finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Lord Jim/section_9_part_0.txt
Lord Jim.chapters 10-11
chapters 10-11
{"name": "Chapters 10-11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219145744/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/l/lord-jim/summary-and-analysis/chapters-1011", "summary": "Bobbing violently in the pitch blackness and the pelting rain, the lifeboat drifted away from the Patna. Jim remembered that he heard the sea \"hissing like twenty thousand kettles.\" He was so horrified that finally he jumped to save himself. He left 800 helpless Moslems to drown in the black smoke, the scalding steam, and the freezing sea. In his imagination, the Patna's engines had already exploded and the shipful of praying religious pilgrims had already perished. Jim also remembered that dawn lightened the sky above the tiny lifeboat. The rain ceased, and he saw the masthead light of the Patna. It did not sink. The other crewmen also saw the Patna's light, as well, and they also saw Jim. During the confusion of the night, they had believed that it was their fellow crewman George, the \"donkey-man,\" who escaped from the ship. They were enraged to see Jim; he was not one of them. He had stood apart while they struggled with the lifeboat, and during the night, he had overheard them plotting their alibis for deserting the ship. Jim would tell; he was a witness to their cowardice. They threatened to kill him, and Jim had to grab a tiller to ward off their advances. The light from the Patna suddenly vanished. Survival gave Jim no happiness. His thoughts were continually darkened by a sense of the \"irrational that lurks at the bottom of every thought, sentiment, sensation, emotion.\" Next morning, he sat guardedly on the edge of the lifeboat, as if daring fate -- or the scruffy, enraged crewmen, or the sea -- to topple him over. If he could, he would swim back, witness the wreckage, and then drown himself along with the Moslems. He heard the other men absurdly feigning friendship for him and attempting all the while to rationalize their escape from the Patna. He was horrified when they tried to convince him that he was \"one of them.\" He was not one of them. They chose to jump; Jim did not choose to jump. They chose for him. They called to him. \"It was their doing as plainly as if they had reached up with a boathook and pulled over.\" On the verandah, Marlow is aware of the mist gathering around them, the darkness beyond, and the flickering candlelight, and he ponders how very alike truth and illusion are when compared to the mist and the candlelight and the darkness. How difficult it is to ultimately know what is \"right.\" Even Jim said that there was not \"the thickness of a sheet of paper between the right and wrong of this affair.\" Jim related to Marlow his thoughts about suicide, and Marlow thinks that it is ironic that Jim should think of suicide; no one died because of Jim's actions. Suicide, Jim concluded finally, \"would have ended nothing.\" He could also have allowed himself to be killed by the crewmen, but that would have only served their alibis of half-truths. Jim suddenly asked Marlow for his opinion: did Marlow believe that Jim was innocent or guilty? Marlow was too stunned at the suddenness of Jim's question to answer him. The only thing -- the best thing -- to do now, Jim said, was to wait -- wait for another chance to prove his worth \"another chance -- to find out . . .\"", "analysis": "Chapter 10 presents the immediate horrors of Jim's jumping, and it opens with Marlow's confirming Jim's assertion at the end of Chapter 9 that Jim \"had indeed jumped into an everlasting deep hole. He had tumbled from a height he could never scale again.\" The first horror which Jim faces as a result of his jump is that he finds himself among the dastardly people who also deserted the ship. Jim's deepest instincts tell him that he is, if not superior, at least different from these horrible, depraved cowards, yet he too did desert the ship, and thus he is \"one of them.\" They all are literally and metaphorically in the same boat, and ironically, they misidentify Jim as George, the third engineer who died  of a heart attack. This mistaken identity further aligns Jim with the others until they discover that it is Jim and begin to curse him. But their animosity, hatred, and threats to take his life allow Jim to again see himself as a being entirely apart  from these unethical monsters, especially as they continually call him a coward or a \"murdering coward.\" Jim sums up the first horror of jumping as the discovery that he had joined these horrible companions. He says, \"Oh yes, I know very well -- I jumped. Certainly, I jumped! I told you I jumped; but I tell you they were too much for any man.\" A short time after he jumped, Jim could still see the masthead light, and it terrified him to see that the ship had not sunk. Then, when he and the others saw the light disappear, they all assumed that the ship had sunk. As we are later to hear from Captain Brierly, what happened was that the squall simply turned the ship around so that the light was no longer visible. Still, Jim had a deep desire to escape from the accursed lifeboat -- to swim back and see for himself because the horror of being with the captain and the others was more horrible than possible death. In Chapter 11, Jim again brings Marlow and us back to the matter of guilt by asking again if we wouldn't act the same as he did: \"Suppose I had stuck to the ship? Well. How much longer? Say a minute half a minute. Come. In thirty seconds, as it seemed certain then, I would have been overboard; and do you think I would not have laid hold of the first thing that came in my way -- oar, life-buoy, grating anything? Wouldn't you?\" And now if Marlow even uses a euphemism, such as \"And so you cleared out,\" Jim emphatically corrects him: \"Jumped . . . jumped, mind you.\" At the end of Chapter 11, Jim is waiting \"for another chance,\" and thus, the remainder of the novel will deal with Jim's search for another chance to prove himself to himself."}

