Lord Jim
‘Oho! a rise in the screw--that’s the trouble--is it?’ ‘All right,’ says
I, ‘no need of all that fuss with me, Jimmy. Just mention your figure.
Anything in reason.’ He looks at me as if he wanted to swallow something
that stuck in his throat. ‘I can’t stop with you.’ ‘What’s that blooming
joke?’ I asks. He shakes his head, and I could see in his eye he was as
good as gone already, sir. So I turned to him and slanged him till all
was blue. ‘What is it you’re running away from?’ I asks. ‘Who has been
getting at you? What scared you? You haven’t as much sense as a rat;
they don’t clear out from a good ship. Where do you expect to get a
better berth?--you this and you that.’ I made him look sick, I can tell
you. ‘This business ain’t going to sink,’ says I. He gave a big jump.
‘Good-bye,’ he says, nodding at me like a lord; ‘you ain’t half a
bad chap, Egstrom. I give you my word that if you knew my reasons you
wouldn’t care to keep me.’ ‘That’s the biggest lie you ever told in your
life,’ says I; ‘I know my own mind.’ He made me so mad that I had to
laugh. ‘Can’t you really stop long enough to drink this glass of beer
here, you funny beggar, you?’ I don’t know what came over him; he didn’t
seem able to find the door; something comical, I can tell you, captain.
I drank the beer myself. ‘Well, if you’re in such a hurry, here’s luck
to you in your own drink,’ says I; ‘only, you mark my words, if you keep
up this game you’ll very soon find that the earth ain’t big enough to
hold you--that’s all.’ He gave me one black look, and out he rushed with
a face fit to scare little children.”
‘Egstrom snorted bitterly, and combed one auburn whisker with knotty
fingers. “Haven’t been able to get a man that was any good since. It’s
nothing but worry, worry, worry in business. And where might you have
come across him, captain, if it’s fair to ask?”
‘“He was the mate of the Patna that voyage,” I said, feeling that I
owed some explanation. For a time Egstrom remained very still, with his
fingers plunged in the hair at the side of his face, and then exploded.
“And who the devil cares about that?” “I daresay no one,” I began . . .
“And what the devil is he--anyhow--for to go on like this?” He stuffed
suddenly his left whisker into his mouth and stood amazed. “Jee!” he
exclaimed, “I told him the earth wouldn’t be big enough to hold his
caper.”’
CHAPTER 19
‘I have told you these two episodes at length to show his manner of
dealing with himself under the new conditions of his life. There were
many others of the sort, more than I could count on the fingers of my
two hands. They were all equally tinged by a high-minded absurdity of
intention which made their futility profound and touching. To fling away
your daily bread so as to get your hands free for a grapple with a ghost
may be an act of prosaic heroism. Men had done it before (though we who
have lived know full well that it is not the haunted soul but the hungry
body that makes an outcast), and men who had eaten and meant to eat
every day had applauded the creditable folly. He was indeed unfortunate,
for all his recklessness could not carry him out from under the shadow.
There was always a doubt of his courage. The truth seems to be that
it is impossible to lay the ghost of a fact. You can face it or shirk
it--and I have come across a man or two who could wink at their familiar
shades. Obviously Jim was not of the winking sort; but what I could
never make up my mind about was whether his line of conduct amounted to
shirking his ghost or to facing him out.
‘I strained my mental eyesight only to discover that, as with the
complexion of all our actions, the shade of difference was so delicate
that it was impossible to say. It might have been flight and it might
have been a mode of combat. To the common mind he became known as a
rolling stone, because this was the funniest part: he did after a time
become perfectly known, and even notorious, within the circle of his
wanderings (which had a diameter of, say, three thousand miles), in the
same way as an eccentric character is known to a whole countryside. For
instance, in Bankok, where he found employment with Yucker Brothers,
charterers and teak merchants, it was almost pathetic to see him go
about in sunshine hugging his secret, which was known to the very
up-country logs on the river. Schomberg, the keeper of the hotel where
he boarded, a hirsute Alsatian of manly bearing and an irrepressible
retailer of all the scandalous gossip of the place, would, with both
elbows on the table, impart an adorned version of the story to any guest
who cared to imbibe knowledge along with the more costly liquors. “And,
mind you, the nicest fellow you could meet,” would be his generous
conclusion; “quite superior.” It says a lot for the casual crowd that
frequented Schomberg’s establishment that Jim managed to hang out
in Bankok for a whole six months. I remarked that people, perfect
strangers, took to him as one takes to a nice child. His manner was
reserved, but it was as though his personal appearance, his hair, his
eyes, his smile, made friends for him wherever he went. And, of course,
he was no fool. I heard Siegmund Yucker (native of Switzerland), a
gentle creature ravaged by a cruel dyspepsia, and so frightfully lame
that his head swung through a quarter of a circle at every step he took,
declare appreciatively that for one so young he was “of great gabasidy,”
as though it had been a mere question of cubic contents. “Why not send
him up country?” I suggested anxiously. (Yucker Brothers had concessions
and teak forests in the interior.) “If he has capacity, as you say,
he will soon get hold of the work. And physically he is very fit. His
health is always excellent.” “Ach! It’s a great ting in dis goundry
to be vree vrom tispep-shia,” sighed poor Yucker enviously, casting a
stealthy glance at the pit of his ruined stomach. I left him drumming
pensively on his desk and muttering, “Es ist ein’ Idee. Es ist ein’
Idee.” Unfortunately, that very evening an unpleasant affair took place
in the hotel.
