Lord Jim
under me was full of talking noises. Suddenly the skipper howled ‘Mein
Gott! The squall! The squall! Shove off!’ With the first hiss of rain,
and the first gust of wind, they screamed, ‘Jump, George! We’ll catch
you! Jump!’ The ship began a slow plunge; the rain swept over her like
a broken sea; my cap flew off my head; my breath was driven back into
my throat. I heard as if I had been on the top of a tower another wild
screech, ‘Geo-o-o-orge! Oh, jump!’ She was going down, down, head first
under me. . . .”
‘He raised his hand deliberately to his face, and made picking motions
with his fingers as though he had been bothered with cobwebs, and
afterwards he looked into the open palm for quite half a second before
he blurted out--
‘“I had jumped . . .” He checked himself, averted his gaze. . . . “It
seems,” he added.
‘His clear blue eyes turned to me with a piteous stare, and looking at
him standing before me, dumfounded and hurt, I was oppressed by a sad
sense of resigned wisdom, mingled with the amused and profound pity of
an old man helpless before a childish disaster.
‘“Looks like it,” I muttered.
‘“I knew nothing about it till I looked up,” he explained hastily. And
that’s possible, too. You had to listen to him as you would to a small
boy in trouble. He didn’t know. It had happened somehow. It would never
happen again. He had landed partly on somebody and fallen across a
thwart. He felt as though all his ribs on his left side must be broken;
then he rolled over, and saw vaguely the ship he had deserted uprising
above him, with the red side-light glowing large in the rain like a fire
on the brow of a hill seen through a mist. “She seemed higher than a
wall; she loomed like a cliff over the boat . . . I wished I could die,”
he cried. “There was no going back. It was as if I had jumped into a
well--into an everlasting deep hole. . . .”’
CHAPTER 10
‘He locked his fingers together and tore them apart. Nothing could be
more true: he had indeed jumped into an everlasting deep hole. He had
tumbled from a height he could never scale again. By that time the boat
had gone driving forward past the bows. It was too dark just then
for them to see each other, and, moreover, they were blinded and half
drowned with rain. He told me it was like being swept by a flood through
a cavern. They turned their backs to the squall; the skipper, it seems,
got an oar over the stern to keep the boat before it, and for two or
three minutes the end of the world had come through a deluge in a pitchy
blackness. The sea hissed “like twenty thousand kettles.” That’s his
simile, not mine. I fancy there was not much wind after the first gust;
and he himself had admitted at the inquiry that the sea never got up
that night to any extent. He crouched down in the bows and stole a
furtive glance back. He saw just one yellow gleam of the mast-head light
high up and blurred like a last star ready to dissolve. “It terrified me
to see it still there,” he said. That’s what he said. What terrified him
was the thought that the drowning was not over yet. No doubt he wanted
to be done with that abomination as quickly as possible. Nobody in the
boat made a sound. In the dark she seemed to fly, but of course she
could not have had much way. Then the shower swept ahead, and the great,
distracting, hissing noise followed the rain into distance and died out.
There was nothing to be heard then but the slight wash about the boat’s
sides. Somebody’s teeth were chattering violently. A hand touched his
back. A faint voice said, “You there?” Another cried out shakily,
“She’s gone!” and they all stood up together to look astern. They saw no
lights. All was black. A thin cold drizzle was driving into their faces.
The boat lurched slightly. The teeth chattered faster, stopped, and
began again twice before the man could master his shiver sufficiently to
say, “Ju-ju-st in ti-ti-me. . . . Brrrr.” He recognised the voice of the
chief engineer saying surlily, “I saw her go down. I happened to turn my
head.” The wind had dropped almost completely.
‘They watched in the dark with their heads half turned to windward as if
expecting to hear cries. At first he was thankful the night had covered
up the scene before his eyes, and then to know of it and yet to have
seen and heard nothing appeared somehow the culminating point of an
awful misfortune. “Strange, isn’t it?” he murmured, interrupting himself
in his disjointed narrative.
‘It did not seem so strange to me. He must have had an unconscious
conviction that the reality could not be half as bad, not half as
anguishing, appalling, and vengeful as the created terror of his
imagination. I believe that, in this first moment, his heart was wrung
with all the suffering, that his soul knew the accumulated savour of all
the fear, all the horror, all the despair of eight hundred human beings
pounced upon in the night by a sudden and violent death, else why should
he have said, “It seemed to me that I must jump out of that accursed
boat and swim back to see--half a mile--more--any distance--to the very
spot . . .”? Why this impulse? Do you see the significance? Why back to
the very spot? Why not drown alongside--if he meant drowning? Why back
to the very spot, to see--as if his imagination had to be soothed by the
assurance that all was over before death could bring relief? I defy any
one of you to offer another explanation. It was one of those bizarre and
exciting glimpses through the fog. It was an extraordinary disclosure.
He let it out as the most natural thing one could say. He fought down
that impulse and then he became conscious of the silence. He mentioned
this to me. A silence of the sea, of the sky, merged into one indefinite
immensity still as death around these saved, palpitating lives.
