finished_summaries/novelguide/Lord Jim/section_11_part_0.txt
Lord Jim.chapters 27-29
chapters 27-29
{"name": "Chapters 27-29", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210215030710/https://www.novelguide.com/lord-jim/summaries/chapter27-29", "summary": "Seven, Twenty Eight and Twenty Nine . Chapter Twenty Seven explains Jim's directions to attack Sherif Ali's camp. He supervised the cannons being moved up the hill and the 'simple folk' of the outlying villages came to believe he carried them on his back. Marlow notices how the surroundings and the praise influence Jim and sees it as part of his captivity. These people had trusted Jim implicitly and to date they have not regretted taking his advice. Jim also became involved in sorting out a dispute between a husband and wife as the husband came from a village miles away for his advice. Jim's word 'decided everything', 'ever since the smashing of Sherif Ali'. . . The narrative returns again to this attack and we are told about how Tamb' Itam, Jim's servant, is loyal to his 'white lord' to the point of being fanatical. The Patusan people celebrated after the success of beating Sherif Ali and this became Jim's 'seal of success'. This chapter ends with Marlow pointing out that the telling of the story dwarfs Jim's utter isolation, but 'his word was the one truth of every passing day'. . . In Chapter Twenty Eight, the readers are told that Sherif Ali left the country after his defeat without making another stand. In consultation with Dain Waris, Jim appointed the headmen and thus became the 'virtual ruler' of the land. Doramin is anxious about the future of his country and tells Marlow he fears Jim will return home as other white men have. Marlow replies 'no, no' and Doramin asks why, but Marlow does not explain. . . The 'individual side of the story' is given as Marlow also explains that Jim has become close with Jewel, the step-daughter of Cornelius . It is not until later that Marlow connects her name with an 'astonishing rumour' he heard on his journey there. ' A mysterious white man'  was thought to have acquired an enormous emerald. The most amazing part of this 'Jim-myth' was that such a jewel 'is best preserved by being concealed about the person of a woman'. She also has to be young and insensible to the seductions of love and the rumour says that Jim hides the jewel in her bosom. . . Marlow points out, in Chapter Twenty Nine, how 300 miles from 'our civilisation' 'the haggard utilitarian lies' 'wither and die' and are replaced by 'pure exercises of imagination'. The true part of Jim's story is that romance has singled Jim out and he 'did not hide his jewel' - he is extremely proud of it. Marlow does not see Jewel very often, but when he does he notes she presents 'a curious combination of shyness and audacity' and shows a 'vigilant affection' for Jim: she guards her conquest 'inflexibly'. It is reiterated that Jim 'was imprisoned within the very freedom of his power'. . . The narrative then shifts to Cornelius, whom Marlow describes as 'abject'. Cornelius first greeted Jim with joy, but gave him little food. Cornelius also tried to blame his late wife for the bad state of the accounts. Jim's first six weeks in Patusan were 'beastly' as he tried to do his duty by Stein, but had other matters to consider such as the Rajah wanting him killed. .", "analysis": "Seven, Twenty Eight and Twenty Nine . These chapters outline Jim's rise to acceptance and even adoration in Patusan, in particular after his successful decision to co-ordinate an attack against Sherif Ali. His now strong position is an ambivalent one, however, as Marlow points out that Jim is made captive ironically by the freedom he possesses. His lover, Jewel, demonstrates a 'vigilant affection' for him and Doramin also fears that Jim will leave as other white men have done previously. His freedom of power is dependent, then, on remaining there."}
'Already the legend had gifted him with supernatural powers. Yes, it
was said, there had been many ropes cunningly disposed, and a strange
contrivance that turned by the efforts of many men, and each gun went
up tearing slowly through the bushes, like a wild pig rooting its way in
the undergrowth, but . . . and the wisest shook their heads. There was
something occult in all this, no doubt; for what is the strength of
ropes and of men's arms? There is a rebellious soul in things which must
be overcome by powerful charms and incantations. Thus old Sura--a very
respectable householder of Patusan--with whom I had a quiet chat one
evening. However, Sura was a professional sorcerer also, who attended
all the rice sowings and reapings for miles around for the purpose of
subduing the stubborn souls of things. This occupation he seemed to
think a most arduous one, and perhaps the souls of things are more
stubborn than the souls of men. As to the simple folk of outlying
villages, they believed and said (as the most natural thing in the
world) that Jim had carried the guns up the hill on his back--two at a
time.