'He locked his fingers together and tore them apart. Nothing could be
more true: he had indeed jumped into an everlasting deep hole. He had
tumbled from a height he could never scale again. By that time the boat
had gone driving forward past the bows. It was too dark just then
for them to see each other, and, moreover, they were blinded and half
drowned with rain. He told me it was like being swept by a flood through
a cavern. They turned their backs to the squall; the skipper, it seems,
got an oar over the stern to keep the boat before it, and for two or
three minutes the end of the world had come through a deluge in a pitchy
blackness. The sea hissed "like twenty thousand kettles." That's his
simile, not mine. I fancy there was not much wind after the first gust;
and he himself had admitted at the inquiry that the sea never got up
that night to any extent. He crouched down in the bows and stole a
furtive glance back. He saw just one yellow gleam of the mast-head light
high up and blurred like a last star ready to dissolve. "It terrified me
to see it still there," he said. That's what he said. What terrified him
was the thought that the drowning was not over yet. No doubt he wanted
to be done with that abomination as quickly as possible. Nobody in the
boat made a sound. In the dark she seemed to fly, but of course she
could not have had much way. Then the shower swept ahead, and the great,
distracting, hissing noise followed the rain into distance and died out.
There was nothing to be heard then but the slight wash about the boat's
sides. Somebody's teeth were chattering violently. A hand touched his
back. A faint voice said, "You there?" Another cried out shakily,
"She's gone!" and they all stood up together to look astern. They saw no
lights. All was black. A thin cold drizzle was driving into their faces.
The boat lurched slightly. The teeth chattered faster, stopped, and
began again twice before the man could master his shiver sufficiently to
say, "Ju-ju-st in ti-ti-me. . . . Brrrr." He recognised the voice of the
chief engineer saying surlily, "I saw her go down. I happened to turn my
head." The wind had dropped almost completely.

'They watched in the dark with their heads half turned to windward as if
expecting to hear cries. At first he was thankful the night had covered
up the scene before his eyes, and then to know of it and yet to have
seen and heard nothing appeared somehow the culminating point of an
awful misfortune. "Strange, isn't it?" he murmured, interrupting himself
in his disjointed narrative.

'It did not seem so strange to me. He must have had an unconscious
conviction that the reality could not be half as bad, not half as
anguishing, appalling, and vengeful as the created terror of his
imagination. I believe that, in this first moment, his heart was wrung
with all the suffering, that his soul knew the accumulated savour of all
the fear, all the horror, all the despair of eight hundred human beings
pounced upon in the night by a sudden and violent death, else why should
he have said, "It seemed to me that I must jump out of that accursed
boat and swim back to see--half a mile--more--any distance--to the very
spot . . ."? Why this impulse? Do you see the significance? Why back to
the very spot? Why not drown alongside--if he meant drowning? Why back
to the very spot, to see--as if his imagination had to be soothed by the
assurance that all was over before death could bring relief? I defy any
one of you to offer another explanation. It was one of those bizarre and
exciting glimpses through the fog. It was an extraordinary disclosure.
He let it out as the most natural thing one could say. He fought down
that impulse and then he became conscious of the silence. He mentioned
this to me. A silence of the sea, of the sky, merged into one indefinite
immensity still as death around these saved, palpitating lives.
"You might have heard a pin drop in the boat," he said with a queer
contraction of his lips, like a man trying to master his sensibilities
while relating some extremely moving fact. A silence! God alone, who had
willed him as he was, knows what he made of it in his heart. "I didn't
think any spot on earth could be so still," he said. "You couldn't
distinguish the sea from the sky; there was nothing to see and nothing
to hear. Not a glimmer, not a shape, not a sound. You could have
believed that every bit of dry land had gone to the bottom; that every
man on earth but I and these beggars in the boat had got drowned." He
leaned over the table with his knuckles propped amongst coffee-cups,
liqueur-glasses, cigar-ends. "I seemed to believe it. Everything was
gone and--all was over . . ." he fetched a deep sigh . . . "with me."'

