feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/sparknotes/Lord Jim/section_11_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Lord Jim.chapters 43-45
feat_summary_id: chapters 43 -45
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapters 43 -45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210126121516/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/lordjim/section12/", "summary": "Swayed by the people's faith in Jim and his own fear of risking his son Dain Waris, Doramin agrees to let Gentleman Brown and his men escape. Preparations are made. Jewel begs an exhausted Jim not to take active command. He tells her that every life in Patusan is his responsibility now, since the people have placed their trust in his opinion. Tamb'Itam is sent downriver to notify Dain Waris that Brown is to be allowed to pass. He takes with him Stein's silver ring as a token of his identity. Jim sends Cornelius to Brown with a note informing him that he will be allowed to go. Cornelius delivers the note, then tells Brown that an armed party headed by Dain Waris, the very man who ambushed Brown initially, waits downstream. Cornelius also tells Brown that there is an alternate river channel that will take him directly behind Dain Waris's camp, and that he, Cornelius, can guide Brown's men down it. Two hours before dawn, in a thick fog, Brown and his men head down the river. Jim calls out that he will try to send them some food. Unbeknownst to those ashore, Cornelius accompanies Brown. When they reach the alternate channel, Cornelius takes over the navigation. Meanwhile, Tamb'Itam reaches Dain Waris's camp with news of the truce. He gives Dain Waris the silver ring, which Dain Waris slips on his finger. A moment later, Gentleman Brown lands his boat behind the camp to take his revenge \"upon the world.\" He and his men open fire. Many fall dead, including Dain Waris, who takes a bullet in the forehead. Brown and his men leave as quickly as they came. Tamb'Itam, who has not been hurt, rushes to his canoe to get the news to Doramin and Jim. At the water's edge, he finds Cornelius struggling to launch a boat and escape. Tamb'Itam strikes him twice, killing him. Marlow digresses for a moment to report that a ship's boat was picked up a month after the massacre in the middle of the Indian Ocean. On board were Brown and two of his men, who claimed that they had been transporting a cargo of sugar when their ship sprung a leak and sunk. The two men died aboard the rescue vehicle; Brown has survived to tell Marlow this story. Returning to the main narrative, Marlow recounts Tamb'Itam's arrival back in Patusan. He finds Jewel, who immediately fears Doramin's wrath for the death of his son. Next he carries the news to Jim, who prepares to go fight. Tamb'Itam reluctantly informs him that he is no longer safe among the people of Patusan. This realization hits Jim hard. Tamb'Itam and Jewel urge Jim to fight for his life. Jim seems not to hear them and orders that the gates of his compound be opened and his men dismissed. Dain Waris's body is brought to Doramin's courtyard. Stein's silver ring is found on his finger. Doramin lets out a bellow and the crowd begins to murmur, realizing that the ring could only have come from Jim. Jim prepares to leave his house. Jewel reminds him of his promise not to leave her, and he tells her that he would no longer be worth having if he didn't leave. He departs for Doramin's. Tamb'Itam recalls the frightful aspect of the sky, and Marlow notes that a cyclone passed near Patusan on that very day. Jim arrives at Doramin's. Approaching the old man, he declares himself sorrowful and unarmed. Doramin stands, sending the silver ring rolling toward Jim. Doramin shoots Jim through the heart, and Jim falls dead. Marlow ends the narrative reiterating the dark, romantic nature of Jim's life and his \"extraordinary success.\" Yet, for Marlow, Jim remains \"inscrutable at heart,\" and the meaning of the narrative is still in question.", "analysis": "Commentary It is Marlow, not Jim, who has the last word on Jim's life, noting simply that \"e is gone, inscrutable at heart. \" The word \"heart\" has been associated with Jim over and over again. He is described both as having a core, or \"heart,\" that is in some way unknowable or confusing, and also as being at the \"heart\" of some vast puzzle. The doubled use of this word points back to some of the earlier incidents of confusion over language  and the failure of language to have a definitive meaning. Jim's life has no definitive meaning either. The two \"hearts\" associated with Jim are also suggestive of one of the fundamental problems of the novel: is Jim in fact representative of something larger than himself? Is there an \"us\" that he is \"one of\"? Whether he is at the heart of the inscrutable or merely inscrutable at heart is the fundamental question Marlow must answer. By deferring to Stein, and speaking of Stein's approaching end, and by finishing the narrative in a manuscript rather than in another session of storytelling, Marlow avoids the question. Perhaps it is a question that cannot be answered at all; as Marlow notes, some days Jim seems very real to him, some days Jim seems not to have existed at all. As Marlow notes, Jim has \" away from a living woman to celebrate his pitiless wedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct.\" Marlow thus assigns Jim's story to the realm of romance. The ending of Lord Jim suggests more of a fatal collision between romance and realism than any sort of viable, pure romance, though. Jim's choice of the \"shadowy ideal of conduct\" has led to the deaths of Dain Waris and other men, and to the destruction of Jewel's world. Had Jim not dwelt so fixedly on his failure in the Patna incident, he would have ordered the deaths of Brown and his men, and all would have been well in Patusan. On the other hand, had Jim not dwelt so fixedly on the Patna, he would never have come to Patusan, and arguably not only he but also the people of Patusan are better off for his presence. Idealism and notions of heroism lead to nothing but paradox and sadness. This novel has more in common with Hemingway's tales of damaged and disillusioned men or T.S. Eliot's narratives of the forlorn and impotent than it does with earlier works in which moral upstandingness leads to death with honor, if not a happy ending complete with riches and beautiful women. That this section contains more of the trappings of traditional swashbuckling romance  is meant to highlight the contrast. The ending is a mixed one: Jim dies, with a curious mixture of honor and shame, in a manner at least somewhat similar to an old-fashioned hero, while Marlow, like one of Hemingway's protagonists, is left alive, sadder but not necessarily wiser. This is also a section heavier in symbolism than most. The fog which envelops Brown and his men as they head downriver contrasts with the extreme clarity with which Marlow last sees Jim, on the beach with the fishermen. It is also indicative of the amorphous morality of both Brown's and Jim's actions. Brown, after all, thinks he has been double-crossed, based on the information Cornelius has given him. Jim, as we have already seen, is caught in a bind. The night of the Patna's accident was crystal-clear and still; nothing should have obscured Jim's decision-making then. Because he failed then, yet has held on to his ideals, situations no longer have clear solutions. Brown, too, although he seems to be acting logically, is also punished, by being shipwrecked soon afterward and dying a long, drawn-out death. Weather, though, is the primary vehicle for symbolic content. When the fog clears off, Tamb'Itam reports, the sky is in turmoil. Marlow attributes this to a cyclone passing nearby. This is another moment when romance and realism are at odds. In a romantic world, the cyclone would have descended upon Patusan at the moment of Jim's death, symbolizing the disorder in the world that led to the destruction of our hero. In a realistic world, weather would be ordinary and meaningless. The cyclone's close approach suggests a failure of both models; somehow, Jim's death must be given import, yet the issues surrounding it are too muddled and romance too outmoded for the full symbolic performance to occur. This cyclone should be contrasted to the squall that hits the Patna, as well as to the rumored hurricane that wipes out Chester and Robinson's guano-collecting expedition to the Walpole Reef. Here, finally, the storm--the symbol of higher powers or order--fails to impose its meaning."}
text: 'Tamb' Itam behind his chair was thunderstruck. The declaration produced
  an immense sensation. "Let them go because this is best in my knowledge
  which has never deceived you," Jim insisted. There was a silence. In
  the darkness of the courtyard could be heard the subdued whispering,
  shuffling noise of many people. Doramin raised his heavy head and said
  that there was no more reading of hearts than touching the sky with the
  hand, but--he consented. The others gave their opinion in turn. "It is
  best," "Let them go," and so on. But most of them simply said that they
  "believed Tuan Jim."
  
