seems amazing that he should belong to it, he to whom
so many things “had come.” Nothing
ever came to them; they would never be taken unawares,
and never be called upon to grapple with fate.
Here they all are, evoked by the mild gossip of the
father, all these brothers and sisters, bone of his
bone and flesh of his flesh, gazing with clear unconscious
eyes, while I seem to see him, returned at last, no
longer a mere white speck at the heart of an immense
mystery, but of full stature, standing disregarded
amongst their untroubled shapes, with a stern and
romantic aspect, but always mute, dark—under
a cloud.
’The story of the last events you will find
in the few pages enclosed here. You must admit
that it is romantic beyond the wildest dreams of his
boyhood, and yet there is to my mind a sort of profound
and terrifying logic in it, as if it were our imagination
alone that could set loose upon us the might of an
overwhelming destiny. The imprudence of our thoughts
recoils upon our heads; who toys with the sword shall
perish by the sword. This astounding adventure,
of which the most astounding part is that it is true,
comes on as an unavoidable consequence. Something
of the sort had to happen. You repeat this to
yourself while you marvel that such a thing could happen
in the year of grace before last. But it has
happened—and there is no disputing its
logic.
’I put it down here for you as though I had
been an eyewitness. My information was fragmentary,
but I’ve fitted the pieces together, and there
is enough of them to make an intelligible picture.
I wonder how he would have related it himself.
He has confided so much in me that at times it seems
as though he must come in presently and tell the story
in his own words, in his careless yet feeling voice,
with his offhand manner, a little puzzled, a little
bothered, a little hurt, but now and then by a word
or a phrase giving one of these glimpses of his very
own self that were never any good for purposes of orientation.
It’s difficult to believe he will never come.
I shall never hear his voice again, nor shall I see
his smooth tan-and-pink face with a white line on
the forehead, and the youthful eyes darkened by excitement
to a profound, unfathomable blue.’
CHAPTER 37
’It all begins with a remarkable exploit of
a man called Brown, who stole with complete success
a Spanish schooner out of a small bay near Zamboanga.
Till I discovered the fellow my information was incomplete,
but most unexpectedly I did come upon him a few hours
before he gave up his arrogant ghost. Fortunately
he was willing and able to talk between the choking
fits of asthma, and his racked body writhed with malicious
exultation at the bare thought of Jim. He exulted
thus at the idea that he had “paid out the stuck-up
beggar after all.” He gloated over his
action. I had to bear the sunken glare of his
fierce crow-footed eyes if I wanted to know; and so
I bore it, reflecting how much certain forms of evil
are akin to madness, derived from intense egoism, inflamed
by resistance, tearing the soul to pieces, and giving
factitious vigour to the body. The story also
reveals unsuspected depths of cunning in the wretched
Cornelius, whose abject and intense hate acts like
a subtle inspiration, pointing out an unerring way
towards revenge.