Marlow sat up abruptly and flung away his cheroot with force. It made
a darting red trail like a toy rocket fired through the drapery of
creepers. Nobody stirred.

'Hey, what do you think of it?' he cried with sudden animation. 'Wasn't
he true to himself, wasn't he? His saved life was over for want of
ground under his feet, for want of sights for his eyes, for want of
voices in his ears. Annihilation--hey! And all the time it was only a
clouded sky, a sea that did not break, the air that did not stir. Only a
night; only a silence.

'It lasted for a while, and then they were suddenly and unanimously
moved to make a noise over their escape. "I knew from the first she
would go." "Not a minute too soon." "A narrow squeak, b'gosh!" He said
nothing, but the breeze that had dropped came back, a gentle draught
freshened steadily, and the sea joined its murmuring voice to this
talkative reaction succeeding the dumb moments of awe. She was gone! She
was gone! Not a doubt of it. Nobody could have helped. They repeated the
same words over and over again as though they couldn't stop themselves.
Never doubted she would go. The lights were gone. No mistake. The
lights were gone. Couldn't expect anything else. She had to go. . . . He
noticed that they talked as though they had left behind them nothing but
an empty ship. They concluded she would not have been long when she once
started. It seemed to cause them some sort of satisfaction. They assured
each other that she couldn't have been long about it--"Just shot down
like a flat-iron." The chief engineer declared that the mast-head light
at the moment of sinking seemed to drop "like a lighted match you throw
down." At this the second laughed hysterically. "I am g-g-glad, I am
gla-a-a-d." His teeth went on "like an electric rattle," said Jim,
"and all at once he began to cry. He wept and blubbered like a child,
catching his breath and sobbing 'Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!' He would
be quiet for a while and start suddenly, 'Oh, my poor arm! oh, my poor
a-a-a-arm!' I felt I could knock him down. Some of them sat in the
stern-sheets. I could just make out their shapes. Voices came to me,
mumble, mumble, grunt, grunt. All this seemed very hard to bear. I was
cold too. And I could do nothing. I thought that if I moved I would have
to go over the side and . . ."

'His hand groped stealthily, came in contact with a liqueur-glass, and
was withdrawn suddenly as if it had touched a red-hot coal. I pushed the
bottle slightly. "Won't you have some more?" I asked. He looked at me
angrily. "Don't you think I can tell you what there is to tell without
screwing myself up?" he asked. The squad of globe-trotters had gone to
bed. We were alone but for a vague white form erect in the shadow, that,
being looked at, cringed forward, hesitated, backed away silently. It
was getting late, but I did not hurry my guest.

'In the midst of his forlorn state he heard his companions begin to
abuse some one. "What kept you from jumping, you lunatic?" said a
scolding voice. The chief engineer left the stern-sheets, and could
be heard clambering forward as if with hostile intentions against "the
greatest idiot that ever was." The skipper shouted with rasping effort
offensive epithets from where he sat at the oar. He lifted his head
at that uproar, and heard the name "George," while a hand in the dark
struck him on the breast. "What have you got to say for yourself, you
fool?" queried somebody, with a sort of virtuous fury. "They were after
me," he said. "They were abusing me--abusing me . . . by the name of
George."

'He paused to stare, tried to smile, turned his eyes away and went on.
"That little second puts his head right under my nose, 'Why, it's that
blasted mate!' 'What!' howls the skipper from the other end of the boat.
'No!' shrieks the chief. And he too stooped to look at my face."