  'In this simple form of assent to his will lies the whole gist of
  the situation; their creed, his truth; and the testimony to that
  faithfulness which made him in his own eyes the equal of the
  impeccable men who never fall out of the ranks. Stein's words,
  "Romantic!--Romantic!" seem to ring over those distances that will never
  give him up now to a world indifferent to his failings and his virtues,
  and to that ardent and clinging affection that refuses him the dole of
  tears in the bewilderment of a great grief and of eternal separation.
  From the moment the sheer truthfulness of his last three years of life
  carries the day against the ignorance, the fear, and the anger of men,
  he appears no longer to me as I saw him last--a white speck catching all
  the dim light left upon a sombre coast and the darkened sea--but greater
  and more pitiful in the loneliness of his soul, that remains even for
  her who loved him best a cruel and insoluble mystery.
  
  'It is evident that he did not mistrust Brown; there was no reason to
  doubt the story, whose truth seemed warranted by the rough frankness,
  by a sort of virile sincerity in accepting the morality and the
  consequences of his acts. But Jim did not know the almost inconceivable
  egotism of the man which made him, when resisted and foiled in his will,
  mad with the indignant and revengeful rage of a thwarted autocrat.
  But if Jim did not mistrust Brown, he was evidently anxious that some
  misunderstanding should not occur, ending perhaps in collision and
  bloodshed. It was for this reason that directly the Malay chiefs had
  gone he asked Jewel to get him something to eat, as he was going out of
  the fort to take command in the town. On her remonstrating against this
  on the score of his fatigue, he said that something might happen for
  which he would never forgive himself. "I am responsible for every life
  in the land," he said. He was moody at first; she served him with her
  own hands, taking the plates and dishes (of the dinner-service presented
  him by Stein) from Tamb' Itam. He brightened up after a while; told her
  she would be again in command of the fort for another night. "There's
  no sleep for us, old girl," he said, "while our people are in danger."
  Later on he said jokingly that she was the best man of them all. "If you
  and Dain Waris had done what you wanted, not one of these poor devils
  would be alive to-day." "Are they very bad?" she asked, leaning over his
  chair. "Men act badly sometimes without being much worse than others,"
  he said after some hesitation.
  
  'Tamb' Itam followed his master to the landing-stage outside the fort.
  The night was clear but without a moon, and the middle of the river was
  dark, while the water under each bank reflected the light of many fires
  "as on a night of Ramadan," Tamb' Itam said. War-boats drifted silently
  in the dark lane or, anchored, floated motionless with a loud ripple.
  That night there was much paddling in a canoe and walking at his
  master's heels for Tamb' Itam: up and down the street they tramped,
  where the fires were burning, inland on the outskirts of the town where
  small parties of men kept guard in the fields. Tuan Jim gave his orders
  and was obeyed. Last of all they went to the Rajah's stockade, which a
  detachment of Jim's people manned on that night. The old Rajah had fled
  early in the morning with most of his women to a small house he had
  near a jungle village on a tributary stream. Kassim, left behind, had
  attended the council with his air of diligent activity to explain away
  the diplomacy of the day before. He was considerably cold-shouldered,
  but managed to preserve his smiling, quiet alertness, and professed
  himself highly delighted when Jim told him sternly that he proposed to
  occupy the stockade on that night with his own men. After the council
  broke up he was heard outside accosting this and that deputing chief,
  and speaking in a loud, gratified tone of the Rajah's property being
  protected in the Rajah's absence.
  
  'About ten or so Jim's men marched in. The stockade commanded the mouth
  of the creek, and Jim meant to remain there till Brown had passed below.
  A small fire was lit on the flat, grassy point outside the wall of
  stakes, and Tamb' Itam placed a little folding-stool for his master. Jim
  told him to try and sleep. Tamb' Itam got a mat and lay down a little
  way off; but he could not sleep, though he knew he had to go on an
  important journey before the night was out. His master walked to and fro
  before the fire with bowed head and with his hands behind his back. His
  face was sad. Whenever his master approached him Tamb' Itam pretended to
  sleep, not wishing his master to know he had been watched. At last his
  master stood still, looking down on him as he lay, and said softly, "It
  is time."
  
  'Tamb' Itam arose directly and made his preparations. His mission was
  to go down the river, preceding Brown's boat by an hour or more, to tell
  Dain Waris finally and formally that the whites were to be allowed to
  pass out unmolested. Jim would not trust anybody else with that service.
  Before starting, Tamb' Itam, more as a matter of form (since his
  position about Jim made him perfectly known), asked for a token.
  "Because, Tuan," he said, "the message is important, and these are thy
  very words I carry." His master first put his hand into one pocket, then
  into another, and finally took off his forefinger Stein's silver ring,
  which he habitually wore, and gave it to Tamb' Itam. When Tamb' Itam
  left on his mission, Brown's camp on the knoll was dark but for a single
  small glow shining through the branches of one of the trees the white
  men had cut down.
  
