feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/novelguide/Lord Jim/section_11_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Lord Jim.chapters 27-29
feat_summary_id: chapters 27-29
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapters 27-29", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210215030710/https://www.novelguide.com/lord-jim/summaries/chapter27-29", "summary": "Seven, Twenty Eight and Twenty Nine . Chapter Twenty Seven explains Jim's directions to attack Sherif Ali's camp. He supervised the cannons being moved up the hill and the 'simple folk' of the outlying villages came to believe he carried them on his back. Marlow notices how the surroundings and the praise influence Jim and sees it as part of his captivity. These people had trusted Jim implicitly and to date they have not regretted taking his advice. Jim also became involved in sorting out a dispute between a husband and wife as the husband came from a village miles away for his advice. Jim's word 'decided everything', 'ever since the smashing of Sherif Ali'. . . The narrative returns again to this attack and we are told about how Tamb' Itam, Jim's servant, is loyal to his 'white lord' to the point of being fanatical. The Patusan people celebrated after the success of beating Sherif Ali and this became Jim's 'seal of success'. This chapter ends with Marlow pointing out that the telling of the story dwarfs Jim's utter isolation, but 'his word was the one truth of every passing day'. . . In Chapter Twenty Eight, the readers are told that Sherif Ali left the country after his defeat without making another stand. In consultation with Dain Waris, Jim appointed the headmen and thus became the 'virtual ruler' of the land. Doramin is anxious about the future of his country and tells Marlow he fears Jim will return home as other white men have. Marlow replies 'no, no' and Doramin asks why, but Marlow does not explain. . . The 'individual side of the story' is given as Marlow also explains that Jim has become close with Jewel, the step-daughter of Cornelius . It is not until later that Marlow connects her name with an 'astonishing rumour' he heard on his journey there. ' A mysterious white man'  was thought to have acquired an enormous emerald. The most amazing part of this 'Jim-myth' was that such a jewel 'is best preserved by being concealed about the person of a woman'. She also has to be young and insensible to the seductions of love and the rumour says that Jim hides the jewel in her bosom. . . Marlow points out, in Chapter Twenty Nine, how 300 miles from 'our civilisation' 'the haggard utilitarian lies' 'wither and die' and are replaced by 'pure exercises of imagination'. The true part of Jim's story is that romance has singled Jim out and he 'did not hide his jewel' - he is extremely proud of it. Marlow does not see Jewel very often, but when he does he notes she presents 'a curious combination of shyness and audacity' and shows a 'vigilant affection' for Jim: she guards her conquest 'inflexibly'. It is reiterated that Jim 'was imprisoned within the very freedom of his power'. . . The narrative then shifts to Cornelius, whom Marlow describes as 'abject'. Cornelius first greeted Jim with joy, but gave him little food. Cornelius also tried to blame his late wife for the bad state of the accounts. Jim's first six weeks in Patusan were 'beastly' as he tried to do his duty by Stein, but had other matters to consider such as the Rajah wanting him killed. .", "analysis": "Seven, Twenty Eight and Twenty Nine . These chapters outline Jim's rise to acceptance and even adoration in Patusan, in particular after his successful decision to co-ordinate an attack against Sherif Ali. His now strong position is an ambivalent one, however, as Marlow points out that Jim is made captive ironically by the freedom he possesses. His lover, Jewel, demonstrates a 'vigilant affection' for him and Doramin also fears that Jim will leave as other white men have done previously. His freedom of power is dependent, then, on remaining there."}
text: 'Already the legend had gifted him with supernatural powers. Yes, it
  was said, there had been many ropes cunningly disposed, and a strange
  contrivance that turned by the efforts of many men, and each gun went
  up tearing slowly through the bushes, like a wild pig rooting its way in
  the undergrowth, but . . . and the wisest shook their heads. There was
  something occult in all this, no doubt; for what is the strength of
  ropes and of men's arms? There is a rebellious soul in things which must
  be overcome by powerful charms and incantations. Thus old Sura--a very
  respectable householder of Patusan--with whom I had a quiet chat one
  evening. However, Sura was a professional sorcerer also, who attended
  all the rice sowings and reapings for miles around for the purpose of
  subduing the stubborn souls of things. This occupation he seemed to
  think a most arduous one, and perhaps the souls of things are more
  stubborn than the souls of men. As to the simple folk of outlying
  villages, they believed and said (as the most natural thing in the
  world) that Jim had carried the guns up the hill on his back--two at a
  time.