'The wind had left the boat suddenly. The rain began to fall again, and
the soft, uninterrupted, a little mysterious sound with which the sea
receives a shower arose on all sides in the night. "They were too taken
aback to say anything more at first," he narrated steadily, "and what
could I have to say to them?" He faltered for a moment, and made an
effort to go on. "They called me horrible names." His voice, sinking to
a whisper, now and then would leap up suddenly, hardened by the passion
of scorn, as though he had been talking of secret abominations. "Never
mind what they called me," he said grimly. "I could hear hate in their
voices. A good thing too. They could not forgive me for being in that
boat. They hated it. It made them mad. . . ." He laughed short. . . .
"But it kept me from--Look! I was sitting with my arms crossed, on the
gunwale! . . ." He perched himself smartly on the edge of the table and
crossed his arms. . . . "Like this--see? One little tilt backwards and
I would have been gone--after the others. One little tilt--the least
bit--the least bit." He frowned, and tapping his forehead with the tip
of his middle finger, "It was there all the time," he said impressively.
"All the time--that notion. And the rain--cold, thick, cold as melted
snow--colder--on my thin cotton clothes--I'll never be so cold again in
my life, I know. And the sky was black too--all black. Not a star, not
a light anywhere. Nothing outside that confounded boat and those two
yapping before me like a couple of mean mongrels at a tree'd thief. Yap!
yap! 'What you doing here? You're a fine sort! Too much of a bloomin'
gentleman to put your hand to it. Come out of your trance, did you? To
sneak in? Did you?' Yap! yap! 'You ain't fit to live!' Yap! yap! Two of
them together trying to out-bark each other. The other would bay from
the stern through the rain--couldn't see him--couldn't make it out--some
of his filthy jargon. Yap! yap! Bow-ow-ow-ow-ow! Yap! yap! It was sweet
to hear them; it kept me alive, I tell you. It saved my life. At it they
went, as if trying to drive me overboard with the noise! . . . 'I wonder
you had pluck enough to jump. You ain't wanted here. If I had known who
it was, I would have tipped you over--you skunk! What have you done with
the other? Where did you get the pluck to jump--you coward? What's to
prevent us three from firing you overboard?' . . . They were out of
breath; the shower passed away upon the sea. Then nothing. There was
nothing round the boat, not even a sound. Wanted to see me overboard,
did they? Upon my soul! I think they would have had their wish if they
had only kept quiet. Fire me overboard! Would they? 'Try,' I said. 'I
would for twopence.' 'Too good for you,' they screeched together. It was
so dark that it was only when one or the other of them moved that I was
quite sure of seeing him. By heavens! I only wish they had tried."

'I couldn't help exclaiming, "What an extraordinary affair!"

'"Not bad--eh?" he said, as if in some sort astounded. "They pretended
to think I had done away with that donkey-man for some reason or other.
Why should I? And how the devil was I to know? Didn't I get somehow
into that boat? into that boat--I . . ." The muscles round his lips
contracted into an unconscious grimace that tore through the mask of his
usual expression--something violent, short-lived and illuminating like
a twist of lightning that admits the eye for an instant into the secret
convolutions of a cloud. "I did. I was plainly there with them--wasn't
I? Isn't it awful a man should be driven to do a thing like that--and be
responsible? What did I know about their George they were howling after?
I remembered I had seen him curled up on the deck. 'Murdering coward!'
the chief kept on calling me. He didn't seem able to remember any other
two words. I didn't care, only his noise began to worry me. 'Shut up,' I
said. At that he collected himself for a confounded screech. 'You killed
him! You killed him!' 'No,' I shouted, 'but I will kill you directly.' I
jumped up, and he fell backwards over a thwart with an awful loud thump.
I don't know why. Too dark. Tried to step back I suppose. I stood still
facing aft, and the wretched little second began to whine, 'You
ain't going to hit a chap with a broken arm--and you call yourself a
gentleman, too.' I heard a heavy tramp--one--two--and wheezy grunting.
The other beast was coming at me, clattering his oar over the stern. I
saw him moving, big, big--as you see a man in a mist, in a dream. 'Come
on,' I cried. I would have tumbled him over like a bale of shakings. He
stopped, muttered to himself, and went back. Perhaps he had heard the
wind. I didn't. It was the last heavy gust we had. He went back to his
oar. I was sorry. I would have tried to--to . . ."

'He opened and closed his curved fingers, and his hands had an eager and
cruel flutter. "Steady, steady," I murmured.

'"Eh? What? I am not excited," he remonstrated, awfully hurt, and with
a convulsive jerk of his elbow knocked over the cognac bottle. I started
forward, scraping my chair. He bounced off the table as if a mine had
been exploded behind his back, and half turned before he alighted,
crouching on his feet to show me a startled pair of eyes and a face
white about the nostrils. A look of intense annoyance succeeded.
"Awfully sorry. How clumsy of me!" he mumbled, very vexed, while the
pungent odour of spilt alcohol enveloped us suddenly with an atmosphere
of a low drinking-bout in the cool, pure darkness of the night. The
lights had been put out in the dining-hall; our candle glimmered
solitary in the long gallery, and the columns had turned black from
pediment to capital. On the vivid stars the high corner of the Harbour
Office stood out distinct across the Esplanade, as though the sombre
pile had glided nearer to see and hear.

