Lord Jim, Joseph Conrad [world of reading TXT] 📗

my way. We were alone; he glared at me with an air of stubborn resolution. I became aware I was being held up, so to speak, as if in a wood. The verandah was empty by then, the noise and movement in court had ceased: a great silence fell upon the building, in which, somewhere far within, an oriental voice began to whine abjectly. The dog, in the very act of trying to sneak in at the door, sat down hurriedly to hunt for fleas.

“ ‘Did you speak to me?’ asked Jim very low, and bending forward, not so much towards me but at me, if you know what I mean. I said ‘No’ at once. Something in the sound of that quiet tone of his warned me to be on my defence. I watched him. It was very much like a meeting in a wood, only more uncertain in its issue, since he could possibly want neither my money nor my life⁠—nothing that I could simply give up or defend with a clear conscience. ‘You say you didn’t,’ he said, very sombre. ‘But I heard.’ ‘Some mistake,’ I protested, utterly at a loss, and never taking my eyes off him. To watch his face was like watching a darkening sky before a clap of thunder, shade upon shade imperceptibly coming on, the doom growing mysteriously intense in the calm of maturing violence.

“ ‘As far as I know, I haven’t opened my lips in your hearing,’ I affirmed with perfect truth. I was getting a little angry, too, at the absurdity of this encounter. It strikes me now I have never in my life been so near a beating⁠—I mean it literally; a beating with fists. I suppose I had some hazy prescience of that eventuality being in the air. Not that he was actively threatening me. On the contrary, he was strangely passive⁠—don’t you know? but he was lowering, and, though not exceptionally big, he looked generally fit to demolish a wall. The most reassuring symptom I noticed was a kind of slow and ponderous hesitation, which I took as a tribute to the evident sincerity of my manner and of my tone. We faced each other. In the court the assault case was proceeding. I caught the words: ‘Well⁠—buffalo⁠—stick⁠—in the greatness of my fear.⁠ ⁠…’

“ ‘What did you mean by staring at me all the morning?’ said Jim at last. He looked up and looked down again. ‘Did you expect us all to sit with downcast eyes out of regard for your susceptibilities?’ I retorted sharply. I was not going to submit meekly to any of his nonsense. He raised his eyes again, and this time continued to look me straight in the face. ‘No. That’s all right,’ he pronounced with an air of deliberating with himself upon the truth of this statement⁠—‘that’s all right. I am going through with that. Only’⁠—and there he spoke a little faster⁠—‘I won’t let any man call me names outside this court. There was a fellow with you. You spoke to him⁠—oh yes⁠—I know; ’tis all very fine. You spoke to him, but you meant me to hear.⁠ ⁠…’

“I assured him he was under some extraordinary delusion. I had no conception how it came about. ‘You thought I would be afraid to resent this,’ he said, with just a faint tinge of bitterness. I was interested enough to discern the slightest shades of expression, but I was not in the least enlightened; yet I don’t know what in these words, or perhaps just the intonation of that phrase, induced me suddenly to make all possible allowances for him. I ceased to be annoyed at my unexpected predicament. It was some mistake on his part; he was blundering, and I had an intuition that the blunder was of an odious, of an unfortunate nature. I was anxious to end this scene on grounds of decency, just as one is anxious to cut short some unprovoked and abominable confidence. The funniest part was, that in the midst of all these considerations of the higher order I was conscious of a certain trepidation as to the possibility⁠—nay, likelihood⁠—of this encounter ending in some disreputable brawl which could not possibly be explained, and would make me ridiculous. I did not hanker after a three days’ celebrity as the man who got a black eye or something of the sort from the mate of the Patna. He, in all probability, did not care what he did, or at any rate would be fully justified in his own eyes. It took no magician to see he was amazingly angry about something, for all his quiet and even torpid demeanour. I don’t deny I was extremely desirous to pacify him at all costs, had I only known what to do. But I didn’t know, as you may well imagine. It was a blackness without a single gleam. We confronted each other in silence. He hung fire for about fifteen seconds, then made a step nearer, and I made ready to ward off a blow, though I don’t think I moved a muscle. ‘If you were as big as two men and as strong as six,’ he said very softly, ‘I would tell you what I think of you. You⁠ ⁠…’ ‘Stop!’ I exclaimed. This checked him for a second. ‘Before you tell me what you think of me,’ I went on quickly, ‘will you kindly tell me what it is I’ve said or done?’ During the pause that ensued he surveyed me with indignation, while I made supernatural efforts of memory, in which I was hindered by the oriental voice within the courtroom expostulating with impassioned volubility against a charge of falsehood. Then we spoke almost together. ‘I will soon show you I am not,’ he said, in a tone suggestive of a crisis. ‘I declare I don’t know,’ I protested earnestly at the same time. He tried to crush me by the scorn of his glance. ‘Now that you see I am not