Bab Bab 33 · ‘I was immensely touched: her youth, her ignorance, her pretty beauty,

. ‘I was immensely touched: her youth, her ignorance, her pretty beauty,

which had the simple charm and the delicate vigour of a wild-flower,

her pathetic pleading, her helplessness, appealed to me with almost

the strength of her own unreasonable and natural fear. She feared the

unknown as we all do, and her ignorance made the unknown infinitely

vast. I stood for it, for myself, for you fellows, for all the world

that neither cared for Jim nor needed him in the least. I would have

been ready enough to answer for the indifference of the teeming earth

but for the reflection that he too belonged to this mysterious unknown

of her fears, and that, however much I stood for, I did not stand for

him. This made me hesitate. A murmur of hopeless pain unsealed my lips.

I began by protesting that I at least had come with no intention to take

Jim away.

‘Why did I come, then? After a slight movement she was as still as a

marble statue in the night. I tried to explain briefly: friendship,

business; if I had any wish in the matter it was rather to see him stay.

. . . “They always leave us,” she murmured. The breath of sad wisdom

from the grave which her piety wreathed with flowers seemed to pass in a

faint sigh. . . . Nothing, I said, could separate Jim from her.

‘It is my firm conviction now; it was my conviction at the time; it was

the only possible conclusion from the facts of the case. It was not made

more certain by her whispering in a tone in which one speaks to oneself,

“He swore this to me.” “Did you ask him?” I said.

‘She made a step nearer. “No. Never!” She had asked him only to go away.

It was that night on the river-bank, after he had killed the man--after

she had flung the torch in the water because he was looking at her so.

There was too much light, and the danger was over then--for a little

time--for a little time. He said then he would not abandon her to

Cornelius. She had insisted. She wanted him to leave her. He said that

he could not--that it was impossible. He trembled while he said this.

She had felt him tremble. . . . One does not require much imagination

to see the scene, almost to hear their whispers. She was afraid for him

too. I believe that then she saw in him only a predestined victim of

dangers which she understood better than himself. Though by nothing

but his mere presence he had mastered her heart, had filled all

her thoughts, and had possessed himself of all her affections, she

underestimated his chances of success. It is obvious that at about

that time everybody was inclined to underestimate his chances. Strictly

speaking he didn’t seem to have any. I know this was Cornelius’s view.

He confessed that much to me in extenuation of the shady part he had

played in Sherif Ali’s plot to do away with the infidel. Even Sherif Ali

himself, as it seems certain now, had nothing but contempt for the white

man. Jim was to be murdered mainly on religious grounds, I believe. A

simple act of piety (and so far infinitely meritorious), but otherwise

without much importance. In the last part of this opinion Cornelius

concurred. “Honourable sir,” he argued abjectly on the only occasion he

managed to have me to himself--“honourable sir, how was I to know? Who

was he? What could he do to make people believe him? What did Mr. Stein

mean sending a boy like that to talk big to an old servant? I was ready

to save him for eighty dollars. Only eighty dollars. Why didn’t the

fool go? Was I to get stabbed myself for the sake of a stranger?” He

grovelled in spirit before me, with his body doubled up insinuatingly

and his hands hovering about my knees, as though he were ready to

embrace my legs. “What’s eighty dollars? An insignificant sum to give to

a defenceless old man ruined for life by a deceased she-devil.” Here he

wept. But I anticipate. I didn’t that night chance upon Cornelius till I

had had it out with the girl.

‘She was unselfish when she urged Jim to leave her, and even to leave

the country. It was his danger that was foremost in her thoughts--even

if she wanted to save herself too--perhaps unconsciously: but then look

at the warning she had, look at the lesson that could be drawn from

every moment of the recently ended life in which all her memories were

centred. She fell at his feet--she told me so--there by the river, in

the discreet light of stars which showed nothing except great masses of

silent shadows, indefinite open spaces, and trembling faintly upon the

broad stream made it appear as wide as the sea. He had lifted her up.