'He assumed an air of indifference.

'"I dare say I am less calm now than I was then. I was ready for
anything. These were trifles. . . ."

'"You had a lively time of it in that boat," I remarked

'"I was ready," he repeated. "After the ship's lights had gone, anything
might have happened in that boat--anything in the world--and the world
no wiser. I felt this, and I was pleased. It was just dark enough too.
We were like men walled up quick in a roomy grave. No concern with
anything on earth. Nobody to pass an opinion. Nothing mattered." For the
third time during this conversation he laughed harshly, but there was
no one about to suspect him of being only drunk. "No fear, no law, no
sounds, no eyes--not even our own, till--till sunrise at least."

'I was struck by the suggestive truth of his words. There is something
peculiar in a small boat upon the wide sea. Over the lives borne from
under the shadow of death there seems to fall the shadow of madness.
When your ship fails you, your whole world seems to fail you; the world
that made you, restrained you, took care of you. It is as if the souls
of men floating on an abyss and in touch with immensity had been set
free for any excess of heroism, absurdity, or abomination. Of course, as
with belief, thought, love, hate, conviction, or even the visual aspect
of material things, there are as many shipwrecks as there are men, and
in this one there was something abject which made the isolation more
complete--there was a villainy of circumstances that cut these men off
more completely from the rest of mankind, whose ideal of conduct had
never undergone the trial of a fiendish and appalling joke. They were
exasperated with him for being a half-hearted shirker: he focussed on
them his hatred of the whole thing; he would have liked to take a signal
revenge for the abhorrent opportunity they had put in his way. Trust
a boat on the high seas to bring out the Irrational that lurks at the
bottom of every thought, sentiment, sensation, emotion. It was part of
the burlesque meanness pervading that particular disaster at sea that
they did not come to blows. It was all threats, all a terribly effective
feint, a sham from beginning to end, planned by the tremendous disdain
of the Dark Powers whose real terrors, always on the verge of triumph,
are perpetually foiled by the steadfastness of men. I asked, after
waiting for a while, "Well, what happened?" A futile question. I knew
too much already to hope for the grace of a single uplifting touch, for
the favour of hinted madness, of shadowed horror. "Nothing," he said. "I
meant business, but they meant noise only. Nothing happened."

'And the rising sun found him just as he had jumped up first in the bows
of the boat. What a persistence of readiness! He had been holding the
tiller in his hand, too, all the night. They had dropped the rudder
overboard while attempting to ship it, and I suppose the tiller got
kicked forward somehow while they were rushing up and down that boat
trying to do all sorts of things at once so as to get clear of the
side. It was a long heavy piece of hard wood, and apparently he had been
clutching it for six hours or so. If you don't call that being ready!
Can you imagine him, silent and on his feet half the night, his face to
the gusts of rain, staring at sombre forms watchful of vague movements,
straining his ears to catch rare low murmurs in the stern-sheets!
Firmness of courage or effort of fear? What do you think? And the
endurance is undeniable too. Six hours more or less on the defensive;
six hours of alert immobility while the boat drove slowly or floated
arrested, according to the caprice of the wind; while the sea, calmed,
slept at last; while the clouds passed above his head; while the sky
from an immensity lustreless and black, diminished to a sombre and
lustrous vault, scintillated with a greater brilliance, faded to the
east, paled at the zenith; while the dark shapes blotting the low
stars astern got outlines, relief became shoulders, heads, faces,
features,--confronted him with dreary stares, had dishevelled hair, torn
clothes, blinked red eyelids at the white dawn. "They looked as though
they had been knocking about drunk in gutters for a week," he described
graphically; and then he muttered something about the sunrise being of a
kind that foretells a calm day. You know that sailor habit of referring
to the weather in every connection. And on my side his few mumbled words
were enough to make me see the lower limb of the sun clearing the
line of the horizon, the tremble of a vast ripple running over all the
visible expanse of the sea, as if the waters had shuddered, giving birth
to the globe of light, while the last puff of the breeze would stir the
air in a sigh of relief.

'"They sat in the stern shoulder to shoulder, with the skipper in the
middle, like three dirty owls, and stared at me," I heard him say
with an intention of hate that distilled a corrosive virtue into the
commonplace words like a drop of powerful poison falling into a glass
of water; but my thoughts dwelt upon that sunrise. I could imagine
under the pellucid emptiness of the sky these four men imprisoned in the
solitude of the sea, the lonely sun, regardless of the speck of life,
ascending the clear curve of the heaven as if to gaze ardently from a
greater height at his own splendour reflected in the still ocean. "They
called out to me from aft," said Jim, "as though we had been chums
together. I heard them. They were begging me to be sensible and drop
that 'blooming piece of wood.' Why _would_ I carry on so? They hadn't
done me any harm--had they? There had been no harm. . . . No harm!"

