Lord Jim

  “The Frenchman hailed, could get no intelligible reply, and after ascertaining through his binoculars that the crowd on deck did not look plague-stricken, decided to send a boat. Two officers came on board, listened to the serang, tried to talk with the Arab, couldn't make head or tail of it: but of course the nature of the emergency was obvious enough. They were also very much struck by discovering a white man, dead and curled up peacefully on the bridge. ‘Fort intrigués par ce cadavre,’2 as I was informed a long time after by an elderly French lieutenant whom I came across one afternoon in Sydney, by the merest chance, in a sort of café, and who remembered the affair perfectly. Indeed this affair, I may notice in passing, had an extraordinary power of defying the shortness of memories and the length of time: it seemed to live, with a sort of uncanny vitality, in the minds of men, on the tips of their tongues. I've had the questionable pleasure of meeting it often, years afterwards, thousands of miles away, emerging from the remotest possible talk, coming to the surface of the most distant allusions. Has it not turned up to-night between us? And I am the only seaman here. I am the only one to whom it is a memory. And yet it has made its way out! But if two men who, unknown to each other, knew of this affair met accidentally on any spot of this earth, the thing would pop up between them as sure as fate, before they parted. I had never seen that Frenchman before, and at the end of an hour we had done with each other for life: he did not seem particularly talkative either; he was a quiet, massive chap in a creased uniform, sitting drowsily over a tumbler half full of some dark liquid. His shoulder-straps were a bit tarnished, his clean-shaved cheeks were large and sallow; he looked like a man who would be given to taking snuff—don't you know? I won't say he did; but the habit would have fitted that kind of man. It all began by his handing me a number of ‘Home News,’3which I didn't want, across the marble table. I said ‘Merci.’ We exchanged a few apparently innocent remarks, and suddenly, before I knew how it had come about, we were in the midst of it, and he was telling me how much they had been ‘intrigued by that corpse.’ It turned out he had been one of the boarding officers.

  “In the establishment where we sat one could get a variety of foreign drinks which were kept for the visiting naval officers, and he took a sip of the dark medical-looking stuff, which probably was nothing more nasty than cassis à l'eau, and glancing with one eye into the tumbler, shook his head slightly. ‘Impossible de comprendre—vous concevez,’ he said, with a curious mixture of unconcern and thoughtfulness. I could very easily conceive how impossible it had been for them to understand. Nobody in the gunboat knew enough English to get hold of the story as told by the serang. There was a good deal of noise, too, round the two officers. ‘They crowded upon us. There was a circle round that dead man (autour de ce mort),’ he described. ‘One had to attend to the most pressing. These people were beginning to agitate themselves4—Parbleu! A mob like that—don't you see?’ he interjected with philosophic indulgence. As to the bulkhead, he had advised his commander that the safest thing was to leave it alone, it was so villainous to look at. They got two hawsers on board promptly (en toute hate) and took the Patna in tow—stern foremost at that—which, under the circumstances, was not so foolish, since the rudder was too much out of the water to be of any great use for steering, and this manœeuvre eased the strain on the bulkhead, whose state, he expounded with stolid glibness, demanded the greatest care (exigeait les plus grands managements). I could not help thinking that my new acquaintance must have had a voice in most of these arrangements: he looked a reliable officer, no longer very active, and he was seamanlike too, in a way, though as he sat there, with his thick fingers clasped lightly on his stomach, he reminded you of one of those snuffy, quiet village priests, into whose ears are poured the sins, the sufferings, the remorse of peasant generations, on whose faces the placid and simple expression is like a veil thrown over the mystery of pain and distress. He ought to have had a threadbare black soutane buttoned smoothly up to his ample chin, instead of a frock-coat with shoulder-straps and brass buttons. His broad bosom heaved regularly while he went on telling me that it had been the very devil of a job, as doubtless (sans doute) I could figure to myself in my quality of a seaman (en votre qualité de marin). At the end of the period he inclined his body slightly towards me, and, pursing his shaved lips, allowed the air to escape with a gentle hiss. ‘Luckily,’ he continued, ‘the sea was level like this table, and there was no more wind than there is here.’… The place struck me as indeed intolerably stuffy, and very hot; my face burned as though I had been young enough to be embarrassed and blushing. They had directed their course, he pursued, to the nearest English port ‘naturellement,’ where their responsibility ceased, ‘Dieu merci.’… He blew out his flat cheeks a little…. ‘Because, mind you (notez bien), all the time of towing we had two quartermasters stationed with axes by the hawsers, to cut us clear of our tow in case she…’ He fluttered downwards his heavy eyelids, making his meaning as plain as possible…. ‘What would you! One does what one can (on fait ce qu'on peut),’ and for a moment he managed to invest his ponderous immobility with an air of resignation. ‘Two quartermasters—thirty hours—always there. Two!’ he repeated, lifting up his right hand a little, and exhibiting two fingers. This was absolutely the first gesture I saw him make. It gave me the opportunity to ‘note’ a starred scar on the back of his hand—effect of a gunshot clearly; and, as if my sight had been made more acute by this discovery, I perceived also the seam of an old wound, beginning a little below the temple and going out of sight under the short grey hair at the side of his head—the graze of a spear or the cut of a sabre. He clasped his hands on his stomach again. ‘I remained on board that, that—my memory is going (s'en va). Ah! Patt-nà. C'est bien ça. Patt-nà. Merci. It is droll how one forgets. I stayed on that ship thirty hours….’