He lifted her up, and then she would struggle no more. Of course not.

Strong arms, a tender voice, a stalwart shoulder to rest her poor lonely

little head upon. The need--the infinite need--of all this for the

aching heart, for the bewildered mind;--the promptings of youth--the

necessity of the moment. What would you have? One understands--unless

one is incapable of understanding anything under the sun. And so she was

content to be lifted up--and held. “You know--Jove! this is serious--no

nonsense in it!” as Jim had whispered hurriedly with a troubled

concerned face on the threshold of his house. I don’t know so much about

nonsense, but there was nothing light-hearted in their romance: they

came together under the shadow of a life’s disaster, like knight and

maiden meeting to exchange vows amongst haunted ruins. The starlight was

good enough for that story, a light so faint and remote that it cannot

resolve shadows into shapes, and show the other shore of a stream. I

did look upon the stream that night and from the very place; it rolled

silent and as black as Styx: the next day I went away, but I am not

likely to forget what it was she wanted to be saved from when she

entreated him to leave her while there was time. She told me what

it was, calmed--she was now too passionately interested for mere

excitement--in a voice as quiet in the obscurity as her white half-lost

figure. She told me, “I didn’t want to die weeping.” I thought I had not

heard aright.

‘“You did not want to die weeping?” I repeated after her. “Like my

mother,” she added readily. The outlines of her white shape did not

stir in the least. “My mother had wept bitterly before she died,” she

explained. An inconceivable calmness seemed to have risen from the

ground around us, imperceptibly, like the still rise of a flood in the

night, obliterating the familiar landmarks of emotions. There came

upon me, as though I had felt myself losing my footing in the midst of

waters, a sudden dread, the dread of the unknown depths. She went on

explaining that, during the last moments, being alone with her mother,

she had to leave the side of the couch to go and set her back against

the door, in order to keep Cornelius out. He desired to get in, and

kept on drumming with both fists, only desisting now and again to shout

huskily, “Let me in! Let me in! Let me in!” In a far corner upon a few

mats the moribund woman, already speechless and unable to lift her arm,

rolled her head over, and with a feeble movement of her hand seemed to

command--“No! No!” and the obedient daughter, setting her shoulders with

all her strength against the door, was looking on. “The tears fell from

her eyes--and then she died,” concluded the girl in an imperturbable

monotone, which more than anything else, more than the white statuesque

immobility of her person, more than mere words could do, troubled my

mind profoundly with the passive, irremediable horror of the scene. It

had the power to drive me out of my conception of existence, out of

that shelter each of us makes for himself to creep under in moments of

danger, as a tortoise withdraws within its shell. For a moment I had

a view of a world that seemed to wear a vast and dismal aspect of

disorder, while, in truth, thanks to our unwearied efforts, it is

as sunny an arrangement of small conveniences as the mind of man can

conceive. But still--it was only a moment: I went back into my shell

directly. One _must_--don’t you know?--though I seemed to have lost all

my words in the chaos of dark thoughts I had contemplated for a second

or two beyond the pale. These came back, too, very soon, for words also

belong to the sheltering conception of light and order which is our

refuge. I had them ready at my disposal before she whispered softly, “He

swore he would never leave me, when we stood there alone! He swore to

me!”. . . “And it is possible that you--you! do not believe him?”

I asked, sincerely reproachful, genuinely shocked. Why couldn’t she

believe? Wherefore this craving for incertitude, this clinging to fear,

as if incertitude and fear had been the safeguards of her love. It was

monstrous. She should have made for herself a shelter of inexpugnable

peace out of that honest affection. She had not the knowledge--not the

skill perhaps. The night had come on apace; it had grown pitch-dark

where we were, so that without stirring she had faded like the

intangible form of a wistful and perverse spirit. And suddenly I heard

her quiet whisper again, “Other men had sworn the same thing.” It was

like a meditative comment on some thoughts full of sadness, of awe. And

she added, still lower if possible, “My father did.” She paused the

time to draw an inaudible breath. “Her father too.” . . . These were the

things she knew! At once I said, “Ah! but he is not like that.” This,

it seemed, she did not intend to dispute; but after a time the strange

still whisper wandering dreamily in the air stole into my ears. “Why

is he different? Is he better? Is he . . .” “Upon my word of honour,” I

broke in, “I believe he is.” We subdued our tones to a mysterious pitch.