'His face crimsoned as though he could not get rid of the air in his
lungs.

'"No harm!" he burst out. "I leave it to you. You can understand. Can't
you? You see it--don't you? No harm! Good God! What more could they have
done? Oh yes, I know very well--I jumped. Certainly. I jumped! I told
you I jumped; but I tell you they were too much for any man. It was
their doing as plainly as if they had reached up with a boat-hook and
pulled me over. Can't you see it? You must see it. Come. Speak--straight
out."

'His uneasy eyes fastened upon mine, questioned, begged, challenged,
entreated. For the life of me I couldn't help murmuring, "You've been
tried." "More than is fair," he caught up swiftly. "I wasn't given half
a chance--with a gang like that. And now they were friendly--oh, so
damnably friendly! Chums, shipmates. All in the same boat. Make the best
of it. They hadn't meant anything. They didn't care a hang for George.
George had gone back to his berth for something at the last moment and
got caught. The man was a manifest fool. Very sad, of course. . . .
Their eyes looked at me; their lips moved; they wagged their heads at
the other end of the boat--three of them; they beckoned--to me. Why
not? Hadn't I jumped? I said nothing. There are no words for the sort of
things I wanted to say. If I had opened my lips just then I would have
simply howled like an animal. I was asking myself when I would wake up.
They urged me aloud to come aft and hear quietly what the skipper had to
say. We were sure to be picked up before the evening--right in the track
of all the Canal traffic; there was smoke to the north-west now.

'"It gave me an awful shock to see this faint, faint blur, this low
trail of brown mist through which you could see the boundary of sea and
sky. I called out to them that I could hear very well where I was. The
skipper started swearing, as hoarse as a crow. He wasn't going to talk
at the top of his voice for _my_ accommodation. 'Are you afraid they
will hear you on shore?' I asked. He glared as if he would have liked to
claw me to pieces. The chief engineer advised him to humour me. He
said I wasn't right in my head yet. The other rose astern, like a thick
pillar of flesh--and talked--talked. . . ."

'Jim remained thoughtful. "Well?" I said. "What did I care what story
they agreed to make up?" he cried recklessly. "They could tell what they
jolly well liked. It was their business. I knew the story. Nothing
they could make people believe could alter it for me. I let him talk,
argue--talk, argue. He went on and on and on. Suddenly I felt my legs
give way under me. I was sick, tired--tired to death. I let fall the
tiller, turned my back on them, and sat down on the foremost thwart. I
had enough. They called to me to know if I understood--wasn't it true,
every word of it? It was true, by God! after their fashion. I did not
turn my head. I heard them palavering together. 'The silly ass won't say
anything.' 'Oh, he understands well enough.' 'Let him be; he will be all
right.' 'What can he do?' What could I do? Weren't we all in the same
boat? I tried to be deaf. The smoke had disappeared to the northward.
It was a dead calm. They had a drink from the water-breaker, and I drank
too. Afterwards they made a great business of spreading the boat-sail
over the gunwales. Would I keep a look-out? They crept under, out of my
sight, thank God! I felt weary, weary, done up, as if I hadn't had one
hour's sleep since the day I was born. I couldn't see the water for the
glitter of the sunshine. From time to time one of them would creep out,
stand up to take a look all round, and get under again. I could hear
spells of snoring below the sail. Some of them could sleep. One of them
at least. I couldn't! All was light, light, and the boat seemed to be
falling through it. Now and then I would feel quite surprised to find
myself sitting on a thwart. . . ."

'He began to walk with measured steps to and fro before my chair, one
hand in his trousers-pocket, his head bent thoughtfully, and his right
arm at long intervals raised for a gesture that seemed to put out of his
way an invisible intruder.

'"I suppose you think I was going mad," he began in a changed tone. "And
well you may, if you remember I had lost my cap. The sun crept all the
way from east to west over my bare head, but that day I could not come
to any harm, I suppose. The sun could not make me mad. . . ." His right
arm put aside the idea of madness. . . . "Neither could it kill
me. . . ." Again his arm repulsed a shadow. . . . "_That_ rested with
me."

'"Did it?" I said, inexpressibly amazed at this new turn, and I looked
at him with the same sort of feeling I might be fairly conceived to
experience had he, after spinning round on his heel, presented an
altogether new face.