  
  'This would make Jim stamp his foot in vexation and exclaim with an
  exasperated little laugh, "What can you do with such silly beggars? They
  will sit up half the night talking bally rot, and the greater the lie
  the more they seem to like it." You could trace the subtle influence of
  his surroundings in this irritation. It was part of his captivity. The
  earnestness of his denials was amusing, and at last I said, "My dear
  fellow, you don't suppose _I_ believe this." He looked at me quite
  startled. "Well, no! I suppose not," he said, and burst into a Homeric
  peal of laughter. "Well, anyhow the guns were there, and went off all
  together at sunrise. Jove! You should have seen the splinters fly," he
  cried. By his side Dain Waris, listening with a quiet smile, dropped his
  eyelids and shuffled his feet a little. It appears that the success in
  mounting the guns had given Jim's people such a feeling of confidence
  that he ventured to leave the battery under charge of two elderly Bugis
  who had seen some fighting in their day, and went to join Dain Waris and
  the storming party who were concealed in the ravine. In the small hours
  they began creeping up, and when two-thirds of the way up, lay in the
  wet grass waiting for the appearance of the sun, which was the agreed
  signal. He told me with what impatient anguishing emotion he watched the
  swift coming of the dawn; how, heated with the work and the climbing,
  he felt the cold dew chilling his very bones; how afraid he was he
  would begin to shiver and shake like a leaf before the time came for
  the advance. "It was the slowest half-hour in my life," he declared.
  Gradually the silent stockade came out on the sky above him. Men
  scattered all down the slope were crouching amongst the dark stones and
  dripping bushes. Dain Waris was lying flattened by his side. "We
  looked at each other," Jim said, resting a gentle hand on his friend's
  shoulder. "He smiled at me as cheery as you please, and I dared not stir
  my lips for fear I would break out into a shivering fit. 'Pon my word,
  it's true! I had been streaming with perspiration when we took cover--so
  you may imagine . . ." He declared, and I believe him, that he had no
  fears as to the result. He was only anxious as to his ability to repress
  these shivers. He didn't bother about the result. He was bound to get to
  the top of that hill and stay there, whatever might happen. There could
  be no going back for him. Those people had trusted him implicitly. Him
  alone! His bare word. . . .
  
  'I remember how, at this point, he paused with his eyes fixed upon me.
  "As far as he knew, they never had an occasion to regret it yet,"
  he said. "Never. He hoped to God they never would. Meantime--worse
  luck!--they had got into the habit of taking his word for anything and
  everything. I could have no idea! Why, only the other day an old fool he
  had never seen in his life came from some village miles away to find
  out if he should divorce his wife. Fact. Solemn word. That's the sort
  of thing. . . He wouldn't have believed it. Would I? Squatted on the
  verandah chewing betel-nut, sighing and spitting all over the place for
  more than an hour, and as glum as an undertaker before he came out with
  that dashed conundrum. That's the kind of thing that isn't so funny as
  it looks. What was a fellow to say?--Good wife?--Yes. Good wife--old
  though. Started a confounded long story about some brass pots. Been
  living together for fifteen years--twenty years--could not tell. A long,
  long time. Good wife. Beat her a little--not much--just a little, when
  she was young. Had to--for the sake of his honour. Suddenly in her old
  age she goes and lends three brass pots to her sister's son's wife, and
  begins to abuse him every day in a loud voice. His enemies jeered at
  him; his face was utterly blackened. Pots totally lost. Awfully cut up
  about it. Impossible to fathom a story like that; told him to go home,
  and promised to come along myself and settle it all. It's all very well
  to grin, but it was the dashedest nuisance! A day's journey through the
  forest, another day lost in coaxing a lot of silly villagers to get at
  the rights of the affair. There was the making of a sanguinary shindy
  in the thing. Every bally idiot took sides with one family or the other,
  and one half of the village was ready to go for the other half with
  anything that came handy. Honour bright! No joke! . . . Instead of
  attending to their bally crops. Got him the infernal pots back of
  course--and pacified all hands. No trouble to settle it. Of course not.
  Could settle the deadliest quarrel in the country by crooking his little
  finger. The trouble was to get at the truth of anything. Was not sure
  to this day whether he had been fair to all parties. It worried him. And
  the talk! Jove! There didn't seem to be any head or tail to it. Rather
  storm a twenty-foot-high old stockade any day. Much! Child's play to
  that other job. Wouldn't take so long either. Well, yes; a funny set
  out, upon the whole--the fool looked old enough to be his grandfather.
  But from another point of view it was no joke. His word decided
  everything--ever since the smashing of Sherif Ali. An awful
  responsibility," he repeated. "No, really--joking apart, had it been
  three lives instead of three rotten brass pots it would have been the
  same. . . ."
