feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_43_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Lord Jim.chapter 45
feat_summary_id: chapter 45
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapter 45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim54.asp", "summary": "Tamb'Itam paddles madly until he reaches the village. There he finds the people waiting to welcome Dain Waris. He hurries to the fort and along the way informs Jewel of what has happened. At the fort, he wakes Jim and tells him the news. Jim's first reaction is to pursue the criminals. Tamb'Itam urges him not to go, and Jim realizes that he does not stand a chance. He understands that he has lost everything; the Bugis had trusted him, but he has failed them. Both Jewel and Tamb'Itam urge Jim to flee, but Jim refuses. Jewel then begs him to fight Brown, but he cannot do this either. He looks at Jewel and begs her forgiveness. She does not understand Jim's refusals and calls him a liar. She thinks he is deserting her, like all white men do. Jewel says she can never forgive him. Dain Waris' body is carried to Doramin. He is totally stunned by his son's death. When someone points out the ring that Jim had sent him on his finger, Doramin lets out a roar of pain. As it grows dark, Doramin sits with a pair of pistols on his knees. Jim crosses the river and climbs the slope to Doramin's village, knowing that certain death is awaiting him. The crowds look at Jim in disbelief. Jim presents himself before Doramin and declares that he has come in sorrow and without arms. Doramin gets up and Stein's silver ring falls at his feet. Doramin then looks at Jim and fires a shot through his chest. Jim falls dead. Marlow says that he died as \"one of us.\"", "analysis": "Notes: The last chapter is full of controversy. Some critics feel that Jim's actions are equivalent to a suicide; others say his death is a triumph. In Jim's mind, he has no choice. He must present himself to Doramin, for he has pledged his life over Brown. In spite of the pleas of Jewel and Tamb'Itam, he must not jump away again; he cannot flee. On Patusan, he has conquered fear and shame; he refuses to live in guilt in again. He stands up to his principles and faces death bravely. Conrad presents Lord Jim as a tragic hero who has atoned for his past sin. The climax of the novel comes in this final chapter of the book. Until the end, Conrad does not disclose that Jim is dead, thereby keeping the reader in suspense and totally involved in the story. The Mood of the last chapter is totally tragic. Jewel cries out to Jim, begging him to flee or to fight. When he refuses, she calls him a liar and says she will never forgive him. Doramin cries out in pain over the dead body of his son. When Jim presents himself before Doramin, the ring which has given fame and honor to Jim rolls to the ground and symbolizes his tragic fall from grace with the Bugis. Though Jim falls from honor in the eyes of the natives, he dies a proud man. According to his principles, he has done the correct thing. He has not \"jumped\" again; therefore, he dies with self-esteem and in personal triumph. It is an appropriate romantic death, for a totally romantic character."}
text: '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: Chapter 45
target: Tamb'Itam paddles madly until he reaches the village. There he finds the people waiting to welcome Dain Waris. He hurries to the fort and along the way informs Jewel of what has happened. At the fort, he wakes Jim and tells him the news. Jim's first reaction is to pursue the criminals. Tamb'Itam urges him not to go, and Jim realizes that he does not stand a chance. He understands that he has lost everything; the Bugis had trusted him, but he has failed them. Both Jewel and Tamb'Itam urge Jim to flee, but Jim refuses. Jewel then begs him to fight Brown, but he cannot do this either. He looks at Jewel and begs her forgiveness. She does not understand Jim's refusals and calls him a liar. She thinks he is deserting her, like all white men do. Jewel says she can never forgive him. Dain Waris' body is carried to Doramin. He is totally stunned by his son's death. When someone points out the ring that Jim had sent him on his finger, Doramin lets out a roar of pain. As it grows dark, Doramin sits with a pair of pistols on his knees. Jim crosses the river and climbs the slope to Doramin's village, knowing that certain death is awaiting him. The crowds look at Jim in disbelief. Jim presents himself before Doramin and declares that he has come in sorrow and without arms. Doramin gets up and Stein's silver ring falls at his feet. Doramin then looks at Jim and fires a shot through his chest. Jim falls dead. Marlow says that he died as "one of us."
feat_summary_analysis: Notes: The last chapter is full of controversy. Some critics feel that Jim's actions are equivalent to a suicide; others say his death is a triumph. In Jim's mind, he has no choice. He must present himself to Doramin, for he has pledged his life over Brown. In spite of the pleas of Jewel and Tamb'Itam, he must not jump away again; he cannot flee. On Patusan, he has conquered fear and shame; he refuses to live in guilt in again. He stands up to his principles and faces death bravely. Conrad presents Lord Jim as a tragic hero who has atoned for his past sin. The climax of the novel comes in this final chapter of the book. Until the end, Conrad does not disclose that Jim is dead, thereby keeping the reader in suspense and totally involved in the story. The Mood of the last chapter is totally tragic. Jewel cries out to Jim, begging him to flee or to fight. When he refuses, she calls him a liar and says she will never forgive him. Doramin cries out in pain over the dead body of his son. When Jim presents himself before Doramin, the ring which has given fame and honor to Jim rolls to the ground and symbolizes his tragic fall from grace with the Bugis. Though Jim falls from honor in the eyes of the natives, he dies a proud man. According to his principles, he has done the correct thing. He has not "jumped" again; therefore, he dies with self-esteem and in personal triumph. It is an appropriate romantic death, for a totally romantic character.