“You might have heard a pin drop in the boat,” he said with a queer
contraction of his lips, like a man trying to master his sensibilities
while relating some extremely moving fact. A silence! God alone, who had
willed him as he was, knows what he made of it in his heart. “I didn’t
think any spot on earth could be so still,” he said. “You couldn’t
distinguish the sea from the sky; there was nothing to see and nothing
to hear. Not a glimmer, not a shape, not a sound. You could have
believed that every bit of dry land had gone to the bottom; that every
man on earth but I and these beggars in the boat had got drowned.” He
leaned over the table with his knuckles propped amongst coffee-cups,
liqueur-glasses, cigar-ends. “I seemed to believe it. Everything was
gone and--all was over . . .” he fetched a deep sigh . . . “with me.”’
Marlow sat up abruptly and flung away his cheroot with force. It made
a darting red trail like a toy rocket fired through the drapery of
creepers. Nobody stirred.
‘Hey, what do you think of it?’ he cried with sudden animation. ‘Wasn’t
he true to himself, wasn’t he? His saved life was over for want of
ground under his feet, for want of sights for his eyes, for want of
voices in his ears. Annihilation--hey! And all the time it was only a
clouded sky, a sea that did not break, the air that did not stir. Only a
night; only a silence.
‘It lasted for a while, and then they were suddenly and unanimously
moved to make a noise over their escape. “I knew from the first she
would go.” “Not a minute too soon.” “A narrow squeak, b’gosh!” He said
nothing, but the breeze that had dropped came back, a gentle draught
freshened steadily, and the sea joined its murmuring voice to this
talkative reaction succeeding the dumb moments of awe. She was gone! She
was gone! Not a doubt of it. Nobody could have helped. They repeated the
same words over and over again as though they couldn’t stop themselves.
Never doubted she would go. The lights were gone. No mistake. The
lights were gone. Couldn’t expect anything else. She had to go. . . . He
noticed that they talked as though they had left behind them nothing but
an empty ship. They concluded she would not have been long when she once
started. It seemed to cause them some sort of satisfaction. They assured
each other that she couldn’t have been long about it--“Just shot down
like a flat-iron.” The chief engineer declared that the mast-head light
at the moment of sinking seemed to drop “like a lighted match you throw
down.” At this the second laughed hysterically. “I am g-g-glad, I am
gla-a-a-d.” His teeth went on “like an electric rattle,” said Jim,
“and all at once he began to cry. He wept and blubbered like a child,
catching his breath and sobbing ‘Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!’ He would
be quiet for a while and start suddenly, ‘Oh, my poor arm! oh, my poor
a-a-a-arm!’ I felt I could knock him down. Some of them sat in the
stern-sheets. I could just make out their shapes. Voices came to me,
mumble, mumble, grunt, grunt. All this seemed very hard to bear. I was
cold too. And I could do nothing. I thought that if I moved I would have
to go over the side and . . .”
‘His hand groped stealthily, came in contact with a liqueur-glass, and
was withdrawn suddenly as if it had touched a red-hot coal. I pushed the
bottle slightly. “Won’t you have some more?” I asked. He looked at me
angrily. “Don’t you think I can tell you what there is to tell without
screwing myself up?” he asked. The squad of globe-trotters had gone to
bed. We were alone but for a vague white form erect in the shadow, that,
being looked at, cringed forward, hesitated, backed away silently. It
was getting late, but I did not hurry my guest.
‘In the midst of his forlorn state he heard his companions begin to
abuse some one. “What kept you from jumping, you lunatic?” said a
scolding voice. The chief engineer left the stern-sheets, and could
be heard clambering forward as if with hostile intentions against “the
greatest idiot that ever was.” The skipper shouted with rasping effort
offensive epithets from where he sat at the oar. He lifted his head
at that uproar, and heard the name “George,” while a hand in the dark
struck him on the breast. “What have you got to say for yourself, you
fool?” queried somebody, with a sort of virtuous fury. “They were after
me,” he said. “They were abusing me--abusing me . . . by the name of
George.”
‘He paused to stare, tried to smile, turned his eyes away and went on.
“That little second puts his head right under my nose, ‘Why, it’s that
blasted mate!’ ‘What!’ howls the skipper from the other end of the boat.
‘No!’ shrieks the chief. And he too stooped to look at my face.”
‘The wind had left the boat suddenly. The rain began to fall again, and
the soft, uninterrupted, a little mysterious sound with which the sea
receives a shower arose on all sides in the night. “They were too taken
aback to say anything more at first,” he narrated steadily, “and what
could I have to say to them?” He faltered for a moment, and made an
effort to go on. “They called me horrible names.” His voice, sinking to
a whisper, now and then would leap up suddenly, hardened by the passion
of scorn, as though he had been talking of secret abominations. “Never
mind what they called me,” he said grimly. “I could hear hate in their
voices. A good thing too. They could not forgive me for being in that
boat. They hated it. It made them mad. . . .” He laughed short. . . .
“But it kept me from--Look! I was sitting with my arms crossed, on the
gunwale! . . .” He perched himself smartly on the edge of the table and
crossed his arms. . . . “Like this--see? One little tilt backwards and
I would have been gone--after the others. One little tilt--the least
bit--the least bit.” He frowned, and tapping his forehead with the tip
of his middle finger, “It was there all the time,” he said impressively.
“All the time--that notion. And the rain--cold, thick, cold as melted