'He told me further that he didn't know what made him hang on--but of
course we may guess. He sympathised deeply with the defenceless girl, at
the mercy of that "mean, cowardly scoundrel." It appears Cornelius led
her an awful life, stopping only short of actual ill-usage, for which
he had not the pluck, I suppose. He insisted upon her calling him
father--"and with respect, too--with respect," he would scream, shaking
a little yellow fist in her face. "I am a respectable man, and what are
you? Tell me--what are you? You think I am going to bring up somebody
else's child and not be treated with respect? You ought to be glad I let
you. Come--say Yes, father. . . . No? . . . You wait a bit." Thereupon
he would begin to abuse the dead woman, till the girl would run off with
her hands to her head. He pursued her, dashing in and out and round the
house and amongst the sheds, would drive her into some corner, where she
would fall on her knees stopping her ears, and then he would stand at a
distance and declaim filthy denunciations at her back for half an hour
at a stretch. "Your mother was a devil, a deceitful devil--and you too
are a devil," he would shriek in a final outburst, pick up a bit of dry
earth or a handful of mud (there was plenty of mud around the house),
and fling it into her hair. Sometimes, though, she would hold out full
of scorn, confronting him in silence, her face sombre and contracted,
and only now and then uttering a word or two that would make the other
jump and writhe with the sting. Jim told me these scenes were terrible.
It was indeed a strange thing to come upon in a wilderness. The
endlessness of such a subtly cruel situation was appalling--if you think
of it. The respectable Cornelius (Inchi 'Nelyus the Malays called him,
with a grimace that meant many things) was a much-disappointed man. I
don't know what he had expected would be done for him in consideration
of his marriage; but evidently the liberty to steal, and embezzle, and
appropriate to himself for many years and in any way that suited him
best, the goods of Stein's Trading Company (Stein kept the supply up
unfalteringly as long as he could get his skippers to take it there) did
not seem to him a fair equivalent for the sacrifice of his honourable
name. Jim would have enjoyed exceedingly thrashing Cornelius within an
inch of his life; on the other hand, the scenes were of so painful
a character, so abominable, that his impulse would be to get out of
earshot, in order to spare the girl's feelings. They left her agitated,
speechless, clutching her bosom now and then with a stony,
desperate face, and then Jim would lounge up and say unhappily,
"Now--come--really--what's the use--you must try to eat a bit," or give
some such mark of sympathy. Cornelius would keep on slinking through
the doorways, across the verandah and back again, as mute as a fish, and
with malevolent, mistrustful, underhand glances. "I can stop his game,"
Jim said to her once. "Just say the word." And do you know what she
answered? She said--Jim told me impressively--that if she had not been
sure he was intensely wretched himself, she would have found the courage
to kill him with her own hands. "Just fancy that! The poor devil of a
girl, almost a child, being driven to talk like that," he exclaimed in
horror. It seemed impossible to save her not only from that mean
rascal but even from herself! It wasn't that he pitied her so much, he
affirmed; it was more than pity; it was as if he had something on his
conscience, while that life went on. To leave the house would have
appeared a base desertion. He had understood at last that there was
nothing to expect from a longer stay, neither accounts nor money, nor
truth of any sort, but he stayed on, exasperating Cornelius to the
verge, I won't say of insanity, but almost of courage. Meantime he felt
all sorts of dangers gathering obscurely about him. Doramin had sent
over twice a trusty servant to tell him seriously that he could do
nothing for his safety unless he would recross the river again and live
amongst the Bugis as at first. People of every condition used to call,
often in the dead of night, in order to disclose to him plots for
his assassination. He was to be poisoned. He was to be stabbed in the
bath-house. Arrangements were being made to have him shot from a boat
on the river. Each of these informants professed himself to be his very
good friend. It was enough--he told me--to spoil a fellow's rest for
ever. Something of the kind was extremely possible--nay, probable--but
the lying warnings gave him only the sense of deadly scheming going on
all around him, on all sides, in the dark. Nothing more calculated to
shake the best of nerve. Finally, one night, Cornelius himself, with a
great apparatus of alarm and secrecy, unfolded in solemn wheedling tones
a little plan wherein for one hundred dollars--or even for eighty; let's
say eighty--he, Cornelius, would procure a trustworthy man to smuggle
Jim out of the river, all safe. There was nothing else for it now--if
Jim cared a pin for his life. What's eighty dollars? A trifle. An
insignificant sum. While he, Cornelius, who had to remain behind, was
absolutely courting death by this proof of devotion to Mr. Stein's young
friend. The sight of his abject grimacing was--Jim told me--very hard
to bear: he clutched at his hair, beat his breast, rocked himself to
and fro with his hands pressed to his stomach, and actually pretended to
shed tears. "Your blood be on your own head," he squeaked at last, and
rushed out. It is a curious question how far Cornelius was sincere in
that performance. Jim confessed to me that he did not sleep a wink after
the fellow had gone. He lay on his back on a thin mat spread over the
bamboo flooring, trying idly to make out the bare rafters, and listening
to the rustlings in the torn thatch. A star suddenly twinkled through a
hole in the roof. His brain was in a whirl; but, nevertheless, it was on
that very night that he matured his plan for overcoming Sherif Ali. It
had been the thought of all the moments he could spare from the hopeless
investigation into Stein's affairs, but the notion--he says--came to him
then all at once. He could see, as it were, the guns mounted on the top
of the hill. He got very hot and excited lying there; sleep was out of
the question more than ever. He jumped up, and went out barefooted
on the verandah. Walking silently, he came upon the girl, motionless
against the wall, as if on the watch. In his then state of mind it did
not surprise him to see her up, nor yet to hear her ask in an anxious
whisper where Cornelius could be. He simply said he did not know. She
moaned a little, and peered into the campong. Everything was very quiet.
He was possessed by his new idea, and so full of it that he could not
help telling the girl all about it at once. She listened, clapped her
hands lightly, whispered softly her admiration, but was evidently on the
alert all the time. It seems he had been used to make a confidant of
her all along--and that she on her part could and did give him a lot of
useful hints as to Patusan affairs there is no doubt. He assured me more
than once that he had never found himself the worse for her advice. At
any rate, he was proceeding to explain his plan fully to her there and
then, when she pressed his arm once, and vanished from his side. Then
Cornelius appeared from somewhere, and, perceiving Jim, ducked sideways,
as though he had been shot at, and afterwards stood very still in the
dusk. At last he came forward prudently, like a suspicious cat. "There
were some fishermen there--with fish," he said in a shaky voice. "To
sell fish--you understand." . . . It must have been then two o'clock in
the morning--a likely time for anybody to hawk fish about!

'Jim, however, let the statement pass, and did not give it a single
thought. Other matters occupied his mind, and besides he had neither
seen nor heard anything. He contented himself by saying, "Oh!" absently,
got a drink of water out of a pitcher standing there, and leaving
Cornelius a prey to some inexplicable emotion--that made him embrace
with both arms the worm-eaten rail of the verandah as if his legs had
failed--went in again and lay down on his mat to think. By-and-by he
heard stealthy footsteps. They stopped. A voice whispered tremulously
through the wall, "Are you asleep?" "No! What is it?" he answered
briskly, and there was an abrupt movement outside, and then all was
still, as if the whisperer had been startled. Extremely annoyed at this,
Jim came out impetuously, and Cornelius with a faint shriek fled
along the verandah as far as the steps, where he hung on to the broken
banister. Very puzzled, Jim called out to him from the distance to know
what the devil he meant. "Have you given your consideration to what
I spoke to you about?" asked Cornelius, pronouncing the words with
difficulty, like a man in the cold fit of a fever. "No!" shouted Jim in
a passion. "I have not, and I don't intend to. I am going to live here,
in Patusan." "You shall d-d-die h-h-here," answered Cornelius,
still shaking violently, and in a sort of expiring voice. The whole
performance was so absurd and provoking that Jim didn't know whether he
ought to be amused or angry. "Not till I have seen you tucked away,
you bet," he called out, exasperated yet ready to laugh. Half seriously
(being excited with his own thoughts, you know) he went on shouting,
"Nothing can touch me! You can do your damnedest." Somehow the shadowy
Cornelius far off there seemed to be the hateful embodiment of all the
annoyances and difficulties he had found in his path. He let himself
go--his nerves had been over-wrought for days--and called him many
pretty names,--swindler, liar, sorry rascal: in fact, carried on in an
extraordinary way. He admits he passed all bounds, that he was quite
beside himself--defied all Patusan to scare him away--declared he would
make them all dance to his own tune yet, and so on, in a menacing,
boasting strain. Perfectly bombastic and ridiculous, he said. His ears
burned at the bare recollection. Must have been off his chump in some
way. . . . The girl, who was sitting with us, nodded her little head at
me quickly, frowned faintly, and said, "I heard him," with child-like
solemnity. He laughed and blushed. What stopped him at last, he said,
was the silence, the complete deathlike silence, of the indistinct
figure far over there, that seemed to hang collapsed, doubled over the
rail in a weird immobility. He came to his senses, and ceasing suddenly,
wondered greatly at himself. He watched for a while. Not a stir, not a
sound. "Exactly as if the chap had died while I had been making all that
noise," he said. He was so ashamed of himself that he went indoors in a
hurry without another word, and flung himself down again. The row seemed
to have done him good though, because he went to sleep for the rest of
the night like a baby. Hadn't slept like that for weeks. "But _I_ didn't
sleep," struck in the girl, one elbow on the table and nursing her
cheek. "I watched." Her big eyes flashed, rolling a little, and then she
fixed them on my face intently.'

Marlow gives us a few more details about Jim's relationship with Cornelius and Jewel. It's a pretty tense situation because Jim is in danger. When Cornelius offers to smuggle Jim out of Patusan, Jim refuses to go, despite the risk of staying. A scared and angry Jim takes out his troubles on Cornelius and chews out the poor old man.

When Jim saw Jewel being ill treated by Cornelius, he felt like thrashing Cornelius. Cornelius was also planning to kill Jim with the help of assassins. Jewel knew about the threats on Jim's life and watched over him constantly.

Notes The flashback in this chapter again confuses the chronological telling of the story. The first part of the chapter describes the brutalities of Cornelius. His inhuman behavior towards his stepdaughter makes him totally detestable. Jim sympathizes with Jewel fully and wants to save her. Jewel also wants to save Jim from the threats being made on his life.