'This would make Jim stamp his foot in vexation and exclaim with an
exasperated little laugh, "What can you do with such silly beggars? They
will sit up half the night talking bally rot, and the greater the lie
the more they seem to like it." You could trace the subtle influence of
his surroundings in this irritation. It was part of his captivity. The
earnestness of his denials was amusing, and at last I said, "My dear
fellow, you don't suppose _I_ believe this." He looked at me quite
startled. "Well, no! I suppose not," he said, and burst into a Homeric
peal of laughter. "Well, anyhow the guns were there, and went off all
together at sunrise. Jove! You should have seen the splinters fly," he
cried. By his side Dain Waris, listening with a quiet smile, dropped his
eyelids and shuffled his feet a little. It appears that the success in
mounting the guns had given Jim's people such a feeling of confidence
that he ventured to leave the battery under charge of two elderly Bugis
who had seen some fighting in their day, and went to join Dain Waris and
the storming party who were concealed in the ravine. In the small hours
they began creeping up, and when two-thirds of the way up, lay in the
wet grass waiting for the appearance of the sun, which was the agreed
signal. He told me with what impatient anguishing emotion he watched the
swift coming of the dawn; how, heated with the work and the climbing,
he felt the cold dew chilling his very bones; how afraid he was he
would begin to shiver and shake like a leaf before the time came for
the advance. "It was the slowest half-hour in my life," he declared.
Gradually the silent stockade came out on the sky above him. Men
scattered all down the slope were crouching amongst the dark stones and
dripping bushes. Dain Waris was lying flattened by his side. "We
looked at each other," Jim said, resting a gentle hand on his friend's
shoulder. "He smiled at me as cheery as you please, and I dared not stir
my lips for fear I would break out into a shivering fit. 'Pon my word,
it's true! I had been streaming with perspiration when we took cover--so
you may imagine . . ." He declared, and I believe him, that he had no
fears as to the result. He was only anxious as to his ability to repress
these shivers. He didn't bother about the result. He was bound to get to
the top of that hill and stay there, whatever might happen. There could
be no going back for him. Those people had trusted him implicitly. Him
alone! His bare word. . . .

'I remember how, at this point, he paused with his eyes fixed upon me.
"As far as he knew, they never had an occasion to regret it yet,"
he said. "Never. He hoped to God they never would. Meantime--worse
luck!--they had got into the habit of taking his word for anything and
everything. I could have no idea! Why, only the other day an old fool he
had never seen in his life came from some village miles away to find
out if he should divorce his wife. Fact. Solemn word. That's the sort
of thing. . . He wouldn't have believed it. Would I? Squatted on the
verandah chewing betel-nut, sighing and spitting all over the place for
more than an hour, and as glum as an undertaker before he came out with
that dashed conundrum. That's the kind of thing that isn't so funny as
it looks. What was a fellow to say?--Good wife?--Yes. Good wife--old
though. Started a confounded long story about some brass pots. Been
living together for fifteen years--twenty years--could not tell. A long,
long time. Good wife. Beat her a little--not much--just a little, when
she was young. Had to--for the sake of his honour. Suddenly in her old
age she goes and lends three brass pots to her sister's son's wife, and
begins to abuse him every day in a loud voice. His enemies jeered at
him; his face was utterly blackened. Pots totally lost. Awfully cut up
about it. Impossible to fathom a story like that; told him to go home,
and promised to come along myself and settle it all. It's all very well
to grin, but it was the dashedest nuisance! A day's journey through the
forest, another day lost in coaxing a lot of silly villagers to get at
the rights of the affair. There was the making of a sanguinary shindy
in the thing. Every bally idiot took sides with one family or the other,
and one half of the village was ready to go for the other half with
anything that came handy. Honour bright! No joke! . . . Instead of
attending to their bally crops. Got him the infernal pots back of
course--and pacified all hands. No trouble to settle it. Of course not.
Could settle the deadliest quarrel in the country by crooking his little
finger. The trouble was to get at the truth of anything. Was not sure
to this day whether he had been fair to all parties. It worried him. And
the talk! Jove! There didn't seem to be any head or tail to it. Rather
storm a twenty-foot-high old stockade any day. Much! Child's play to
that other job. Wouldn't take so long either. Well, yes; a funny set
out, upon the whole--the fool looked old enough to be his grandfather.
