A cold, thick rain and "a pitchy blackness" weigh down the lurching boat; "it was like being swept by a flood through a cavern." Crouched down in the bows, Jim fearfully discerns the Patna, "just one yellow gleam of the masthead light high up and blurred like a last star ready to dissolve." And then all is black, as one of the deserters cries out shakily, "`She's gone!'" Those in the boat remain quiet, and a strange silence prevails all around them, blurring the sea and the sky, with "nothing to see and nothing to hear." To Jim it seemed as if everything was gone, all was over. The other three shipmates in the boat mistake him for George, and when they do recognize him they are startled and curse him. The boat itself seems filled with hatred, suspicion, villainy, betrayal. "We were like men walled up quick in a roomy grave," Jim confides to Marlow.

The boat itself epitomizes abject failure and alienation from mankind. Everything in it and around it mirrors Jim's schism of soul, "imprisoned in the solitude of the sea." Through the varying repetition of language and images Conrad accentuates Jim's distraught inner condition, especially the shame that rages in him for being "in the same boat" with men who exemplify a fellowship of liars. By the time they are picked up just before sunset by the Avondale, the captain and his two officers had already "made up a story" that would sanction their desertion of the Patna, which in fact had not sunk and which, with its pilgrims, had been safely towed to Aden by a French gunboat, eventually to end her days in a breaking-up yard. Unlike the others, Jim would choose to face the full consequences of his actions, "to face it out--alone for myself--wait for another chance--find out. . . ."

"Jim's affair" was destined to live on years later in the memo-Fear vs. ries and minds of men, as instanced by Marlow's chance meeting honor. in a Sydney cafe with a now elderly French lieutenant who was a boarding-officer from the gunboat and remained on the Patna for thirty hours. For Marlow this meeting was "a moment of vision" that enables him to penetrate more deeply into the events surrounding the Patna as he discusses them with one who had been "there." The French officer, at this time the third lieutenant on the flagship of the French Pacific squadron, and Marlow, now commanding a merchant vessel, thus share their recollections, from which certain key thoughts emerge, measuring and clarifying the entire affair. The two men here bring to mind a Greek chorus speaking words of wisdom that explain human suffering and tragedy. In essence it is Jim's predicament that Conrad wants to diagnose here so as to enlist the reader's understanding, even sympathy. "`The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there,'" the French officer declares. And he goes on to say to Marlow--all of this with reference to Jim: "`And what life may be worth . . . when the honour is gone. . . . I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it.'"

For Conrad the task of the novelist is to illuminate "Jim's case" for the reader's judgment, and he does this, from diverse angles and levels, in order for the reader to consider all of the evidence, all the ambivalences, antinomies, paradoxes. If for Jim the struggle is to ferret out his true moral identity, for the reader the task is to meditate on what is presented to him and, in the end, to attain a transcendent apprehension of life in time and life in relation to val-ues.1 Jim is, to repeat, "one of us," and in him we meet and see ourselves on moral grounds, so to speak.

In the final paragraph of his Author's Note, Conrad is careful to point out that the creation of Jim "is not the product of coldly Jim's function perverted thinking." Nor is he "a figure of Northern mists." In Jim, Conrad sees Everyman. In short, he is the creative outgrowth of what Irving Babbitt terms "the high seriousness of the ethical imagination," and not of the "idyllic imagination," with its distortions of human character. In other words, this is the "moral imagination" which "imitates the universal" and reveres the "Permanent Things." In Jim we participate in and perceive a normative consciousness, as we become increasingly aware of Jim's purposive function in reflective prose and poetic fiction, aspiring as it does to make transcendence perceptible.2 Conrad testifies to the force and truth of the principles of a metaphysics of art when, in the concluding sentence of his Author's Note, he writes about his own chance encounter with the Jim in ourselves: "One morning in the commonplace surroundings of an Eastern roadstead, I saw his form pass by--appealing--significant--under a cloud--perfectly silent. Which is as it should be. It was for me, with all the sympathy of which I was capable, to seek fit words for his meaning. He was `one of us.'"

A man of "indomitable resolution," Jim strikes aside any "plan for evasion" proffered to him by a "helping hand" like Marlow's. Nothing can tempt him to ignore the consequences of both his decisions and indecisions, which surround him like "deceitful ghosts, austere shades." Any plan to save him from "degradation, ruin, and despair" he shuns, choosing instead to endure the conditions of homelessness and aloneness [12, 104]. He refuses to identify with any schemes or schemers of a morally insensitive nature. The "deep idea" in him is the moral sense to which he somehow hangs on and the innermost voice to which he listens.