  'Early in the evening Brown had received from Jim a folded piece of
  paper on which was written, "You get the clear road. Start as soon
  as your boat floats on the morning tide. Let your men be careful. The
  bushes on both sides of the creek and the stockade at the mouth are full
  of well-armed men. You would have no chance, but I don't believe you
  want bloodshed." Brown read it, tore the paper into small pieces, and,
  turning to Cornelius, who had brought it, said jeeringly, "Good-bye, my
  excellent friend." Cornelius had been in the fort, and had been sneaking
  around Jim's house during the afternoon. Jim chose him to carry the note
  because he could speak English, was known to Brown, and was not likely
  to be shot by some nervous mistake of one of the men as a Malay,
  approaching in the dusk, perhaps might have been.
  
  'Cornelius didn't go away after delivering the paper. Brown was sitting
  up over a tiny fire; all the others were lying down. "I could tell you
  something you would like to know," Cornelius mumbled crossly. Brown paid
  no attention. "You did not kill him," went on the other, "and what do
  you get for it? You might have had money from the Rajah, besides the
  loot of all the Bugis houses, and now you get nothing." "You had better
  clear out from here," growled Brown, without even looking at him. But
  Cornelius let himself drop by his side and began to whisper very fast,
  touching his elbow from time to time. What he had to say made Brown sit
  up at first, with a curse. He had simply informed him of Dain Waris's
  armed party down the river. At first Brown saw himself completely sold
  and betrayed, but a moment's reflection convinced him that there could
  be no treachery intended. He said nothing, and after a while Cornelius
  remarked, in a tone of complete indifference, that there was another way
  out of the river which he knew very well. "A good thing to know, too,"
  said Brown, pricking up his ears; and Cornelius began to talk of
  what went on in town and repeated all that had been said in council,
  gossiping in an even undertone at Brown's ear as you talk amongst
  sleeping men you do not wish to wake. "He thinks he has made me
  harmless, does he?" mumbled Brown very low. . . . "Yes. He is a fool. A
  little child. He came here and robbed me," droned on Cornelius, "and he
  made all the people believe him. But if something happened that they did
  not believe him any more, where would he be? And the Bugis Dain who
  is waiting for you down the river there, captain, is the very man who
  chased you up here when you first came." Brown observed nonchalantly
  that it would be just as well to avoid him, and with the same detached,
  musing air Cornelius declared himself acquainted with a backwater broad
  enough to take Brown's boat past Waris's camp. "You will have to be
  quiet," he said as an afterthought, "for in one place we pass close
  behind his camp. Very close. They are camped ashore with their boats
  hauled up." "Oh, we know how to be as quiet as mice; never fear," said
  Brown. Cornelius stipulated that in case he were to pilot Brown out, his
  canoe should be towed. "I'll have to get back quick," he explained.
  
  'It was two hours before the dawn when word was passed to the stockade
  from outlying watchers that the white robbers were coming down to their
  boat. In a very short time every armed man from one end of Patusan
  to the other was on the alert, yet the banks of the river remained so
  silent that but for the fires burning with sudden blurred flares the
  town might have been asleep as if in peace-time. A heavy mist lay very
  low on the water, making a sort of illusive grey light that showed
  nothing. When Brown's long-boat glided out of the creek into the
  river, Jim was standing on the low point of land before the Rajah's
  stockade--on the very spot where for the first time he put his foot on
  Patusan shore. A shadow loomed up, moving in the greyness, solitary,
  very bulky, and yet constantly eluding the eye. A murmur of low talking
  came out of it. Brown at the tiller heard Jim speak calmly: "A clear
  road. You had better trust to the current while the fog lasts; but
  this will lift presently." "Yes, presently we shall see clear," replied
  Brown.
  
  'The thirty or forty men standing with muskets at ready outside the
  stockade held their breath. The Bugis owner of the prau, whom I saw
  on Stein's verandah, and who was amongst them, told me that the boat,
  shaving the low point close, seemed for a moment to grow big and hang
  over it like a mountain. "If you think it worth your while to wait a
  day outside," called out Jim, "I'll try to send you down something--a
  bullock, some yams--what I can." The shadow went on moving. "Yes. Do,"
  said a voice, blank and muffled out of the fog. Not one of the many
  attentive listeners understood what the words meant; and then Brown
  and his men in their boat floated away, fading spectrally without the
  slightest sound.
  
  'Thus Brown, invisible in the mist, goes out of Patusan elbow to elbow
  with Cornelius in the stern-sheets of the long-boat. "Perhaps you shall
  get a small bullock," said Cornelius. "Oh yes. Bullock. Yam. You'll get
  it if he said so. He always speaks the truth. He stole everything I had.
  I suppose you like a small bullock better than the loot of many houses."
  "I would advise you to hold your tongue, or somebody here may fling
  you overboard into this damned fog," said Brown. The boat seemed to be
  standing still; nothing could be seen, not even the river alongside,
  only the water-dust flew and trickled, condensed, down their beards and
  faces. It was weird, Brown told me. Every individual man of them felt
  as though he were adrift alone in a boat, haunted by an almost
  imperceptible suspicion of sighing, muttering ghosts. "Throw me out,
  would you? But I would know where I was," mumbled Cornelius surlily.
  "I've lived many years here." "Not long enough to see through a fog like
  this," Brown said, lolling back with his arm swinging to and fro on the
  useless tiller. "Yes. Long enough for that," snarled Cornelius. "That's
  very useful," commented Brown. "Am I to believe you could find that
  backway you spoke of blindfold, like this?" Cornelius grunted. "Are you
  too tired to row?" he asked after a silence. "No, by God!" shouted Brown
  suddenly. "Out with your oars there." There was a great knocking in
  the fog, which after a while settled into a regular grind of invisible
  sweeps against invisible thole-pins. Otherwise nothing was changed, and
  but for the slight splash of a dipped blade it was like rowing a balloon
  car in a cloud, said Brown. Thereafter Cornelius did not open his lips
  except to ask querulously for somebody to bale out his canoe, which
  was towing behind the long-boat. Gradually the fog whitened and became
  luminous ahead. To the left Brown saw a darkness as though he had been
  looking at the back of the departing night. All at once a big bough
  covered with leaves appeared above his head, and ends of twigs, dripping
  and still, curved slenderly close alongside. Cornelius, without a word,
  took the tiller from his hand.'
  