But from another point of view it was no joke. His word decided
everything--ever since the smashing of Sherif Ali. An awful
responsibility," he repeated. "No, really--joking apart, had it been
three lives instead of three rotten brass pots it would have been the
same. . . ."

'Thus he illustrated the moral effect of his victory in war. It was in
truth immense. It had led him from strife to peace, and through death
into the innermost life of the people; but the gloom of the land spread
out under the sunshine preserved its appearance of inscrutable, of
secular repose. The sound of his fresh young voice--it's extraordinary
how very few signs of wear he showed--floated lightly, and passed away
over the unchanged face of the forests like the sound of the big guns
on that cold dewy morning when he had no other concern on earth but
the proper control of the chills in his body. With the first slant of
sun-rays along these immovable tree-tops the summit of one hill wreathed
itself, with heavy reports, in white clouds of smoke, and the other
burst into an amazing noise of yells, war-cries, shouts of anger, of
surprise, of dismay. Jim and Dain Waris were the first to lay their
hands on the stakes. The popular story has it that Jim with a touch
of one finger had thrown down the gate. He was, of course, anxious
to disclaim this achievement. The whole stockade--he would insist on
explaining to you--was a poor affair (Sherif Ali trusted mainly to the
inaccessible position); and, anyway, the thing had been already knocked
to pieces and only hung together by a miracle. He put his shoulder to it
like a little fool and went in head over heels. Jove! If it hadn't been
for Dain Waris, a pock-marked tattooed vagabond would have pinned him
with his spear to a baulk of timber like one of Stein's beetles. The
third man in, it seems, had been Tamb' Itam, Jim's own servant. This was
a Malay from the north, a stranger who had wandered into Patusan, and
had been forcibly detained by Rajah Allang as paddler of one of the
state boats. He had made a bolt of it at the first opportunity, and
finding a precarious refuge (but very little to eat) amongst the Bugis
settlers, had attached himself to Jim's person. His complexion was very
dark, his face flat, his eyes prominent and injected with bile. There
was something excessive, almost fanatical, in his devotion to his
"white lord." He was inseparable from Jim like a morose shadow. On state
occasions he would tread on his master's heels, one hand on the haft
of his kriss, keeping the common people at a distance by his truculent
brooding glances. Jim had made him the headman of his establishment, and
all Patusan respected and courted him as a person of much influence. At
the taking of the stockade he had distinguished himself greatly by the
methodical ferocity of his fighting. The storming party had come on so
quick--Jim said--that notwithstanding the panic of the garrison, there
was a "hot five minutes hand-to-hand inside that stockade, till some
bally ass set fire to the shelters of boughs and dry grass, and we all
had to clear out for dear life."

'The rout, it seems, had been complete. Doramin, waiting immovably in
his chair on the hillside, with the smoke of the guns spreading slowly
above his big head, received the news with a deep grunt. When informed
that his son was safe and leading the pursuit, he, without another
sound, made a mighty effort to rise; his attendants hurried to his help,
and, held up reverently, he shuffled with great dignity into a bit of
shade, where he laid himself down to sleep, covered entirely with a
piece of white sheeting. In Patusan the excitement was intense. Jim told
me that from the hill, turning his back on the stockade with its embers,
black ashes, and half-consumed corpses, he could see time after time the
open spaces between the houses on both sides of the stream fill suddenly
with a seething rush of people and get empty in a moment. His ears
caught feebly from below the tremendous din of gongs and drums; the wild
shouts of the crowd reached him in bursts of faint roaring. A lot of
streamers made a flutter as of little white, red, yellow birds amongst
the brown ridges of roofs. "You must have enjoyed it," I murmured,
feeling the stir of sympathetic emotion.

'"It was . . . it was immense! Immense!" he cried aloud, flinging his
arms open. The sudden movement startled me as though I had seen him bare
the secrets of his breast to the sunshine, to the brooding forests, to
the steely sea. Below us the town reposed in easy curves upon the banks
of a stream whose current seemed to sleep. "Immense!" he repeated for a
third time, speaking in a whisper, for himself alone.

'Immense! No doubt it was immense; the seal of success upon his words,
the conquered ground for the soles of his feet, the blind trust of
men, the belief in himself snatched from the fire, the solitude of his
achievement. All this, as I've warned you, gets dwarfed in the telling.
