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_ 'I have told you these two episodes at length to show his manner
of dealing with himself under the new conditions of his life. There
were many others of the sort, more than I could count on the fingers
of my two hands. They were all equally tinged by a high-minded
absurdity of intention which made their futility profound and
touching. To fling away your daily bread so as to get your hands
free for a grapple with a ghost may be an act of prosaic heroism.
Men had done it before (though we who have lived know full well
that it is not the haunted soul but the hungry body that makes an
outcast), and men who had eaten and meant to eat every day had
applauded the creditable folly. He was indeed unfortunate, for all
his recklessness could not carry him out from under the shadow.
There was always a doubt of his courage. The truth seems to be
that it is impossible to lay the ghost of a fact. You can face it or
shirk it--and I have come across a man or two who could wink at
their familiar shades. Obviously Jim was not of the winking sort;
but what I could never make up my mind about was whether his
line of conduct amounted to shirking his ghost or to facing him out.
'I strained my mental eyesight only to discover that, as with the
complexion of all our actions, the shade of difference was so delicate
that it was impossible to say. It might have been flight and it might
have been a mode of combat. To the common mind he became
known as a rolling stone, because this was the funniest part: he did
after a time become perfectly known, and even notorious, within
the circle of his wanderings (which had a diameter of, say, three
thousand miles), in the same way as an eccentric character is known
to a whole countryside. For instance, in Bankok, where he found
employment with Yucker Brothers, charterers and teak merchants,
it was almost pathetic to see him go about in sunshine hugging
his secret, which was known to the very up-country logs on the river.
Schomberg, the keeper of the hotel where he boarded, a hirsute
Alsatian of manly bearing and an irrepressible retailer of all
the scandalous gossip of the place, would, with both elbows on the
table, impart an adorned version of the story to any guest who cared
to imbibe knowledge along with the more costly liquors. "And,
mind you, the nicest fellow you could meet," would be his generous
conclusion; "quite superior." It says a lot for the casual crowd that
frequented Schomberg's establishment that Jim managed to hang
out in Bankok for a whole six months. I remarked that people,
perfect strangers, took to him as one takes to a nice child. His
manner was reserved, but it was as though his personal appearance,
his hair, his eyes, his smile, made friends for him wherever he went.
And, of course, he was no fool. I heard Siegmund Yucker (native
of Switzerland), a gentle creature ravaged by a cruel dyspepsia, and
so frightfully lame that his head swung through a quarter of a circle
at every step he took, declare appreciatively that for one so young
he was "of great gabasidy," as though it had been a mere question
of cubic contents. "Why not send him up country?" I suggested
anxiously. (Yucker Brothers had concessions and teak forests in the
interior.) "If he has capacity, as you say, he will soon get hold of the
work. And physically he is very fit. His health is always excellent."
"Ach! It's a great ting in dis goundry to be vree vrom tispep-shia,"
sighed poor Yucker enviously, casting a stealthy glance at the pit
of his ruined stomach. I left him drumming pensively on his desk
and muttering, "Es ist ein' Idee. Es ist ein' Idee." Unfortunately,
that very evening an unpleasant affair took place in the hotel.
'I don't know that I blame Jim very much, but it was a truly
regrettable incident. It belonged to the lamentable species of bar-room
scuffles, and the other party to it was a cross-eyed Dane of sorts
whose visiting-card recited, under his misbegotten name: first
lieutenant in the Royal Siamese Navy. The fellow, of course, was
utterly hopeless at billiards, but did not like to be beaten, I suppose.
He had had enough to drink to turn nasty after the sixth game, and
make some scornful remark at Jim's expense. Most of the people
there didn't hear what was said, and those who had heard seemed to
have had all precise recollection scared out of them by the appalling
nature of the consequences that immediately ensued. It was very
lucky for the Dane that he could swim, because the room opened
on a verandah and the Menam flowed below very wide and black.
A boat-load of Chinamen, bound, as likely as not, on some thieving
expedition, fished out the officer of the King of Siam, and Jim
turned up at about midnight on board my ship without a hat.
"Everybody in the room seemed to know," he said, gasping yet
from the contest, as it were. He was rather sorry, on general principles,
for what had happened, though in this case there had been, he said,
"no option." But what dismayed him was to find the nature of his
burden as well known to everybody as though he had gone about all
that time carrying it on his shoulders. Naturally after this he
couldn't remain in the place. He was universally condemned for
the brutal violence, so unbecoming a man in his delicate position;
some maintained he had been disgracefully drunk at the time;
others criticised his want of tact. Even Schomberg was very much
annoyed. "He is a very nice young man," he said argumentatively
to me, "but the lieutenant is a first-rate fellow too. He dines every
night at my table d'hote, you know. And there's a billiard-cue
broken. I can't allow that. First thing this morning I went over with
my apologies to the lieutenant, and I think I've made it all right for
myself; but only think, captain, if everybody started such games!
Why, the man might have been drowned! And here I can't run out
into the next street and buy a new cue. I've got to write to Europe
for them. No, no! A temper like that won't do!" . . . He was
extremely sore on the subject.