Amongst the huts of Jim’s workmen (they were mostly liberated slaves

from the Sherif’s stockade) somebody started a shrill, drawling song.

Across the river a big fire (at Doramin’s, I think) made a glowing

ball, completely isolated in the night. “Is he more true?” she murmured.

“Yes,” I said. “More true than any other man,” she repeated in

lingering accents. “Nobody here,” I said, “would dream of doubting his

word--nobody would dare--except you.”

‘I think she made a movement at this. “More brave,” she went on in a

changed tone. “Fear will never drive him away from you,” I said a little

nervously. The song stopped short on a shrill note, and was succeeded by

several voices talking in the distance. Jim’s voice too. I was struck

by her silence. “What has he been telling you? He has been telling you

something?” I asked. There was no answer. “What is it he told you?” I

insisted.

‘“Do you think I can tell you? How am I to know? How am I to

understand?” she cried at last. There was a stir. I believe she was

wringing her hands. “There is something he can never forget.”

‘“So much the better for you,” I said gloomily.

‘“What is it? What is it?” She put an extraordinary force of appeal into

her supplicating tone. “He says he had been afraid. How can I believe

this? Am I a mad woman to believe this? You all remember something! You

all go back to it. What is it? You tell me! What is this thing? Is it

alive?--is it dead? I hate it. It is cruel. Has it got a face and a

voice--this calamity? Will he see it--will he hear it? In his sleep

perhaps when he cannot see me--and then arise and go. Ah! I shall never

forgive him. My mother had forgiven--but I, never! Will it be a sign--a

call?”

‘It was a wonderful experience. She mistrusted his very slumbers--and

she seemed to think I could tell her why! Thus a poor mortal seduced by

the charm of an apparition might have tried to wring from another

ghost the tremendous secret of the claim the other world holds over a

disembodied soul astray amongst the passions of this earth. The very

ground on which I stood seemed to melt under my feet. And it was so

simple too; but if the spirits evoked by our fears and our unrest have

ever to vouch for each other’s constancy before the forlorn magicians

that we are, then I--I alone of us dwellers in the flesh--have shuddered

in the hopeless chill of such a task. A sign, a call! How telling in its

expression was her ignorance. A few words! How she came to know them,

how she came to pronounce them, I can’t imagine. Women find their

inspiration in the stress of moments that for us are merely awful,

absurd, or futile. To discover that she had a voice at all was enough

to strike awe into the heart. Had a spurned stone cried out in pain it

could not have appeared a greater and more pitiful miracle. These few

sounds wandering in the dark had made their two benighted lives tragic

to my mind. It was impossible to make her understand. I chafed silently

at my impotence. And Jim, too--poor devil! Who would need him? Who would

remember him? He had what he wanted. His very existence probably had

been forgotten by this time. They had mastered their fates. They were

tragic.

‘Her immobility before me was clearly expectant, and my part was to

speak for my brother from the realm of forgetful shade. I was deeply

moved at my responsibility and at her distress. I would have given

anything for the power to soothe her frail soul, tormenting itself in

its invincible ignorance like a small bird beating about the cruel

wires of a cage. Nothing easier than to say, Have no fear! Nothing more

difficult. How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a spectre

through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral

throat? It is an enterprise you rush into while you dream, and are glad

to make your escape with wet hair and every limb shaking. The bullet is

not run, the blade not forged, the man not born; even the winged words

of truth drop at your feet like lumps of lead. You require for such a

desperate encounter an enchanted and poisoned shaft dipped in a lie too

subtle to be found on earth. An enterprise for a dream, my masters!