I can't with mere words convey to you the impression of his total and
utter isolation. I know, of course, he was in every sense alone of his
kind there, but the unsuspected qualities of his nature had brought him
in such close touch with his surroundings that this isolation seemed
only the effect of his power. His loneliness added to his stature. There
was nothing within sight to compare him with, as though he had been one
of those exceptional men who can be only measured by the greatness of
their fame; and his fame, remember, was the greatest thing around for
many a day's journey. You would have to paddle, pole, or track a long
weary way through the jungle before you passed beyond the reach of its
voice. Its voice was not the trumpeting of the disreputable goddess we
all know--not blatant--not brazen. It took its tone from the stillness
and gloom of the land without a past, where his word was the one truth
of every passing day. It shared something of the nature of that
silence through which it accompanied you into unexplored depths, heard
continuously by your side, penetrating, far-reaching--tinged with wonder
and mystery on the lips of whispering men.''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.'
'This was the theory of Jim's marital evening walks. I made a third on
more than one occasion, unpleasantly aware every time of Cornelius,
who nursed the aggrieved sense of his legal paternity, slinking in
the neighbourhood with that peculiar twist of his mouth as if he were
perpetually on the point of gnashing his teeth. But do you notice how,
three hundred miles beyond the end of telegraph cables and mail-boat
lines, the haggard utilitarian lies of our civilisation wither and die,
to be replaced by pure exercises of imagination, that have the futility,
often the charm, and sometimes the deep hidden truthfulness, of works of
art? Romance had singled Jim for its own--and that was the true part of
the story, which otherwise was all wrong. He did not hide his jewel. In
fact, he was extremely proud of it.

'It comes to me now that I had, on the whole, seen very little of her.
What I remember best is the even, olive pallor of her complexion, and
the intense blue-black gleams of her hair, flowing abundantly from under
a small crimson cap she wore far back on her shapely head. Her movements
were free, assured, and she blushed a dusky red. While Jim and I were
talking, she would come and go with rapid glances at us, leaving on her
passage an impression of grace and charm and a distinct suggestion of
watchfulness. Her manner presented a curious combination of shyness and
audacity. Every pretty smile was succeeded swiftly by a look of silent,
repressed anxiety, as if put to flight by the recollection of some
abiding danger. At times she would sit down with us and, with her soft
cheek dimpled by the knuckles of her little hand, she would listen
to our talk; her big clear eyes would remain fastened on our lips, as
though each pronounced word had a visible shape. Her mother had taught
her to read and write; she had learned a good bit of English from
Jim, and she spoke it most amusingly, with his own clipping, boyish
intonation. Her tenderness hovered over him like a flutter of wings. She
lived so completely in his contemplation that she had acquired something
of his outward aspect, something that recalled him in her movements, in
the way she stretched her arm, turned her head, directed her glances.
Her vigilant affection had an intensity that made it almost perceptible
to the senses; it seemed actually to exist in the ambient matter
of space, to envelop him like a peculiar fragrance, to dwell in the
sunshine like a tremulous, subdued, and impassioned note. I suppose you
think that I too am romantic, but it is a mistake. I am relating to you
the sober impressions of a bit of youth, of a strange uneasy romance
that had come in my way. I observed with interest the work of
his--well--good fortune. He was jealously loved, but why she should
be jealous, and of what, I could not tell. The land, the people, the
forests were her accomplices, guarding him with vigilant accord, with
an air of seclusion, of mystery, of invincible possession. There was
no appeal, as it were; he was imprisoned within the very freedom of his
power, and she, though ready to make a footstool of her head for his
feet, guarded her conquest inflexibly--as though he were hard to keep.
The very Tamb' Itam, marching on our journeys upon the heels of his
white lord, with his head thrown back, truculent and be-weaponed like a
janissary, with kriss, chopper, and lance (besides carrying Jim's gun);
even Tamb' Itam allowed himself to put on the airs of uncompromising
guardianship, like a surly devoted jailer ready to lay down his life for
his captive. On the evenings when we sat up late, his silent, indistinct
form would pass and repass under the verandah, with noiseless footsteps,
or lifting my head I would unexpectedly make him out standing rigidly
erect in the shadow. As a general rule he would vanish after a time,
without a sound; but when we rose he would spring up close to us as if
from the ground, ready for any orders Jim might wish to give. The girl
too, I believe, never went to sleep till we had separated for the night.