Unfailingly Conrad reveals to us the nature of Jim's character and will in a "narrative [which] moves through a devious course of identifications and distinctions," as one critic observes.3 Thus in the person of Captain Montague Brierly we have a paragon sailing-ship skipper, and an august member of the board of inquiry, whose overarching self-satisfaction and self-worth presented to Marlow and to the world itself "a surface as hard as granite." Unexplainably, however, Brierly commits suicide a week after the official inquiry ended by jumping overboard, less than three days after his vessel left port on his outward passage. It seems, as Marlow believes, that "something akin to fear of the immensity of his contempt for the young man [Jim] under examination, he was probably holding silent inquiry into his own case." Jim will not go the way of Brierly, whose juxtaposition to Jim, early on in the novel, serves to emphasize the young seaman's fund of inner strength needed to resist perversion of the moral sense. Unlike Brierly, Jim will not be unjust to himself by trivializing his soul.

Nor will Jim become part of any business scheme that would Jim's destiny conveniently divert him from affirming the moral sense. A farfetched and obviously disastrous business venture ("[a]s good as a gold-mine"), concocted by Marlow's slight acquaintance, a West Australian by the name of Chester, and his partner, "Holy-Terror Robinson," further illustrates in Jim the ascendancy of "his fine sensibilities, his fine feelings, his fine longings." Jim will not be identified with the unsavory Chester any more than he would be identified with the Patna gang. Marlow himself, whatever mixed feelings he may have as to Jim's weaknesses, intuits that Jim has nobler aspirations than being "thrown to the dogs" and in effect to "slip away into the darkness" with Chester. Jim's destiny may be tragic, but it is not demeaning or tawdry, which in the end sums up Marlow's beneficent trust in Jim.

In a state of disgrace, Jim was to work as a ship-chandler for various firms, but he was always on the run--to Bombay, to Calcutta, to Rangoon, to Penang, to Bangkok, to Batavia, moving Man "wants from firm to firm, always "under the shadow" of his connection to the Patna "skunks." Always, too, the paternal Marlow was striving to find "opportunities" for Jim. Persisting in these efforts, Marlow pays a visit to an acquaintance of his, Stein, an aging, successful merchant-adventurer who owns a large inter-island business in the Malay Archipelago with a lot of trading posts in out-of-the-way trading places for collecting produce [11, 123]. Bavarian-born Stein is, for Marlow, "one of the most trustworthy men" who can help to mitigate Jim's plight. A famous entomologist and a "learned collector" of beetles and butterflies, he lives in Samarang. A sage, as well, he ponders on the problems of human existence: "Man is amazing, but he is not a masterpiece . . . man is come where he is not wanted, where there is no place for him. . . ," he says to Marlow. He goes on to observe that man "wants to be a saint, and he wants to be a devil," and even sees himself, "in a dream," "as a very fine fellow--so fine as he can never be. . . ." Solemnly, he makes this observation, so often quoted from Conrad's writings: "A man that is born falls into a dream like a man who falls into the sea. . . . The way is to the destructive element submit yourself, and with the exertions of your hands and feet in the water make the deep, deep sea keep you up."

Marlow's meeting with Stein provides for a philosophical probing of some of the fundamental ideas and life-issues Conrad presents in Lord Jim. The human condition, no less than the kingdom of nature, is the province of his explorations. His musings on the mysteries of existence ultimately have the aim of enlarging our understanding of Jim's character and soul [12, 128]. These musings also have the effect of heightening Jim's struggles to find his true moral identity. Inevitably, abstraction and ambiguity are inherent elements in Stein's metaphysics, so to speak, even as his persona and physical surroundings merge to project a kind of mystery; his spacious apartment, Marlow recalls, "melted into shapeless gloom like a cavern." Indeed Marlow's visit to Stein is like a visit to a medical diagnostician who possesses holistic powers of discernment--"our conference resembled so much a medical consultation--Stein of learned aspect sitting in an arm-chair before his desk. . . ." Stein's ruminations, hence, have at times an oracular dimension, as ". . . his voice . . . seemed to roll voluminous and grave--mellowed by distance." It is in this solemn atmosphere, and with subdued tones, that Stein delivers his chief pronouncement on Jim: "`He is romantic--romantic,' he repeated. `And that is very bad--very bad. . . . Very good, too,' he added."