  
  'Thus he illustrated the moral effect of his victory in war. It was in
  truth immense. It had led him from strife to peace, and through death
  into the innermost life of the people; but the gloom of the land spread
  out under the sunshine preserved its appearance of inscrutable, of
  secular repose. The sound of his fresh young voice--it's extraordinary
  how very few signs of wear he showed--floated lightly, and passed away
  over the unchanged face of the forests like the sound of the big guns
  on that cold dewy morning when he had no other concern on earth but
  the proper control of the chills in his body. With the first slant of
  sun-rays along these immovable tree-tops the summit of one hill wreathed
  itself, with heavy reports, in white clouds of smoke, and the other
  burst into an amazing noise of yells, war-cries, shouts of anger, of
  surprise, of dismay. Jim and Dain Waris were the first to lay their
  hands on the stakes. The popular story has it that Jim with a touch
  of one finger had thrown down the gate. He was, of course, anxious
  to disclaim this achievement. The whole stockade--he would insist on
  explaining to you--was a poor affair (Sherif Ali trusted mainly to the
  inaccessible position); and, anyway, the thing had been already knocked
  to pieces and only hung together by a miracle. He put his shoulder to it
  like a little fool and went in head over heels. Jove! If it hadn't been
  for Dain Waris, a pock-marked tattooed vagabond would have pinned him
  with his spear to a baulk of timber like one of Stein's beetles. The
  third man in, it seems, had been Tamb' Itam, Jim's own servant. This was
  a Malay from the north, a stranger who had wandered into Patusan, and
  had been forcibly detained by Rajah Allang as paddler of one of the
  state boats. He had made a bolt of it at the first opportunity, and
  finding a precarious refuge (but very little to eat) amongst the Bugis
  settlers, had attached himself to Jim's person. His complexion was very
  dark, his face flat, his eyes prominent and injected with bile. There
  was something excessive, almost fanatical, in his devotion to his
  "white lord." He was inseparable from Jim like a morose shadow. On state
  occasions he would tread on his master's heels, one hand on the haft
  of his kriss, keeping the common people at a distance by his truculent
  brooding glances. Jim had made him the headman of his establishment, and
  all Patusan respected and courted him as a person of much influence. At
  the taking of the stockade he had distinguished himself greatly by the
  methodical ferocity of his fighting. The storming party had come on so
  quick--Jim said--that notwithstanding the panic of the garrison, there
  was a "hot five minutes hand-to-hand inside that stockade, till some
  bally ass set fire to the shelters of boughs and dry grass, and we all
  had to clear out for dear life."
  
  'The rout, it seems, had been complete. Doramin, waiting immovably in
  his chair on the hillside, with the smoke of the guns spreading slowly
  above his big head, received the news with a deep grunt. When informed
  that his son was safe and leading the pursuit, he, without another
  sound, made a mighty effort to rise; his attendants hurried to his help,
  and, held up reverently, he shuffled with great dignity into a bit of
  shade, where he laid himself down to sleep, covered entirely with a
  piece of white sheeting. In Patusan the excitement was intense. Jim told
  me that from the hill, turning his back on the stockade with its embers,
  black ashes, and half-consumed corpses, he could see time after time the
  open spaces between the houses on both sides of the stream fill suddenly
  with a seething rush of people and get empty in a moment. His ears
  caught feebly from below the tremendous din of gongs and drums; the wild
  shouts of the crowd reached him in bursts of faint roaring. A lot of
  streamers made a flutter as of little white, red, yellow birds amongst
  the brown ridges of roofs. "You must have enjoyed it," I murmured,
  feeling the stir of sympathetic emotion.
  
  '"It was . . . it was immense! Immense!" he cried aloud, flinging his
  arms open. The sudden movement startled me as though I had seen him bare
  the secrets of his breast to the sunshine, to the brooding forests, to
  the steely sea. Below us the town reposed in easy curves upon the banks
  of a stream whose current seemed to sleep. "Immense!" he repeated for a
  third time, speaking in a whisper, for himself alone.
  
  'Immense! No doubt it was immense; the seal of success upon his words,
  the conquered ground for the soles of his feet, the blind trust of
  men, the belief in himself snatched from the fire, the solitude of his
  achievement. All this, as I've warned you, gets dwarfed in the telling.
  I can't with mere words convey to you the impression of his total and
  utter isolation. I know, of course, he was in every sense alone of his
  kind there, but the unsuspected qualities of his nature had brought him
  in such close touch with his surroundings that this isolation seemed
  only the effect of his power. His loneliness added to his stature. There
  was nothing within sight to compare him with, as though he had been one
  of those exceptional men who can be only measured by the greatness of
  their fame; and his fame, remember, was the greatest thing around for
  many a day's journey. You would have to paddle, pole, or track a long
  weary way through the jungle before you passed beyond the reach of its
  voice. Its voice was not the trumpeting of the disreputable goddess we
  all know--not blatant--not brazen. It took its tone from the stillness
  and gloom of the land without a past, where his word was the one truth
  of every passing day. It shared something of the nature of that
  silence through which it accompanied you into unexplored depths, heard
  continuously by your side, penetrating, far-reaching--tinged with wonder
  and mystery on the lips of whispering men.''The defeated Sherif Ali fled the country without making another stand,
  and when the miserable hunted villagers began to crawl out of the jungle
  back to their rotting houses, it was Jim who, in consultation with Dain
  Waris, appointed the headmen. Thus he became the virtual ruler of the
  land. As to old Tunku Allang, his fears at first had known no bounds. It
  is said that at the intelligence of the successful storming of the hill
  he flung himself, face down, on the bamboo floor of his audience-hall,
  and lay motionless for a whole night and a whole day, uttering stifled
  sounds of such an appalling nature that no man dared approach his
  prostrate form nearer than a spear's length. Already he could see
  himself driven ignominiously out of Patusan, wandering abandoned,
  stripped, without opium, without his women, without followers, a fair
  game for the first comer to kill. After Sherif Ali his turn would come,
  and who could resist an attack led by such a devil? And indeed he owed
  his life and such authority as he still possessed at the time of my
  visit to Jim's idea of what was fair alone. The Bugis had been extremely
  anxious to pay off old scores, and the impassive old Doramin cherished
  the hope of yet seeing his son ruler of Patusan. During one of our
  interviews he deliberately allowed me to get a glimpse of this secret
  ambition. Nothing could be finer in its way than the dignified wariness
  of his approaches. He himself--he began by declaring--had used his
  strength in his young days, but now he had grown old and tired. . . .
