Chương Chương 28 · ‘The defeated Sherif Ali fled the country without making another stand,

. ‘The defeated Sherif Ali fled the country without making another stand,

and when the miserable hunted villagers began to crawl out of the jungle

back to their rotting houses, it was Jim who, in consultation with Dain

Waris, appointed the headmen. Thus he became the virtual ruler of the

land. As to old Tunku Allang, his fears at first had known no bounds. It

is said that at the intelligence of the successful storming of the hill

he flung himself, face down, on the bamboo floor of his audience-hall,

and lay motionless for a whole night and a whole day, uttering stifled

sounds of such an appalling nature that no man dared approach his

prostrate form nearer than a spear’s length. Already he could see

himself driven ignominiously out of Patusan, wandering abandoned,

stripped, without opium, without his women, without followers, a fair

game for the first comer to kill. After Sherif Ali his turn would come,

and who could resist an attack led by such a devil? And indeed he owed

his life and such authority as he still possessed at the time of my

visit to Jim’s idea of what was fair alone. The Bugis had been extremely

anxious to pay off old scores, and the impassive old Doramin cherished

the hope of yet seeing his son ruler of Patusan. During one of our

interviews he deliberately allowed me to get a glimpse of this secret

ambition. Nothing could be finer in its way than the dignified wariness

of his approaches. He himself--he began by declaring--had used his

strength in his young days, but now he had grown old and tired. . . .

With his imposing bulk and haughty little eyes darting sagacious,

inquisitive glances, he reminded one irresistibly of a cunning old

elephant; the slow rise and fall of his vast breast went on powerful and

regular, like the heave of a calm sea. He too, as he protested, had an

unbounded confidence in Tuan Jim’s wisdom. If he could only obtain a

promise! One word would be enough! . . . His breathing silences, the

low rumblings of his voice, recalled the last efforts of a spent

thunderstorm.

‘I tried to put the subject aside. It was difficult, for there could be

no question that Jim had the power; in his new sphere there did not seem

to be anything that was not his to hold or to give. But that, I repeat,

was nothing in comparison with the notion, which occurred to me, while I

listened with a show of attention, that he seemed to have come very near

at last to mastering his fate. Doramin was anxious about the future of

the country, and I was struck by the turn he gave to the argument. The

land remains where God had put it; but white men--he said--they come to

us and in a little while they go. They go away. Those they leave behind

do not know when to look for their return. They go to their own land, to

their people, and so this white man too would. . . . I don’t know what

induced me to commit myself at this point by a vigorous “No, no.” The

whole extent of this indiscretion became apparent when Doramin, turning

full upon me his face, whose expression, fixed in rugged deep folds,

remained unalterable, like a huge brown mask, said that this was good

news indeed, reflectively; and then wanted to know why.

‘His little, motherly witch of a wife sat on my other hand, with

her head covered and her feet tucked up, gazing through the great

shutter-hole. I could only see a straying lock of grey hair, a high

cheek-bone, the slight masticating motion of the sharp chin. Without

removing her eyes from the vast prospect of forests stretching as far as

the hills, she asked me in a pitying voice why was it that he so young

had wandered from his home, coming so far, through so many dangers?

Had he no household there, no kinsmen in his own country? Had he no old

mother, who would always remember his face? . . .

‘I was completely unprepared for this. I could only mutter and shake my

head vaguely. Afterwards I am perfectly aware I cut a very poor figure

trying to extricate myself out of this difficulty. From that moment,

however, the old nakhoda became taciturn. He was not very pleased, I

fear, and evidently I had given him food for thought. Strangely enough,

on the evening of that very day (which was my last in Patusan) I was

once more confronted with the same question, with the unanswerable why

of Jim’s fate. And this brings me to the story of his love.

‘I suppose you think it is a story that you can imagine for yourselves.

We have heard so many such stories, and the majority of us don’t believe

them to be stories of love at all. For the most part we look upon them

as stories of opportunities: episodes of passion at best, or perhaps

only of youth and temptation, doomed to forgetfulness in the end, even

if they pass through the reality of tenderness and regret. This view

mostly is right, and perhaps in this case too. . . . Yet I don’t know.