'This was the worst incident of all in his--his retreat. Nobody
could deplore it more than myself; for if, as somebody said hearing
him mentioned, "Oh yes! I know. He has knocked about a good
deal out here," yet he had somehow avoided being battered and
chipped in the process. This last affair, however, made me seriously
uneasy, because if his exquisite sensibilities were to go the length
of involving him in pot-house shindies, he would lose his name of
an inoffensive, if aggravating, fool, and acquire that of a common
loafer. For all my confidence in him I could not help reflecting that
in such cases from the name to the thing itself is but a step. I suppose
you will understand that by that time I could not think of washing
my hands of him. I took him away from Bankok in my ship, and
we had a longish passage. It was pitiful to see how he shrank within
himself. A seaman, even if a mere passenger, takes an interest in a
ship, and looks at the sea-life around him with the critical enjoyment
of a painter, for instance, looking at another man's work. In every
sense of the expression he is "on deck"; but my Jim, for the most
part, skulked down below as though he had been a stowaway. He
infected me so that I avoided speaking on professional matters,
such as would suggest themselves naturally to two sailors during a
passage. For whole days we did not exchange a word; I felt
extremely unwilling to give orders to my officers in his presence.
Often, when alone with him on deck or in the cabin, we didn't
know what to do with our eyes.
'I placed him with De Jongh, as you know, glad enough to dispose
of him in any way, yet persuaded that his position was now growing
intolerable. He had lost some of that elasticity which had enabled
him to rebound back into his uncompromising position after every
overthrow. One day, coming ashore, I saw him standing on the
quay; the water of the roadstead and the sea in the offing made one
smooth ascending plane, and the outermost ships at anchor seemed
to ride motionless in the sky. He was waiting for his boat, which
was being loaded at our feet with packages of small stores for some
vessel ready to leave. After exchanging greetings, we remained
silent--side by side. "Jove!" he said suddenly, "this is killing work."
'He smiled at me; I must say he generally could manage a smile.
I made no reply. I knew very well he was not alluding to his duties;
he had an easy time of it with De Jongh. Nevertheless, as soon as
he had spoken I became completely convinced that the work was
killing. I did not even look at him. "Would you like," said I, "to
leave this part of the world altogether; try California or the West
Coast? I'll see what I can do . . ." He interrupted me a little
scornfully. "What difference would it make?" . . . I felt at once
convinced that he was right. It would make no difference; it was not
relief he wanted; I seemed to perceive dimly that what he wanted,
what he was, as it were, waiting for, was something not easy to
define--something in the nature of an opportunity. I had given him
many opportunities, but they had been merely opportunities to earn
his bread. Yet what more could any man do? The position struck
me as hopeless, and poor Brierly's saying recurred to me, "Let
him creep twenty feet underground and stay there." Better that, I
thought, than this waiting above ground for the impossible. Yet
one could not be sure even of that. There and then, before his boat
was three oars' lengths away from the quay, I had made up my
mind to go and consult Stein in the evening.
'This Stein was a wealthy and respected merchant. His "house"
(because it was a house, Stein & Co., and there was some sort of
partner who, as Stein said, "looked after the Moluccas") had a large
inter-island business, with a lot of trading posts established in the
most out-of-the-way places for collecting the produce. His wealth
and his respectability were not exactly the reasons why I was anxious
to seek his advice. I desired to confide my difficulty to him because
he was one of the most trustworthy men I had ever known. The
gentle light of a simple, unwearied, as it were, and intelligent
good-nature illumined his long hairless face. It had deep downward folds,
and was pale as of a man who had always led a sedentary life--which
was indeed very far from being the case. His hair was thin, and
brushed back from a massive and lofty forehead. One fancied that
at twenty he must have looked very much like what he was now at
threescore. It was a student's face; only the eyebrows nearly all
white, thick and bushy, together with the resolute searching glance
that came from under them, were not in accord with his, I may say,
learned appearance. He was tall and loose-jointed; his slight stoop,
together with an innocent smile, made him appear benevolently
ready to lend you his ear; his long arms with pale big hands had
rare deliberate gestures of a pointing out, demonstrating kind. I
speak of him at length, because under this exterior, and in conjunction
with an upright and indulgent nature, this man possessed an
intrepidity of spirit and a physical courage that could have been
called reckless had it not been like a natural function of the body--
say good digestion, for instance--completely unconscious of itself.
It is sometimes said of a man that he carries his life in his hand.
Such a saying would have been inadequate if applied to him; during
the early part of his existence in the East he had been playing ball
with it. All this was in the past, but I knew the story of his life and
the origin of his fortune. He was also a naturalist of some distinction,
or perhaps I should say a learned collector. Entomology was his
special study. His collection of Buprestidae and Longicorns--beetles
all--horrible miniature monsters, looking malevolent in
death and immobility, and his cabinet of butterflies, beautiful and
hovering under the glass of cases on lifeless wings, had spread his
fame far over the earth. The name of this merchant, adventurer,
sometime adviser of a Malay sultan (to whom he never alluded
otherwise than as "my poor Mohammed Bonso"), had, on account
of a few bushels of dead insects, become known to learned persons
in Europe, who could have had no conception, and certainly would
not have cared to know anything, of his life or character. I, who
knew, considered him an eminently suitable person to receive my
confidences about Jim's difficulties as well as my own.' _
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