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- Джозеф Конрад
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- Лорд Джим
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- Стр. 87/107
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The
twilight
was
ebbing
fast
from
the
sky
above
his
head
,
the
strip
of
sand
had
sunk
already
under
his
feet
,
he
himself
appeared
no
bigger
than
a
child
--
then
only
a
speck
,
a
tiny
white
speck
,
that
seemed
to
catch
all
the
light
left
in
a
darkened
world
...
And
,
suddenly
,
I
lost
him
...
With
these
words
Marlow
had
ended
his
narrative
,
and
his
audience
had
broken
up
forthwith
,
under
his
abstract
,
pensive
gaze
.
Men
drifted
off
the
verandah
in
pairs
or
alone
without
loss
of
time
,
without
offering
a
remark
,
as
if
the
last
image
of
that
incomplete
story
,
its
incompleteness
itself
,
and
the
very
tone
of
the
speaker
,
had
made
discussion
vain
and
comment
impossible
.
Each
of
them
seemed
to
carry
away
his
own
impression
,
to
carry
it
away
with
him
like
a
secret
;
but
there
was
only
one
man
of
all
these
listeners
who
was
ever
to
hear
the
last
word
of
the
story
.
It
came
to
him
at
home
,
more
than
two
years
later
,
and
it
came
contained
in
a
thick
packet
addressed
in
Marlow
's
upright
and
angular
handwriting
.
The
privileged
man
opened
the
packet
,
looked
in
,
then
,
laying
it
down
,
went
to
the
window
.
His
rooms
were
in
the
highest
flat
of
a
lofty
building
,
and
his
glance
could
travel
afar
beyond
the
clear
panes
of
glass
,
as
though
he
were
looking
out
of
the
lantern
of
a
lighthouse
.
The
slopes
of
the
roofs
glistened
,
the
dark
broken
ridges
succeeded
each
other
without
end
like
sombre
,
uncrested
waves
,
and
from
the
depths
of
the
town
under
his
feet
ascended
a
confused
and
unceasing
mutter
.
The
spires
of
churches
,
numerous
,
scattered
haphazard
,
uprose
like
beacons
on
a
maze
of
shoals
without
a
channel
;
the
driving
rain
mingled
with
the
falling
dusk
of
a
winter
's
evening
;
and
the
booming
of
a
big
clock
on
a
tower
,
striking
the
hour
,
rolled
past
in
voluminous
,
austere
bursts
of
sound
,
with
a
shrill
vibrating
cry
at
the
core
.
He
drew
the
heavy
curtains
.
The
light
of
his
shaded
reading-lamp
slept
like
a
sheltered
pool
,
his
footfalls
made
no
sound
on
the
carpet
,
his
wandering
days
were
over
.
No
more
horizons
as
boundless
as
hope
,
no
more
twilights
within
the
forests
as
solemn
as
temples
,
in
the
hot
quest
for
the
Ever-undiscovered
Country
over
the
hill
,
across
the
stream
,
beyond
the
wave
.
The
hour
was
striking
!
No
more
!
No
more
!
--
but
the
opened
packet
under
the
lamp
brought
back
the
sounds
,
the
visions
,
the
very
savour
of
the
past
--
a
multitude
of
fading
faces
,
a
tumult
of
low
voices
,
dying
away
upon
the
shores
of
distant
seas
under
a
passionate
and
unconsoling
sunshine
.
He
sighed
and
sat
down
to
read
.
At
first
he
saw
three
distinct
enclosures
.
A
good
many
pages
closely
blackened
and
pinned
together
;
a
loose
square
sheet
of
greyish
paper
with
a
few
words
traced
in
a
handwriting
he
had
never
seen
before
,
and
an
explanatory
letter
from
Marlow
.
From
this
last
fell
another
letter
,
yellowed
by
time
and
frayed
on
the
folds
.
He
picked
it
up
and
,
laying
it
aside
,
turned
to
Marlow
's
message
,
ran
swiftly
over
the
opening
lines
,
and
,
checking
himself
,
thereafter
read
on
deliberately
,
like
one
approaching
with
slow
feet
and
alert
eyes
the
glimpse
of
an
undiscovered
country
.
'
...
I
do
n't
suppose
you
've
forgotten
,
'
went
on
the
letter
.
'
You
alone
have
showed
an
interest
in
him
that
survived
the
telling
of
his
story
,
though
I
remember
well
you
would
not
admit
he
had
mastered
his
fate
.
You
prophesied
for
him
the
disaster
of
weariness
and
of
disgust
with
acquired
honour
,
with
the
self-appointed
task
,
with
the
love
sprung
from
pity
and
youth
.
You
had
said
you
knew
so
well
"
that
kind
of
thing
,
"
its
illusory
satisfaction
,
its
unavoidable
deception
.
You
said
also
--
I
call
to
mind
--
that
"
giving
your
life
up
to
them
"
(
them
meaning
all
of
mankind
with
skins
brown
,
yellow
,
or
black
in
colour
)
"
was
like
selling
your
soul
to
a
brute
.