  With his imposing bulk and haughty little eyes darting sagacious,
  inquisitive glances, he reminded one irresistibly of a cunning old
  elephant; the slow rise and fall of his vast breast went on powerful and
  regular, like the heave of a calm sea. He too, as he protested, had an
  unbounded confidence in Tuan Jim's wisdom. If he could only obtain a
  promise! One word would be enough! . . . His breathing silences, the
  low rumblings of his voice, recalled the last efforts of a spent
  thunderstorm.
  
  'I tried to put the subject aside. It was difficult, for there could be
  no question that Jim had the power; in his new sphere there did not seem
  to be anything that was not his to hold or to give. But that, I repeat,
  was nothing in comparison with the notion, which occurred to me, while I
  listened with a show of attention, that he seemed to have come very near
  at last to mastering his fate. Doramin was anxious about the future of
  the country, and I was struck by the turn he gave to the argument. The
  land remains where God had put it; but white men--he said--they come to
  us and in a little while they go. They go away. Those they leave behind
  do not know when to look for their return. They go to their own land, to
  their people, and so this white man too would. . . . I don't know what
  induced me to commit myself at this point by a vigorous "No, no." The
  whole extent of this indiscretion became apparent when Doramin, turning
  full upon me his face, whose expression, fixed in rugged deep folds,
  remained unalterable, like a huge brown mask, said that this was good
  news indeed, reflectively; and then wanted to know why.
  
  'His little, motherly witch of a wife sat on my other hand, with
  her head covered and her feet tucked up, gazing through the great
  shutter-hole. I could only see a straying lock of grey hair, a high
  cheek-bone, the slight masticating motion of the sharp chin. Without
  removing her eyes from the vast prospect of forests stretching as far as
  the hills, she asked me in a pitying voice why was it that he so young
  had wandered from his home, coming so far, through so many dangers?
  Had he no household there, no kinsmen in his own country? Had he no old
  mother, who would always remember his face? . . .
  
  'I was completely unprepared for this. I could only mutter and shake my
  head vaguely. Afterwards I am perfectly aware I cut a very poor figure
  trying to extricate myself out of this difficulty. From that moment,
  however, the old nakhoda became taciturn. He was not very pleased, I
  fear, and evidently I had given him food for thought. Strangely enough,
  on the evening of that very day (which was my last in Patusan) I was
  once more confronted with the same question, with the unanswerable why
  of Jim's fate. And this brings me to the story of his love.
  
  'I suppose you think it is a story that you can imagine for yourselves.
  We have heard so many such stories, and the majority of us don't believe
  them to be stories of love at all. For the most part we look upon them
  as stories of opportunities: episodes of passion at best, or perhaps
  only of youth and temptation, doomed to forgetfulness in the end, even
  if they pass through the reality of tenderness and regret. This view
  mostly is right, and perhaps in this case too. . . . Yet I don't know.
  To tell this story is by no means so easy as it should be--were the
  ordinary standpoint adequate. Apparently it is a story very much like
  the others: for me, however, there is visible in its background the
  melancholy figure of a woman, the shadow of a cruel wisdom buried in a
  lonely grave, looking on wistfully, helplessly, with sealed lips. The
  grave itself, as I came upon it during an early morning stroll, was a
  rather shapeless brown mound, with an inlaid neat border of white lumps
  of coral at the base, and enclosed within a circular fence made of split
  saplings, with the bark left on. A garland of leaves and flowers was
  woven about the heads of the slender posts--and the flowers were fresh.
  
  'Thus, whether the shadow is of my imagination or not, I can at all
  events point out the significant fact of an unforgotten grave. When I
  tell you besides that Jim with his own hands had worked at the rustic
  fence, you will perceive directly the difference, the individual side of
  the story. There is in his espousal of memory and affection belonging to
  another human being something characteristic of his seriousness. He had
  a conscience, and it was a romantic conscience. Through her whole life
  the wife of the unspeakable Cornelius had no other companion, confidant,
  and friend but her daughter. How the poor woman had come to marry the
  awful little Malacca Portuguese--after the separation from the father
  of her girl--and how that separation had been brought about, whether by
  death, which can be sometimes merciful, or by the merciless pressure of
  conventions, is a mystery to me. From the little which Stein (who knew
  so many stories) had let drop in my hearing, I am convinced that she was
  no ordinary woman. Her own father had been a white; a high official;
  one of the brilliantly endowed men who are not dull enough to nurse a
  success, and whose careers so often end under a cloud. I suppose she too
  must have lacked the saving dullness--and her career ended in Patusan.
