第 四十五 章 · ‘When Tamb’ Itam, paddling madly, came into the town-reach, the women,

. ‘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.