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

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 lighthearted 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