'"I didn't get brain fever, I did not drop dead either," he went on. "I
didn't bother myself at all about the sun over my head. I was thinking
as coolly as any man that ever sat thinking in the shade. That greasy
beast of a skipper poked his big cropped head from under the canvas
and screwed his fishy eyes up at me. 'Donnerwetter! you will die,' he
growled, and drew in like a turtle. I had seen him. I had heard him. He
didn't interrupt me. I was thinking just then that I wouldn't."

'He tried to sound my thought with an attentive glance dropped on me
in passing. "Do you mean to say you had been deliberating with yourself
whether you would die?" I asked in as impenetrable a tone as I could
command. He nodded without stopping. "Yes, it had come to that as I sat
there alone," he said. He passed on a few steps to the imaginary end
of his beat, and when he flung round to come back both his hands were
thrust deep into his pockets. He stopped short in front of my chair and
looked down. "Don't you believe it?" he inquired with tense curiosity.
I was moved to make a solemn declaration of my readiness to believe
implicitly anything he thought fit to tell me.'
'He heard me out with his head on one side, and I had another glimpse
through a rent in the mist in which he moved and had his being. The dim
candle spluttered within the ball of glass, and that was all I had to
see him by; at his back was the dark night with the clear stars, whose
distant glitter disposed in retreating planes lured the eye into the
depths of a greater darkness; and yet a mysterious light seemed to show
me his boyish head, as if in that moment the youth within him had, for
a moment, glowed and expired. "You are an awful good sort to listen like
this," he said. "It does me good. You don't know what it is to me. You
don't" . . . words seemed to fail him. It was a distinct glimpse. He was
a youngster of the sort you like to see about you; of the sort you like
to imagine yourself to have been; of the sort whose appearance claims
the fellowship of these illusions you had thought gone out, extinct,
cold, and which, as if rekindled at the approach of another flame, give
a flutter deep, deep down somewhere, give a flutter of light . . . of
heat! . . . Yes; I had a glimpse of him then . . . and it was not the
last of that kind. . . . "You don't know what it is for a fellow in my
position to be believed--make a clean breast of it to an elder man. It
is so difficult--so awfully unfair--so hard to understand."

'The mists were closing again. I don't know how old I appeared to
him--and how much wise. Not half as old as I felt just then; not half
as uselessly wise as I knew myself to be. Surely in no other craft as in
that of the sea do the hearts of those already launched to sink or swim
go out so much to the youth on the brink, looking with shining eyes upon
that glitter of the vast surface which is only a reflection of his
own glances full of fire. There is such magnificent vagueness in
the expectations that had driven each of us to sea, such a glorious
indefiniteness, such a beautiful greed of adventures that are their own
and only reward. What we get--well, we won't talk of that; but can one
of us restrain a smile? In no other kind of life is the illusion more
wide of reality--in no other is the beginning _all_ illusion--the
disenchantment more swift--the subjugation more complete. Hadn't we all
commenced with the same desire, ended with the same knowledge, carried
the memory of the same cherished glamour through the sordid days of
imprecation? What wonder that when some heavy prod gets home the bond
is found to be close; that besides the fellowship of the craft there is
felt the strength of a wider feeling--the feeling that binds a man to a
child. He was there before me, believing that age and wisdom can find
a remedy against the pain of truth, giving me a glimpse of himself as a
young fellow in a scrape that is the very devil of a scrape, the sort
of scrape greybeards wag at solemnly while they hide a smile. And he
had been deliberating upon death--confound him! He had found that to
meditate about because he thought he had saved his life, while all its
glamour had gone with the ship in the night. What more natural! It
was tragic enough and funny enough in all conscience to call aloud for
compassion, and in what was I better than the rest of us to refuse him
my pity? And even as I looked at him the mists rolled into the rent, and
his voice spoke--

'"I was so lost, you know. It was the sort of thing one does not expect
to happen to one. It was not like a fight, for instance."

'"It was not," I admitted. He appeared changed, as if he had suddenly
matured.

'"One couldn't be sure," he muttered.

'"Ah! You were not sure," I said, and was placated by the sound of
a faint sigh that passed between us like the flight of a bird in the
night.

'"Well, I wasn't," he said courageously. "It was something like that
wretched story they made up. It was not a lie--but it wasn't truth all
the same. It was something. . . . One knows a downright lie. There was
not the thickness of a sheet of paper between the right and the wrong of
this affair."