  Our common fate . . . for where is the man--I mean a real sentient
  man--who does not remember vaguely having been deserted in the fullness
  of possession by some one or something more precious than life? . . .
  our common fate fastens upon the women with a peculiar cruelty. It
  does not punish like a master, but inflicts lingering torment, as if to
  gratify a secret, unappeasable spite. One would think that, appointed
  to rule on earth, it seeks to revenge itself upon the beings that come
  nearest to rising above the trammels of earthly caution; for it is
  only women who manage to put at times into their love an element just
  palpable enough to give one a fright--an extra-terrestrial touch. I ask
  myself with wonder--how the world can look to them--whether it has the
  shape and substance _we_ know, the air _we_ breathe! Sometimes I fancy
  it must be a region of unreasonable sublimities seething with the
  excitement of their adventurous souls, lighted by the glory of all
  possible risks and renunciations. However, I suspect there are very few
  women in the world, though of course I am aware of the multitudes of
  mankind and of the equality of sexes--in point of numbers, that is. But
  I am sure that the mother was as much of a woman as the daughter seemed
  to be. I cannot help picturing to myself these two, at first the young
  woman and the child, then the old woman and the young girl, the awful
  sameness and the swift passage of time, the barrier of forest, the
  solitude and the turmoil round these two lonely lives, and every word
  spoken between them penetrated with sad meaning. There must have
  been confidences, not so much of fact, I suppose, as of innermost
  feelings--regrets--fears--warnings, no doubt: warnings that the younger
  did not fully understand till the elder was dead--and Jim came along.
  Then I am sure she understood much--not everything--the fear mostly, it
  seems. Jim called her by a word that means precious, in the sense of a
  precious gem--jewel. Pretty, isn't it? But he was capable of anything.
  He was equal to his fortune, as he--after all--must have been equal to
  his misfortune. Jewel he called her; and he would say this as he might
  have said "Jane," don't you know--with a marital, homelike, peaceful
  effect. I heard the name for the first time ten minutes after I had
  landed in his courtyard, when, after nearly shaking my arm off, he
  darted up the steps and began to make a joyous, boyish disturbance at
  the door under the heavy eaves. "Jewel! O Jewel! Quick! Here's a friend
  come," . . . and suddenly peering at me in the dim verandah, he mumbled
  earnestly, "You know--this--no confounded nonsense about it--can't tell
  you how much I owe to her--and so--you understand--I--exactly as
  if . . ." His hurried, anxious whispers were cut short by the flitting of
  a white form within the house, a faint exclamation, and a child-like but
  energetic little face with delicate features and a profound, attentive
  glance peeped out of the inner gloom, like a bird out of the recess of a
  nest. I was struck by the name, of course; but it was not till later
  on that I connected it with an astonishing rumour that had met me on my
  journey, at a little place on the coast about 230 miles south of Patusan
  River. Stein's schooner, in which I had my passage, put in there, to
  collect some produce, and, going ashore, I found to my great surprise
  that the wretched locality could boast of a third-class deputy-assistant
  resident, a big, fat, greasy, blinking fellow of mixed descent, with
  turned-out, shiny lips. I found him lying extended on his back in a cane
  chair, odiously unbuttoned, with a large green leaf of some sort on the
  top of his steaming head, and another in his hand which he used lazily
  as a fan . . . Going to Patusan? Oh yes. Stein's Trading Company. He
  knew. Had a permission? No business of his. It was not so bad there now,
  he remarked negligently, and, he went on drawling, "There's some sort of
  white vagabond has got in there, I hear. . . . Eh? What you say?
  Friend of yours? So! . . . Then it was true there was one of these
  verdammte--What was he up to? Found his way in, the rascal. Eh? I had
  not been sure. Patusan--they cut throats there--no business of ours." He
  interrupted himself to groan. "Phoo! Almighty! The heat! The heat! Well,
  then, there might be something in the story too, after all, and . . ."