'You may imagine with what interest I listened. All these details were
perceived to have some significance twenty-four hours later. In the
morning Cornelius made no allusion to the events of the night. "I
suppose you will come back to my poor house," he muttered, surlily,
slinking up just as Jim was entering the canoe to go over to Doramin's
campong. Jim only nodded, without looking at him. "You find it good fun,
no doubt," muttered the other in a sour tone. Jim spent the day with the
old nakhoda, preaching the necessity of vigorous action to the principal
men of the Bugis community, who had been summoned for a big talk. He
remembered with pleasure how very eloquent and persuasive he had been.
"I managed to put some backbone into them that time, and no mistake," he
said. Sherif Ali's last raid had swept the outskirts of the settlement,
and some women belonging to the town had been carried off to the
stockade. Sherif Ali's emissaries had been seen in the market-place the
day before, strutting about haughtily in white cloaks, and boasting of
the Rajah's friendship for their master. One of them stood forward
in the shade of a tree, and, leaning on the long barrel of a rifle,
exhorted the people to prayer and repentance, advising them to kill all
the strangers in their midst, some of whom, he said, were infidels and
others even worse--children of Satan in the guise of Moslems. It was
reported that several of the Rajah's people amongst the listeners had
loudly expressed their approbation. The terror amongst the common people
was intense. Jim, immensely pleased with his day's work, crossed the
river again before sunset.

'As he had got the Bugis irretrievably committed to action and had made
himself responsible for success on his own head, he was so elated that
in the lightness of his heart he absolutely tried to be civil with
Cornelius. But Cornelius became wildly jovial in response, and it was
almost more than he could stand, he says, to hear his little squeaks of
false laughter, to see him wriggle and blink, and suddenly catch hold of
his chin and crouch low over the table with a distracted stare. The
girl did not show herself, and Jim retired early. When he rose to say
good-night, Cornelius jumped up, knocking his chair over, and ducked out
of sight as if to pick up something he had dropped. His good-night came
huskily from under the table. Jim was amazed to see him emerge with a
dropping jaw, and staring, stupidly frightened eyes. He clutched the
edge of the table. "What's the matter? Are you unwell?" asked Jim. "Yes,
yes, yes. A great colic in my stomach," says the other; and it is
Jim's opinion that it was perfectly true. If so, it was, in view of his
contemplated action, an abject sign of a still imperfect callousness for
which he must be given all due credit.

'Be it as it may, Jim's slumbers were disturbed by a dream of heavens
like brass resounding with a great voice, which called upon him to
Awake! Awake! so loud that, notwithstanding his desperate determination
to sleep on, he did wake up in reality. The glare of a red spluttering
conflagration going on in mid-air fell on his eyes. Coils of black thick
smoke curved round the head of some apparition, some unearthly being,
all in white, with a severe, drawn, anxious face. After a second or so
he recognised the girl. She was holding a dammar torch at arm's-length
aloft, and in a persistent, urgent monotone she was repeating, "Get up!
Get up! Get up!"

'Suddenly he leaped to his feet; at once she put into his hand a
revolver, his own revolver, which had been hanging on a nail, but loaded
this time. He gripped it in silence, bewildered, blinking in the light.
He wondered what he could do for her.

'She asked rapidly and very low, "Can you face four men with this?"
He laughed while narrating this part at the recollection of his polite
alacrity. It seems he made a great display of it. "Certainly--of
course--certainly--command me." He was not properly awake, and had a
notion of being very civil in these extraordinary circumstances, of
showing his unquestioning, devoted readiness. She left the room, and
he followed her; in the passage they disturbed an old hag who did the
casual cooking of the household, though she was so decrepit as to be
hardly able to understand human speech. She got up and hobbled behind
them, mumbling toothlessly. On the verandah a hammock of sail-cloth,
belonging to Cornelius, swayed lightly to the touch of Jim's elbow. It
was empty.

'The Patusan establishment, like all the posts of Stein's Trading
Company, had originally consisted of four buildings. Two of them were
represented by two heaps of sticks, broken bamboos, rotten thatch,
over which the four corner-posts of hardwood leaned sadly at different
angles: the principal storeroom, however, stood yet, facing the agent's
house. It was an oblong hut, built of mud and clay; it had at one end a
wide door of stout planking, which so far had not come off the hinges,
and in one of the side walls there was a square aperture, a sort of
window, with three wooden bars. Before descending the few steps the girl
turned her face over her shoulder and said quickly, "You were to be set
upon while you slept." Jim tells me he experienced a sense of deception.
It was the old story. He was weary of these attempts upon his life. He
had had his fill of these alarms. He was sick of them. He assured me he
was angry with the girl for deceiving him. He had followed her under the
impression that it was she who wanted his help, and now he had half
a mind to turn on his heel and go back in disgust. "Do you know," he
commented profoundly, "I rather think I was not quite myself for whole
weeks on end about that time." "Oh yes. You were though," I couldn't
help contradicting.

'But she moved on swiftly, and he followed her into the courtyard. All
its fences had fallen in a long time ago; the neighbours' buffaloes
would pace in the morning across the open space, snorting profoundly,
without haste; the very jungle was invading it already. Jim and the girl
stopped in the rank grass. The light in which they stood made a dense
blackness all round, and only above their heads there was an opulent
glitter of stars. He told me it was a beautiful night--quite cool, with
a little stir of breeze from the river. It seems he noticed its friendly
beauty. Remember this is a love story I am telling you now. A lovely
night seemed to breathe on them a soft caress. The flame of the torch
streamed now and then with a fluttering noise like a flag, and for
a time this was the only sound. "They are in the storeroom waiting,"
whispered the girl; "they are waiting for the signal." "Who's to give
it?" he asked. She shook the torch, which blazed up after a shower of
sparks. "Only you have been sleeping so restlessly," she continued in
a murmur; "I watched your sleep, too." "You!" he exclaimed, craning his
neck to look about him. "You think I watched on this night only!" she
said, with a sort of despairing indignation.

'He says it was as if he had received a blow on the chest. He gasped.
He thought he had been an awful brute somehow, and he felt remorseful,
touched, happy, elated. This, let me remind you again, is a love story;
you can see it by the imbecility, not a repulsive imbecility, the
exalted imbecility of these proceedings, this station in torchlight, as
if they had come there on purpose to have it out for the edification of
concealed murderers. If Sherif Ali's emissaries had been possessed--as
Jim remarked--of a pennyworth of spunk, this was the time to make a
rush. His heart was thumping--not with fear--but he seemed to hear the
grass rustle, and he stepped smartly out of the light. Something dark,
imperfectly seen, flitted rapidly out of sight. He called out in a
strong voice, "Cornelius! O Cornelius!" A profound silence succeeded:
his voice did not seem to have carried twenty feet. Again the girl was
by his side. "Fly!" she said. The old woman was coming up; her broken
figure hovered in crippled little jumps on the edge of the light; they
heard her mumbling, and a light, moaning sigh. "Fly!" repeated the girl
excitedly. "They are frightened now--this light--the voices. They know
you are awake now--they know you are big, strong, fearless . . ." "If
I am all that," he began; but she interrupted him: "Yes--to-night! But
what of to-morrow night? Of the next night? Of the night after--of all
the many, many nights? Can I be always watching?" A sobbing catch of her
breath affected him beyond the power of words.

'He told me that he had never felt so small, so powerless--and as to
courage, what was the good of it? he thought. He was so helpless that
even flight seemed of no use; and though she kept on whispering, "Go to
Doramin, go to Doramin," with feverish insistence, he realised that for
him there was no refuge from that loneliness which centupled all his
dangers except--in her. "I thought," he said to me, "that if I went
away from her it would be the end of everything somehow." Only as they
couldn't stop there for ever in the middle of that courtyard, he made
up his mind to go and look into the storehouse. He let her follow
him without thinking of any protest, as if they had been indissolubly
united. "I am fearless--am I?" he muttered through his teeth. She
restrained his arm. "Wait till you hear my voice," she said, and,
torch in hand, ran lightly round the corner. He remained alone in the
darkness, his face to the door: not a sound, not a breath came from
the other side. The old hag let out a dreary groan somewhere behind his
back. He heard a high-pitched almost screaming call from the girl. "Now!
Push!" He pushed violently; the door swung with a creak and a clatter,
disclosing to his intense astonishment the low dungeon-like interior
illuminated by a lurid, wavering glare. A turmoil of smoke eddied down
upon an empty wooden crate in the middle of the floor, a litter of rags
and straw tried to soar, but only stirred feebly in the draught. She had
thrust the light through the bars of the window. He saw her bare round
arm extended and rigid, holding up the torch with the steadiness of
an iron bracket. A conical ragged heap of old mats cumbered a distant
corner almost to the ceiling, and that was all.

'He explained to me that he was bitterly disappointed at this. His
fortitude had been tried by so many warnings, he had been for weeks
surrounded by so many hints of danger, that he wanted the relief of
some reality, of something tangible that he could meet. "It would have
cleared the air for a couple of hours at least, if you know what I
mean," he said to me. "Jove! I had been living for days with a stone on
my chest." Now at last he had thought he would get hold of something,
and--nothing! Not a trace, not a sign of anybody. He had raised his
weapon as the door flew open, but now his arm fell. "Fire! Defend
yourself," the girl outside cried in an agonising voice. She, being in
the dark and with her arm thrust in to the shoulder through the small
hole, couldn't see what was going on, and she dared not withdraw
the torch now to run round. "There's nobody here!" yelled Jim
contemptuously, but his impulse to burst into a resentful exasperated
laugh died without a sound: he had perceived in the very act of turning
away that he was exchanging glances with a pair of eyes in the heap of
mats. He saw a shifting gleam of whites. "Come out!" he cried in a fury,
a little doubtful, and a dark-faced head, a head without a body, shaped
itself in the rubbish, a strangely detached head, that looked at him
with a steady scowl. Next moment the whole mound stirred, and with a
low grunt a man emerged swiftly, and bounded towards Jim. Behind him the
mats as it were jumped and flew, his right arm was raised with a crooked
elbow, and the dull blade of a kriss protruded from his fist held off,
a little above his head. A cloth wound tight round his loins seemed
dazzlingly white on his bronze skin; his naked body glistened as if wet.

