finished_summaries/novelguide/Lord Jim/section_17_part_0.txt
Lord Jim.chapters 44-45
chapters 44-45
{"name": "Chapters 44-45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210215030710/https://www.novelguide.com/lord-jim/summaries/chapter44-45", "summary": "Four and Forty-Five . Chapter Forty Four describes how, after passing Jim at the mouth of the creek, Brown, Cornelius and the rest of the party travel down a by-channel as directed by Cornelius. They are able to do this unnoticed as it is still misty. Brown orders his men to load their guns and says he will give them a chance to get even with 'them'. . . Meanwhile, Tamb' Itam has reached Dain Waris and has given him Jim's message . Whilst Dain Waris's men make a watch on the mainstream, Brown takes his revenge 'on the world' 'with an act of cold-blooded ferocity'. He lands on the other side of the island opposite the Bugis camp and leads his men across. Cornelius tries to slink away, but after a scuffle with Brown he resigns himself to leading them to Dain Waris. Brown's men shoot at this camp three times and Dain Waris is shot in the forehead on the second discharge. . . After this, 'the white men' retire and Brown feels that his account has been settled: 'It was not a vulgar and treacherous massacre; it was a lesson, a retribution ...' When Brown's party leave, they take Cornelius's boat with them. A month later, a story is told that Brown and two of his men survive the schooner springing a leak and are rescued. The two men die on board the steamer that rescues them, but Brown lives long enough to be seen by Marlow months later. . . Tamb' Itam strikes Cornelius twice after the shooting and killed him. Tamb' Itam then leaves for Jim's fort to let him know what has happened. There are many survivors of Dain Waris's party, but they do not know who struck the blow or if they have been victims of a betrayal. . . In Chapter Forty Five, Tamb' Itam tells Jewel and then Jim about the events surrounding the murder of Dain Waris. Jim wants him to send messages to assemble a fleet of boats to capture Brown. However, Tamb' Itam tells him it is not safe for him  to go out amongst the people. Later, towards the evening, Tamb' Itam says there is a lot of anger and they will have to fight for their lives; Jim replies that he has no life. . . The narrative then shifts to Doramin. His son's body is brought to him and one of the bystanders removes the ring from Dain Waris's finger and holds it up before Doramin: 'A murmur of dismay and horror ran through the crowd at the sight of that familiar token.' Doramin lets out a roar of pain and fury and sounds 'like a wounded bull'. . . The narrative switches to Jim as he tells Jewel and Tamb' Itam that it is time to finish this. As he walks out, Jewel cries, 'will you fight?' and Jim replies that there is nothing to fight for. She asks if he will run away and he says, 'there is no escape'. She asks Jim for the last time if he will defend himself and he replies , 'nothing can touch me'. She holds on to him and Tamb' Itam has to help ease her off. Jim looks earnestly at her face and then runs to the landing stage. Tamb' Itam asks Tuan Jim to look back, but he is already in a canoe. Tamb' Itam has just enough time to scramble in with him. Jewel shouts to Jim and says he is 'false'; Jim cries, 'forgive me', but she replies, 'never, never'. . . Jim and Tamb' Itam arrive at Doramin's and the courtyard is full of armed Bugis men and Patusan people. Jim says he has taken it upon his head  and tells Doramin he has come in sorrow. He is 'ready and unarmed'. Doramin is sitting down and is clutching pistols. He tries to rise and the silver ring falls from his lap. This is described as the talisman that opened the door of 'fame, love and success' for Jim. Doramin struggles to his feet with the help of two men, and shoots Jim in the chest. The crowd see Jim look to the right and to the left with a 'proud and unflinching glance'. He then falls forward, dead: ' And that's the end. He passes away under a cloud, inscrutable at heart, forgotten, unforgiven, and excessively romantic.' . . The novel ends with a reference to Jewel, the 'poor girl', who now leads, 'a sort of soundless, inert life in Stein's house'. Stein is described as having aged greatly and is preparing to 'leave' . .", "analysis": "Four and Forty Five . These final two chapters describe Jim's demise and his final decision to stay rather than run away. The decision to jump from the Patna has clearly influenced his decision to face Doramin unarmed and to martyr himself before the anger of this father. . . Jim finally achieves his sought for heroic status as he refuses to fight or run. This is the version of the hero that Jim has tormented himself with, as he believes he failed to reach this standard when he thought the ship was sinking. This time he stays and effectively commits suicide. His own particular code of honor, which he failed to live up to before, brings about his death. He is given the fitting epitaph of being 'excessively romantic' and this interpretation of him acts as a warning against believing in the romantic ideals that he first discovered as a young reader."}