  He shut one of his beastly glassy eyes (the eyelid went on quivering)
  while he leered at me atrociously with the other. "Look here," says
  he mysteriously, "if--do you understand?--if he has really got hold of
  something fairly good--none of your bits of green glass--understand?--I
  am a Government official--you tell the rascal . . . Eh? What? Friend of
  yours?" . . . He continued wallowing calmly in the chair . . . "You said
  so; that's just it; and I am pleased to give you the hint. I suppose
  you too would like to get something out of it? Don't interrupt. You
  just tell him I've heard the tale, but to my Government I have made no
  report. Not yet. See? Why make a report? Eh? Tell him to come to me if
  they let him get alive out of the country. He had better look out
  for himself. Eh? I promise to ask no questions. On the quiet--you
  understand? You too--you shall get something from me. Small commission
  for the trouble. Don't interrupt. I am a Government official, and make
  no report. That's business. Understand? I know some good people that
  will buy anything worth having, and can give him more money than
  the scoundrel ever saw in his life. I know his sort." He fixed me
  steadfastly with both his eyes open, while I stood over him utterly
  amazed, and asking myself whether he was mad or drunk. He perspired,
  puffed, moaning feebly, and scratching himself with such horrible
  composure that I could not bear the sight long enough to find out. Next
  day, talking casually with the people of the little native court of the
  place, I discovered that a story was travelling slowly down the
  coast about a mysterious white man in Patusan who had got hold of
  an extraordinary gem--namely, an emerald of an enormous size, and
  altogether priceless. The emerald seems to appeal more to the Eastern
  imagination than any other precious stone. The white man had obtained
  it, I was told, partly by the exercise of his wonderful strength and
  partly by cunning, from the ruler of a distant country, whence he had
  fled instantly, arriving in Patusan in utmost distress, but frightening
  the people by his extreme ferocity, which nothing seemed able to subdue.
  Most of my informants were of the opinion that the stone was probably
  unlucky,--like the famous stone of the Sultan of Succadana, which in
  the old times had brought wars and untold calamities upon that country.
  Perhaps it was the same stone--one couldn't say. Indeed the story of a
  fabulously large emerald is as old as the arrival of the first white men
  in the Archipelago; and the belief in it is so persistent that less than
  forty years ago there had been an official Dutch inquiry into the truth
  of it. Such a jewel--it was explained to me by the old fellow from whom
  I heard most of this amazing Jim-myth--a sort of scribe to the wretched
  little Rajah of the place;--such a jewel, he said, cocking his poor
  purblind eyes up at me (he was sitting on the cabin floor out of
  respect), is best preserved by being concealed about the person of a
  woman. Yet it is not every woman that would do. She must be young--he
  sighed deeply--and insensible to the seductions of love. He shook his
  head sceptically. But such a woman seemed to be actually in existence.
  He had been told of a tall girl, whom the white man treated with great
  respect and care, and who never went forth from the house unattended.
  People said the white man could be seen with her almost any day; they
  walked side by side, openly, he holding her arm under his--pressed to
  his side--thus--in a most extraordinary way. This might be a lie, he
  conceded, for it was indeed a strange thing for any one to do: on the
  other hand, there could be no doubt she wore the white man's jewel
  concealed upon her bosom.'
  'This was the theory of Jim's marital evening walks. I made a third on
  more than one occasion, unpleasantly aware every time of Cornelius,
  who nursed the aggrieved sense of his legal paternity, slinking in
  the neighbourhood with that peculiar twist of his mouth as if he were
  perpetually on the point of gnashing his teeth. But do you notice how,
  three hundred miles beyond the end of telegraph cables and mail-boat
  lines, the haggard utilitarian lies of our civilisation wither and die,
  to be replaced by pure exercises of imagination, that have the futility,
  often the charm, and sometimes the deep hidden truthfulness, of works of
  art? Romance had singled Jim for its own--and that was the true part of
  the story, which otherwise was all wrong. He did not hide his jewel. In
  fact, he was extremely proud of it.
  
  'It comes to me now that I had, on the whole, seen very little of her.
  What I remember best is the even, olive pallor of her complexion, and
  the intense blue-black gleams of her hair, flowing abundantly from under
  a small crimson cap she wore far back on her shapely head. Her movements
  were free, assured, and she blushed a dusky red. While Jim and I were
  talking, she would come and go with rapid glances at us, leaving on her
  passage an impression of grace and charm and a distinct suggestion of
  watchfulness. Her manner presented a curious combination of shyness and
  audacity. Every pretty smile was succeeded swiftly by a look of silent,
  repressed anxiety, as if put to flight by the recollection of some
  abiding danger. At times she would sit down with us and, with her soft
  cheek dimpled by the knuckles of her little hand, she would listen
  to our talk; her big clear eyes would remain fastened on our lips, as
  though each pronounced word had a visible shape. Her mother had taught
  her to read and write; she had learned a good bit of English from
  Jim, and she spoke it most amusingly, with his own clipping, boyish
  intonation. Her tenderness hovered over him like a flutter of wings. She
  lived so completely in his contemplation that she had acquired something
  of his outward aspect, something that recalled him in her movements, in
  the way she stretched her arm, turned her head, directed her glances.
  Her vigilant affection had an intensity that made it almost perceptible
  to the senses; it seemed actually to exist in the ambient matter
  of space, to envelop him like a peculiar fragrance, to dwell in the
  sunshine like a tremulous, subdued, and impassioned note. I suppose you
  think that I too am romantic, but it is a mistake. I am relating to you
  the sober impressions of a bit of youth, of a strange uneasy romance
  that had come in my way. I observed with interest the work of
  his--well--good fortune. He was jealously loved, but why she should
  be jealous, and of what, I could not tell. The land, the people, the
  forests were her accomplices, guarding him with vigilant accord, with
  an air of seclusion, of mystery, of invincible possession. There was
  no appeal, as it were; he was imprisoned within the very freedom of his
  power, and she, though ready to make a footstool of her head for his
  feet, guarded her conquest inflexibly--as though he were hard to keep.