'Jim noted all this. He told me he was experiencing a feeling of
unutterable relief, of vengeful elation. He held his shot, he says,
deliberately. He held it for the tenth part of a second, for three
strides of the man--an unconscionable time. He held it for the pleasure
of saying to himself, That's a dead man! He was absolutely positive
and certain. He let him come on because it did not matter. A dead man,
anyhow. He noticed the dilated nostrils, the wide eyes, the intent,
eager stillness of the face, and then he fired.

'The explosion in that confined space was stunning. He stepped back a
pace. He saw the man jerk his head up, fling his arms forward, and drop
the kriss. He ascertained afterwards that he had shot him through the
mouth, a little upwards, the bullet coming out high at the back of the
skull. With the impetus of his rush the man drove straight on, his face
suddenly gaping disfigured, with his hands open before him gropingly, as
though blinded, and landed with terrific violence on his forehead, just
short of Jim's bare toes. Jim says he didn't lose the smallest detail
of all this. He found himself calm, appeased, without rancour, without
uneasiness, as if the death of that man had atoned for everything. The
place was getting very full of sooty smoke from the torch, in which
the unswaying flame burned blood-red without a flicker. He walked in
resolutely, striding over the dead body, and covered with his revolver
another naked figure outlined vaguely at the other end. As he was about
to pull the trigger, the man threw away with force a short heavy spear,
and squatted submissively on his hams, his back to the wall and his
clasped hands between his legs. "You want your life?" Jim said. The
other made no sound. "How many more of you?" asked Jim again. "Two more,
Tuan," said the man very softly, looking with big fascinated eyes into
the muzzle of the revolver. Accordingly two more crawled from under the
mats, holding out ostentatiously their empty hands.'

The situation gets more and more dicey until finally, one night Jewel wakes Jim up and tells him he's about to be assassinated. How does she know? Get ready for a gasp: Cornelius is in on the whole thing. Jewel leads Jim to the men who are lying in wait for him. The suspense is killing us. She shoots one of the men, and then she and Jim lead the men to the riverbank.

Marlow continues his narrative about Jim, returning to the day that Jim went to visit Doramin and told him about his plans for routing Sherif Ali. On the way, Jim saw Sherif Ali's men strutting through the market place and boasting of their master's friendship with Tungku Allang. It appeared that they were planning to join hands against the Bugis, who were terrified about what might happen to them. Jim felt relieved that he was going to beat them to the battle and knew that he could convince the Bugis to come to his assistance. He spent a large portion of the day telling Doramin of his plans and gaining the Bugis' agreement. When Jim returned to Cornelius' house in the evening, he was feeling almost lightheaded. He had been successful in convincing Doramin of his plan and now he knew its success depended totally upon him. He felt sure he would not fail. During the night Jim was awakened by Jewel. She gave him his gun and told him about four of Sherif Ali's men who were waiting to kill him. At first Jim was irritated, feeling this was another false alarm; he was also irritated at Jewel for being so nervous. Jewel, however, was insistent. She led him to an empty store building. At first Jim saw nothing. Then he noticed a pair of glowing eyes coming towards him. A half-dressed native held out a knife to attack Jim, who waited until the appropriate moment to fire his gun. His shot was perfect, and the native fell dead. Jim felt calm, but was proud of his bravery.

Notes This chapter brings out Jim's courage, as well as helplessness. He has the courage to fight danger without "jumping ship," but he is helplessly caught in the love affair with Jewel. She is devoted to him, guarding his life through the night. Her faithfulness, almost a reversal of the theme of white supremacy, sways Jim. He is overpowered by her, just as he is overpowered by Patusan. One night Jewel wakes him and warns him about a plot to kill him. Jim takes up a gun and protects himself, killing one man. Jim's faith in himself is renewed and he shouts, "Nothing can touch me." Jim is beginning to overcome some of his guilt and shame; at the same time, he is beginning to succumb to white supremacy, considering himself superior to others and foreshadowing that he cannot forever remain Tuan Jim.


'Jim took up an advantageous position and shepherded them out in a bunch
through the doorway: all that time the torch had remained vertical in
the grip of a little hand, without so much as a tremble. The three men
obeyed him, perfectly mute, moving automatically. He ranged them in a
row. "Link arms!" he ordered. They did so. "The first who withdraws his
arm or turns his head is a dead man," he said. "March!" They stepped out
together, rigidly; he followed, and at the side the girl, in a trailing
white gown, her black hair falling as low as her waist, bore the light.
Erect and swaying, she seemed to glide without touching the earth; the
only sound was the silky swish and rustle of the long grass. "Stop!"
cried Jim.

'The river-bank was steep; a great freshness ascended, the light fell on
the edge of smooth dark water frothing without a ripple; right and left
the shapes of the houses ran together below the sharp outlines of the
roofs. "Take my greetings to Sherif Ali--till I come myself," said
Jim. Not one head of the three budged. "Jump!" he thundered. The
three splashes made one splash, a shower flew up, black heads bobbed
convulsively, and disappeared; but a great blowing and spluttering went
on, growing faint, for they were diving industriously in great fear of
a parting shot. Jim turned to the girl, who had been a silent and
attentive observer. His heart seemed suddenly to grow too big for his
breast and choke him in the hollow of his throat. This probably made
him speechless for so long, and after returning his gaze she flung the
burning torch with a wide sweep of the arm into the river. The ruddy
fiery glare, taking a long flight through the night, sank with a vicious
hiss, and the calm soft starlight descended upon them, unchecked.

'He did not tell me what it was he said when at last he recovered his
voice. I don't suppose he could be very eloquent. The world was still,
the night breathed on them, one of those nights that seem created for
the sheltering of tenderness, and there are moments when our souls, as
if freed from their dark envelope, glow with an exquisite sensibility
that makes certain silences more lucid than speeches. As to the girl,
he told me, "She broke down a bit. Excitement--don't you know.
Reaction. Deucedly tired she must have been--and all that kind of thing.
And--and--hang it all--she was fond of me, don't you see. . . . I
too . . . didn't know, of course . . . never entered my head . . ."

'Then he got up and began to walk about in some agitation. "I--I love
her dearly. More than I can tell. Of course one cannot tell. You take a
different view of your actions when you come to understand, when you
are _made_ to understand every day that your existence is necessary--you
see, absolutely necessary--to another person. I am made to feel that.
Wonderful! But only try to think what her life has been. It is too
extravagantly awful! Isn't it? And me finding her here like this--as you
may go out for a stroll and come suddenly upon somebody drowning in a
lonely dark place. Jove! No time to lose. Well, it is a trust too . . .
I believe I am equal to it . . ."

'I must tell you the girl had left us to ourselves some time before. He
slapped his chest. "Yes! I feel that, but I believe I am equal to all my
luck!" He had the gift of finding a special meaning in everything that
happened to him. This was the view he took of his love affair; it was
idyllic, a little solemn, and also true, since his belief had all the
unshakable seriousness of youth. Some time after, on another occasion,
he said to me, "I've been only two years here, and now, upon my word, I
can't conceive being able to live anywhere else. The very thought of the
world outside is enough to give me a fright; because, don't you see," he
continued, with downcast eyes watching the action of his boot busied in
squashing thoroughly a tiny bit of dried mud (we were strolling on the
river-bank)--"because I have not forgotten why I came here. Not yet!"

'I refrained from looking at him, but I think I heard a short sigh; we
took a turn or two in silence. "Upon my soul and conscience," he began
again, "if such a thing can be forgotten, then I think I have a right to
dismiss it from my mind. Ask any man here" . . . his voice changed. "Is
it not strange," he went on in a gentle, almost yearning tone, "that all
these people, all these people who would do anything for me, can never
be made to understand? Never! If you disbelieved me I could not call
them up. It seems hard, somehow. I am stupid, am I not? What more can I
want? If you ask them who is brave--who is true--who is just--who is it
they would trust with their lives?--they would say, Tuan Jim. And yet
they can never know the real, real truth . . ."

'That's what he said to me on my last day with him. I did not let a
murmur escape me: I felt he was going to say more, and come no nearer
to the root of the matter. The sun, whose concentrated glare dwarfs the
earth into a restless mote of dust, had sunk behind the forest, and
the diffused light from an opal sky seemed to cast upon a world without
shadows and without brilliance the illusion of a calm and pensive
greatness. I don't know why, listening to him, I should have noted
so distinctly the gradual darkening of the river, of the air; the
irresistible slow work of the night settling silently on all the visible
forms, effacing the outlines, burying the shapes deeper and deeper, like
a steady fall of impalpable black dust.

'"Jove!" he began abruptly, "there are days when a fellow is too absurd
for anything; only I know I can tell you what I like. I talk about
being done with it--with the bally thing at the back of my head . . .
Forgetting . . . Hang me if I know! I can think of it quietly. After
all, what has it proved? Nothing. I suppose you don't think so . . ."

'I made a protesting murmur.

'"No matter," he said. "I am satisfied . . . nearly. I've got to
look only at the face of the first man that comes along, to regain my
confidence. They can't be made to understand what is going on in me.
What of that? Come! I haven't done so badly."

'"Not so badly," I said.

'"But all the same, you wouldn't like to have me aboard your own ship
hey?"

'"Confound you!" I cried. "Stop this."

'"Aha! You see," he said, crowing, as it were, over me placidly. "Only,"
he went on, "you just try to tell this to any of them here. They would
think you a fool, a liar, or worse. And so I can stand it. I've done a
thing or two for them, but this is what they have done for me."

'"My dear chap," I cried, "you shall always remain for them an insoluble
mystery." Thereupon we were silent.

'"Mystery," he repeated, before looking up. "Well, then let me always
remain here."

'After the sun had set, the darkness seemed to drive upon us, borne in
every faint puff of the breeze. In the middle of a hedged path I saw the
arrested, gaunt, watchful, and apparently one-legged silhouette of Tamb'
Itam; and across the dusky space my eye detected something white moving
to and fro behind the supports of the roof. As soon as Jim, with Tamb'
Itam at his heels, had started upon his evening rounds, I went up to the
house alone, and, unexpectedly, found myself waylaid by the girl, who
had been clearly waiting for this opportunity.