'I don't think they spoke together again. The boat entered a narrow
by-channel, where it was pushed by the oar-blades set into crumbling
banks, and there was a gloom as if enormous black wings had been
outspread above the mist that filled its depth to the summits of the
trees. The branches overhead showered big drops through the gloomy fog.
At a mutter from Cornelius, Brown ordered his men to load. "I'll
give you a chance to get even with them before we're done, you dismal
cripples, you," he said to his gang. "Mind you don't throw it away--you
hounds." Low growls answered that speech. Cornelius showed much fussy
concern for the safety of his canoe.

'Meantime Tamb' Itam had reached the end of his journey. The fog had
delayed him a little, but he had paddled steadily, keeping in touch with
the south bank. By-and-by daylight came like a glow in a ground glass
globe. The shores made on each side of the river a dark smudge, in which
one could detect hints of columnar forms and shadows of twisted branches
high up. The mist was still thick on the water, but a good watch was
being kept, for as Iamb' Itam approached the camp the figures of two men
emerged out of the white vapour, and voices spoke to him boisterously.
He answered, and presently a canoe lay alongside, and he exchanged news
with the paddlers. All was well. The trouble was over. Then the men in
the canoe let go their grip on the side of his dug-out and incontinently
fell out of sight. He pursued his way till he heard voices coming to him
quietly over the water, and saw, under the now lifting, swirling mist,
the glow of many little fires burning on a sandy stretch, backed by
lofty thin timber and bushes. There again a look-out was kept, for he
was challenged. He shouted his name as the two last sweeps of his paddle
ran his canoe up on the strand. It was a big camp. Men crouched in many
little knots under a subdued murmur of early morning talk. Many thin
threads of smoke curled slowly on the white mist. Little shelters,
elevated above the ground, had been built for the chiefs. Muskets were
stacked in small pyramids, and long spears were stuck singly into the
sand near the fires.

'Tamb' Itam, assuming an air of importance, demanded to be led to Dain
Waris. He found the friend of his white lord lying on a raised couch
made of bamboo, and sheltered by a sort of shed of sticks covered with
mats. Dain Waris was awake, and a bright fire was burning before his
sleeping-place, which resembled a rude shrine. The only son of nakhoda
Doramin answered his greeting kindly. Tamb' Itam began by handing him
the ring which vouched for the truth of the messenger's words. Dain
Waris, reclining on his elbow, bade him speak and tell all the news.
Beginning with the consecrated formula, "The news is good," Tamb' Itam
delivered Jim's own words. The white men, deputing with the consent of
all the chiefs, were to be allowed to pass down the river. In answer to
a question or two Tamb' Itam then reported the proceedings of the last
council. Dain Waris listened attentively to the end, toying with the
ring which ultimately he slipped on the forefinger of his right hand.
After hearing all he had to say he dismissed Tamb' Itam to have food
and rest. Orders for the return in the afternoon were given immediately.
Afterwards Dain Waris lay down again, open-eyed, while his personal
attendants were preparing his food at the fire, by which Tamb' Itam also
sat talking to the men who lounged up to hear the latest intelligence
from the town. The sun was eating up the mist. A good watch was kept
upon the reach of the main stream where the boat of the whites was
expected to appear every moment.

'It was then that Brown took his revenge upon the world which, after
twenty years of contemptuous and reckless bullying, refused him the
tribute of a common robber's success. It was an act of cold-blooded
ferocity, and it consoled him on his deathbed like a memory of an
indomitable defiance. Stealthily he landed his men on the other side
of the island opposite to the Bugis camp, and led them across. After a
short but quite silent scuffle, Cornelius, who had tried to slink away
at the moment of landing, resigned himself to show the way where the
undergrowth was most sparse. Brown held both his skinny hands together
behind his back in the grip of one vast fist, and now and then impelled
him forward with a fierce push. Cornelius remained as mute as a fish,
abject but faithful to his purpose, whose accomplishment loomed before
him dimly. At the edge of the patch of forest Brown's men spread
themselves out in cover and waited. The camp was plain from end to end
before their eyes, and no one looked their way. Nobody even dreamed that
the white men could have any knowledge of the narrow channel at the back
of the island. When he judged the moment come, Brown yelled, "Let them
have it," and fourteen shots rang out like one.