  'I don't think they spoke together again. The boat entered a narrow
  by-channel, where it was pushed by the oar-blades set into crumbling
  banks, and there was a gloom as if enormous black wings had been
  outspread above the mist that filled its depth to the summits of the
  trees. The branches overhead showered big drops through the gloomy fog.
  At a mutter from Cornelius, Brown ordered his men to load. "I'll
  give you a chance to get even with them before we're done, you dismal
  cripples, you," he said to his gang. "Mind you don't throw it away--you
  hounds." Low growls answered that speech. Cornelius showed much fussy
  concern for the safety of his canoe.
  
  'Meantime Tamb' Itam had reached the end of his journey. The fog had
  delayed him a little, but he had paddled steadily, keeping in touch with
  the south bank. By-and-by daylight came like a glow in a ground glass
  globe. The shores made on each side of the river a dark smudge, in which
  one could detect hints of columnar forms and shadows of twisted branches
  high up. The mist was still thick on the water, but a good watch was
  being kept, for as Iamb' Itam approached the camp the figures of two men
  emerged out of the white vapour, and voices spoke to him boisterously.
  He answered, and presently a canoe lay alongside, and he exchanged news
  with the paddlers. All was well. The trouble was over. Then the men in
  the canoe let go their grip on the side of his dug-out and incontinently
  fell out of sight. He pursued his way till he heard voices coming to him
  quietly over the water, and saw, under the now lifting, swirling mist,
  the glow of many little fires burning on a sandy stretch, backed by
  lofty thin timber and bushes. There again a look-out was kept, for he
  was challenged. He shouted his name as the two last sweeps of his paddle
  ran his canoe up on the strand. It was a big camp. Men crouched in many
  little knots under a subdued murmur of early morning talk. Many thin
  threads of smoke curled slowly on the white mist. Little shelters,
  elevated above the ground, had been built for the chiefs. Muskets were
  stacked in small pyramids, and long spears were stuck singly into the
  sand near the fires.
  
  'Tamb' Itam, assuming an air of importance, demanded to be led to Dain
  Waris. He found the friend of his white lord lying on a raised couch
  made of bamboo, and sheltered by a sort of shed of sticks covered with
  mats. Dain Waris was awake, and a bright fire was burning before his
  sleeping-place, which resembled a rude shrine. The only son of nakhoda
  Doramin answered his greeting kindly. Tamb' Itam began by handing him
  the ring which vouched for the truth of the messenger's words. Dain
  Waris, reclining on his elbow, bade him speak and tell all the news.
  Beginning with the consecrated formula, "The news is good," Tamb' Itam
  delivered Jim's own words. The white men, deputing with the consent of
  all the chiefs, were to be allowed to pass down the river. In answer to
  a question or two Tamb' Itam then reported the proceedings of the last
  council. Dain Waris listened attentively to the end, toying with the
  ring which ultimately he slipped on the forefinger of his right hand.
  After hearing all he had to say he dismissed Tamb' Itam to have food
  and rest. Orders for the return in the afternoon were given immediately.
  Afterwards Dain Waris lay down again, open-eyed, while his personal
  attendants were preparing his food at the fire, by which Tamb' Itam also
  sat talking to the men who lounged up to hear the latest intelligence
  from the town. The sun was eating up the mist. A good watch was kept
  upon the reach of the main stream where the boat of the whites was
  expected to appear every moment.
  
  'It was then that Brown took his revenge upon the world which, after
  twenty years of contemptuous and reckless bullying, refused him the
  tribute of a common robber's success. It was an act of cold-blooded
  ferocity, and it consoled him on his deathbed like a memory of an
  indomitable defiance. Stealthily he landed his men on the other side
  of the island opposite to the Bugis camp, and led them across. After a
  short but quite silent scuffle, Cornelius, who had tried to slink away
  at the moment of landing, resigned himself to show the way where the
  undergrowth was most sparse. Brown held both his skinny hands together
  behind his back in the grip of one vast fist, and now and then impelled
  him forward with a fierce push. Cornelius remained as mute as a fish,
  abject but faithful to his purpose, whose accomplishment loomed before
  him dimly. At the edge of the patch of forest Brown's men spread
  themselves out in cover and waited. The camp was plain from end to end
  before their eyes, and no one looked their way. Nobody even dreamed that
  the white men could have any knowledge of the narrow channel at the back
  of the island. When he judged the moment come, Brown yelled, "Let them
  have it," and fourteen shots rang out like one.
  
  'Tamb' Itam told me the surprise was so great that, except for those who
  fell dead or wounded, not a soul of them moved for quite an appreciable
  time after the first discharge. Then a man screamed, and after that
  scream a great yell of amazement and fear went up from all the throats.
  A blind panic drove these men in a surging swaying mob to and fro along
  the shore like a herd of cattle afraid of the water. Some few jumped
  into the river then, but most of them did so only after the last
  discharge. Three times Brown's men fired into the ruck, Brown, the only
  one in view, cursing and yelling, "Aim low! aim low!"
  
  'Tamb' Itam says that, as for him, he understood at the first volley
  what had happened. Though untouched he fell down and lay as if dead,
  but with his eyes open. At the sound of the first shots Dain Waris,
  reclining on the couch, jumped up and ran out upon the open shore, just
  in time to receive a bullet in his forehead at the second discharge.
  Tamb' Itam saw him fling his arms wide open before he fell. Then, he
  says, a great fear came upon him--not before. The white men retired as
  they had come--unseen.
  
  'Thus Brown balanced his account with the evil fortune. Notice that even
  in this awful outbreak there is a superiority as of a man who carries
  right--the abstract thing--within the envelope of his common desires.
  It was not a vulgar and treacherous massacre; it was a lesson, a
  retribution--a demonstration of some obscure and awful attribute of our
  nature which, I am afraid, is not so very far under the surface as we
  like to think.
  
  'Afterwards the whites depart unseen by Tamb' Itam, and seem to vanish
  from before men's eyes altogether; and the schooner, too, vanishes after
  the manner of stolen goods. But a story is told of a white long-boat
  picked up a month later in the Indian Ocean by a cargo steamer. Two
  parched, yellow, glassy-eyed, whispering skeletons in her recognised
  the authority of a third, who declared that his name was Brown. His
  schooner, he reported, bound south with a cargo of Java sugar, had
  sprung a bad leak and sank under his feet. He and his companions were
  the survivors of a crew of six. The two died on board the steamer which
  rescued them. Brown lived to be seen by me, and I can testify that he
  had played his part to the last.
  
