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

passion at best, or perhaps only of youth and temptation, doomed to forgetfulness in the end, even if they pass through the reality of tenderness and regret. This view mostly is right, and perhaps in this case too.⁠ ⁠… Yet I don’t know. To tell this story is by no means so easy as it should be⁠—were the ordinary standpoint adequate. Apparently it is a story very much like the others: for me, however, there is visible in its background the melancholy figure of a woman, the shadow of a cruel wisdom buried in a lonely grave, looking on wistfully, helplessly, with sealed lips. The grave itself, as I came upon it during an early morning stroll, was a rather shapeless brown mound, with an inlaid neat border of white lumps of coral at the base, and enclosed within a circular fence made of split saplings, with the bark left on. A garland of leaves and flowers was woven about the heads of the slender posts⁠—and the flowers were fresh.

“Thus, whether the shadow is of my imagination or not, I can at all events point out the significant fact of an unforgotten grave. When I tell you besides that Jim with his own hands had worked at the rustic fence, you will perceive directly the difference, the individual side of the story. There is in his espousal of memory and affection belonging to another human being something characteristic of his seriousness. He had a conscience, and it was a romantic conscience. Through her whole life the wife of the unspeakable Cornelius had no other companion, confidante, and friend but her daughter. How the poor woman had come to marry the awful little Malacca Portuguese⁠—after the separation from the father of her girl⁠—and how that separation had been brought about, whether by death, which can be sometimes merciful, or by the merciless pressure of conventions, is a mystery to me. From the little which Stein (who knew so many stories) had let drop in my hearing, I am convinced that she was no ordinary woman. Her own father had been a white; a high official; one of the brilliantly endowed men who are not dull enough to nurse a success, and whose careers so often end under a cloud. I suppose she too must have lacked the saving dullness⁠—and her career ended in Patusan. Our common fate⁠ ⁠… for where is the man⁠—I mean a real sentient man⁠—who does not remember vaguely having been deserted in the fullness of possession by someone or something more precious than life?⁠ ⁠… our common fate fastens upon the women with a peculiar cruelty. It does not punish like a master, but inflicts lingering torment, as if to gratify a secret, unappeasable spite. One would think that, appointed to rule on earth, it seeks to revenge itself upon the beings that come nearest to rising above the trammels of earthly caution; for it is only women who manage to put at times into their love an element just palpable enough to give one a fright⁠—an extraterrestrial touch. I ask myself with wonder⁠—how the world can look to them⁠—whether it has the shape and substance we know, the air we breathe! Sometimes I fancy it must be a region of unreasonable sublimities seething with the excitement of their adventurous souls, lighted by the glory of all possible risks and renunciations. However, I suspect there are very few women in the world, though of course I am aware of the multitudes of mankind and of the equality of sexes in point of numbers⁠—that is. But I am sure that the mother was as much of a woman as the daughter seemed to be. I cannot help picturing to myself these two, at first the young woman and the child, then the old woman and the young girl, the awful sameness and the swift passage of time, the barrier of forest, the solitude and the turmoil round these two lonely lives, and every word spoken between them penetrated with sad meaning. There must have been confidences, not so much of fact, I suppose, as of innermost feelings⁠—regrets⁠—fears⁠—warnings, no doubt: warnings that the younger did not fully understand till the elder was dead⁠—and Jim came along. Then I am sure she understood much⁠—not everything⁠—the fear mostly, it seems. Jim called her by a word that means precious, in the sense of a precious gem⁠—jewel. Pretty, isn’t it? But he was capable of anything. He was equal to his fortune, as he⁠—after all⁠—must have been equal to his misfortune. Jewel he called her; and he would say this as he might have said ‘Jane,’ don’t you know⁠—with a marital, homelike, peaceful effect. I heard the name for the first time ten minutes after I had landed in his courtyard, when, after nearly shaking my arm off, he darted up the steps and began to make a joyous, boyish disturbance at the door under the heavy eaves. ‘Jewel! O Jewel! Quick! Here’s a friend come,’⁠ ⁠… and suddenly peering at me in the dim verandah, he mumbled earnestly, ‘You know⁠—this⁠—no confounded nonsense about it⁠—can’t tell you how much I owe to her⁠—and so⁠—you understand⁠—I⁠—exactly as if⁠ ⁠…’ His hurried, anxious whispers were cut short by the flitting of a white form within the house, a faint exclamation, and a childlike but energetic little face with delicate features and a profound, attentive glance peeped out of the inner gloom, like a bird out of the recess of a nest. I was struck by the name, of course; but it was not till later on that I connected it with an astonishing rumour that had met me on my journey, at a little place on the coast about 230 miles south of Patusan River. Stein’s schooner, in which I had my passage, put in there, to collect some produce, and, going ashore, I found to my great surprise that the wretched locality could boast of a third-class deputy-assistant resident, a big, fat, greasy, blinking fellow of mixed descent,