Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad (best ebook reader for chromebook .txt) 📕

in my hand.’ At that moment we came into the presence, and he became unflinchingly grave and complimentary with his late captor. Oh! magnificent! I want to laugh when I think of it. But I was impressed, too. The old disreputable Tunku Allang could not help showing his fear (he was no hero, for all the tales of his hot youth he was fond of telling); and at the same time there was a wistful confidence in his manner towards his late prisoner. Note! Even where he would be most hated he was still trusted. Jim⁠—as far as I could follow the conversation⁠—was improving the occasion by the delivery of a lecture. Some poor villagers had been waylaid and robbed while on their way to Doramin’s house with a few pieces of gum or beeswax which they wished to exchange for rice. ‘It was Doramin who was a thief,’ burst out the Rajah. A shaking fury seemed to enter that old frail body. He writhed weirdly on his mat, gesticulating with his hands and feet, tossing the tangled strings of his mop⁠—an impotent incarnation of rage. There were staring eyes and dropping jaws all around us. Jim began to speak. Resolutely, coolly, and for some time he enlarged upon the text that no man should be prevented from getting his food and his children’s food honestly. The other sat like a tailor at his board, one palm on each knee, his head low, and fixing Jim through the grey hair that fell over his very eyes. When Jim had done there was a great stillness. Nobody seemed to breathe even; no one made a sound till the old Rajah sighed faintly, and looking up, with a toss of his head, said quickly, ‘You hear, my people! No more of these little games.’ This decree was received in profound silence. A rather heavy man, evidently in a position of confidence, with intelligent eyes, a bony, broad, very dark face, and a cheerily of officious manner (I learned later on he was the executioner), presented to us two cups of coffee on a brass tray, which he took from the hands of an inferior attendant. ‘You needn’t drink,’ muttered Jim very rapidly. I didn’t perceive the meaning at first, and only looked at him. He took a good sip and sat composedly, holding the saucer in his left hand. In a moment I felt excessively annoyed. ‘Why the devil,’ I whispered, smiling at him amiably, ‘do you expose me to such a stupid risk?’ I drank, of course, there was nothing for it, while he gave no sign, and almost immediately afterwards we took our leave. While we were going down the courtyard to our boat, escorted by the intelligent and cheery executioner, Jim said he was very sorry. It was the barest chance, of course. Personally he thought nothing of poison. The remotest chance. He was⁠—he assured me⁠—considered to be infinitely more useful than dangerous, and so⁠ ⁠… ‘But the Rajah is afraid of you abominably. Anybody can see that,’ I argued with, I own, a certain peevishness, and all the time watching anxiously for the first twist of some sort of ghastly colic. I was awfully disgusted. ‘If I am to do any good here and preserve my position,’ he said, taking his seat by my side in the boat, ‘I must stand the risk: I take it once every month, at least. Many people trust me to do that⁠—for them. Afraid of me! That’s just it. Most likely he is afraid of me because I am not afraid of his coffee.’ Then showing me a place on the north front of the stockade where the pointed tops of several stakes were broken, ‘This is where I leaped over on my third day in Patusan. They haven’t put new stakes there yet. Good leap, eh?’ A moment later we passed the mouth of a muddy creek. ‘This is my second leap. I had a bit of a run and took this one flying, but fell short. Thought I would leave my skin there. Lost my shoes struggling. And all the time I was thinking to myself how beastly it would be to get a jab with a bally long spear while sticking in the mud like this. I remember how sick I felt wriggling in that slime. I mean really sick⁠—as if I had bitten something rotten.’

“That’s how it was⁠—and the opportunity ran by his side, leaped over the gap, floundered in the mud⁠ ⁠… still veiled. The unexpectedness of his coming was the only thing, you understand, that saved him from being at once dispatched with krises and flung into the river. They had him, but it was like getting hold of an apparition, a wraith, a portent. What did it mean? What to do with it? Was it too late to conciliate him? Hadn’t he better be killed without more delay? But what would happen then? Wretched old Allang went nearly mad with apprehension and through the difficulty of making up his mind. Several times the council was broken up, and the advisers made a break helter-skelter for the door and out on to the verandah. One⁠—it is said⁠—even jumped down to the ground⁠—fifteen feet, I should judge⁠—and broke his leg. The royal governor of Patusan had bizarre mannerisms, and one of them was to introduce boastful rhapsodies into every arduous discussion, when, getting gradually excited, he would end by flying off his perch with a kris in his hand. But, barring such interruptions, the deliberations upon Jim’s fate went on night and day.

“Meanwhile he wandered about the courtyard, shunned by some, glared at by others, but watched by all, and practically at the mercy of the first casual ragamuffin with a chopper, in there. He took possession of a small tumbledown shed to sleep in; the effluvia of filth and rotten matter incommoded him greatly: it seems he had not lost his appetite though, because⁠—he told me⁠—he had been