'It is hard to tell you what it was precisely she wanted to wrest
from me. Obviously it would be something very simple--the simplest
impossibility in the world; as, for instance, the exact description of
the form of a cloud. She wanted an assurance, a statement, a promise, an
explanation--I don't know how to call it: the thing has no name. It was
dark under the projecting roof, and all I could see were the flowing
lines of her gown, the pale small oval of her face, with the white flash
of her teeth, and, turned towards me, the big sombre orbits of her eyes,
where there seemed to be a faint stir, such as you may fancy you can
detect when you plunge your gaze to the bottom of an immensely deep
well. What is it that moves there? you ask yourself. Is it a blind
monster or only a lost gleam from the universe? It occurred to me--don't
laugh--that all things being dissimilar, she was more inscrutable in
her childish ignorance than the Sphinx propounding childish riddles
to wayfarers. She had been carried off to Patusan before her eyes
were open. She had grown up there; she had seen nothing, she had known
nothing, she had no conception of anything. I ask myself whether she
were sure that anything else existed. What notions she may have formed
of the outside world is to me inconceivable: all that she knew of its
inhabitants were a betrayed woman and a sinister pantaloon. Her lover
also came to her from there, gifted with irresistible seductions; but
what would become of her if he should return to these inconceivable
regions that seemed always to claim back their own? Her mother had
warned her of this with tears, before she died . . .

'She had caught hold of my arm firmly, and as soon as I had stopped she
had withdrawn her hand in haste. She was audacious and shrinking. She
feared nothing, but she was checked by the profound incertitude and the
extreme strangeness--a brave person groping in the dark. I belonged to
this Unknown that might claim Jim for its own at any moment. I was,
as it were, in the secret of its nature and of its intentions--the
confidant of a threatening mystery--armed with its power perhaps! I
believe she supposed I could with a word whisk Jim away out of her very
arms; it is my sober conviction she went through agonies of apprehension
during my long talks with Jim; through a real and intolerable anguish
that might have conceivably driven her into plotting my murder, had the
fierceness of her soul been equal to the tremendous situation it had
created. This is my impression, and it is all I can give you: the whole
thing dawned gradually upon me, and as it got clearer and clearer I was
overwhelmed by a slow incredulous amazement. She made me believe her,
but there is no word that on my lips could render the effect of the
headlong and vehement whisper, of the soft, passionate tones, of the
sudden breathless pause and the appealing movement of the white arms
extended swiftly. They fell; the ghostly figure swayed like a slender
tree in the wind, the pale oval of the face drooped; it was impossible
to distinguish her features, the darkness of the eyes was unfathomable;
two wide sleeves uprose in the dark like unfolding wings, and she stood
silent, holding her head in her hands.'

After Jim questions the would-be assassins, he orders them to jump into the river. Harsh. Shortly after this adventure, Jim and Jewel start a romantic relationship. Back home, Jim starts telling Marlow about how his heroics have redeemed him from the Patna debacle, but Marlow is less than convinced. Seizing an opportunity to get some dirt on her man, Jewel pulls Marlow aside for a little heart to heart.

When Jim saw the other three men hiding in the storeroom, he ordered them to link arms and walk out. Jim followed the men and ordered them to the river, with Jewel by his side. He then told the three of them to jump into the river and take his greetings to Sherif Ali. Jim, left alone with Jewel, realized how much he loved her. He again promised himself never to leave Patusan, where he was loved and respected. At the same time, he remembered his shame. Neither Patusan nor Jewel could make him forget the disgrace of his past failure. One day Jewel met Marlow. She told him that she was terrified that Jim would leave her. She was afraid that he would return to the world outside, and she would be left in misery in Patusan. Her mother had warned her against white men before she died. Now she was afraid that Marlow had come to take Jim away. He tried to reassure her that Jim planned to stay in Patusan forever and reminded her that she was the only one in Patusan that doubted Jim's word. At the same time Marlow realized that she could kill him if he did not convince her that Jim was not leaving with him.

Notes In this chapter, Jewel is developed more fully. She is depicted as intelligent and thinking; but she is also shown to be naive. She has a great fear of the "unknown," the world outside of Patusan, for she has never been off the island. She is also truly afraid that Marlow has come to take Jim away from her. When he tries to reassure her, she has trouble understanding why Jim would want to stay in Patusan forever; but she hopes that he does. The fierceness of Jewel's love is brought out clearly. She thinks that Jim will eventually desert her, having been warned by her mother to never trust white men. She also would not hesitate to kill the person who came between her and her man. Marlow understands that his life is constantly in danger in Patusan; just as he could be killed by Raja Allang, he could also be killed by Jewel. Marlow also understands that Jim is now under Jewel's power, just as he is under the power of Patusan. The gradual darkening of the river and the night, erasing everything but vague outlines, is symbolic of Jim's being pulled into the darkness of Patusan. Marlow's idea that Jewel is overpowering Jim is a part of the fear of the native "other" which European imperialists entertained. As a woman, she is doubly "other" to the European man. Her partial European heritage seems to function only to make her an acceptable lover for Jim. Her characterization paints her as almost wholly "native."


'I was immensely touched: her youth, her ignorance, her pretty beauty,
which had the simple charm and the delicate vigour of a wild-flower,
her pathetic pleading, her helplessness, appealed to me with almost
the strength of her own unreasonable and natural fear. She feared the
unknown as we all do, and her ignorance made the unknown infinitely
vast. I stood for it, for myself, for you fellows, for all the world
that neither cared for Jim nor needed him in the least. I would have
been ready enough to answer for the indifference of the teeming earth
but for the reflection that he too belonged to this mysterious unknown
of her fears, and that, however much I stood for, I did not stand for
him. This made me hesitate. A murmur of hopeless pain unsealed my lips.
I began by protesting that I at least had come with no intention to take
Jim away.

'Why did I come, then? After a slight movement she was as still as a
marble statue in the night. I tried to explain briefly: friendship,
business; if I had any wish in the matter it was rather to see him stay.
. . . "They always leave us," she murmured. The breath of sad wisdom
from the grave which her piety wreathed with flowers seemed to pass in a
faint sigh. . . . Nothing, I said, could separate Jim from her.

'It is my firm conviction now; it was my conviction at the time; it was
the only possible conclusion from the facts of the case. It was not made
more certain by her whispering in a tone in which one speaks to oneself,
"He swore this to me." "Did you ask him?" I said.

'She made a step nearer. "No. Never!" She had asked him only to go away.
It was that night on the river-bank, after he had killed the man--after
she had flung the torch in the water because he was looking at her so.
There was too much light, and the danger was over then--for a little
time--for a little time. He said then he would not abandon her to
Cornelius. She had insisted. She wanted him to leave her. He said that
he could not--that it was impossible. He trembled while he said this.
She had felt him tremble. . . . One does not require much imagination
to see the scene, almost to hear their whispers. She was afraid for him
too. I believe that then she saw in him only a predestined victim of
dangers which she understood better than himself. Though by nothing
but his mere presence he had mastered her heart, had filled all
her thoughts, and had possessed himself of all her affections, she
underestimated his chances of success. It is obvious that at about
that time everybody was inclined to underestimate his chances. Strictly
speaking he didn't seem to have any. I know this was Cornelius's view.
He confessed that much to me in extenuation of the shady part he had
played in Sherif Ali's plot to do away with the infidel. Even Sherif Ali
himself, as it seems certain now, had nothing but contempt for the white
man. Jim was to be murdered mainly on religious grounds, I believe. A
simple act of piety (and so far infinitely meritorious), but otherwise
without much importance. In the last part of this opinion Cornelius
concurred. "Honourable sir," he argued abjectly on the only occasion he
managed to have me to himself--"honourable sir, how was I to know? Who
was he? What could he do to make people believe him? What did Mr. Stein
mean sending a boy like that to talk big to an old servant? I was ready
to save him for eighty dollars. Only eighty dollars. Why didn't the
fool go? Was I to get stabbed myself for the sake of a stranger?" He
grovelled in spirit before me, with his body doubled up insinuatingly
and his hands hovering about my knees, as though he were ready to
embrace my legs. "What's eighty dollars? An insignificant sum to give to
a defenceless old man ruined for life by a deceased she-devil." Here he
wept. But I anticipate. I didn't that night chance upon Cornelius till I
had had it out with the girl.

'She was unselfish when she urged Jim to leave her, and even to leave
the country. It was his danger that was foremost in her thoughts--even
if she wanted to save herself too--perhaps unconsciously: but then look
at the warning she had, look at the lesson that could be drawn from
every moment of the recently ended life in which all her memories were
centred. She fell at his feet--she told me so--there by the river, in
the discreet light of stars which showed nothing except great masses of
silent shadows, indefinite open spaces, and trembling faintly upon the
broad stream made it appear as wide as the sea. He had lifted her up.
He lifted her up, and then she would struggle no more. Of course not.
Strong arms, a tender voice, a stalwart shoulder to rest her poor lonely
little head upon. The need--the infinite need--of all this for the
aching heart, for the bewildered mind;--the promptings of youth--the
necessity of the moment. What would you have? One understands--unless
one is incapable of understanding anything under the sun. And so she was
content to be lifted up--and held. "You know--Jove! this is serious--no
nonsense in it!" as Jim had whispered hurriedly with a troubled
concerned face on the threshold of his house. I don't know so much about
nonsense, but there was nothing light-hearted in their romance: they
came together under the shadow of a life's disaster, like knight and
maiden meeting to exchange vows amongst haunted ruins. The starlight was
good enough for that story, a light so faint and remote that it cannot
resolve shadows into shapes, and show the other shore of a stream. I
did look upon the stream that night and from the very place; it rolled
silent and as black as Styx: the next day I went away, but I am not
likely to forget what it was she wanted to be saved from when she
entreated him to leave her while there was time. She told me what
it was, calmed--she was now too passionately interested for mere
excitement--in a voice as quiet in the obscurity as her white half-lost
figure. She told me, "I didn't want to die weeping." I thought I had not
heard aright.