The encounter with Stein assumes, almost at the mid-point of the novel, episodic significance in Jim's moral destiny, and in the final journey of a soul in torment. Stein's observations, insightful as they are, hardly penetrate the depths of Jim's soul, its conditions and circumstances, which defy rational analysis and formulaic prescriptions. The soul has its own life, along with but also beyond the outer life Stein images. It must answer to new demands, undertake new functions, face new situations--and experience new trials. The dark night of the soul is at hand, inexorably, as Jim retreats to Patusan, one of the Malay islands, known to officials in Batavia for "its irregularities and aberrations." It is as if Jim had now been sent "into a star of the fifth magnitude." Behind him he leaves his "earthly failings." "`Let him creep twenty feet underground and stay there,'" to recall Brierly's words. In Patusan, at a point of the river forty miles from the sea, Jim will relieve a Portuguese by the name of Cornelius, Stein & Co.'s manager there. It is as if Stein and Marlow had schemed to "tumble" him into another world, "to get him out of the way; out of his own way." "Disposed" of, Jim thus enters spiritual exile, alone and friendless, a straggler, a hermit in the wilderness of Patusan, where "all sound and all movements in the world seemed to come to an end."

The year in which Jim, now close to thirty years of age, arrives in Patusan is 1886. The political situation there is unstable--"utter insecurity for life and property was the normal condition." Dirt, stench, and mud-stained natives are the conditions with which Jim must deal. In the midst of all of this rot, Jim, in white apparel, "appeared like a creature not only of another kind but of another essence." In Patusan, he soon becomes known as Lord Jim (Tuan Jim), and his work gives him "the certitude of rehabilitation." Patusan, as such, heralds Jim's unceasing attempt to start with a clean slate. But in Patusan, as on the Patna, Jim is in extreme peril, for he has to grapple with fiercely opposing native factions: the forces of Doramin, Stein's old friend, chief of the second power in Patusan, and those of Rajah Allang, a brutish chief, constantly locked in quarrels over trade, leading to bloody outbreaks and casualties. Jim's chief goal was "to conciliate imbecile jealousies, and argue away all sorts of senseless mistrusts." Doramin and his "distinguished son," Dain Waris, believe in Jim's "audacious plan." But will he succeed, or will he repeat past failures? Is Chester, to recall his earlier verdict on Jim, going to be right: "`He is no earthly good for anything.'" And will Jim, once and for all, exorcise the "unclean spirits" in himself, with the decisiveness needed for atonement? These are convergent questions that badger Jim in the last three years of his life.

During the Patusan sequence, Jim attains much power and influence: "He dominated the forest, the secular gloom, the old mankind." As a result of Jim's leadership, old Doramin's followers rout their sundry enemies, led not only by the Rajah but also by the vagabond Sherif Ali, an Arab half-breed whose wild men terrorized the land. Jim becomes a legend that gives him even supernatural powers. Lord Jim's word was now "the one truth of every passing day." Certainly, from the standpoint of heroic feats and sheer physical courage and example, Jim was to travel a long way from Patna to Patusan. Here his fame is "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." If his part in the Patna affair led to the derision that pursued him in his flights to nowhere, fame and adoration now define his newly-won greatness. The tarnished first mate of the Patna in the Indian Ocean is now the illustrious Lord Jim of the forests of Patusan.

The difficult situations that Jim must now confront in Patusan demand responsible actions, which Conrad portrays with all their Concrete complexities and tensions. There is no pause in Jim's constant gestures wrestle with responsibilities, whether to the pilgrims on the Patna or the natives in Patusan. The moral pressures on him never ease, requiring of Jim concrete gestures that measure his moral worth. Incessantly he takes moral soundings of himself and of the outer life [15, 211]. The stillness and silences of the physical world have a way of accentuating Jim's inner anguish. He is profoundly aware that some "floating derelict" is waiting stealthily to strike at the roots of order, whether of man or of society.

In the course of relating the events in Patusan, where he was visiting Jim, Marlow speaks of Jim's love for a Eurasian girl, Jewel, who becomes his mistress. Cornelius, the "awful Malacca Portu- guese," is Jewel's legal guardian, having married her late mother after her separation from the father of the girl. A "mean, cowardly scoundrel," Cornelius is another repulsive beetle in Jim's life. The enemies from without, like the enemy from within, seem to pursue Jim relentlessly. In Patusan, thus, Cornelius, resentful of being replaced as Stein's representative in the trading post, hates Jim, never stops slandering him, wants him out of the way: "`He knows nothing, honourable sir--nothing whatever. Who is he? What does he want here--the big thief? . . . He is a big fool. . . . He's no more than a little child here--like a little child--a little child.'" Cornelius asks Marlow to intercede with Jim in his favor, so that he might be awarded some "`moderate provision--suitable present,'" since "he regarded himself as entitled to some money, in exchange for the girl." But Marlow is not fazed by Cornelius's imprecations: "He couldn't possibly matter . . . since I had made up my mind that Jim, for whom alone I cared, had at last mastered his fate. . . ." Nor is Jim himself troubled by Cornelius's unseemly presence and the possible danger he presents: "It did not matter who suspected him, who trusted him, who loved him, who hated him. . . . `I came here to set my back against the wall, and I am going to stay here,'" Jim insists to Marlow [15, 213].

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