More than once I saw her and Jim through the window of my room come out
together quietly and lean on the rough balustrade--two white forms very
close, his arm about her waist, her head on his shoulder. Their soft
murmurs reached me, penetrating, tender, with a calm sad note in the
stillness of the night, like a self-communion of one being carried on
in two tones. Later on, tossing on my bed under the mosquito-net, I
was sure to hear slight creakings, faint breathing, a throat cleared
cautiously--and I would know that Tamb' Itam was still on the prowl.
Though he had (by the favour of the white lord) a house in the compound,
had "taken wife," and had lately been blessed with a child, I believe
that, during my stay at all events, he slept on the verandah every
night. It was very difficult to make this faithful and grim retainer
talk. Even Jim himself was answered in jerky short sentences, under
protest as it were. Talking, he seemed to imply, was no business of his.
The longest speech I heard him volunteer was one morning when, suddenly
extending his hand towards the courtyard, he pointed at Cornelius and
said, "Here comes the Nazarene." I don't think he was addressing me,
though I stood at his side; his object seemed rather to awaken the
indignant attention of the universe. Some muttered allusions, which
followed, to dogs and the smell of roast-meat, struck me as singularly
felicitous. The courtyard, a large square space, was one torrid blaze of
sunshine, and, bathed in intense light, Cornelius was creeping across
in full view with an inexpressible effect of stealthiness, of dark and
secret slinking. He reminded one of everything that is unsavoury. His
slow laborious walk resembled the creeping of a repulsive beetle, the
legs alone moving with horrid industry while the body glided evenly. I
suppose he made straight enough for the place where he wanted to get to,
but his progress with one shoulder carried forward seemed oblique. He
was often seen circling slowly amongst the sheds, as if following
a scent; passing before the verandah with upward stealthy glances;
disappearing without haste round the corner of some hut. That he seemed
free of the place demonstrated Jim's absurd carelessness or else his
infinite disdain, for Cornelius had played a very dubious part (to say
the least of it) in a certain episode which might have ended fatally for
Jim. As a matter of fact, it had redounded to his glory. But everything
redounded to his glory; and it was the irony of his good fortune that
he, who had been too careful of it once, seemed to bear a charmed life.

'You must know he had left Doramin's place very soon after his
arrival--much too soon, in fact, for his safety, and of course a long
time before the war. In this he was actuated by a sense of duty; he had
to look after Stein's business, he said. Hadn't he? To that end, with an
utter disregard of his personal safety, he crossed the river and took up
his quarters with Cornelius. How the latter had managed to exist through
the troubled times I can't say. As Stein's agent, after all, he must
have had Doramin's protection in a measure; and in one way or another
he had managed to wriggle through all the deadly complications, while I
have no doubt that his conduct, whatever line he was forced to take, was
marked by that abjectness which was like the stamp of the man. That was
his characteristic; he was fundamentally and outwardly abject, as other
men are markedly of a generous, distinguished, or venerable appearance.
It was the element of his nature which permeated all his acts and
passions and emotions; he raged abjectly, smiled abjectly, was abjectly
sad; his civilities and his indignations were alike abject. I am sure
his love would have been the most abject of sentiments--but can one
imagine a loathsome insect in love? And his loathsomeness, too, was
abject, so that a simply disgusting person would have appeared noble
by his side. He has his place neither in the background nor in the
foreground of the story; he is simply seen skulking on its outskirts,
enigmatical and unclean, tainting the fragrance of its youth and of its
naiveness.

'His position in any case could not have been other than extremely
miserable, yet it may very well be that he found some advantages in it.