'"You did not want to die weeping?" I repeated after her. "Like my
mother," she added readily. The outlines of her white shape did not
stir in the least. "My mother had wept bitterly before she died," she
explained. An inconceivable calmness seemed to have risen from the
ground around us, imperceptibly, like the still rise of a flood in the
night, obliterating the familiar landmarks of emotions. There came
upon me, as though I had felt myself losing my footing in the midst of
waters, a sudden dread, the dread of the unknown depths. She went on
explaining that, during the last moments, being alone with her mother,
she had to leave the side of the couch to go and set her back against
the door, in order to keep Cornelius out. He desired to get in, and
kept on drumming with both fists, only desisting now and again to shout
huskily, "Let me in! Let me in! Let me in!" In a far corner upon a few
mats the moribund woman, already speechless and unable to lift her arm,
rolled her head over, and with a feeble movement of her hand seemed to
command--"No! No!" and the obedient daughter, setting her shoulders with
all her strength against the door, was looking on. "The tears fell from
her eyes--and then she died," concluded the girl in an imperturbable
monotone, which more than anything else, more than the white statuesque
immobility of her person, more than mere words could do, troubled my
mind profoundly with the passive, irremediable horror of the scene. It
had the power to drive me out of my conception of existence, out of
that shelter each of us makes for himself to creep under in moments of
danger, as a tortoise withdraws within its shell. For a moment I had
a view of a world that seemed to wear a vast and dismal aspect of
disorder, while, in truth, thanks to our unwearied efforts, it is
as sunny an arrangement of small conveniences as the mind of man can
conceive. But still--it was only a moment: I went back into my shell
directly. One _must_--don't you know?--though I seemed to have lost all
my words in the chaos of dark thoughts I had contemplated for a second
or two beyond the pale. These came back, too, very soon, for words also
belong to the sheltering conception of light and order which is our
refuge. I had them ready at my disposal before she whispered softly, "He
swore he would never leave me, when we stood there alone! He swore to
me!". . . "And it is possible that you--you! do not believe him?"
I asked, sincerely reproachful, genuinely shocked. Why couldn't she
believe? Wherefore this craving for incertitude, this clinging to fear,
as if incertitude and fear had been the safeguards of her love. It was
monstrous. She should have made for herself a shelter of inexpugnable
peace out of that honest affection. She had not the knowledge--not the
skill perhaps. The night had come on apace; it had grown pitch-dark
where we were, so that without stirring she had faded like the
intangible form of a wistful and perverse spirit. And suddenly I heard
her quiet whisper again, "Other men had sworn the same thing." It was
like a meditative comment on some thoughts full of sadness, of awe. And
she added, still lower if possible, "My father did." She paused the
time to draw an inaudible breath. "Her father too." . . . These were the
things she knew! At once I said, "Ah! but he is not like that." This,
it seemed, she did not intend to dispute; but after a time the strange
still whisper wandering dreamily in the air stole into my ears. "Why
is he different? Is he better? Is he . . ." "Upon my word of honour," I
broke in, "I believe he is." We subdued our tones to a mysterious pitch.
Amongst the huts of Jim's workmen (they were mostly liberated slaves
from the Sherif's stockade) somebody started a shrill, drawling song.
Across the river a big fire (at Doramin's, I think) made a glowing
ball, completely isolated in the night. "Is he more true?" she murmured.
"Yes," I said. "More true than any other man," she repeated in
lingering accents. "Nobody here," I said, "would dream of doubting his
word--nobody would dare--except you."

'I think she made a movement at this. "More brave," she went on in a
changed tone. "Fear will never drive him away from you," I said a little
nervously. The song stopped short on a shrill note, and was succeeded by
several voices talking in the distance. Jim's voice too. I was struck
by her silence. "What has he been telling you? He has been telling you
something?" I asked. There was no answer. "What is it he told you?" I
insisted.

'"Do you think I can tell you? How am I to know? How am I to
understand?" she cried at last. There was a stir. I believe she was
wringing her hands. "There is something he can never forget."

'"So much the better for you," I said gloomily.

'"What is it? What is it?" She put an extraordinary force of appeal into
her supplicating tone. "He says he had been afraid. How can I believe
this? Am I a mad woman to believe this? You all remember something! You
all go back to it. What is it? You tell me! What is this thing? Is it
alive?--is it dead? I hate it. It is cruel. Has it got a face and a
voice--this calamity? Will he see it--will he hear it? In his sleep
perhaps when he cannot see me--and then arise and go. Ah! I shall never
forgive him. My mother had forgiven--but I, never! Will it be a sign--a
call?"

'It was a wonderful experience. She mistrusted his very slumbers--and
she seemed to think I could tell her why! Thus a poor mortal seduced by
the charm of an apparition might have tried to wring from another
ghost the tremendous secret of the claim the other world holds over a
disembodied soul astray amongst the passions of this earth. The very
ground on which I stood seemed to melt under my feet. And it was so
simple too; but if the spirits evoked by our fears and our unrest have
ever to vouch for each other's constancy before the forlorn magicians
that we are, then I--I alone of us dwellers in the flesh--have shuddered
in the hopeless chill of such a task. A sign, a call! How telling in its
expression was her ignorance. A few words! How she came to know them,
how she came to pronounce them, I can't imagine. Women find their
inspiration in the stress of moments that for us are merely awful,
absurd, or futile. To discover that she had a voice at all was enough
to strike awe into the heart. Had a spurned stone cried out in pain it
could not have appeared a greater and more pitiful miracle. These few
sounds wandering in the dark had made their two benighted lives tragic
to my mind. It was impossible to make her understand. I chafed silently
at my impotence. And Jim, too--poor devil! Who would need him? Who would
remember him? He had what he wanted. His very existence probably had
been forgotten by this time. They had mastered their fates. They were
tragic.

'Her immobility before me was clearly expectant, and my part was to
speak for my brother from the realm of forgetful shade. I was deeply
moved at my responsibility and at her distress. I would have given
anything for the power to soothe her frail soul, tormenting itself in
its invincible ignorance like a small bird beating about the cruel
wires of a cage. Nothing easier than to say, Have no fear! Nothing more
difficult. How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a spectre
through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral
throat? It is an enterprise you rush into while you dream, and are glad
to make your escape with wet hair and every limb shaking. The bullet is
not run, the blade not forged, the man not born; even the winged words
of truth drop at your feet like lumps of lead. You require for such a
desperate encounter an enchanted and poisoned shaft dipped in a lie too
subtle to be found on earth. An enterprise for a dream, my masters!

'I began my exorcism with a heavy heart, with a sort of sullen anger in
it too. Jim's voice, suddenly raised with a stern intonation, carried
across the courtyard, reproving the carelessness of some dumb sinner by
the river-side. Nothing--I said, speaking in a distinct murmur--there
could be nothing, in that unknown world she fancied so eager to rob her
of her happiness, there was nothing, neither living nor dead, there was
no face, no voice, no power, that could tear Jim from her side. I drew
breath and she whispered softly, "He told me so." "He told you the
truth," I said. "Nothing," she sighed out, and abruptly turned upon me
with a barely audible intensity of tone: "Why did you come to us from
out there? He speaks of you too often. You make me afraid. Do you--do
you want him?" A sort of stealthy fierceness had crept into our hurried
mutters. "I shall never come again," I said bitterly. "And I don't want
him. No one wants him." "No one," she repeated in a tone of doubt. "No
one," I affirmed, feeling myself swayed by some strange excitement. "You
think him strong, wise, courageous, great--why not believe him to be
true too? I shall go to-morrow--and that is the end. You shall never be
troubled by a voice from there again. This world you don't know is too
big to miss him. You understand? Too big. You've got his heart in your
hand. You must feel that. You must know that." "Yes, I know that," she
breathed out, hard and still, as a statue might whisper.

'I felt I had done nothing. And what is it that I had wished to do? I am
not sure now. At the time I was animated by an inexplicable ardour, as
if before some great and necessary task--the influence of the moment
upon my mental and emotional state. There are in all our lives
such moments, such influences, coming from the outside, as it were,
irresistible, incomprehensible--as if brought about by the mysterious
conjunctions of the planets. She owned, as I had put it to her, his
heart. She had that and everything else--if she could only believe it.
What I had to tell her was that in the whole world there was no one who
ever would need his heart, his mind, his hand. It was a common fate, and
yet it seemed an awful thing to say of any man. She listened without
a word, and her stillness now was like the protest of an invincible
unbelief. What need she care for the world beyond the forests? I asked.
From all the multitudes that peopled the vastness of that unknown there
would come, I assured her, as long as he lived, neither a call nor a
sign for him. Never. I was carried away. Never! Never! I remember with
wonder the sort of dogged fierceness I displayed. I had the illusion
of having got the spectre by the throat at last. Indeed the whole real
thing has left behind the detailed and amazing impression of a dream.
Why should she fear? She knew him to be strong, true, wise, brave. He
was all that. Certainly. He was more. He was great--invincible--and the
world did not want him, it had forgotten him, it would not even know
him.

'I stopped; the silence over Patusan was profound, and the feeble dry
sound of a paddle striking the side of a canoe somewhere in the middle
of the river seemed to make it infinite. "Why?" she murmured. I felt
that sort of rage one feels during a hard tussle. The spectre was trying
to slip out of my grasp. "Why?" she repeated louder; "tell me!" And as
I remained confounded, she stamped with her foot like a spoilt child.
"Why? Speak." "You want to know?" I asked in a fury. "Yes!" she cried.
"Because he is not good enough," I said brutally. During the moment's
pause I noticed the fire on the other shore blaze up, dilating the
circle of its glow like an amazed stare, and contract suddenly to a
red pin-point. I only knew how close to me she had been when I felt
the clutch of her fingers on my forearm. Without raising her voice, she
threw into it an infinity of scathing contempt, bitterness, and despair.

'"This is the very thing he said. . . . You lie!"

'The last two words she cried at me in the native dialect. "Hear me
out!" I entreated; she caught her breath tremulously, flung my arm away.
"Nobody, nobody is good enough," I began with the greatest earnestness.
I could hear the sobbing labour of her breath frightfully quickened. I
hung my head. What was the use? Footsteps were approaching; I slipped
away without another word. . . .'

As she questions Marlow about Jim, Jewel also reveals some of the horrors of her life, including Cornelius's abuse and her mother's tragic death. Jewel doesn't trust men, and that's why she is grilling Marlow about her fella. After she badgers him with one too many questions, Marlow finally snaps and says that Jim isn't good enough for her or anyone. That's his big secret. But Jewel refuses to believe Marlow. She would rather stand by her man. Though Marlow tries hard to salvage the situation, Jewel storms away.