  The very Tamb' Itam, marching on our journeys upon the heels of his
  white lord, with his head thrown back, truculent and be-weaponed like a
  janissary, with kriss, chopper, and lance (besides carrying Jim's gun);
  even Tamb' Itam allowed himself to put on the airs of uncompromising
  guardianship, like a surly devoted jailer ready to lay down his life for
  his captive. On the evenings when we sat up late, his silent, indistinct
  form would pass and repass under the verandah, with noiseless footsteps,
  or lifting my head I would unexpectedly make him out standing rigidly
  erect in the shadow. As a general rule he would vanish after a time,
  without a sound; but when we rose he would spring up close to us as if
  from the ground, ready for any orders Jim might wish to give. The girl
  too, I believe, never went to sleep till we had separated for the night.
  More than once I saw her and Jim through the window of my room come out
  together quietly and lean on the rough balustrade--two white forms very
  close, his arm about her waist, her head on his shoulder. Their soft
  murmurs reached me, penetrating, tender, with a calm sad note in the
  stillness of the night, like a self-communion of one being carried on
  in two tones. Later on, tossing on my bed under the mosquito-net, I
  was sure to hear slight creakings, faint breathing, a throat cleared
  cautiously--and I would know that Tamb' Itam was still on the prowl.
  Though he had (by the favour of the white lord) a house in the compound,
  had "taken wife," and had lately been blessed with a child, I believe
  that, during my stay at all events, he slept on the verandah every
  night. It was very difficult to make this faithful and grim retainer
  talk. Even Jim himself was answered in jerky short sentences, under
  protest as it were. Talking, he seemed to imply, was no business of his.
  The longest speech I heard him volunteer was one morning when, suddenly
  extending his hand towards the courtyard, he pointed at Cornelius and
  said, "Here comes the Nazarene." I don't think he was addressing me,
  though I stood at his side; his object seemed rather to awaken the
  indignant attention of the universe. Some muttered allusions, which
  followed, to dogs and the smell of roast-meat, struck me as singularly
  felicitous. The courtyard, a large square space, was one torrid blaze of
  sunshine, and, bathed in intense light, Cornelius was creeping across
  in full view with an inexpressible effect of stealthiness, of dark and
  secret slinking. He reminded one of everything that is unsavoury. His
  slow laborious walk resembled the creeping of a repulsive beetle, the
  legs alone moving with horrid industry while the body glided evenly. I
  suppose he made straight enough for the place where he wanted to get to,
  but his progress with one shoulder carried forward seemed oblique. He
  was often seen circling slowly amongst the sheds, as if following
  a scent; passing before the verandah with upward stealthy glances;
  disappearing without haste round the corner of some hut. That he seemed
  free of the place demonstrated Jim's absurd carelessness or else his
  infinite disdain, for Cornelius had played a very dubious part (to say
  the least of it) in a certain episode which might have ended fatally for
  Jim. As a matter of fact, it had redounded to his glory. But everything
  redounded to his glory; and it was the irony of his good fortune that
  he, who had been too careful of it once, seemed to bear a charmed life.
  
  'You must know he had left Doramin's place very soon after his
  arrival--much too soon, in fact, for his safety, and of course a long
  time before the war. In this he was actuated by a sense of duty; he had
  to look after Stein's business, he said. Hadn't he? To that end, with an
  utter disregard of his personal safety, he crossed the river and took up
  his quarters with Cornelius. How the latter had managed to exist through
  the troubled times I can't say. As Stein's agent, after all, he must
  have had Doramin's protection in a measure; and in one way or another
  he had managed to wriggle through all the deadly complications, while I
  have no doubt that his conduct, whatever line he was forced to take, was
  marked by that abjectness which was like the stamp of the man. That was
  his characteristic; he was fundamentally and outwardly abject, as other
  men are markedly of a generous, distinguished, or venerable appearance.
  It was the element of his nature which permeated all his acts and
  passions and emotions; he raged abjectly, smiled abjectly, was abjectly
  sad; his civilities and his indignations were alike abject. I am sure
  his love would have been the most abject of sentiments--but can one
  imagine a loathsome insect in love? And his loathsomeness, too, was
  abject, so that a simply disgusting person would have appeared noble
  by his side. He has his place neither in the background nor in the
  foreground of the story; he is simply seen skulking on its outskirts,
  enigmatical and unclean, tainting the fragrance of its youth and of its
  naiveness.
  
  'His position in any case could not have been other than extremely
  miserable, yet it may very well be that he found some advantages in it.
