feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_15_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Lord Jim.chapter 16
feat_summary_id: chapter 16
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapter 16", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim24.asp", "summary": "Marlow jumps forward in time in this chapter to tell the reader that in the future Jim again becomes a man who is trusted, loved, and admired. He is allowed another chance, and he proves himself honorably. He performs a brave act that allows him to cancel out his guilt about the Patna. Marlow is brought back to the present when Jim comes inside again. He seems ready to talk. After asking Marlow for a cigarette and hearing the noise of thunder, Jim breaks the ice by saying that the monsoon has come rather early. Jim then remarks that he must get \"it\" back again. Marlow understands that Jim is referring to his honor, but Jim does not want to talk about it. He flings down his cigarette and bids Marlow good-bye. Marlow urges him to stay for dinner, telling him that the storm outside is very bad.", "analysis": "Notes This is an important chapter in the book. The storm that rages outside is a perfect objective correlative of Jim's emotional state. The chapter is important because it gathers many threads of the story. As Marlow studies the troubled and silent Jim, he feels a new sense of closeness and responsibility towards his young friend. He asks Jim how he will support himself in the future, but Jim refuses to think about such things or answer Marlow. The humiliation that Jim feels over his loss of honor is seen clearly. Marlow understands Jim's guilt and his shamefulness for his treacherous act of desertion. He also understands that Jim will have trouble forgiving himself. As the young sailor displays his agony in a romantic, melancholy fashion, the storm that rages inside him is equivalent to the storm that rages outside. The darkness that pervades the chapter hints that Jim is groping in the dark for a new chance to regain his lost honor. Marlow flashes ahead to tell that Jim will meet with success in the future. He will be able to perform an act of bravery that helps him to forgive himself."}
text: 'The time was coming when I should see him loved, trusted, admired, with
  a legend of strength and prowess forming round his name as though he
  had been the stuff of a hero. It's true--I assure you; as true as
  I'm sitting here talking about him in vain. He, on his side, had that
  faculty of beholding at a hint the face of his desire and the shape
  of his dream, without which the earth would know no lover and no
  adventurer. He captured much honour and an Arcadian happiness (I won't
  say anything about innocence) in the bush, and it was as good to him
  as the honour and the Arcadian happiness of the streets to another man.
  Felicity, felicity--how shall I say it?--is quaffed out of a golden cup
  in every latitude: the flavour is with you--with you alone, and you can
  make it as intoxicating as you please. He was of the sort that would
  drink deep, as you may guess from what went before. I found him, if not
  exactly intoxicated, then at least flushed with the elixir at his lips.
  He had not obtained it at once. There had been, as you know, a period of
  probation amongst infernal ship-chandlers, during which he had suffered
  and I had worried about--about--my trust--you may call it. I don't
  know that I am completely reassured now, after beholding him in all his
  brilliance. That was my last view of him--in a strong light, dominating,
  and yet in complete accord with his surroundings--with the life of the
  forests and with the life of men. I own that I was impressed, but I must
  admit to myself that after all this is not the lasting impression. He
  was protected by his isolation, alone of his own superior kind, in close
  touch with Nature, that keeps faith on such easy terms with her lovers.
  But I cannot fix before my eye the image of his safety. I shall always
  remember him as seen through the open door of my room, taking, perhaps,
  too much to heart the mere consequences of his failure. I am pleased,
  of course, that some good--and even some splendour--came out of my
  endeavours; but at times it seems to me it would have been better for my
  peace of mind if I had not stood between him and Chester's confoundedly
  generous offer. I wonder what his exuberant imagination would have made
  of Walpole islet--that most hopelessly forsaken crumb of dry land on the
  face of the waters. It is not likely I would ever have heard, for I must
  tell you that Chester, after calling at some Australian port to patch
  up his brig-rigged sea-anachronism, steamed out into the Pacific with a
  crew of twenty-two hands all told, and the only news having a possible
  bearing upon the mystery of his fate was the news of a hurricane which
  is supposed to have swept in its course over the Walpole shoals, a month
  or so afterwards. Not a vestige of the Argonauts ever turned up; not a
  sound came out of the waste. Finis! The Pacific is the most discreet of
  live, hot-tempered oceans: the chilly Antarctic can keep a secret too,
  but more in the manner of a grave.
  