Jewel confided in Marlow that she did not want to die weeping like her mother. Marlow was overwhelmed by the girl's fear and grief. He tried to convince her that Jim would never leave her, that Jim was truer than any man; but she remained doubtful and apprehensive. Her ignorance made her an object of pity. Marlow, wondering if Jim had told Jewel about the Patna, asked her what she knew about his past life. Jewel said she knew nothing, that he had only assured her that he would never leave her. Marlow explained that Jim had no one in the other world. When asked why, Marlow answered that he was not good enough. Jewel did not believe him.

Notes This chapter, an important one in the novel, has a very serious Mood. It shows the nature of Jewel's fears of being destroyed by a white man. Marlow assures Jewel that Jim will never leave Patusan. This is true, as long as no one discovers Jim's past or his guilt. Marlow feels that Jim does not permanently belong in Patusan; however, he knows Jim can never go back to England where he belongs. Marlow feels this fact makes Jim's existence tragic. Before he departs, he assures Jewel that he will never come back to Patusan, so she need not fear him.


Marlow swung his legs out, got up quickly, and staggered a little, as
though he had been set down after a rush through space. He leaned his
back against the balustrade and faced a disordered array of long cane
chairs. The bodies prone in them seemed startled out of their torpor by
his movement. One or two sat up as if alarmed; here and there a cigar
glowed yet; Marlow looked at them all with the eyes of a man returning
from the excessive remoteness of a dream. A throat was cleared; a calm
voice encouraged negligently, 'Well.'

'Nothing,' said Marlow with a slight start. 'He had told her--that's
all. She did not believe him--nothing more. As to myself, I do not know
whether it be just, proper, decent for me to rejoice or to be sorry. For
my part, I cannot say what I believed--indeed I don't know to this day,
and never shall probably. But what did the poor devil believe himself?
Truth shall prevail--don't you know Magna est veritas el . . . Yes, when
it gets a chance. There is a law, no doubt--and likewise a law regulates
your luck in the throwing of dice. It is not Justice the servant of men,
but accident, hazard, Fortune--the ally of patient Time--that holds an
even and scrupulous balance. Both of us had said the very same thing.
Did we both speak the truth--or one of us did--or neither? . . .'

Marlow paused, crossed his arms on his breast, and in a changed tone--

'She said we lied. Poor soul! Well--let's leave it to Chance, whose ally
is Time, that cannot be hurried, and whose enemy is Death, that will not
wait. I had retreated--a little cowed, I must own. I had tried a fall
with fear itself and got thrown--of course. I had only succeeded in
adding to her anguish the hint of some mysterious collusion, of an
inexplicable and incomprehensible conspiracy to keep her for ever in the
dark. And it had come easily, naturally, unavoidably, by his act, by her
own act! It was as though I had been shown the working of the implacable
destiny of which we are the victims--and the tools. It was appalling
to think of the girl whom I had left standing there motionless; Jim's
footsteps had a fateful sound as he tramped by, without seeing me, in
his heavy laced boots. "What? No lights!" he said in a loud, surprised
voice. "What are you doing in the dark--you two?" Next moment he caught
sight of her, I suppose. "Hallo, girl!" he cried cheerily. "Hallo, boy!"
she answered at once, with amazing pluck.

'This was their usual greeting to each other, and the bit of swagger she
would put into her rather high but sweet voice was very droll, pretty,
and childlike. It delighted Jim greatly. This was the last occasion on
which I heard them exchange this familiar hail, and it struck a chill
into my heart. There was the high sweet voice, the pretty effort, the
swagger; but it all seemed to die out prematurely, and the playful call
sounded like a moan. It was too confoundedly awful. "What have you done
with Marlow?" Jim was asking; and then, "Gone down--has he? Funny I
didn't meet him. . . . You there, Marlow?"

'I didn't answer. I wasn't going in--not yet at any rate. I really
couldn't. While he was calling me I was engaged in making my escape
through a little gate leading out upon a stretch of newly cleared
ground. No; I couldn't face them yet. I walked hastily with lowered head
along a trodden path. The ground rose gently, the few big trees had been
felled, the undergrowth had been cut down and the grass fired. He had a
mind to try a coffee-plantation there. The big hill, rearing its double
summit coal-black in the clear yellow glow of the rising moon, seemed
to cast its shadow upon the ground prepared for that experiment. He was
going to try ever so many experiments; I had admired his energy, his
enterprise, and his shrewdness. Nothing on earth seemed less real now
than his plans, his energy, and his enthusiasm; and raising my eyes, I
saw part of the moon glittering through the bushes at the bottom of the
chasm. For a moment it looked as though the smooth disc, falling from
its place in the sky upon the earth, had rolled to the bottom of that
precipice: its ascending movement was like a leisurely rebound; it
disengaged itself from the tangle of twigs; the bare contorted limb of
some tree, growing on the slope, made a black crack right across its
face. It threw its level rays afar as if from a cavern, and in this
mournful eclipse-like light the stumps of felled trees uprose very dark,
the heavy shadows fell at my feet on all sides, my own moving shadow,
and across my path the shadow of the solitary grave perpetually
garlanded with flowers. In the darkened moonlight the interlaced
blossoms took on shapes foreign to one's memory and colours indefinable
to the eye, as though they had been special flowers gathered by no man,
grown not in this world, and destined for the use of the dead alone.
Their powerful scent hung in the warm air, making it thick and heavy
like the fumes of incense. The lumps of white coral shone round the dark
mound like a chaplet of bleached skulls, and everything around was so
quiet that when I stood still all sound and all movement in the world
seemed to come to an end.

'It was a great peace, as if the earth had been one grave, and for a
time I stood there thinking mostly of the living who, buried in remote
places out of the knowledge of mankind, still are fated to share in its
tragic or grotesque miseries. In its noble struggles too--who knows?
The human heart is vast enough to contain all the world. It is valiant
enough to bear the burden, but where is the courage that would cast it
off?

'I suppose I must have fallen into a sentimental mood; I only know that
I stood there long enough for the sense of utter solitude to get hold
of me so completely that all I had lately seen, all I had heard, and the
very human speech itself, seemed to have passed away out of existence,
living only for a while longer in my memory, as though I had been the
last of mankind. It was a strange and melancholy illusion, evolved
half-consciously like all our illusions, which I suspect only to be
visions of remote unattainable truth, seen dimly. This was, indeed, one
of the lost, forgotten, unknown places of the earth; I had looked under
its obscure surface; and I felt that when to-morrow I had left it for
ever, it would slip out of existence, to live only in my memory till I
myself passed into oblivion. I have that feeling about me now; perhaps
it is that feeling which has incited me to tell you the story, to try to
hand over to you, as it were, its very existence, its reality--the truth
disclosed in a moment of illusion.

'Cornelius broke upon it. He bolted out, vermin-like, from the long
grass growing in a depression of the ground. I believe his house was
rotting somewhere near by, though I've never seen it, not having been
far enough in that direction. He ran towards me upon the path; his feet,
shod in dirty white shoes, twinkled on the dark earth; he pulled himself
up, and began to whine and cringe under a tall stove-pipe hat. His
dried-up little carcass was swallowed up, totally lost, in a suit of
black broadcloth. That was his costume for holidays and ceremonies, and
it reminded me that this was the fourth Sunday I had spent in Patusan.
All the time of my stay I had been vaguely aware of his desire to
confide in me, if he only could get me all to himself. He hung about
with an eager craving look on his sour yellow little face; but his
timidity had kept him back as much as my natural reluctance to have
anything to do with such an unsavoury creature. He would have succeeded,
nevertheless, had he not been so ready to slink off as soon as you
looked at him. He would slink off before Jim's severe gaze, before my
own, which I tried to make indifferent, even before Tamb' Itam's surly,
superior glance. He was perpetually slinking away; whenever seen he was
seen moving off deviously, his face over his shoulder, with either a
mistrustful snarl or a woe-begone, piteous, mute aspect; but no assumed
expression could conceal this innate irremediable abjectness of his
nature, any more than an arrangement of clothing can conceal some
monstrous deformity of the body.

'I don't know whether it was the demoralisation of my utter defeat in
my encounter with a spectre of fear less than an hour ago, but I let
him capture me without even a show of resistance. I was doomed to be
the recipient of confidences, and to be confronted with unanswerable
questions. It was trying; but the contempt, the unreasoned contempt, the
man's appearance provoked, made it easier to bear. He couldn't possibly
matter. Nothing mattered, since I had made up my mind that Jim, for
whom alone I cared, had at last mastered his fate. He had told me he
was satisfied . . . nearly. This is going further than most of us dare.
I--who have the right to think myself good enough--dare not. Neither
does any of you here, I suppose? . . .'

Marlow paused, as if expecting an answer. Nobody spoke.

'Quite right,' he began again. 'Let no soul know, since the truth can be
wrung out of us only by some cruel, little, awful catastrophe. But he
is one of us, and he could say he was satisfied . . . nearly. Just
fancy this! Nearly satisfied. One could almost envy him his catastrophe.
Nearly satisfied. After this nothing could matter. It did not matter who
suspected him, who trusted him, who loved him, who hated him--especially
as it was Cornelius who hated him.

'Yet after all this was a kind of recognition. You shall judge of a man
by his foes as well as by his friends, and this enemy of Jim was such as
no decent man would be ashamed to own, without, however, making too
much of him. This was the view Jim took, and in which I shared; but Jim
disregarded him on general grounds. "My dear Marlow," he said, "I feel
that if I go straight nothing can touch me. Indeed I do. Now you have
been long enough here to have a good look round--and, frankly, don't
you think I am pretty safe? It all depends upon me, and, by Jove! I have
lots of confidence in myself. The worst thing he could do would be to
kill me, I suppose. I don't think for a moment he would. He couldn't,
you know--not if I were myself to hand him a loaded rifle for the
purpose, and then turn my back on him. That's the sort of thing he is.
And suppose he would--suppose he could? Well--what of that? I didn't
come here flying for my life--did I? I came here to set my back against
the wall, and I am going to stay here . . ."

'"Till you are _quite_ satisfied," I struck in.