‘I began my exorcism with a heavy heart, with a sort of sullen anger in

it too. Jim’s voice, suddenly raised with a stern intonation, carried

across the courtyard, reproving the carelessness of some dumb sinner by

the river-side. Nothing--I said, speaking in a distinct murmur--there

could be nothing, in that unknown world she fancied so eager to rob her

of her happiness, there was nothing, neither living nor dead, there was

no face, no voice, no power, that could tear Jim from her side. I drew

breath and she whispered softly, “He told me so.” “He told you the

truth,” I said. “Nothing,” she sighed out, and abruptly turned upon me

with a barely audible intensity of tone: “Why did you come to us from

out there? He speaks of you too often. You make me afraid. Do you--do

you want him?” A sort of stealthy fierceness had crept into our hurried

mutters. “I shall never come again,” I said bitterly. “And I don’t want

him. No one wants him.” “No one,” she repeated in a tone of doubt. “No

one,” I affirmed, feeling myself swayed by some strange excitement. “You

think him strong, wise, courageous, great--why not believe him to be

true too? I shall go to-morrow--and that is the end. You shall never be

troubled by a voice from there again. This world you don’t know is too

big to miss him. You understand? Too big. You’ve got his heart in your

hand. You must feel that. You must know that.” “Yes, I know that,” she

breathed out, hard and still, as a statue might whisper.

‘I felt I had done nothing. And what is it that I had wished to do? I am

not sure now. At the time I was animated by an inexplicable ardour, as

if before some great and necessary task--the influence of the moment

upon my mental and emotional state. There are in all our lives

such moments, such influences, coming from the outside, as it were,

irresistible, incomprehensible--as if brought about by the mysterious

conjunctions of the planets. She owned, as I had put it to her, his

heart. She had that and everything else--if she could only believe it.

What I had to tell her was that in the whole world there was no one who

ever would need his heart, his mind, his hand. It was a common fate, and

yet it seemed an awful thing to say of any man. She listened without

a word, and her stillness now was like the protest of an invincible

unbelief. What need she care for the world beyond the forests? I asked.

From all the multitudes that peopled the vastness of that unknown there

would come, I assured her, as long as he lived, neither a call nor a

sign for him. Never. I was carried away. Never! Never! I remember with

wonder the sort of dogged fierceness I displayed. I had the illusion

of having got the spectre by the throat at last. Indeed the whole real

thing has left behind the detailed and amazing impression of a dream.

Why should she fear? She knew him to be strong, true, wise, brave. He

was all that. Certainly. He was more. He was great--invincible--and the

world did not want him, it had forgotten him, it would not even know

him.

‘I stopped; the silence over Patusan was profound, and the feeble dry

sound of a paddle striking the side of a canoe somewhere in the middle

of the river seemed to make it infinite. “Why?” she murmured. I felt

that sort of rage one feels during a hard tussle. The spectre was trying

to slip out of my grasp. “Why?” she repeated louder; “tell me!” And as

I remained confounded, she stamped with her foot like a spoilt child.

“Why? Speak.” “You want to know?” I asked in a fury. “Yes!” she cried.

“Because he is not good enough,” I said brutally. During the moment’s

pause I noticed the fire on the other shore blaze up, dilating the

circle of its glow like an amazed stare, and contract suddenly to a

red pin-point. I only knew how close to me she had been when I felt

the clutch of her fingers on my forearm. Without raising her voice, she

threw into it an infinity of scathing contempt, bitterness, and despair.

‘“This is the very thing he said. . . . You lie!”

‘The last two words she cried at me in the native dialect. “Hear me

out!” I entreated; she caught her breath tremulously, flung my arm away.

“Nobody, nobody is good enough,” I began with the greatest earnestness.

I could hear the sobbing labour of her breath frightfully quickened. I

hung my head. What was the use? Footsteps were approaching; I slipped

away without another word. . . .’