'Tamb' Itam told me the surprise was so great that, except for those who
fell dead or wounded, not a soul of them moved for quite an appreciable
time after the first discharge. Then a man screamed, and after that
scream a great yell of amazement and fear went up from all the throats.
A blind panic drove these men in a surging swaying mob to and fro along
the shore like a herd of cattle afraid of the water. Some few jumped
into the river then, but most of them did so only after the last
discharge. Three times Brown's men fired into the ruck, Brown, the only
one in view, cursing and yelling, "Aim low! aim low!"

'Tamb' Itam says that, as for him, he understood at the first volley
what had happened. Though untouched he fell down and lay as if dead,
but with his eyes open. At the sound of the first shots Dain Waris,
reclining on the couch, jumped up and ran out upon the open shore, just
in time to receive a bullet in his forehead at the second discharge.
Tamb' Itam saw him fling his arms wide open before he fell. Then, he
says, a great fear came upon him--not before. The white men retired as
they had come--unseen.

'Thus Brown balanced his account with the evil fortune. Notice that even
in this awful outbreak there is a superiority as of a man who carries
right--the abstract thing--within the envelope of his common desires.
It was not a vulgar and treacherous massacre; it was a lesson, a
retribution--a demonstration of some obscure and awful attribute of our
nature which, I am afraid, is not so very far under the surface as we
like to think.

'Afterwards the whites depart unseen by Tamb' Itam, and seem to vanish
from before men's eyes altogether; and the schooner, too, vanishes after
the manner of stolen goods. But a story is told of a white long-boat
picked up a month later in the Indian Ocean by a cargo steamer. Two
parched, yellow, glassy-eyed, whispering skeletons in her recognised
the authority of a third, who declared that his name was Brown. His
schooner, he reported, bound south with a cargo of Java sugar, had
sprung a bad leak and sank under his feet. He and his companions were
the survivors of a crew of six. The two died on board the steamer which
rescued them. Brown lived to be seen by me, and I can testify that he
had played his part to the last.

'It seems, however, that in going away they had neglected to cast off
Cornelius's canoe. Cornelius himself Brown had let go at the beginning
of the shooting, with a kick for a parting benediction. Tamb' Itam,
after arising from amongst the dead, saw the Nazarene running up and
down the shore amongst the corpses and the expiring fires. He uttered
little cries. Suddenly he rushed to the water, and made frantic efforts
to get one of the Bugis boats into the water. "Afterwards, till he had
seen me," related Tamb' Itam, "he stood looking at the heavy canoe and
scratching his head." "What became of him?" I asked. Tamb' Itam, staring
hard at me, made an expressive gesture with his right arm. "Twice I
struck, Tuan," he said. "When he beheld me approaching he cast himself
violently on the ground and made a great outcry, kicking. He screeched
like a frightened hen till he felt the point; then he was still, and lay
staring at me while his life went out of his eyes."