  “‘You did!’ I exclaimed. Still gazing at his hands, he pursed his lips a little, but this time made no hissing sound. ‘It was judged proper,’ he said, lifting his eyebrows dispassionately, ‘that one of the officers should remain to keep an eye open (pour ouvrir l'œil)’… he sighed idly… ‘and for communicating by signals with the towing ship—do you see—and so on. For the rest, it was my opinion too. We made our boats ready to drop over—and I also on that ship took measures…. Enfin! One has done one's possible.5 It was a delicate position. Thirty hours. They prepared me some food. As for the wine—go and whistle for it—not a drop.’ In some extraordinary way, without any marked change in his inert attitude and in the placid expression of his face, he managed to convey the idea of profound disgust. ‘I—you know—when it comes to eating without my glass of wine—I am nowhere.’

  “I was afraid he would enlarge upon the grievance, for though he didn't stir a limb or twitch a feature, he made one aware how much he was irritated by the recollection. But he seemed to forget all about it. They delivered their charge to the ‘port authorities,’ as he expressed it. He was struck by the calmness with which it had been received. ‘One might have thought they had such a droll find (drôle de trouvaille) brought them every day. You are extraordinary—you others,’ he commented, with his back propped against the wall, and looking himself as incapable of an emotional display as a sack of meal. There happened to be a man-of-war and an Indian Marine steamer in the harbour at the time, and he did not conceal his admiration of the efficient manner in which the boats of these two ships cleared the Patna of her passengers. Indeed his torpid demeanour concealed nothing: it had that mysterious, almost miraculous, power of producing striking effects by means impossible of detection which is the last word of the highest art. ‘Twenty-five minutes—watch in hand—twenty-five, no more.’… He unclasped and clasped again his fingers without removing his hands from his stomach, and made it infinitely more effective than if he had thrown up his arms to heaven in amazement…. ‘All that lot (tout ce monde) on shore—with their little affairs—nobody left but a guard of seamen (marins de l'État) and that interesting corpse (cet intéressant cad
avre). Twenty-five minutes.’… With downcast eyes and his head tilted slightly on one side he seemed to roll knowingly on his tongue the savour of a smart bit of work. He persuaded one without any further demonstration that his approval was eminently worth having, and resuming his hardly interrupted immobility, he went on to inform me that, being under orders to make the best of their way to Toulon,6 they left in two hours’ time, ‘so that (de sorte que) there are many things in this incident of my life (dans cet épisode de ma vie) which have remained obscure.’”