  'And there is a sense of blessed finality in such discretion, which is
  what we all more or less sincerely are ready to admit--for what else is
  it that makes the idea of death supportable? End! Finis! the potent word
  that exorcises from the house of life the haunting shadow of fate. This
  is what--notwithstanding the testimony of my eyes and his own earnest
  assurances--I miss when I look back upon Jim's success. While there's
  life there is hope, truly; but there is fear too. I don't mean to say
  that I regret my action, nor will I pretend that I can't sleep o' nights
  in consequence; still, the idea obtrudes itself that he made so much of
  his disgrace while it is the guilt alone that matters. He was not--if I
  may say so--clear to me. He was not clear. And there is a suspicion he
  was not clear to himself either. There were his fine sensibilities,
  his fine feelings, his fine longings--a sort of sublimated, idealised
  selfishness. He was--if you allow me to say so--very fine; very
  fine--and very unfortunate. A little coarser nature would not have borne
  the strain; it would have had to come to terms with itself--with a sigh,
  with a grunt, or even with a guffaw; a still coarser one would have
  remained invulnerably ignorant and completely uninteresting.
  
  'But he was too interesting or too unfortunate to be thrown to the dogs,
  or even to Chester. I felt this while I sat with my face over the paper
  and he fought and gasped, struggling for his breath in that terribly
  stealthy way, in my room; I felt it when he rushed out on the verandah
  as if to fling himself over--and didn't; I felt it more and more all the
  time he remained outside, faintly lighted on the background of night, as
  if standing on the shore of a sombre and hopeless sea.
  
  'An abrupt heavy rumble made me lift my head. The noise seemed to roll
  away, and suddenly a searching and violent glare fell on the blind face
  of the night. The sustained and dazzling flickers seemed to last for an
  unconscionable time. The growl of the thunder increased steadily while I
  looked at him, distinct and black, planted solidly upon the shores of a
  sea of light. At the moment of greatest brilliance the darkness leaped
  back with a culminating crash, and he vanished before my dazzled eyes as
  utterly as though he had been blown to atoms. A blustering sigh passed;
  furious hands seemed to tear at the shrubs, shake the tops of the
  trees below, slam doors, break window-panes, all along the front of
  the building. He stepped in, closing the door behind him, and found me
  bending over the table: my sudden anxiety as to what he would say was
  very great, and akin to a fright. "May I have a cigarette?" he asked. I
  gave a push to the box without raising my head. "I want--want--tobacco,"
  he muttered. I became extremely buoyant. "Just a moment." I grunted
  pleasantly. He took a few steps here and there. "That's over," I heard
  him say. A single distant clap of thunder came from the sea like a
  gun of distress. "The monsoon breaks up early this year," he remarked
  conversationally, somewhere behind me. This encouraged me to turn round,
  which I did as soon as I had finished addressing the last envelope. He
  was smoking greedily in the middle of the room, and though he heard the
  stir I made, he remained with his back to me for a time.
  
  '"Come--I carried it off pretty well," he said, wheeling suddenly.
  "Something's paid off--not much. I wonder what's to come." His face did
  not show any emotion, only it appeared a little darkened and swollen, as
  though he had been holding his breath. He smiled reluctantly as it
  were, and went on while I gazed up at him mutely. . . . "Thank you,
  though--your room--jolly convenient--for a chap--badly hipped." . . .
  The rain pattered and swished in the garden; a water-pipe (it must
  have had a hole in it) performed just outside the window a parody of
  blubbering woe with funny sobs and gurgling lamentations, interrupted
  by jerky spasms of silence. . . . "A bit of shelter," he mumbled and
  ceased.
  
  'A flash of faded lightning darted in through the black framework of the
  windows and ebbed out without any noise. I was thinking how I had best
  approach him (I did not want to be flung off again) when he gave a
  little laugh. "No better than a vagabond now" . . . the end of
  the cigarette smouldered between his fingers . . . "without a
  single--single," he pronounced slowly; "and yet . . ." He paused; the
  rain fell with redoubled violence. "Some day one's bound to come upon
  some sort of chance to get it all back again. Must!" he whispered
  distinctly, glaring at my boots.
  
  'I did not even know what it was he wished so much to regain, what it
  was he had so terribly missed. It might have been so much that it was
  impossible to say. A piece of ass's skin, according to Chester. . . .
  He looked up at me inquisitively. "Perhaps. If life's long enough," I
  muttered through my teeth with unreasonable animosity. "Don't reckon too
  much on it."
  
  '"Jove! I feel as if nothing could ever touch me," he said in a tone
  of sombre conviction. "If this business couldn't knock me over, then
  there's no fear of there being not enough time to--climb out, and . . ."
  He looked upwards.
  