  'It seems, however, that in going away they had neglected to cast off
  Cornelius's canoe. Cornelius himself Brown had let go at the beginning
  of the shooting, with a kick for a parting benediction. Tamb' Itam,
  after arising from amongst the dead, saw the Nazarene running up and
  down the shore amongst the corpses and the expiring fires. He uttered
  little cries. Suddenly he rushed to the water, and made frantic efforts
  to get one of the Bugis boats into the water. "Afterwards, till he had
  seen me," related Tamb' Itam, "he stood looking at the heavy canoe and
  scratching his head." "What became of him?" I asked. Tamb' Itam, staring
  hard at me, made an expressive gesture with his right arm. "Twice I
  struck, Tuan," he said. "When he beheld me approaching he cast himself
  violently on the ground and made a great outcry, kicking. He screeched
  like a frightened hen till he felt the point; then he was still, and lay
  staring at me while his life went out of his eyes."
  
  'This done, Tamb' Itam did not tarry. He understood the importance of
  being the first with the awful news at the fort. There were, of course,
  many survivors of Dain Waris's party; but in the extremity of panic some
  had swum across the river, others had bolted into the bush. The fact is
  that they did not know really who struck that blow--whether more white
  robbers were not coming, whether they had not already got hold of
  the whole land. They imagined themselves to be the victims of a vast
  treachery, and utterly doomed to destruction. It is said that some small
  parties did not come in till three days afterwards. However, a few tried
  to make their way back to Patusan at once, and one of the canoes that
  were patrolling the river that morning was in sight of the camp at
  the very moment of the attack. It is true that at first the men in her
  leaped overboard and swam to the opposite bank, but afterwards they
  returned to their boat and started fearfully up-stream. Of these Tamb'
  Itam had an hour's advance.''When Tamb' Itam, paddling madly, came into the town-reach, the women,
  thronging the platforms before the houses, were looking out for the
  return of Dain Waris's little fleet of boats. The town had a festive
  air; here and there men, still with spears or guns in their hands, could
  be seen moving or standing on the shore in groups. Chinamen's shops had
  been opened early; but the market-place was empty, and a sentry, still
  posted at the corner of the fort, made out Tamb' Itam, and shouted to
  those within. The gate was wide open. Tamb' Itam jumped ashore and ran
  in headlong. The first person he met was the girl coming down from the
  house.
  
  'Tamb' Itam, disordered, panting, with trembling lips and wild eyes,
  stood for a time before her as if a sudden spell had been laid on him.
  Then he broke out very quickly: "They have killed Dain Waris and many
  more." She clapped her hands, and her first words were, "Shut the
  gates." Most of the fortmen had gone back to their houses, but Tamb'
  Itam hurried on the few who remained for their turn of duty within. The
  girl stood in the middle of the courtyard while the others ran about.
  "Doramin," she cried despairingly, as Tamb' Itam passed her. Next time
  he went by he answered her thought rapidly, "Yes. But we have all the
  powder in Patusan." She caught him by the arm, and, pointing at the
  house, "Call him out," she whispered, trembling.
  
  'Tamb' Itam ran up the steps. His master was sleeping. "It is I, Tamb'
  Itam," he cried at the door, "with tidings that cannot wait." He saw
  Jim turn over on the pillow and open his eyes, and he burst out at
  once. "This, Tuan, is a day of evil, an accursed day." His master raised
  himself on his elbow to listen--just as Dain Waris had done. And then
  Tamb' Itam began his tale, trying to relate the story in order, calling
  Dain Waris Panglima, and saying: "The Panglima then called out to the
  chief of his own boatmen, 'Give Tamb' Itam something to eat'"--when
  his master put his feet to the ground and looked at him with such a
  discomposed face that the words remained in his throat.
  
  '"Speak out," said Jim. "Is he dead?" "May you live long," cried Tamb'
  Itam. "It was a most cruel treachery. He ran out at the first shots and
  fell." . . . His master walked to the window and with his fist struck
  at the shutter. The room was made light; and then in a steady voice, but
  speaking fast, he began to give him orders to assemble a fleet of boats
  for immediate pursuit, go to this man, to the other--send messengers;
  and as he talked he sat down on the bed, stooping to lace his boots
  hurriedly, and suddenly looked up. "Why do you stand here?" he asked
  very red-faced. "Waste no time." Tamb' Itam did not move. "Forgive me,
  Tuan, but . . . but," he began to stammer. "What?" cried his master
  aloud, looking terrible, leaning forward with his hands gripping the
  edge of the bed. "It is not safe for thy servant to go out amongst the
  people," said Tamb' Itam, after hesitating a moment.
  
  'Then Jim understood. He had retreated from one world, for a small
  matter of an impulsive jump, and now the other, the work of his own
  hands, had fallen in ruins upon his head. It was not safe for his
  servant to go out amongst his own people! I believe that in that very
  moment he had decided to defy the disaster in the only way it occurred
  to him such a disaster could be defied; but all I know is that, without
  a word, he came out of his room and sat before the long table, at the
  head of which he was accustomed to regulate the affairs of his world,
  proclaiming daily the truth that surely lived in his heart. The dark
  powers should not rob him twice of his peace. He sat like a stone
  figure. Tamb' Itam, deferential, hinted at preparations for defence.
  The girl he loved came in and spoke to him, but he made a sign with his
  hand, and she was awed by the dumb appeal for silence in it. She went
  out on the verandah and sat on the threshold, as if to guard him with
  her body from dangers outside.
  
  'What thoughts passed through his head--what memories? Who can tell?
  Everything was gone, and he who had been once unfaithful to his trust
  had lost again all men's confidence. It was then, I believe, he tried
  to write--to somebody--and gave it up. Loneliness was closing on him.
  People had trusted him with their lives--only for that; and yet they
  could never, as he had said, never be made to understand him. Those
  without did not hear him make a sound. Later, towards the evening, he
  came to the door and called for Tamb' Itam. "Well?" he asked. "There is
  much weeping. Much anger too," said Tamb' Itam. Jim looked up at him.
  "You know," he murmured. "Yes, Tuan," said Tamb' Itam. "Thy servant does
  know, and the gates are closed. We shall have to fight." "Fight! What
  for?" he asked. "For our lives." "I have no life," he said. Tamb' Itam
  heard a cry from the girl at the door. "Who knows?" said Tamb' Itam.
  "By audacity and cunning we may even escape. There is much fear in men's
  hearts too." He went out, thinking vaguely of boats and of open sea,
  leaving Jim and the girl together.
  