'We were sitting at the time under the roof in the stern of his boat;
twenty paddles flashed like one, ten on a side, striking the water with
a single splash, while behind our backs Tamb' Itam dipped silently right
and left, and stared right down the river, attentive to keep the long
canoe in the greatest strength of the current. Jim bowed his head, and
our last talk seemed to flicker out for good. He was seeing me off as
far as the mouth of the river. The schooner had left the day before,
working down and drifting on the ebb, while I had prolonged my stay
overnight. And now he was seeing me off.

'Jim had been a little angry with me for mentioning Cornelius at all.
I had not, in truth, said much. The man was too insignificant to be
dangerous, though he was as full of hate as he could hold. He had called
me "honourable sir" at every second sentence, and had whined at my elbow
as he followed me from the grave of his "late wife" to the gate of Jim's
compound. He declared himself the most unhappy of men, a victim, crushed
like a worm; he entreated me to look at him. I wouldn't turn my head to
do so; but I could see out of the corner of my eye his obsequious shadow
gliding after mine, while the moon, suspended on our right hand, seemed
to gloat serenely upon the spectacle. He tried to explain--as I've told
you--his share in the events of the memorable night. It was a matter of
expediency. How could he know who was going to get the upper hand? "I
would have saved him, honourable sir! I would have saved him for eighty
dollars," he protested in dulcet tones, keeping a pace behind me. "He
has saved himself," I said, "and he has forgiven you." I heard a sort of
tittering, and turned upon him; at once he appeared ready to take to his
heels. "What are you laughing at?" I asked, standing still. "Don't be
deceived, honourable sir!" he shrieked, seemingly losing all control
over his feelings. "_He_ save himself! He knows nothing, honourable
sir--nothing whatever. Who is he? What does he want here--the big thief?
What does he want here? He throws dust into everybody's eyes; he throws
dust into your eyes, honourable sir; but he can't throw dust into my
eyes. He is a big fool, honourable sir." I laughed contemptuously, and,
turning on my heel, began to walk on again. He ran up to my elbow and
whispered forcibly, "He's no more than a little child here--like a
little child--a little child." Of course I didn't take the slightest
notice, and seeing the time pressed, because we were approaching the
bamboo fence that glittered over the blackened ground of the clearing,
he came to the point. He commenced by being abjectly lachrymose. His
great misfortunes had affected his head. He hoped I would kindly forget
what nothing but his troubles made him say. He didn't mean anything
by it; only the honourable sir did not know what it was to be ruined,
broken down, trampled upon. After this introduction he approached the
matter near his heart, but in such a rambling, ejaculatory, craven
fashion, that for a long time I couldn't make out what he was driving
at. He wanted me to intercede with Jim in his favour. It seemed, too,
to be some sort of money affair. I heard time and again the words,
"Moderate provision--suitable present." He seemed to be claiming value
for something, and he even went the length of saying with some warmth
that life was not worth having if a man were to be robbed of everything.
I did not breathe a word, of course, but neither did I stop my ears.
The gist of the affair, which became clear to me gradually, was in this,
that he regarded himself as entitled to some money in exchange for the
girl. He had brought her up. Somebody else's child. Great trouble and
pains--old man now--suitable present. If the honourable sir would say
a word. . . . I stood still to look at him with curiosity, and fearful
lest I should think him extortionate, I suppose, he hastily brought
himself to make a concession. In consideration of a "suitable present"
given at once, he would, he declared, be willing to undertake the charge
of the girl, "without any other provision--when the time came for the
gentleman to go home." His little yellow face, all crumpled as though it
had been squeezed together, expressed the most anxious, eager avarice.
His voice whined coaxingly, "No more trouble--natural guardian--a sum of
money . . ."

'I stood there and marvelled. That kind of thing, with him, was
evidently a vocation. I discovered suddenly in his cringing attitude
a sort of assurance, as though he had been all his life dealing in
certitudes. He must have thought I was dispassionately considering his
proposal, because he became as sweet as honey. "Every gentleman made
a provision when the time came to go home," he began insinuatingly. I
slammed the little gate. "In this case, Mr. Cornelius," I said, "the
time will never come." He took a few seconds to gather this in. "What!"
he fairly squealed. "Why," I continued from my side of the gate,
"haven't you heard him say so himself? He will never go home." "Oh! this
is too much," he shouted. He would not address me as "honoured sir" any
more. He was very still for a time, and then without a trace of humility
began very low: "Never go--ah! He--he--he comes here devil knows
from where--comes here--devil knows why--to trample on me till I
die--ah--trample" (he stamped softly with both feet), "trample like
this--nobody knows why--till I die. . . ." His voice became quite
extinct; he was bothered by a little cough; he came up close to the
fence and told me, dropping into a confidential and piteous tone,
that he would not be trampled upon. "Patience--patience," he muttered,
striking his breast. I had done laughing at him, but unexpectedly he
treated me to a wild cracked burst of it. "Ha! ha! ha! We shall see! We
shall see! What! Steal from me! Steal from me everything! Everything!
Everything!" His head drooped on one shoulder, his hands were hanging
before him lightly clasped. One would have thought he had cherished
the girl with surpassing love, that his spirit had been crushed and his
heart broken by the most cruel of spoliations. Suddenly he lifted his
head and shot out an infamous word. "Like her mother--she is like her
deceitful mother. Exactly. In her face, too. In her face. The devil!"
He leaned his forehead against the fence, and in that position
uttered threats and horrible blasphemies in Portuguese in very weak
ejaculations, mingled with miserable plaints and groans, coming out with
a heave of the shoulders as though he had been overtaken by a deadly fit
of sickness. It was an inexpressibly grotesque and vile performance,
and I hastened away. He tried to shout something after me. Some
disparagement of Jim, I believe--not too loud though, we were too near
the house. All I heard distinctly was, "No more than a little child--a
little child."'

Marlow prepares to leave Patusan. He goes to visit Jewel's mother's grave. Cornelius ambushes Marlow there and tries to swindle some money out of him. He tries to get some cash to continue to take care of Jewel after Jim leaves. Marlow says Jim isn't leaving, and Cornelius raves on about how Jim sucks.

Marlow reflects on Jim's many plans for Patusan, including the building of a coffee plantation. He is totally amazed at Jim's enthusiasm, level of energy, and optimism. It is almost hard to believe that Jim fits in so well on this mysterious island and leads a blissful existence. He has truly proven that "he is one of us." Marlow himself feels almost lost and never comfortable during his Patusan visit. Marlow's reverie is interrupted by Cornelius, who approaches "vermin-like" and wants to talk. Marlow remembers that Jim considered Cornelius a coward, but on this night the despicable character talks courageously. He wants Marlow to convince Jim to give him some money in exchange for Jewel. He had raised her, although she was not really his. He feels he should be monetarily rewarded by Jim before he departs Patusan. Marlow explains to the old man that Jim has no intention of leaving the island. Cornelius tells him that Jim is a fool to stay in Patusan and urges Marlow to compel Jim to leave. He even promises to take care of Jewel when Jim departs. Marlow again insists that Jim will never leave Patusan. Cornelius bemoans his fate, stating that he is being trampled by Jim. As Cornelius swears and threatens, Marlow takes his leave.

Notes In this chapter the gloominess deepens and the darkness begins to close in. Conrad continues to build an atmosphere of suspense and impending tragedy. Marlow reveals that Jim told Jewel about the Patna, but she did not believe him; she thinks he is the bravest and wisest man she has ever known. Marlow also feels somewhat smug over Jim's accomplishments; he is glad to know that his earlier trust in Jim and his basic goodness was merited. He is now able to leave Jim to his own destiny; but there is a hint that the end will not be good. Cornelius is reintroduced to the book, for he seeks out Marlow for a conversation. It is obvious that he is still a rogue and a villain. He wants Jim to pay him some money for Jewel. He also tells Marlow that Jim is childish and foolish and begs Marlow to take Jim away. When Marlow tells him that Jim will never leave Patusan, the jealous Cornelius swears loudly and threatens violence. Marlow leaves the man, incorrectly judging him as "too insignificant to be dangerous." In the end, Cornelius will greatly contribute to Jim's undoing.


'But next morning, at the first bend of the river shutting off the
houses of Patusan, all this dropped out of my sight bodily, with its
colour, its design, and its meaning, like a picture created by fancy on
a canvas, upon which, after long contemplation, you turn your back for
the last time. It remains in the memory motionless, unfaded, with its
life arrested, in an unchanging light. There are the ambitions, the
fears, the hate, the hopes, and they remain in my mind just as I had
seen them--intense and as if for ever suspended in their expression. I
had turned away from the picture and was going back to the world where
events move, men change, light flickers, life flows in a clear stream,
no matter whether over mud or over stones. I wasn't going to dive into
it; I would have enough to do to keep my head above the surface. But
as to what I was leaving behind, I cannot imagine any alteration. The
immense and magnanimous Doramin and his little motherly witch of a
wife, gazing together upon the land and nursing secretly their dreams
of parental ambition; Tunku Allang, wizened and greatly perplexed;
Dain Waris, intelligent and brave, with his faith in Jim, with his
firm glance and his ironic friendliness; the girl, absorbed in her
frightened, suspicious adoration; Tamb' Itam, surly and faithful;
Cornelius, leaning his forehead against the fence under the moonlight--I
am certain of them. They exist as if under an enchanter's wand. But the
figure round which all these are grouped--that one lives, and I am not
certain of him. No magician's wand can immobilise him under my eyes. He
is one of us.

'Jim, as I've told you, accompanied me on the first stage of my journey
back to the world he had renounced, and the way at times seemed to
lead through the very heart of untouched wilderness. The empty reaches
sparkled under the high sun; between the high walls of vegetation the
heat drowsed upon the water, and the boat, impelled vigorously, cut her
way through the air that seemed to have settled dense and warm under the
shelter of lofty trees.

'The shadow of the impending separation had already put an immense space
between us, and when we spoke it was with an effort, as if to force our
low voices across a vast and increasing distance. The boat fairly flew;
we sweltered side by side in the stagnant superheated air; the smell of
mud, of mush, the primeval smell of fecund earth, seemed to sting our
faces; till suddenly at a bend it was as if a great hand far away had
lifted a heavy curtain, had flung open un immense portal. The light
itself seemed to stir, the sky above our heads widened, a far-off murmur
reached our ears, a freshness enveloped us, filled our lungs, quickened
our thoughts, our blood, our regrets--and, straight ahead, the forests
sank down against the dark-blue ridge of the sea.