Jim told me he had been received at first with an abject display of
the most amicable sentiments. "The fellow apparently couldn't contain
himself for joy," said Jim with disgust. "He flew at me every morning to
shake both my hands--confound him!--but I could never tell whether there
would be any breakfast. If I got three meals in two days I considered
myself jolly lucky, and he made me sign a chit for ten dollars every
week. Said he was sure Mr. Stein did not mean him to keep me for
nothing. Well--he kept me on nothing as near as possible. Put it down to
the unsettled state of the country, and made as if to tear his hair out,
begging my pardon twenty times a day, so that I had at last to entreat
him not to worry. It made me sick. Half the roof of his house had
fallen in, and the whole place had a mangy look, with wisps of dry grass
sticking out and the corners of broken mats flapping on every wall. He
did his best to make out that Mr. Stein owed him money on the last three
years' trading, but his books were all torn, and some were missing. He
tried to hint it was his late wife's fault. Disgusting scoundrel! At
last I had to forbid him to mention his late wife at all. It made Jewel
cry. I couldn't discover what became of all the trade-goods; there was
nothing in the store but rats, having a high old time amongst a litter
of brown paper and old sacking. I was assured on every hand that he had
a lot of money buried somewhere, but of course could get nothing out of
him. It was the most miserable existence I led there in that wretched
house. I tried to do my duty by Stein, but I had also other matters to
think of. When I escaped to Doramin old Tunku Allang got frightened and
returned all my things. It was done in a roundabout way, and with no end
of mystery, through a Chinaman who keeps a small shop here; but as soon
as I left the Bugis quarter and went to live with Cornelius it began
to be said openly that the Rajah had made up his mind to have me killed
before long. Pleasant, wasn't it? And I couldn't see what there was to
prevent him if he really _had_ made up his mind. The worst of it was,
I couldn't help feeling I wasn't doing any good either for Stein or for
myself. Oh! it was beastly--the whole six weeks of it."'
Chapters 27-29
Seven, Twenty Eight and Twenty Nine . Chapter Twenty Seven explains Jim's directions to attack Sherif Ali's camp. He supervised the cannons being moved up the hill and the 'simple folk' of the outlying villages came to believe he carried them on his back. Marlow notices how the surroundings and the praise influence Jim and sees it as part of his captivity. These people had trusted Jim implicitly and to date they have not regretted taking his advice. Jim also became involved in sorting out a dispute between a husband and wife as the husband came from a village miles away for his advice. Jim's word 'decided everything', 'ever since the smashing of Sherif Ali'. . . The narrative returns again to this attack and we are told about how Tamb' Itam, Jim's servant, is loyal to his 'white lord' to the point of being fanatical. The Patusan people celebrated after the success of beating Sherif Ali and this became Jim's 'seal of success'. This chapter ends with Marlow pointing out that the telling of the story dwarfs Jim's utter isolation, but 'his word was the one truth of every passing day'. . . In Chapter Twenty Eight, the readers are told that Sherif Ali left the country after his defeat without making another stand. In consultation with Dain Waris, Jim appointed the headmen and thus became the 'virtual ruler' of the land. Doramin is anxious about the future of his country and tells Marlow he fears Jim will return home as other white men have. Marlow replies 'no, no' and Doramin asks why, but Marlow does not explain. . . The 'individual side of the story' is given as Marlow also explains that Jim has become close with Jewel, the step-daughter of Cornelius . It is not until later that Marlow connects her name with an 'astonishing rumour' he heard on his journey there. ' A mysterious white man'  was thought to have acquired an enormous emerald. The most amazing part of this 'Jim-myth' was that such a jewel 'is best preserved by being concealed about the person of a woman'. She also has to be young and insensible to the seductions of love and the rumour says that Jim hides the jewel in her bosom. . . Marlow points out, in Chapter Twenty Nine, how 300 miles from 'our civilisation' 'the haggard utilitarian lies' 'wither and die' and are replaced by 'pure exercises of imagination'. The true part of Jim's story is that romance has singled Jim out and he 'did not hide his jewel' - he is extremely proud of it. Marlow does not see Jewel very often, but when he does he notes she presents 'a curious combination of shyness and audacity' and shows a 'vigilant affection' for Jim: she guards her conquest 'inflexibly'. It is reiterated that Jim 'was imprisoned within the very freedom of his power'. . . The narrative then shifts to Cornelius, whom Marlow describes as 'abject'. Cornelius first greeted Jim with joy, but gave him little food. Cornelius also tried to blame his late wife for the bad state of the accounts. Jim's first six weeks in Patusan were 'beastly' as he tried to do his duty by Stein, but had other matters to consider such as the Rajah wanting him killed. .
Seven, Twenty Eight and Twenty Nine . These chapters outline Jim's rise to acceptance and even adoration in Patusan, in particular after his successful decision to co-ordinate an attack against Sherif Ali. His now strong position is an ambivalent one, however, as Marlow points out that Jim is made captive ironically by the freedom he possesses. His lover, Jewel, demonstrates a 'vigilant affection' for him and Doramin also fears that Jim will leave as other white men have done previously. His freedom of power is dependent, then, on remaining there.