To tell this story is by no means so easy as it should be--were the

ordinary standpoint adequate. Apparently it is a story very much like

the others: for me, however, there is visible in its background the

melancholy figure of a woman, the shadow of a cruel wisdom buried in a

lonely grave, looking on wistfully, helplessly, with sealed lips. The

grave itself, as I came upon it during an early morning stroll, was a

rather shapeless brown mound, with an inlaid neat border of white lumps

of coral at the base, and enclosed within a circular fence made of split

saplings, with the bark left on. A garland of leaves and flowers was

woven about the heads of the slender posts--and the flowers were fresh.

‘Thus, whether the shadow is of my imagination or not, I can at all

events point out the significant fact of an unforgotten grave. When I

tell you besides that Jim with his own hands had worked at the rustic

fence, you will perceive directly the difference, the individual side of

the story. There is in his espousal of memory and affection belonging to

another human being something characteristic of his seriousness. He had

a conscience, and it was a romantic conscience. Through her whole life

the wife of the unspeakable Cornelius had no other companion, confidant,

and friend but her daughter. How the poor woman had come to marry the

awful little Malacca Portuguese--after the separation from the father

of her girl--and how that separation had been brought about, whether by

death, which can be sometimes merciful, or by the merciless pressure of

conventions, is a mystery to me. From the little which Stein (who knew

so many stories) had let drop in my hearing, I am convinced that she was

no ordinary woman. Her own father had been a white; a high official;

one of the brilliantly endowed men who are not dull enough to nurse a

success, and whose careers so often end under a cloud. I suppose she too

must have lacked the saving dullness--and her career ended in Patusan.

Our common fate . . . for where is the man--I mean a real sentient

man--who does not remember vaguely having been deserted in the fullness

of possession by some one or something more precious than life? . . .

our common fate fastens upon the women with a peculiar cruelty. It

does not punish like a master, but inflicts lingering torment, as if to

gratify a secret, unappeasable spite. One would think that, appointed

to rule on earth, it seeks to revenge itself upon the beings that come

nearest to rising above the trammels of earthly caution; for it is

only women who manage to put at times into their love an element just

palpable enough to give one a fright--an extra-terrestrial touch. I ask

myself with wonder--how the world can look to them--whether it has the

shape and substance _we_ know, the air _we_ breathe! Sometimes I fancy

it must be a region of unreasonable sublimities seething with the

excitement of their adventurous souls, lighted by the glory of all

possible risks and renunciations. However, I suspect there are very few

women in the world, though of course I am aware of the multitudes of

mankind and of the equality of sexes--in point of numbers, that is. But

I am sure that the mother was as much of a woman as the daughter seemed

to be. I cannot help picturing to myself these two, at first the young

woman and the child, then the old woman and the young girl, the awful

sameness and the swift passage of time, the barrier of forest, the

solitude and the turmoil round these two lonely lives, and every word

spoken between them penetrated with sad meaning. There must have

been confidences, not so much of fact, I suppose, as of innermost

feelings--regrets--fears--warnings, no doubt: warnings that the younger

did not fully understand till the elder was dead--and Jim came along.

Then I am sure she understood much--not everything--the fear mostly, it

seems. Jim called her by a word that means precious, in the sense of a

precious gem--jewel. Pretty, isn’t it? But he was capable of anything.

