Lord Jim Joseph Conrad (epub ebook reader .txt) 📖

did not think himself good enough to live. This was all that came to him⁠—a menace, a shock, a danger to his work. I suppose it is this sad, half-resentful, half-resigned feeling, piercing through the few words Jim said now and then, that puzzled Brown so much in the reading of his character. Some great men owe most of their greatness to the ability of detecting in those they destine for their tools the exact quality of strength that matters for their work, and Brown, as though he had been really great, had a satanic gift of finding out the best and the weakest spot in his victims. He admitted to me that Jim wasn’t of the sort that can be got over by truckling, and accordingly he took care to show himself as a man confronting without dismay ill-luck, censure, and disaster. The smuggling of a few guns was no great crime, he pointed out. As to coming to Patusan, who had the right to say he hadn’t come to beg? The infernal people here let loose at him from both banks without staying to ask questions. He made the point brazenly, for, in truth, Dain Waris’s energetic action had prevented the greatest calamities; because Brown told me distinctly that, perceiving the size of the place, he had resolved instantly in his mind that as soon as he had gained a footing he would set fire right and left, and begin by shooting down everything living in sight, in order to cow and terrify the population. The disproportion of forces was so great that this was the only way giving him the slightest chance of attaining his ends⁠—he argued in a fit of coughing. But he didn’t tell Jim this. As to the hardships and starvation they had gone through, these had been very real; it was enough to look at his band. He made, at the sound of a shrill whistle, all his men appear standing in a row on the logs in full view, so that Jim could see them. For the killing of the man, it had been done⁠—well, it had⁠—but was not this war, bloody war⁠—in a corner? and the fellow had been killed cleanly, shot through the chest, not like that poor devil of his lying now in the creek. They had to listen to him dying for six hours, with his entrails torn with slugs. At any rate this was a life for a life.⁠ ⁠… And all this was said with the weariness, with the recklessness of a man spurred on and on by ill-luck till he cares not where he runs. When he asked Jim, with a sort of brusque despairing frankness, whether he himself⁠—straight now⁠—didn’t understand that when ‘it came to saving one’s life in the dark, one didn’t care who else went⁠—three, thirty, three hundred people’⁠—it was as if a demon had been whispering advice in his ear. ‘I made him wince,’ boasted Brown to me. ‘He very soon left off coming the righteous over me. He just stood there with nothing to say, and looking as black as thunder⁠—not at me⁠—on the ground.’ He asked Jim whether he had nothing fishy in his life to remember that he was so damnedly hard upon a man trying to get out of a deadly hole by the first means that came to hand⁠—and so on, and so on. And there ran through the rough talk a vein of subtle reference to their common blood, an assumption of common experience; a sickening suggestion of common guilt, of secret knowledge that was like a bond of their minds and of their hearts.

“At last Brown threw himself down full length and watched Jim out of the corners of his eyes. Jim on his side of the creek stood thinking and switching his leg. The houses in view were silent, as if a pestilence had swept them clean of every breath of life; but many invisible eyes were turned, from within, upon the two men with the creek between them, a stranded white boat, and the body of the third man half sunk in the mud. On the river canoes were moving again, for Patusan was recovering its belief in the stability of earthly institutions since the return of the white lord. The right bank, the platforms of the houses, the rafts moored along the shores, even the roofs of bathing-huts, were covered with people that, far away out of earshot and almost out of sight, were straining their eyes towards the knoll beyond the Rajah’s stockade. Within the wide irregular ring of forests, broken in two places by the sheen of the river, there was a silence. ‘Will you promise to leave the coast?’ Jim asked. Brown lifted and let fall his hand, giving everything up as it were⁠—accepting the inevitable. ‘And surrender your arms?’ Jim went on. Brown sat up and glared across. ‘Surrender our arms! Not till you come to take them out of our stiff hands. You think I am gone crazy with funk? Oh no! That and the rags I stand in is all I have got in the world, besides a few more breechloaders on board; and I expect to sell the lot in Madagascar, if I ever get so far⁠—begging my way from ship to ship.’

“Jim said nothing to this. At last, throwing away the switch he held in his hand, he said, as if speaking to himself, ‘I don’t know whether I have the power.’⁠ ⁠… ‘You don’t know! And you wanted me just now to give up my arms! That’s good, too,’ cried Brown. ‘Suppose they say one thing to you, and do the other thing to me.’ He calmed down markedly. ‘I dare say you have the power, or what’s the meaning of all this talk?’ he continued. ‘What did you come down here for? To pass the time of day?’

“ ‘Very well,’ said Jim, lifting his head suddenly after a long silence. ‘You shall have a