'This done, Tamb' Itam did not tarry. He understood the importance of
being the first with the awful news at the fort. There were, of course,
many survivors of Dain Waris's party; but in the extremity of panic some
had swum across the river, others had bolted into the bush. The fact is
that they did not know really who struck that blow--whether more white
robbers were not coming, whether they had not already got hold of
the whole land. They imagined themselves to be the victims of a vast
treachery, and utterly doomed to destruction. It is said that some small
parties did not come in till three days afterwards. However, a few tried
to make their way back to Patusan at once, and one of the canoes that
were patrolling the river that morning was in sight of the camp at
the very moment of the attack. It is true that at first the men in her
leaped overboard and swam to the opposite bank, but afterwards they
returned to their boat and started fearfully up-stream. Of these Tamb'
Itam had an hour's advance.''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.'
Chapters 44-45
Four and Forty-Five . Chapter Forty Four describes how, after passing Jim at the mouth of the creek, Brown, Cornelius and the rest of the party travel down a by-channel as directed by Cornelius. They are able to do this unnoticed as it is still misty. Brown orders his men to load their guns and says he will give them a chance to get even with 'them'. . . Meanwhile, Tamb' Itam has reached Dain Waris and has given him Jim's message . Whilst Dain Waris's men make a watch on the mainstream, Brown takes his revenge 'on the world' 'with an act of cold-blooded ferocity'. He lands on the other side of the island opposite the Bugis camp and leads his men across. Cornelius tries to slink away, but after a scuffle with Brown he resigns himself to leading them to Dain Waris. Brown's men shoot at this camp three times and Dain Waris is shot in the forehead on the second discharge. . . After this, 'the white men' retire and Brown feels that his account has been settled: 'It was not a vulgar and treacherous massacre; it was a lesson, a retribution ...' When Brown's party leave, they take Cornelius's boat with them. A month later, a story is told that Brown and two of his men survive the schooner springing a leak and are rescued. The two men die on board the steamer that rescues them, but Brown lives long enough to be seen by Marlow months later. . . Tamb' Itam strikes Cornelius twice after the shooting and killed him. Tamb' Itam then leaves for Jim's fort to let him know what has happened. There are many survivors of Dain Waris's party, but they do not know who struck the blow or if they have been victims of a betrayal. . . In Chapter Forty Five, Tamb' Itam tells Jewel and then Jim about the events surrounding the murder of Dain Waris. Jim wants him to send messages to assemble a fleet of boats to capture Brown. However, Tamb' Itam tells him it is not safe for him  to go out amongst the people. Later, towards the evening, Tamb' Itam says there is a lot of anger and they will have to fight for their lives; Jim replies that he has no life. . . The narrative then shifts to Doramin. His son's body is brought to him and one of the bystanders removes the ring from Dain Waris's finger and holds it up before Doramin: 'A murmur of dismay and horror ran through the crowd at the sight of that familiar token.' Doramin lets out a roar of pain and fury and sounds 'like a wounded bull'. . . The narrative switches to Jim as he tells Jewel and Tamb' Itam that it is time to finish this. As he walks out, Jewel cries, 'will you fight?' and Jim replies that there is nothing to fight for. She asks if he will run away and he says, 'there is no escape'. She asks Jim for the last time if he will defend himself and he replies , 'nothing can touch me'. She holds on to him and Tamb' Itam has to help ease her off. Jim looks earnestly at her face and then runs to the landing stage. Tamb' Itam asks Tuan Jim to look back, but he is already in a canoe. Tamb' Itam has just enough time to scramble in with him. Jewel shouts to Jim and says he is 'false'; Jim cries, 'forgive me', but she replies, 'never, never'. . . Jim and Tamb' Itam arrive at Doramin's and the courtyard is full of armed Bugis men and Patusan people. Jim says he has taken it upon his head  and tells Doramin he has come in sorrow. He is 'ready and unarmed'. Doramin is sitting down and is clutching pistols. He tries to rise and the silver ring falls from his lap. This is described as the talisman that opened the door of 'fame, love and success' for Jim. Doramin struggles to his feet with the help of two men, and shoots Jim in the chest. The crowd see Jim look to the right and to the left with a 'proud and unflinching glance'. He then falls forward, dead: ' And that's the end. He passes away under a cloud, inscrutable at heart, forgotten, unforgiven, and excessively romantic.' . . The novel ends with a reference to Jewel, the 'poor girl', who now leads, 'a sort of soundless, inert life in Stein's house'. Stein is described as having aged greatly and is preparing to 'leave' . .
Four and Forty Five . These final two chapters describe Jim's demise and his final decision to stay rather than run away. The decision to jump from the Patna has clearly influenced his decision to face Doramin unarmed and to martyr himself before the anger of this father. . . Jim finally achieves his sought for heroic status as he refuses to fight or run. This is the version of the hero that Jim has tormented himself with, as he believes he failed to reach this standard when he thought the ship was sinking. This time he stays and effectively commits suicide. His own particular code of honor, which he failed to live up to before, brings about his death. He is given the fitting epitaph of being 'excessively romantic' and this interpretation of him acts as a warning against believing in the romantic ideals that he first discovered as a young reader.