  'I haven't the heart to set down here such glimpses as she had given
  me of the hour or more she passed in there wrestling with him for the
  possession of her happiness. Whether he had any hope--what he expected,
  what he imagined--it is impossible to say. He was inflexible, and with
  the growing loneliness of his obstinacy his spirit seemed to rise above
  the ruins of his existence. She cried "Fight!" into his ear. She could
  not understand. There was nothing to fight for. He was going to prove
  his power in another way and conquer the fatal destiny itself. He came
  out into the courtyard, and behind him, with streaming hair, wild
  of face, breathless, she staggered out and leaned on the side of the
  doorway. "Open the gates," he ordered. Afterwards, turning to those of
  his men who were inside, he gave them leave to depart to their homes.
  "For how long, Tuan?" asked one of them timidly. "For all life," he
  said, in a sombre tone.
  
  'A hush had fallen upon the town after the outburst of wailing and
  lamentation that had swept over the river, like a gust of wind from the
  opened abode of sorrow. But rumours flew in whispers, filling the hearts
  with consternation and horrible doubts. The robbers were coming back,
  bringing many others with them, in a great ship, and there would be no
  refuge in the land for any one. A sense of utter insecurity as during
  an earthquake pervaded the minds of men, who whispered their suspicions,
  looking at each other as if in the presence of some awful portent.
  
  'The sun was sinking towards the forests when Dain Waris's body was
  brought into Doramin's campong. Four men carried it in, covered decently
  with a white sheet which the old mother had sent out down to the gate to
  meet her son on his return. They laid him at Doramin's feet, and the old
  man sat still for a long time, one hand on each knee, looking down. The
  fronds of palms swayed gently, and the foliage of fruit trees stirred
  above his head. Every single man of his people was there, fully armed,
  when the old nakhoda at last raised his eyes. He moved them slowly over
  the crowd, as if seeking for a missing face. Again his chin sank on his
  breast. The whispers of many men mingled with the slight rustling of the
  leaves.
  
  'The Malay who had brought Tamb' Itam and the girl to Samarang was there
  too. "Not so angry as many," he said to me, but struck with a great
  awe and wonder at the "suddenness of men's fate, which hangs over their
  heads like a cloud charged with thunder." He told me that when Dain
  Waris's body was uncovered at a sign of Doramin's, he whom they often
  called the white lord's friend was disclosed lying unchanged with his
  eyelids a little open as if about to wake. Doramin leaned forward a
  little more, like one looking for something fallen on the ground. His
  eyes searched the body from its feet to its head, for the wound maybe.
  It was in the forehead and small; and there was no word spoken while
  one of the by-standers, stooping, took off the silver ring from the cold
  stiff hand. In silence he held it up before Doramin. A murmur of dismay
  and horror ran through the crowd at the sight of that familiar token.
  The old nakhoda stared at it, and suddenly let out one great fierce cry,
  deep from the chest, a roar of pain and fury, as mighty as the bellow of
  a wounded bull, bringing great fear into men's hearts, by the magnitude
  of his anger and his sorrow that could be plainly discerned without
  words. There was a great stillness afterwards for a space, while the
  body was being borne aside by four men. They laid it down under a tree,
  and on the instant, with one long shriek, all the women of the household
  began to wail together; they mourned with shrill cries; the sun
  was setting, and in the intervals of screamed lamentations the high
  sing-song voices of two old men intoning the Koran chanted alone.
  
  'About this time Jim, leaning on a gun-carriage, looked at the river,
  and turned his back on the house; and the girl, in the doorway, panting
  as if she had run herself to a standstill, was looking at him across the
  yard. Tamb' Itam stood not far from his master, waiting patiently for
  what might happen. All at once Jim, who seemed to be lost in quiet
  thought, turned to him and said, "Time to finish this."
  
  '"Tuan?" said Tamb' Itam, advancing with alacrity. He did not know what
  his master meant, but as soon as Jim made a movement the girl started
  too and walked down into the open space. It seems that no one else of
  the people of the house was in sight. She tottered slightly, and about
  half-way down called out to Jim, who had apparently resumed his peaceful
  contemplation of the river. He turned round, setting his back against
  the gun. "Will you fight?" she cried. "There is nothing to fight for,"
  he said; "nothing is lost." Saying this he made a step towards her.
  "Will you fly?" she cried again. "There is no escape," he said, stopping
  short, and she stood still also, silent, devouring him with her eyes.
  "And you shall go?" she said slowly. He bent his head. "Ah!" she
  exclaimed, peering at him as it were, "you are mad or false. Do you
  remember the night I prayed you to leave me, and you said that you could
  not? That it was impossible! Impossible! Do you remember you said you
  would never leave me? Why? I asked you for no promise. You promised
  unasked--remember." "Enough, poor girl," he said. "I should not be worth
  having."
  
  'Tamb' Itam said that while they were talking she would laugh loud and
  senselessly like one under the visitation of God. His master put his
  hands to his head. He was fully dressed as for every day, but without
  a hat. She stopped laughing suddenly. "For the last time," she cried
  menacingly, "will you defend yourself?" "Nothing can touch me," he said
  in a last flicker of superb egoism. Tamb' Itam saw her lean forward
  where she stood, open her arms, and run at him swiftly. She flung
  herself upon his breast and clasped him round the neck.
  
  '"Ah! but I shall hold thee thus," she cried. . . . "Thou art mine!"
  
  'She sobbed on his shoulder. The sky over Patusan was blood-red,
  immense, streaming like an open vein. An enormous sun nestled crimson
  amongst the tree-tops, and the forest below had a black and forbidding
  face.
  
  'Tamb' Itam tells me that on that evening the aspect of the heavens was
  angry and frightful. I may well believe it, for I know that on that very
  day a cyclone passed within sixty miles of the coast, though there was
  hardly more than a languid stir of air in the place.
  