  XIII

  “After these words, and without a change of attitude, he, so to speak, submitted himself passively to1 a state of silence. I kept him company; and suddenly, but not abruptly, as if the appointed time had arrived for his moderate and husky voice to come out of his immobility, he pronounced, ‘Mon Dieu! how the time passes!’ Nothing could have been more commonplace than this remark; but its utterance coincided for me with a moment of vision. It's extraordinary how we go through life with eyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts. Perhaps it's just as well; and it may be that it is this very dulness that makes life to the incalculable majority so supportable and so welcome. Nevertheless, there can be but few of us who had never known one of these rare moments of awakening when we see, hear, understand ever so much—everything—in a flash—before we fall back again into our agreeable somnolence. I raised my eyes when he spoke, and I saw him as though I had never seen him before. I saw his chin sunk on his breast, the clumsy folds of his coat, his clasped hands, his motionless pose, so curiously suggestive of his having been simply left there. Time had passed indeed: it had overtaken him and gone ahead. It had left him hopelessly behind with a few poor gifts: the iron-grey hair, the heavy fatigue of the tanned face, two scars, a pair of tarnished shoulder-straps; one of those steady, reliable men who are the raw material of great reputations, one of those uncounted lives that are buried without drums and trumpets under the foundations of monumental successes. ‘I am now third lieutenant2 of the Victorieuse’ (she was the flagship of the French Pacific squadron at the time), he said, detaching his shoulders from the wall a couple of inches to introduce himself. I bowed slightly on my side of the table, and told him I commanded a merchant vessel at present anchored in Rushcutters’ Bay.3 He had ‘remarked’4 her—a pretty little craft. He was very civil about it in his impassive way. I even fancy he went the length of tilting his head in compliment as he repeated, breathing visibly the while, ‘Ah, yes. A little craft painted black—very pretty—very pretty (très coquet).’ After a time he twisted his body slowly to face the glass door on our right. ‘A dull town (Triste ville),’ he observed, staring into the street. It was a brilliant day; a southerly buster5 was raging, and we could see the passers-by, men and women, buffeted by the wind on the side-walks, the sunlit fronts of the houses across the road blurred by the tall whirls of dust. ‘I descended on shore,’ he said, ‘to stretch my legs a little, but…’ He didn't finish, and sank into the depths of his repose. ‘Pray—tell me,’ he began, coming up ponderously, ‘what was there at the bottom of this affair—precisely (au juste)? It is curious. That dead man, for instance—and so on.’

  “‘There were living men too,’ I said; ‘much more curious.’

  “‘No doubt, no doubt,’ he agreed half audibly, then, as if after mature consideration, murmured, ‘Evidently.’ I made no difficulty in communicating to him what had interested me most in this affair. It seemed as though he had a right to know: hadn't he spent thirty hours on board the Patna—had he not taken the succession, so to speak, had he not done ‘his possible’? He listened to me, looking more priest-like than ever, and with what—probably on account of his downcast eyes—had the appearance of devout concentration. Once or twice he elevated his eyebrows6 (but without raising his eyelids), as one would say ‘The devil!’ Once he calmly exclaimed, ‘Ah, bah!’ under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle.

  “In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a ‘very interesting,’ pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, ‘That's it. That is it.’ His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. ‘And so that poor young man ran away along with the others,’ he said, with grave tranquillity.

  “I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French…. ‘S'est enfui avec les autres,’ had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. ‘Ah! The young, the young,’ he said indulgently. ‘And after all, one does not die of it.’ ‘Die of what?’ I asked swiftly. ‘Of being afraid.’ He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink.

  “I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. ‘One is always afraid. One may talk, 7 but…’ He put down the glass awkwardly…. ‘The fear, the fear—look you—it is always there.’… He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, ‘Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man—and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump8 (roulé ma bosse),’ he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, ‘in all parts of the world; I have known brave men—famous ones! Allez!’… He drank carelessly…. ‘Brave—you conceive—in the Service—one has got to be—the trade demands it.’ (le métier veut ça). ‘Is it not so?’ he appealed to me reasonably. ‘Eh bien! Each of them—I say each of them, if he were an honest man—bien entendu—would confess that there is a point—there is a point—for the best of us—there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lâchez tout). And you have got to live with that truth—do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac épouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same—the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes…. At my age one knows what one is talking about—que diable!’… He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. ‘It's evident—parbleu!’ he continued; ‘for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un dérangement d'estomac) is enough to… Take me, for instance—I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once…’

  “He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. ‘No, no; one does not die of it,’ he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. ‘That is so,’ he resumed placidly. ‘Man is born a coward (L'homme est né poltron).9 It is a difficulty—parbleu! It would be too easy otherwise. But habit—ha
bit—necessity—do you see?—the eye of others—voilà. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance….’

  “His voice ceased.

  “‘That young man—you will observe—had none of these inducements—at least at the moment,’ I remarked.

  “He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: ‘I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions—the best dispositions,’ he repeated, wheezing a little.

  “‘I am glad to see you taking a lenient view,’ I said. ‘His own feeling in the matter was—ah!—hopeful, and…’

  “The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say—no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act—and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. ‘Pardon,’ he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. ‘Allow me… I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible…. But the honour—the honour, monsieur!… The honour… that is real—that is! And what life may be worth when’… he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass… ‘when the honour is gone—ah ça! par exemple—I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion—because—monsieur—I know nothing of it.’