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

about him. ‘You think I watched on this night only!’ she said, with a sort of despairing indignation.

“He says it was as if he had received a blow on the chest. He gasped. He thought he had been an awful brute somehow, and he felt remorseful, touched, happy, elated. This, let me remind you again, is a love story; you can see it by the imbecility, not a repulsive imbecility, the exalted imbecility of these proceedings, this station in torchlight, as if they had come there on purpose to have it out for the edification of concealed murderers. If Sherif Ali’s emissaries had been possessed⁠—as Jim remarked⁠—of a pennyworth of spunk, this was the time to make a rush. His heart was thumping⁠—not with fear⁠—but he seemed to hear the grass rustle, and he stepped smartly out of the light. Something dark, imperfectly seen, flitted rapidly out of sight. He called out in a strong voice, ‘Cornelius! O Cornelius!’ A profound silence succeeded: his voice did not seem to have carried twenty feet. Again the girl was by his side. ‘Fly!’ she said. The old woman was coming up; her broken figure hovered in crippled little jumps on the edge of the light; they heard her mumbling, and a light, moaning sigh. ‘Fly!’ repeated the girl excitedly. ‘They are frightened now⁠—this light⁠—the voices. They know you are awake now⁠—they know you are big, strong, fearless⁠ ⁠…’ ‘If I am all that,’ he began; but she interrupted him: ‘Yes⁠—tonight! But what of tomorrow night? Of the next night? Of the night after⁠—of all the many, many nights? Can I be always watching?’ A sobbing catch of her breath affected him beyond the power of words.

“He told me that he had never felt so small, so powerless⁠—and as to courage, what was the good of it? he thought. He was so helpless that even flight seemed of no use; and though she kept on whispering, ‘Go to Doramin, go to Doramin,’ with feverish insistence, he realised that for him there was no refuge from that loneliness which centupled all his dangers except⁠—in her. ‘I thought,’ he said to me, ‘that if I went away from her it would be the end of everything somehow.’ Only as they couldn’t stop there forever in the middle of that courtyard, he made up his mind to go and look into the storehouse. He let her follow him without thinking of any protest, as if they had been indissolubly united. ‘I am fearless⁠—am I?’ he muttered through his teeth. She restrained his arm. ‘Wait till you hear my voice,’ she said, and, torch in hand, ran lightly round the corner. He remained alone in the darkness, his face to the door: not a sound, not a breath came from the other side. The old hag let out a dreary groan somewhere behind his back. He heard a high-pitched almost screaming call from the girl. ‘Now! Push!’ He pushed violently; the door swung with a creak and a clatter, disclosing to his intense astonishment the low dungeon-like interior illuminated by a lurid, wavering glare. A turmoil of smoke eddied down upon an empty wooden crate in the middle of the floor, a litter of rags and straw tried to soar, but only stirred feebly in the draught. She had thrust the light through the bars of the window. He saw her bare round arm extended and rigid, holding up the torch with the steadiness of an iron bracket. A conical ragged heap of old mats cumbered a distant corner almost to the ceiling, and that was all.

“He explained to me that he was bitterly disappointed at this. His fortitude had been tried by so many warnings, he had been for weeks surrounded by so many hints of danger, that he wanted the relief of some reality, of something tangible that he could meet. ‘It would have cleared the air for a couple of hours at least, if you know what I mean,’ he said to me. ‘Jove! I had been living for days with a stone on my chest.’ Now at last he had thought he would get hold of something, and⁠—nothing! Not a trace, not a sign of anybody. He had raised his weapon as the door flew open, but now his arm fell. ‘Fire! Defend yourself,’ the girl outside cried in an agonising voice. She, being in the dark and with her arm thrust in to the shoulder through the small hole, couldn’t see what was going on, and she dared not withdraw the torch now to run round. ‘There’s nobody here!’ yelled Jim contemptuously, but his impulse to burst into a resentful exasperated laugh died without a sound: he had perceived in the very act of turning away that he was exchanging glances with a pair of eyes in the heap of mats. He saw a shifting gleam of whites. ‘Come out!’ he cried in a fury, a little doubtful, and a dark-faced head, a head without a body, shaped itself in the rubbish, a strangely detached head, that looked at him with a steady scowl. Next moment the whole mound stirred, and with a low grunt a man emerged swiftly, and bounded towards Jim. Behind him the mats as it were jumped and flew, his right arm was raised with a crooked elbow, and the dull blade of a kris protruded from his fist held off, a little above his head. A cloth wound tight round his loins seemed dazzlingly white on his bronze skin; his naked body glistened as if wet.

“Jim noted all this. He told me he was experiencing a feeling of unutterable relief, of vengeful elation. He held his shot, he says, deliberately. He held it for the tenth part of a second, for three strides of the man⁠—an unconscionable time. He held it for the pleasure of saying to himself, That’s a dead man! He was absolutely positive and certain. He let him come on because it did not matter.