  'Suddenly Tamb' Itam saw Jim catch her arms, trying to unclasp her
  hands. She hung on them with her head fallen back; her hair touched the
  ground. "Come here!" his master called, and Tamb' Itam helped to ease
  her down. It was difficult to separate her fingers. Jim, bending
  over her, looked earnestly upon her face, and all at once ran to the
  landing-stage. Tamb' Itam followed him, but turning his head, he saw
  that she had struggled up to her feet. She ran after them a few steps,
  then fell down heavily on her knees. "Tuan! Tuan!" called Tamb' Itam,
  "look back;" but Jim was already in a canoe, standing up paddle in hand.
  He did not look back. Tamb' Itam had just time to scramble in after
  him when the canoe floated clear. The girl was then on her knees, with
  clasped hands, at the water-gate. She remained thus for a time in
  a supplicating attitude before she sprang up. "You are false!" she
  screamed out after Jim. "Forgive me," he cried. "Never! Never!" she
  called back.
  
  'Tamb' Itam took the paddle from Jim's hands, it being unseemly that he
  should sit while his lord paddled. When they reached the other shore his
  master forbade him to come any farther; but Tamb' Itam did follow him at
  a distance, walking up the slope to Doramin's campong.
  
  'It was beginning to grow dark. Torches twinkled here and there. Those
  they met seemed awestruck, and stood aside hastily to let Jim pass. The
  wailing of women came from above. The courtyard was full of armed Bugis
  with their followers, and of Patusan people.
  
  'I do not know what this gathering really meant. Were these preparations
  for war, or for vengeance, or to repulse a threatened invasion? Many
  days elapsed before the people had ceased to look out, quaking, for
  the return of the white men with long beards and in rags, whose exact
  relation to their own white man they could never understand. Even for
  those simple minds poor Jim remains under a cloud.
  
  'Doramin, alone! immense and desolate, sat in his arm-chair with the
  pair of flintlock pistols on his knees, faced by a armed throng. When
  Jim appeared, at somebody's exclamation, all the heads turned round
  together, and then the mass opened right and left, and he walked up a
  lane of averted glances. Whispers followed him; murmurs: "He has worked
  all the evil." "He hath a charm." . . . He heard them--perhaps!
  
  'When he came up into the light of torches the wailing of the women
  ceased suddenly. Doramin did not lift his head, and Jim stood silent
  before him for a time. Then he looked to the left, and moved in that
  direction with measured steps. Dain Waris's mother crouched at the head
  of the body, and the grey dishevelled hair concealed her face. Jim came
  up slowly, looked at his dead friend, lifting the sheet, than dropped it
  without a word. Slowly he walked back.
  
  '"He came! He came!" was running from lip to lip, making a murmur to
  which he moved. "He hath taken it upon his own head," a voice said
  aloud. He heard this and turned to the crowd. "Yes. Upon my head." A few
  people recoiled. Jim waited awhile before Doramin, and then said gently,
  "I am come in sorrow." He waited again. "I am come ready and unarmed,"
  he repeated.
  
  'The unwieldy old man, lowering his big forehead like an ox under a
  yoke, made an effort to rise, clutching at the flintlock pistols on his
  knees. From his throat came gurgling, choking, inhuman sounds, and his
  two attendants helped him from behind. People remarked that the ring
  which he had dropped on his lap fell and rolled against the foot of
  the white man, and that poor Jim glanced down at the talisman that had
  opened for him the door of fame, love, and success within the wall of
  forests fringed with white foam, within the coast that under the western
  sun looks like the very stronghold of the night. Doramin, struggling to
  keep his feet, made with his two supporters a swaying, tottering group;
  his little eyes stared with an expression of mad pain, of rage, with
  a ferocious glitter, which the bystanders noticed; and then, while Jim
  stood stiffened and with bared head in the light of torches, looking him
  straight in the face, he clung heavily with his left arm round the neck
  of a bowed youth, and lifting deliberately his right, shot his son's
  friend through the chest.
  
  'The crowd, which had fallen apart behind Jim as soon as Doramin had
  raised his hand, rushed tumultuously forward after the shot. They say
  that the white man sent right and left at all those faces a proud and
  unflinching glance. Then with his hand over his lips he fell forward,
  dead.
  
  'And that's the end. He passes away under a cloud, inscrutable at heart,
  forgotten, unforgiven, and excessively romantic. Not in the wildest days
  of his boyish visions could he have seen the alluring shape of such an
  extraordinary success! For it may very well be that in the short moment
  of his last proud and unflinching glance, he had beheld the face of that
  opportunity which, like an Eastern bride, had come veiled to his side.
  
  'But we can see him, an obscure conqueror of fame, tearing himself out
  of the arms of a jealous love at the sign, at the call of his exalted
  egoism. He goes away from a living woman to celebrate his pitiless
  wedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct. Is he satisfied--quite, now, I
  wonder? We ought to know. He is one of us--and have I not stood up once,
  like an evoked ghost, to answer for his eternal constancy? Was I so very
  wrong after all? Now he is no more, there are days when the reality of
  his existence comes to me with an immense, with an overwhelming force;
  and yet upon my honour there are moments, too when he passes from my
  eyes like a disembodied spirit astray amongst the passions of this
  earth, ready to surrender himself faithfully to the claim of his own
  world of shades.
  