  Jim told me he had been received at first with an abject display of
  the most amicable sentiments. "The fellow apparently couldn't contain
  himself for joy," said Jim with disgust. "He flew at me every morning to
  shake both my hands--confound him!--but I could never tell whether there
  would be any breakfast. If I got three meals in two days I considered
  myself jolly lucky, and he made me sign a chit for ten dollars every
  week. Said he was sure Mr. Stein did not mean him to keep me for
  nothing. Well--he kept me on nothing as near as possible. Put it down to
  the unsettled state of the country, and made as if to tear his hair out,
  begging my pardon twenty times a day, so that I had at last to entreat
  him not to worry. It made me sick. Half the roof of his house had
  fallen in, and the whole place had a mangy look, with wisps of dry grass
  sticking out and the corners of broken mats flapping on every wall. He
  did his best to make out that Mr. Stein owed him money on the last three
  years' trading, but his books were all torn, and some were missing. He
  tried to hint it was his late wife's fault. Disgusting scoundrel! At
  last I had to forbid him to mention his late wife at all. It made Jewel
  cry. I couldn't discover what became of all the trade-goods; there was
  nothing in the store but rats, having a high old time amongst a litter
  of brown paper and old sacking. I was assured on every hand that he had
  a lot of money buried somewhere, but of course could get nothing out of
  him. It was the most miserable existence I led there in that wretched
  house. I tried to do my duty by Stein, but I had also other matters to
  think of. When I escaped to Doramin old Tunku Allang got frightened and
  returned all my things. It was done in a roundabout way, and with no end
  of mystery, through a Chinaman who keeps a small shop here; but as soon
  as I left the Bugis quarter and went to live with Cornelius it began
  to be said openly that the Rajah had made up his mind to have me killed
  before long. Pleasant, wasn't it? And I couldn't see what there was to
  prevent him if he really _had_ made up his mind. The worst of it was,
  I couldn't help feeling I wasn't doing any good either for Stein or for
  myself. Oh! it was beastly--the whole six weeks of it."'
feat_summary_name: Chapters 27-29
target: Seven, Twenty Eight and Twenty Nine . Chapter Twenty Seven explains Jim's directions to attack Sherif Ali's camp. He supervised the cannons being moved up the hill and the 'simple folk' of the outlying villages came to believe he carried them on his back. Marlow notices how the surroundings and the praise influence Jim and sees it as part of his captivity. These people had trusted Jim implicitly and to date they have not regretted taking his advice. Jim also became involved in sorting out a dispute between a husband and wife as the husband came from a village miles away for his advice. Jim's word 'decided everything', 'ever since the smashing of Sherif Ali'. . . The narrative returns again to this attack and we are told about how Tamb' Itam, Jim's servant, is loyal to his 'white lord' to the point of being fanatical. The Patusan people celebrated after the success of beating Sherif Ali and this became Jim's 'seal of success'. This chapter ends with Marlow pointing out that the telling of the story dwarfs Jim's utter isolation, but 'his word was the one truth of every passing day'. . . In Chapter Twenty Eight, the readers are told that Sherif Ali left the country after his defeat without making another stand. In consultation with Dain Waris, Jim appointed the headmen and thus became the 'virtual ruler' of the land. Doramin is anxious about the future of his country and tells Marlow he fears Jim will return home as other white men have. Marlow replies 'no, no' and Doramin asks why, but Marlow does not explain. . . The 'individual side of the story' is given as Marlow also explains that Jim has become close with Jewel, the step-daughter of Cornelius . It is not until later that Marlow connects her name with an 'astonishing rumour' he heard on his journey there. ' A mysterious white man'  was thought to have acquired an enormous emerald. The most amazing part of this 'Jim-myth' was that such a jewel 'is best preserved by being concealed about the person of a woman'. She also has to be young and insensible to the seductions of love and the rumour says that Jim hides the jewel in her bosom. . . Marlow points out, in Chapter Twenty Nine, how 300 miles from 'our civilisation' 'the haggard utilitarian lies' 'wither and die' and are replaced by 'pure exercises of imagination'. The true part of Jim's story is that romance has singled Jim out and he 'did not hide his jewel' - he is extremely proud of it. Marlow does not see Jewel very often, but when he does he notes she presents 'a curious combination of shyness and audacity' and shows a 'vigilant affection' for Jim: she guards her conquest 'inflexibly'. It is reiterated that Jim 'was imprisoned within the very freedom of his power'. . . The narrative then shifts to Cornelius, whom Marlow describes as 'abject'. Cornelius first greeted Jim with joy, but gave him little food. Cornelius also tried to blame his late wife for the bad state of the accounts. Jim's first six weeks in Patusan were 'beastly' as he tried to do his duty by Stein, but had other matters to consider such as the Rajah wanting him killed. .
feat_summary_analysis: Seven, Twenty Eight and Twenty Nine . These chapters outline Jim's rise to acceptance and even adoration in Patusan, in particular after his successful decision to co-ordinate an attack against Sherif Ali. His now strong position is an ambivalent one, however, as Marlow points out that Jim is made captive ironically by the freedom he possesses. His lover, Jewel, demonstrates a 'vigilant affection' for him and Doramin also fears that Jim will leave as other white men have done previously. His freedom of power is dependent, then, on remaining there.