff;

I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin

on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle

spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that

floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night

swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the

quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running.

Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet

four-and-twenty.’