"
You
contended
that
"
that
kind
of
thing
"
was
only
endurable
and
enduring
when
based
on
a
firm
conviction
in
the
truth
of
ideas
racially
our
own
,
in
whose
name
are
established
the
order
,
the
morality
of
an
ethical
progress
.
"
We
want
its
strength
at
our
backs
,
"
you
had
said
.
"
We
want
a
belief
in
its
necessity
and
its
justice
,
to
make
a
worthy
and
conscious
sacrifice
of
our
lives
.
Without
it
the
sacrifice
is
only
forgetfulness
,
the
way
of
offering
is
no
better
than
the
way
to
perdition
.
"
In
other
words
,
you
maintained
that
we
must
fight
in
the
ranks
or
our
lives
do
n't
count
.
Possibly
!
You
ought
to
know
--
be
it
said
without
malice
--
you
who
have
rushed
into
one
or
two
places
single-handed
and
came
out
cleverly
,
without
singeing
your
wings
.
The
point
,
however
,
is
that
of
all
mankind
Jim
had
no
dealings
but
with
himself
,
and
the
question
is
whether
at
the
last
he
had
not
confessed
to
a
faith
mightier
than
the
laws
of
order
and
progress
.
'
I
affirm
nothing
.
Perhaps
you
may
pronounce
--
after
you
've
read
.
There
is
much
truth
--
after
all
--
in
the
common
expression
"
under
a
cloud
.
"
It
is
impossible
to
see
him
clearly
--
especially
as
it
is
through
the
eyes
of
others
that
we
take
our
last
look
at
him
.
I
have
no
hesitation
in
imparting
to
you
all
I
know
of
the
last
episode
that
,
as
he
used
to
say
,
had
"
come
to
him
.
"
One
wonders
whether
this
was
perhaps
that
supreme
opportunity
,
that
last
and
satisfying
test
for
which
I
had
always
suspected
him
to
be
waiting
,
before
he
could
frame
a
message
to
the
impeccable
world
.
You
remember
that
when
I
was
leaving
him
for
the
last
time
he
had
asked
whether
I
would
be
going
home
soon
,
and
suddenly
cried
after
me
,
"
Tell
them
.
.
.
"
I
had
waited
--
curious
I
'll
own
,
and
hopeful
too
--
only
to
hear
him
shout
,
"
No
--
nothing
.
"
That
was
all
then
--
and
there
will
be
nothing
more
;
there
will
be
no
message
,
unless
such
as
each
of
us
can
interpret
for
himself
from
the
language
of
facts
,
that
are
so
often
more
enigmatic
than
the
craftiest
arrangement
of
words
.
He
made
,
it
is
true
,
one
more
attempt
to
deliver
himself
;
but
that
too
failed
,
as
you
may
perceive
if
you
look
at
the
sheet
of
greyish
foolscap
enclosed
here
.
He
had
tried
to
write
;
do
you
notice
the
commonplace
hand
?
It
is
headed
"
The
Fort
,
Patusun
.
"
I
suppose
he
had
carried
out
his
intention
of
making
out
of
his
house
a
place
of
defence
.
It
was
an
excellent
plan
:
a
deep
ditch
,
an
earth
wall
topped
by
a
palisade
,
and
at
the
angles
guns
mounted
on
platforms
to
sweep
each
side
of
the
square
.
Doramin
had
agreed
to
furnish
him
the
guns
;
and
so
each
man
of
his
party
would
know
there
was
a
place
of
safety
,
upon
which
every
faithful
partisan
could
rally
in
case
of
some
sudden
danger
.
All
this
showed
his
judicious
foresight
,
his
faith
in
the
future
.
What
he
called
"
my
own
people
"
--
the
liberated
captives
of
the
Sherif
--
were
to
make
a
distinct
quarter
of
Patusan
,
with
their
huts
and
little
plots
of
ground
under
the
walls
of
the
stronghold
.
Within
he
would
be
an
invincible
host
in
himself
"
The
Fort
,
Patusan
.
"
No
date
,
as
you
observe
.
What
is
a
number
and
a
name
to
a
day
of
days
?
It
is
also
impossible
to
say
whom
he
had
in
his
mind
when
he
seized
the
pen
:
Stein
--
myself
--
the
world
at
large
--
or
was
this
only
the
aimless
startled
cry
of
a
solitary
man
confronted
by
his
fate
?
"
An
awful
thing
has
happened
,
"
he
wrote
before
he
flung
the
pen
down
for
the
first
time
;
look
at
the
ink
blot
resembling
the
head
of
an
arrow
under
these
words
.
After
a
while
he
had
tried
again
,
scrawling
heavily
,
as
if
with
a
hand
of
lead
,
another
line
.
"
I
must
now
at
once
...
"
The
pen
had
spluttered
,
and
that
time
he
gave
it
up
.
There
's
nothing
more
;
he
had
seen
a
broad
gulf
that
neither
eye
nor
voice
could
span
.
I
can
understand
this
.
He
was
overwhelmed
by
the
inexplicable
;
he
was
overwhelmed
by
his
own
personality
--
the
gift
of
that
destiny
which
he
had
done
his
best
to
master
.