He was equal to his fortune, as he--after all--must have been equal to

his misfortune. Jewel he called her; and he would say this as he might

have said “Jane,” don’t you know--with a marital, homelike, peaceful

effect. I heard the name for the first time ten minutes after I had

landed in his courtyard, when, after nearly shaking my arm off, he

darted up the steps and began to make a joyous, boyish disturbance at

the door under the heavy eaves. “Jewel! O Jewel! Quick! Here’s a friend

come,” . . . and suddenly peering at me in the dim verandah, he mumbled

earnestly, “You know--this--no confounded nonsense about it--can’t tell

you how much I owe to her--and so--you understand--I--exactly as

if . . .” His hurried, anxious whispers were cut short by the flitting of

a white form within the house, a faint exclamation, and a child-like but

energetic little face with delicate features and a profound, attentive

glance peeped out of the inner gloom, like a bird out of the recess of a

nest. I was struck by the name, of course; but it was not till later

on that I connected it with an astonishing rumour that had met me on my

journey, at a little place on the coast about 230 miles south of Patusan

River. Stein’s schooner, in which I had my passage, put in there, to

collect some produce, and, going ashore, I found to my great surprise

that the wretched locality could boast of a third-class deputy-assistant

resident, a big, fat, greasy, blinking fellow of mixed descent, with

turned-out, shiny lips. I found him lying extended on his back in a cane

chair, odiously unbuttoned, with a large green leaf of some sort on the

top of his steaming head, and another in his hand which he used lazily

as a fan . . . Going to Patusan? Oh yes. Stein’s Trading Company. He

knew. Had a permission? No business of his. It was not so bad there now,

he remarked negligently, and, he went on drawling, “There’s some sort of

white vagabond has got in there, I hear. . . . Eh? What you say?

Friend of yours? So! . . . Then it was true there was one of these

verdammte--What was he up to? Found his way in, the rascal. Eh? I had

not been sure. Patusan--they cut throats there--no business of ours.” He

interrupted himself to groan. “Phoo! Almighty! The heat! The heat! Well,

then, there might be something in the story too, after all, and . . .”

He shut one of his beastly glassy eyes (the eyelid went on quivering)

while he leered at me atrociously with the other. “Look here,” says

he mysteriously, “if--do you understand?--if he has really got hold of

something fairly good--none of your bits of green glass--understand?--I

am a Government official--you tell the rascal . . . Eh? What? Friend of

yours?” . . . He continued wallowing calmly in the chair . . . “You said

so; that’s just it; and I am pleased to give you the hint. I suppose

you too would like to get something out of it? Don’t interrupt. You

just tell him I’ve heard the tale, but to my Government I have made no

report. Not yet. See? Why make a report? Eh? Tell him to come to me if

they let him get alive out of the country. He had better look out

for himself. Eh? I promise to ask no questions. On the quiet--you

understand? You too--you shall get something from me. Small commission

for the trouble. Don’t interrupt. I am a Government official, and make

no report. That’s business. Understand? I know some good people that

will buy anything worth having, and can give him more money than

the scoundrel ever saw in his life. I know his sort.” He fixed me

steadfastly with both his eyes open, while I stood over him utterly

amazed, and asking myself whether he was mad or drunk. He perspired,

puffed, moaning feebly, and scratching himself with such horrible

composure that I could not bear the sight long enough to find out. Next

day, talking casually with the people of the little native court of the

place, I discovered that a story was travelling slowly down the

coast about a mysterious white man in Patusan who had got hold of

an extraordinary gem--namely, an emerald of an enormous size, and

altogether priceless. The emerald seems to appeal more to the Eastern

imagination than any other precious stone. The white man had obtained

it, I was told, partly by the exercise of his wonderful strength and

partly by cunning, from the ruler of a distant country, whence he had

fled instantly, arriving in Patusan in utmost distress, but frightening

the people by his extreme ferocity, which nothing seemed able to subdue.

Most of my informants were of the opinion that the stone was probably

unlucky,--like the famous stone of the Sultan of Succadana, which in

the old times had brought wars and untold calamities upon that country.

Perhaps it was the same stone--one couldn’t say. Indeed the story of a

fabulously large emerald is as old as the arrival of the first white men

in the Archipelago; and the belief in it is so persistent that less than

forty years ago there had been an official Dutch inquiry into the truth

of it. Such a jewel--it was explained to me by the old fellow from whom

I heard most of this amazing Jim-myth--a sort of scribe to the wretched

little Rajah of the place;--such a jewel, he said, cocking his poor

purblind eyes up at me (he was sitting on the cabin floor out of

respect), is best preserved by being concealed about the person of a

woman. Yet it is not every woman that would do. She must be young--he

sighed deeply--and insensible to the seductions of love. He shook his

head sceptically. But such a woman seemed to be actually in existence.

He had been told of a tall girl, whom the white man treated with great

respect and care, and who never went forth from the house unattended.

People said the white man could be seen with her almost any day; they

walked side by side, openly, he holding her arm under his--pressed to

his side--thus--in a most extraordinary way. This might be a lie, he

conceded, for it was indeed a strange thing for any one to do: on the

other hand, there could be no doubt she wore the white man’s jewel

concealed upon her bosom.’