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- Джозеф Конрад
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- Лорд Джим
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- Стр. 71/107
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'
The
defeated
Sherif
Ali
fled
the
country
without
making
another
stand
,
and
when
the
miserable
hunted
villagers
began
to
crawl
out
of
the
jungle
back
to
their
rotting
houses
,
it
was
Jim
who
,
in
consultation
with
Dain
Waris
,
appointed
the
headmen
.
Thus
he
became
the
virtual
ruler
of
the
land
.
As
to
old
Tunku
Allang
,
his
fears
at
first
had
known
no
bounds
.
It
is
said
that
at
the
intelligence
of
the
successful
storming
of
the
hill
he
flung
himself
,
face
down
,
on
the
bamboo
floor
of
his
audience-hall
,
and
lay
motionless
for
a
whole
night
and
a
whole
day
,
uttering
stifled
sounds
of
such
an
appalling
nature
that
no
man
dared
approach
his
prostrate
form
nearer
than
a
spear
's
length
.
Already
he
could
see
himself
driven
ignominiously
out
of
Patusan
,
wandering
,
abandoned
,
stripped
,
without
opium
,
without
his
women
,
without
followers
,
a
fair
game
for
the
first
comer
to
kill
.
After
Sherif
Ali
his
turn
would
come
,
and
who
could
resist
an
attack
led
by
such
a
devil
?
And
indeed
he
owed
his
life
and
such
authority
as
he
still
possessed
at
the
time
of
my
visit
to
Jim
's
idea
of
what
was
fair
alone
.
The
Bugis
had
been
extremely
anxious
to
pay
off
old
scores
,
and
the
impassive
old
Doramin
cherished
the
hope
of
yet
seeing
his
son
ruler
of
Patusan
.
During
one
of
our
interviews
he
deliberately
allowed
me
to
get
a
glimpse
of
this
secret
ambition
.
Nothing
could
be
finer
in
its
way
than
the
dignified
wariness
of
his
approaches
.
He
himself
--
he
began
by
declaring
--
had
used
his
strength
in
his
young
days
,
but
now
he
had
grown
old
and
tired
...
With
his
imposing
bulk
and
haughty
little
eyes
darting
sagacious
,
inquisitive
glances
,
he
reminded
one
irresistibly
of
a
cunning
old
elephant
;
the
slow
rise
and
fall
of
his
vast
breast
went
on
powerful
and
regular
,
like
the
heave
of
a
calm
sea
.
He
too
,
as
he
protested
,
had
an
unbounded
confidence
in
Tuan
Jim
's
wisdom
.
If
he
could
only
obtain
a
promise
!
One
word
would
be
enough
!
...
His
breathing
silences
,
the
low
rumblings
of
his
voice
,
recalled
the
last
efforts
of
a
spent
thunderstorm
.
'
I
tried
to
put
the
subject
aside
.
It
was
difficult
,
for
there
could
be
no
question
that
Jim
had
the
power
;
in
his
new
sphere
there
did
not
seem
to
be
anything
that
was
not
his
to
hold
or
to
give
.
But
that
,
I
repeat
,
was
nothing
in
comparison
with
the
notion
,
which
occurred
to
me
,
while
I
listened
with
a
show
of
attention
,
that
he
seemed
to
have
come
very
near
at
last
to
mastering
his
fate
.
Doramin
was
anxious
about
the
future
of
the
country
,
and
I
was
struck
by
the
turn
he
gave
to
the
argument
.
The
land
remains
where
God
had
put
it
;
but
white
men
--
he
said
--
they
come
to
us
and
in
a
little
while
they
go
.
They
go
away
.
Those
they
leave
behind
do
not
know
when
to
look
for
their
return
.
They
go
to
their
own
land
,
to
their
people
,
and
so
this
white
man
too
would
...
I
do
n't
know
what
induced
me
to
commit
myself
at
this
point
by
a
vigorous
"
No
,
no
.
"
The
whole
extent
of
this
indiscretion
became
apparent
when
Doramin
,
turning
full
upon
me
his
face
,
whose
expression
,
fixed
in
rugged
deep
folds
,
remained
unalterable
,
like
a
huge
brown
mask
,
said
that
this
was
good
news
indeed
,
reflectively
;
and
then
wanted
to
know
why
.
'
His
little
,
motherly
witch
of
a
wife
sat
on
my
other
hand
,
with
her
head
covered
and
her
feet
tucked
up
,
gazing
through
the
great
shutter-hole
.
I
could
only
see
a
straying
lock
of
grey
hair
,
a
high
cheek-bone
,
the
slight
masticating
motion
of
the
sharp
chin
.
Without
removing
her
eyes
from
the
vast
prospect
of
forests
stretching
as
far
as
the
hills
,
she
asked
me
in
a
pitying
voice
why
was
it
that
he
so
young
had
wandered
from
his
home
,
coming
so
far
,
through
so
many
dangers
?
Had
he
no
household
there
,
no
kinsmen
in
his
own
country
?
Had
he
no
old
mother
,
who
would
always
remember
his
face
?
...
'
I
was
completely
unprepared
for
this
.
I
could
only
mutter
and
shake
my
head
vaguely
.
Afterwards
I
am
perfectly
aware
I
cut
a
very
poor
figure
trying
to
extricate
myself
out
of
this
difficulty
.
From
that
moment
,
however
,
the
old
nakhoda
became
taciturn
.
He
was
not
very
pleased
,
I
fear
,
and
evidently
I
had
given
him
food
for
thought
.
Strangely
enough
,
on
the
evening
of
that
very
day
(
which
was
my
last
in
Patusan
)
I
was
once
more
confronted
with
the
same
question
,
with
the
unanswerable
why
of
Jim
's
fate
.
And
this
brings
me
to
the
story
of
his
love
.
'
I
suppose
you
think
it
is
a
story
that
you
can
imagine
for
yourselves
.
We
have
heard
so
many
such
stories
,
and
the
majority
of
us
do
n't
believe
them
to
be
stories
of
love
at
all
.
For
the
most
part
we
look
upon
them
as
stories
of
opportunities
:
episodes
of
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
do
n'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
,
confidant
,
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
some
one
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
extra-terrestrial
touch
.