  'It struck me that it is from such as he that the great army of waifs
  and strays is recruited, the army that marches down, down into all the
  gutters of the earth. As soon as he left my room, that "bit of shelter,"
  he would take his place in the ranks, and begin the journey towards the
  bottomless pit. I at least had no illusions; but it was I, too, who a
  moment ago had been so sure of the power of words, and now was afraid to
  speak, in the same way one dares not move for fear of losing a slippery
  hold. It is when we try to grapple with another man's intimate need that
  we perceive how incomprehensible, wavering, and misty are the beings
  that share with us the sight of the stars and the warmth of the sun. It
  is as if loneliness were a hard and absolute condition of existence; the
  envelope of flesh and blood on which our eyes are fixed melts before the
  outstretched hand, and there remains only the capricious, unconsolable,
  and elusive spirit that no eye can follow, no hand can grasp. It was
  the fear of losing him that kept me silent, for it was borne upon me
  suddenly and with unaccountable force that should I let him slip away
  into the darkness I would never forgive myself.
  
  '"Well. Thanks--once more. You've been--er--uncommonly--really there's
  no word to . . . Uncommonly! I don't know why, I am sure. I am afraid
  I don't feel as grateful as I would if the whole thing hadn't been so
  brutally sprung on me. Because at bottom . . . you, yourself . . ." He
  stuttered.
  
  '"Possibly," I struck in. He frowned.
  
  '"All the same, one is responsible." He watched me like a hawk.
  
  '"And that's true, too," I said.
  
  '"Well. I've gone with it to the end, and I don't intend to let any man
  cast it in my teeth without--without--resenting it." He clenched his
  fist.
  
  '"There's yourself," I said with a smile--mirthless enough, God
  knows--but he looked at me menacingly. "That's my business," he said.
  An air of indomitable resolution came and went upon his face like a vain
  and passing shadow. Next moment he looked a dear good boy in trouble,
  as before. He flung away the cigarette. "Good-bye," he said, with the
  sudden haste of a man who had lingered too long in view of a pressing
  bit of work waiting for him; and then for a second or so he made not the
  slightest movement. The downpour fell with the heavy uninterrupted rush
  of a sweeping flood, with a sound of unchecked overwhelming fury that
  called to one's mind the images of collapsing bridges, of uprooted
  trees, of undermined mountains. No man could breast the colossal and
  headlong stream that seemed to break and swirl against the dim stillness
  in which we were precariously sheltered as if on an island. The
  perforated pipe gurgled, choked, spat, and splashed in odious ridicule
  of a swimmer fighting for his life. "It is raining," I remonstrated,
  "and I . . ." "Rain or shine," he began brusquely, checked himself, and
  walked to the window. "Perfect deluge," he muttered after a while: he
  leaned his forehead on the glass. "It's dark, too."
  
  '"Yes, it is very dark," I said.
  
  'He pivoted on his heels, crossed the room, and had actually opened the
  door leading into the corridor before I leaped up from my chair. "Wait,"
  I cried, "I want you to . . ." "I can't dine with you again to-night,"
  he flung at me, with one leg out of the room already. "I haven't the
  slightest intention to ask you," I shouted. At this he drew back his
  foot, but remained mistrustfully in the very doorway. I lost no time
  in entreating him earnestly not to be absurd; to come in and shut the
  door.'
  
feat_summary_name: Chapter 16
target: Marlow jumps forward in time in this chapter to tell the reader that in the future Jim again becomes a man who is trusted, loved, and admired. He is allowed another chance, and he proves himself honorably. He performs a brave act that allows him to cancel out his guilt about the Patna. Marlow is brought back to the present when Jim comes inside again. He seems ready to talk. After asking Marlow for a cigarette and hearing the noise of thunder, Jim breaks the ice by saying that the monsoon has come rather early. Jim then remarks that he must get "it" back again. Marlow understands that Jim is referring to his honor, but Jim does not want to talk about it. He flings down his cigarette and bids Marlow good-bye. Marlow urges him to stay for dinner, telling him that the storm outside is very bad.
feat_summary_analysis: Notes This is an important chapter in the book. The storm that rages outside is a perfect objective correlative of Jim's emotional state. The chapter is important because it gathers many threads of the story. As Marlow studies the troubled and silent Jim, he feels a new sense of closeness and responsibility towards his young friend. He asks Jim how he will support himself in the future, but Jim refuses to think about such things or answer Marlow. The humiliation that Jim feels over his loss of honor is seen clearly. Marlow understands Jim's guilt and his shamefulness for his treacherous act of desertion. He also understands that Jim will have trouble forgiving himself. As the young sailor displays his agony in a romantic, melancholy fashion, the storm that rages inside him is equivalent to the storm that rages outside. The darkness that pervades the chapter hints that Jim is groping in the dark for a new chance to regain his lost honor. Marlow flashes ahead to tell that Jim will meet with success in the future. He will be able to perform an act of bravery that helps him to forgive himself.