‘I don’t know that I blame Jim very much, but it was a truly regrettable
incident. It belonged to the lamentable species of bar-room scuffles,
and the other party to it was a cross-eyed Dane of sorts whose
visiting-card recited, under his misbegotten name: first lieutenant in
the Royal Siamese Navy. The fellow, of course, was utterly hopeless at
billiards, but did not like to be beaten, I suppose. He had had enough
to drink to turn nasty after the sixth game, and make some scornful
remark at Jim’s expense. Most of the people there didn’t hear what
was said, and those who had heard seemed to have had all precise
recollection scared out of them by the appalling nature of the
consequences that immediately ensued. It was very lucky for the Dane
that he could swim, because the room opened on a verandah and the Menam
flowed below very wide and black. A boat-load of Chinamen, bound, as
likely as not, on some thieving expedition, fished out the officer of
the King of Siam, and Jim turned up at about midnight on board my ship
without a hat. “Everybody in the room seemed to know,” he said, gasping
yet from the contest, as it were. He was rather sorry, on general
principles, for what had happened, though in this case there had been,
he said, “no option.” But what dismayed him was to find the nature of
his burden as well known to everybody as though he had gone about all
that time carrying it on his shoulders. Naturally after this he couldn’t
remain in the place. He was universally condemned for the brutal
violence, so unbecoming a man in his delicate position; some maintained
he had been disgracefully drunk at the time; others criticised his want
of tact. Even Schomberg was very much annoyed. “He is a very nice young
man,” he said argumentatively to me, “but the lieutenant is a first-rate
fellow too. He dines every night at my table d’hote, you know. And
there’s a billiard-cue broken. I can’t allow that. First thing this
morning I went over with my apologies to the lieutenant, and I think
I’ve made it all right for myself; but only think, captain, if everybody
started such games! Why, the man might have been drowned! And here I
can’t run out into the next street and buy a new cue. I’ve got to write
to Europe for them. No, no! A temper like that won’t do!” . . . He was
extremely sore on the subject.
‘This was the worst incident of all in his--his retreat. Nobody could
deplore it more than myself; for if, as somebody said hearing him
mentioned, “Oh yes! I know. He has knocked about a good deal out here,”
yet he had somehow avoided being battered and chipped in the process.
This last affair, however, made me seriously uneasy, because if his
exquisite sensibilities were to go the length of involving him in
pot-house shindies, he would lose his name of an inoffensive, if
aggravating, fool, and acquire that of a common loafer. For all my
confidence in him I could not help reflecting that in such cases
from the name to the thing itself is but a step. I suppose you will
understand that by that time I could not think of washing my hands
of him. I took him away from Bankok in my ship, and we had a longish
passage. It was pitiful to see how he shrank within himself. A seaman,
even if a mere passenger, takes an interest in a ship, and looks at
the sea-life around him with the critical enjoyment of a painter,
for instance, looking at another man’s work. In every sense of the
expression he is “on deck”; but my Jim, for the most part, skulked down
below as though he had been a stowaway. He infected me so that I avoided
speaking on professional matters, such as would suggest themselves
naturally to two sailors during a passage. For whole days we did
not exchange a word; I felt extremely unwilling to give orders to my
officers in his presence. Often, when alone with him on deck or in the
cabin, we didn’t know what to do with our eyes.
‘I placed him with De Jongh, as you know, glad enough to dispose of him
in any way, yet persuaded that his position was now growing intolerable.
He had lost some of that elasticity which had enabled him to rebound
back into his uncompromising position after every overthrow. One
day, coming ashore, I saw him standing on the quay; the water of the
roadstead and the sea in the offing made one smooth ascending plane, and
the outermost ships at anchor seemed to ride motionless in the sky.
He was waiting for his boat, which was being loaded at our feet
with packages of small stores for some vessel ready to leave. After
exchanging greetings, we remained silent--side by side. “Jove!” he said
suddenly, “this is killing work.”
‘He smiled at me; I must say he generally could manage a smile. I made
no reply. I knew very well he was not alluding to his duties; he had an
easy time of it with De Jongh. Nevertheless, as soon as he had spoken
I became completely convinced that the work was killing. I did not even
look at him. “Would you like,” said I, “to leave this part of the world
altogether; try California or the West Coast? I’ll see what I can
do . . .” He interrupted me a little scornfully. “What difference would
it make?” . . . I felt at once convinced that he was right. It would make
no difference; it was not relief he wanted; I seemed to perceive dimly
that what he wanted, what he was, as it were, waiting for, was something
not easy to define--something in the nature of an opportunity. I had
given him many opportunities, but they had been merely opportunities to
earn his bread. Yet what more could any man do? The position struck me
as hopeless, and poor Brierly’s saying recurred to me, “Let him creep
twenty feet underground and stay there.” Better that, I thought, than