'I breathed deeply, I revelled in the vastness of the opened horizon, in
the different atmosphere that seemed to vibrate with the toil of life,
with the energy of an impeccable world. This sky and this sea were open
to me. The girl was right--there was a sign, a call in them--something
to which I responded with every fibre of my being. I let my eyes roam
through space, like a man released from bonds who stretches his cramped
limbs, runs, leaps, responds to the inspiring elation of freedom. "This
is glorious!" I cried, and then I looked at the sinner by my side. He
sat with his head sunk on his breast and said "Yes," without raising his
eyes, as if afraid to see writ large on the clear sky of the offing the
reproach of his romantic conscience.

'I remember the smallest details of that afternoon. We landed on a bit
of white beach. It was backed by a low cliff wooded on the brow, draped
in creepers to the very foot. Below us the plain of the sea, of a serene
and intense blue, stretched with a slight upward tilt to the thread-like
horizon drawn at the height of our eyes. Great waves of glitter blew
lightly along the pitted dark surface, as swift as feathers chased by
the breeze. A chain of islands sat broken and massive facing the wide
estuary, displayed in a sheet of pale glassy water reflecting faithfully
the contour of the shore. High in the colourless sunshine a solitary
bird, all black, hovered, dropping and soaring above the same spot with
a slight rocking motion of the wings. A ragged, sooty bunch of flimsy
mat hovels was perched over its own inverted image upon a crooked
multitude of high piles the colour of ebony. A tiny black canoe put off
from amongst them with two tiny men, all black, who toiled exceedingly,
striking down at the pale water: and the canoe seemed to slide painfully
on a mirror. This bunch of miserable hovels was the fishing village
that boasted of the white lord's especial protection, and the two men
crossing over were the old headman and his son-in-law. They landed
and walked up to us on the white sand, lean, dark-brown as if dried
in smoke, with ashy patches on the skin of their naked shoulders
and breasts. Their heads were bound in dirty but carefully folded
headkerchiefs, and the old man began at once to state a complaint,
voluble, stretching a lank arm, screwing up at Jim his old bleared eyes
confidently. The Rajah's people would not leave them alone; there had
been some trouble about a lot of turtles' eggs his people had collected
on the islets there--and leaning at arm's-length upon his paddle, he
pointed with a brown skinny hand over the sea. Jim listened for a time
without looking up, and at last told him gently to wait. He would hear
him by-and-by. They withdrew obediently to some little distance, and sat
on their heels, with their paddles lying before them on the sand; the
silvery gleams in their eyes followed our movements patiently; and the
immensity of the outspread sea, the stillness of the coast, passing
north and south beyond the limits of my vision, made up one colossal
Presence watching us four dwarfs isolated on a strip of glistening sand.

'"The trouble is," remarked Jim moodily, "that for generations these
beggars of fishermen in that village there had been considered as the
Rajah's personal slaves--and the old rip can't get it into his head that
. . ."

'He paused. "That you have changed all that," I said.

'"Yes I've changed all that," he muttered in a gloomy voice.

'"You have had your opportunity," I pursued.

'"Have I?" he said. "Well, yes. I suppose so. Yes. I have got back my
confidence in myself--a good name--yet sometimes I wish . . . No! I
shall hold what I've got. Can't expect anything more." He flung his arm
out towards the sea. "Not out there anyhow." He stamped his foot upon
the sand. "This is my limit, because nothing less will do."

'We continued pacing the beach. "Yes, I've changed all that," he went
on, with a sidelong glance at the two patient squatting fishermen; "but
only try to think what it would be if I went away. Jove! can't you see
it? Hell loose. No! To-morrow I shall go and take my chance of drinking
that silly old Tunku Allang's coffee, and I shall make no end of fuss
over these rotten turtles' eggs. No. I can't say--enough. Never. I must
go on, go on for ever holding up my end, to feel sure that nothing can
touch me. I must stick to their belief in me to feel safe and to--to"
. . . He cast about for a word, seemed to look for it on the sea . . .
"to keep in touch with" . . . His voice sank suddenly to a murmur . . .
"with those whom, perhaps, I shall never see any more. With--with--you,
for instance."

'I was profoundly humbled by his words. "For God's sake," I said, "don't
set me up, my dear fellow; just look to yourself." I felt a gratitude,
an affection, for that straggler whose eyes had singled me out, keeping
my place in the ranks of an insignificant multitude. How little that
was to boast of, after all! I turned my burning face away; under the
low sun, glowing, darkened and crimson, like un ember snatched from the
fire, the sea lay outspread, offering all its immense stillness to the
approach of the fiery orb. Twice he was going to speak, but checked
himself; at last, as if he had found a formula--

'"I shall be faithful," he said quietly. "I shall be faithful," he
repeated, without looking at me, but for the first time letting his eyes
wander upon the waters, whose blueness had changed to a gloomy purple
under the fires of sunset. Ah! he was romantic, romantic. I recalled
some words of Stein's. . . . "In the destructive element immerse! . . .
To follow the dream, and again to follow the dream--and
so--always--usque ad finem . . ." He was romantic, but none the
less true. Who could tell what forms, what visions, what faces, what
forgiveness he could see in the glow of the west! . . . A small boat,
leaving the schooner, moved slowly, with a regular beat of two oars,
towards the sandbank to take me off. "And then there's Jewel," he said,
out of the great silence of earth, sky, and sea, which had mastered my
very thoughts so that his voice made me start. "There's Jewel." "Yes,"
I murmured. "I need not tell you what she is to me," he pursued.
"You've seen. In time she will come to understand . . ." "I hope so," I
interrupted. "She trusts me, too," he mused, and then changed his tone.
"When shall we meet next, I wonder?" he said.

'"Never--unless you come out," I answered, avoiding his glance. He
didn't seem to be surprised; he kept very quiet for a while.

'"Good-bye, then," he said, after a pause. "Perhaps it's just as well."

'We shook hands, and I walked to the boat, which waited with her nose
on the beach. The schooner, her mainsail set and jib-sheet to windward,
curveted on the purple sea; there was a rosy tinge on her sails. "Will
you be going home again soon?" asked Jim, just as I swung my leg over
the gunwale. "In a year or so if I live," I said. The forefoot grated on
the sand, the boat floated, the wet oars flashed and dipped once, twice.
Jim, at the water's edge, raised his voice. "Tell them . . ." he began.
I signed to the men to cease rowing, and waited in wonder. Tell who? The
half-submerged sun faced him; I could see its red gleam in his eyes that
looked dumbly at me. . . . "No--nothing," he said, and with a slight
wave of his hand motioned the boat away. I did not look again at the
shore till I had clambered on board the schooner.

'By that time the sun had set. The twilight lay over the east, and the
coast, turned black, extended infinitely its sombre wall that seemed the
very stronghold of the night; the western horizon was one great blaze of
gold and crimson in which a big detached cloud floated dark and still,
casting a slaty shadow on the water beneath, and I saw Jim on the beach
watching the schooner fall off and gather headway.

'The two half-naked fishermen had arisen as soon as I had gone; they
were no doubt pouring the plaint of their trifling, miserable, oppressed
lives into the ears of the white lord, and no doubt he was listening to
it, making it his own, for was it not a part of his luck--the luck "from
the word Go"--the luck to which he had assured me he was so completely
equal? They, too, I should think, were in luck, and I was sure their
pertinacity would be equal to it. Their dark-skinned bodies vanished on
the dark background long before I had lost sight of their protector. He
was white from head to foot, and remained persistently visible with
the stronghold of the night at his back, the sea at his feet, the
opportunity by his side--still veiled. What do you say? Was it still
veiled? I don't know. For me that white figure in the stillness of coast
and sea seemed to stand at the heart of a vast enigma. The twilight
was ebbing fast from the sky above his head, the strip of sand had sunk
already under his feet, he himself appeared no bigger than a child--then
only a speck, a tiny white speck, that seemed to catch all the light
left in a darkened world. . . . And, suddenly, I lost him. . . .

After the world's worst vacation, Marlow splits from Patusan. Jim accompanies Marlow to the shore to see him off and starts to give Marlow a message to take back home to his family. But at the last moment he stops himself and opts to just say good-bye. As he describes how he watched Jim waving from shore, Marlow tells us that this is the last time he ever saw Jim. So ends the storytelling session on the verandah.

When it was time for Marlow to leave Patusan, Jim went down to the river and actually traveled a short way with his departing friend. When Jim deboarded, a fisherman complained to him about Raja Allang's men troubling him. Jim told Marlow that he would go and remind the Raja that things had changed in Patusan and that he needed to back off. The two men shook hands, and Marlow boarded his schooner. Jim felt depressed because of Marlow's departure. He knew Marlow would never return to Patusan. As Marlow sailed away, he remembered what Stein had said: "In the destructive element immerse!" Jim had done exactly that. As he looked back on his friend, Jim, appeared as a tiny white speck which seemed to catch all the light left in the darkened world; and then he disappeared from view, lost forever to Marlow.

Notes Jim is depressed at Marlow's departure, for he has been a friend to disperse the loneliness and a contact with the outside world. On the other hand, Marlow feels relieved to be leaving Patusan, where he felt stifled and afraid. He knows he will never return to the island and believes he will never see Jim again. It is important to notice how the departing Marlow views Jim as a tiny white speck. Jim is immersed in the darkness; the night will swallow him, but his light will never go out. The gloomy Mood intensifies in this chapter, further foreshadowing the impending tragedy. Almost everything is colored black; there are black figures, a black bird, a black canoe, and black men. For Conrad, everything black or dark is evil, fearful, and ominous; by contrast, white symbolizes goodness, innocence, and purity. This philosophy, a clear statement of white supremacy, leads Conrad to believe that the whites of Europe are preferable to the dark Malaysians. Throughout the novel, Marlow has told the story through first person narration, without entering Jim's mind. This chapter marks an end to the story from Marlow's objective point of view; the rest of the story will be told through reports and documents. This chapter also marks the last meeting of Jim and Marlow in person.