  'Who knows? He is gone, inscrutable at heart, and the poor girl is
  leading a sort of soundless, inert life in Stein's house. Stein has
  aged greatly of late. He feels it himself, and says often that he is
  "preparing to leave all this; preparing to leave . . ." while he waves
  his hand sadly at his butterflies.'
feat_summary_name: Chapters 43 -45
target: Swayed by the people's faith in Jim and his own fear of risking his son Dain Waris, Doramin agrees to let Gentleman Brown and his men escape. Preparations are made. Jewel begs an exhausted Jim not to take active command. He tells her that every life in Patusan is his responsibility now, since the people have placed their trust in his opinion. Tamb'Itam is sent downriver to notify Dain Waris that Brown is to be allowed to pass. He takes with him Stein's silver ring as a token of his identity. Jim sends Cornelius to Brown with a note informing him that he will be allowed to go. Cornelius delivers the note, then tells Brown that an armed party headed by Dain Waris, the very man who ambushed Brown initially, waits downstream. Cornelius also tells Brown that there is an alternate river channel that will take him directly behind Dain Waris's camp, and that he, Cornelius, can guide Brown's men down it. Two hours before dawn, in a thick fog, Brown and his men head down the river. Jim calls out that he will try to send them some food. Unbeknownst to those ashore, Cornelius accompanies Brown. When they reach the alternate channel, Cornelius takes over the navigation. Meanwhile, Tamb'Itam reaches Dain Waris's camp with news of the truce. He gives Dain Waris the silver ring, which Dain Waris slips on his finger. A moment later, Gentleman Brown lands his boat behind the camp to take his revenge "upon the world." He and his men open fire. Many fall dead, including Dain Waris, who takes a bullet in the forehead. Brown and his men leave as quickly as they came. Tamb'Itam, who has not been hurt, rushes to his canoe to get the news to Doramin and Jim. At the water's edge, he finds Cornelius struggling to launch a boat and escape. Tamb'Itam strikes him twice, killing him. Marlow digresses for a moment to report that a ship's boat was picked up a month after the massacre in the middle of the Indian Ocean. On board were Brown and two of his men, who claimed that they had been transporting a cargo of sugar when their ship sprung a leak and sunk. The two men died aboard the rescue vehicle; Brown has survived to tell Marlow this story. Returning to the main narrative, Marlow recounts Tamb'Itam's arrival back in Patusan. He finds Jewel, who immediately fears Doramin's wrath for the death of his son. Next he carries the news to Jim, who prepares to go fight. Tamb'Itam reluctantly informs him that he is no longer safe among the people of Patusan. This realization hits Jim hard. Tamb'Itam and Jewel urge Jim to fight for his life. Jim seems not to hear them and orders that the gates of his compound be opened and his men dismissed. Dain Waris's body is brought to Doramin's courtyard. Stein's silver ring is found on his finger. Doramin lets out a bellow and the crowd begins to murmur, realizing that the ring could only have come from Jim. Jim prepares to leave his house. Jewel reminds him of his promise not to leave her, and he tells her that he would no longer be worth having if he didn't leave. He departs for Doramin's. Tamb'Itam recalls the frightful aspect of the sky, and Marlow notes that a cyclone passed near Patusan on that very day. Jim arrives at Doramin's. Approaching the old man, he declares himself sorrowful and unarmed. Doramin stands, sending the silver ring rolling toward Jim. Doramin shoots Jim through the heart, and Jim falls dead. Marlow ends the narrative reiterating the dark, romantic nature of Jim's life and his "extraordinary success." Yet, for Marlow, Jim remains "inscrutable at heart," and the meaning of the narrative is still in question.
feat_summary_analysis: Commentary It is Marlow, not Jim, who has the last word on Jim's life, noting simply that "e is gone, inscrutable at heart. " The word "heart" has been associated with Jim over and over again. He is described both as having a core, or "heart," that is in some way unknowable or confusing, and also as being at the "heart" of some vast puzzle. The doubled use of this word points back to some of the earlier incidents of confusion over language  and the failure of language to have a definitive meaning. Jim's life has no definitive meaning either. The two "hearts" associated with Jim are also suggestive of one of the fundamental problems of the novel: is Jim in fact representative of something larger than himself? Is there an "us" that he is "one of"? Whether he is at the heart of the inscrutable or merely inscrutable at heart is the fundamental question Marlow must answer. By deferring to Stein, and speaking of Stein's approaching end, and by finishing the narrative in a manuscript rather than in another session of storytelling, Marlow avoids the question. Perhaps it is a question that cannot be answered at all; as Marlow notes, some days Jim seems very real to him, some days Jim seems not to have existed at all. As Marlow notes, Jim has " away from a living woman to celebrate his pitiless wedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct." Marlow thus assigns Jim's story to the realm of romance. The ending of Lord Jim suggests more of a fatal collision between romance and realism than any sort of viable, pure romance, though. Jim's choice of the "shadowy ideal of conduct" has led to the deaths of Dain Waris and other men, and to the destruction of Jewel's world. Had Jim not dwelt so fixedly on his failure in the Patna incident, he would have ordered the deaths of Brown and his men, and all would have been well in Patusan. On the other hand, had Jim not dwelt so fixedly on the Patna, he would never have come to Patusan, and arguably not only he but also the people of Patusan are better off for his presence. Idealism and notions of heroism lead to nothing but paradox and sadness. This novel has more in common with Hemingway's tales of damaged and disillusioned men or T.S. Eliot's narratives of the forlorn and impotent than it does with earlier works in which moral upstandingness leads to death with honor, if not a happy ending complete with riches and beautiful women. That this section contains more of the trappings of traditional swashbuckling romance  is meant to highlight the contrast. The ending is a mixed one: Jim dies, with a curious mixture of honor and shame, in a manner at least somewhat similar to an old-fashioned hero, while Marlow, like one of Hemingway's protagonists, is left alive, sadder but not necessarily wiser. This is also a section heavier in symbolism than most. The fog which envelops Brown and his men as they head downriver contrasts with the extreme clarity with which Marlow last sees Jim, on the beach with the fishermen. It is also indicative of the amorphous morality of both Brown's and Jim's actions. Brown, after all, thinks he has been double-crossed, based on the information Cornelius has given him. Jim, as we have already seen, is caught in a bind. The night of the Patna's accident was crystal-clear and still; nothing should have obscured Jim's decision-making then. Because he failed then, yet has held on to his ideals, situations no longer have clear solutions. Brown, too, although he seems to be acting logically, is also punished, by being shipwrecked soon afterward and dying a long, drawn-out death. Weather, though, is the primary vehicle for symbolic content. When the fog clears off, Tamb'Itam reports, the sky is in turmoil. Marlow attributes this to a cyclone passing nearby. This is another moment when romance and realism are at odds. In a romantic world, the cyclone would have descended upon Patusan at the moment of Jim's death, symbolizing the disorder in the world that led to the destruction of our hero. In a realistic world, weather would be ordinary and meaningless. The cyclone's close approach suggests a failure of both models; somehow, Jim's death must be given import, yet the issues surrounding it are too muddled and romance too outmoded for the full symbolic performance to occur. This cyclone should be contrasted to the squall that hits the Patna, as well as to the rumored hurricane that wipes out Chester and Robinson's guano-collecting expedition to the Walpole Reef. Here, finally, the storm--the symbol of higher powers or order--fails to impose its meaning.