'"How much more did you want?" I asked; but I think I spoke so low that
he did not catch what I said. He had advanced his argument as though
life had been a network of paths separated by chasms. His voice sounded
reasonable.

'"Suppose I had not--I mean to say, suppose I had stuck to the ship?
Well. How much longer? Say a minute--half a minute. Come. In thirty
seconds, as it seemed certain then, I would have been overboard; and do
you think I would not have laid hold of the first thing that came in my
way--oar, life-buoy, grating--anything? Wouldn't you?"

'"And be saved," I interjected.

'"I would have meant to be," he retorted. "And that's more than I meant
when I" . . . he shivered as if about to swallow some nauseous
drug . . . "jumped," he pronounced with a convulsive effort, whose
stress, as if propagated by the waves of the air, made my body stir a
little in the chair. He fixed me with lowering eyes. "Don't you believe
me?" he cried. "I swear! . . . Confound it! You got me here to talk,
and . . . You must! . . . You said you would believe." "Of course I do,"
I protested, in a matter-of-fact tone which produced a calming effect.
"Forgive me," he said. "Of course I wouldn't have talked to you about
all this if you had not been a gentleman. I ought to have known . . . I
am--I am--a gentleman too . . ." "Yes, yes," I said hastily. He was
looking me squarely in the face, and withdrew his gaze slowly. "Now you
understand why I didn't after all . . . didn't go out in that way. I
wasn't going to be frightened at what I had done. And, anyhow, if I had
stuck to the ship I would have done my best to be saved. Men have been
known to float for hours--in the open sea--and be picked up not much the
worse for it. I might have lasted it out better than many others.
There's nothing the matter with my heart." He withdrew his right fist
from his pocket, and the blow he struck on his chest resounded like a
muffled detonation in the night.

'"No," I said. He meditated, with his legs slightly apart and his
chin sunk. "A hair's-breadth," he muttered. "Not the breadth of a hair
between this and that. And at the time . . ."

'"It is difficult to see a hair at midnight," I put in, a little
viciously I fear. Don't you see what I mean by the solidarity of the
craft? I was aggrieved against him, as though he had cheated me--me!--of
a splendid opportunity to keep up the illusion of my beginnings, as
though he had robbed our common life of the last spark of its glamour.
"And so you cleared out--at once."

'"Jumped," he corrected me incisively. "Jumped--mind!" he repeated, and
I wondered at the evident but obscure intention. "Well, yes! Perhaps I
could not see then. But I had plenty of time and any amount of light
in that boat. And I could think, too. Nobody would know, of course, but
this did not make it any easier for me. You've got to believe that, too.
I did not want all this talk. . . . No . . . Yes . . . I won't
lie . . . I wanted it: it is the very thing I wanted--there. Do you
think you or anybody could have made me if I . . . I am--I am not afraid
to tell. And I wasn't afraid to think either. I looked it in the face. I
wasn't going to run away. At first--at night, if it hadn't been for
those fellows I might have . . . No! by heavens! I was not going to give
them that satisfaction. They had done enough. They made up a story, and
believed it for all I know. But I knew the truth, and I would live it
down--alone, with myself. I wasn't going to give in to such a beastly
unfair thing. What did it prove after all? I was confoundedly cut up.
Sick of life--to tell you the truth; but what would have been the good
to shirk it--in--in--that way? That was not the way. I believe--I
believe it would have--it would have ended--nothing."

'He had been walking up and down, but with the last word he turned short
at me.

'"What do _you_ believe?" he asked with violence. A pause ensued, and
suddenly I felt myself overcome by a profound and hopeless fatigue, as
though his voice had startled me out of a dream of wandering through
empty spaces whose immensity had harassed my soul and exhausted my body.

'". . . Would have ended nothing," he muttered over me obstinately,
after a little while. "No! the proper thing was to face it out--alone
for myself--wait for another chance--find out . . ."'
Chapters 10-11
Bobbing violently in the pitch blackness and the pelting rain, the lifeboat drifted away from the Patna. Jim remembered that he heard the sea "hissing like twenty thousand kettles." He was so horrified that finally he jumped to save himself. He left 800 helpless Moslems to drown in the black smoke, the scalding steam, and the freezing sea. In his imagination, the Patna's engines had already exploded and the shipful of praying religious pilgrims had already perished. Jim also remembered that dawn lightened the sky above the tiny lifeboat. The rain ceased, and he saw the masthead light of the Patna. It did not sink. The other crewmen also saw the Patna's light, as well, and they also saw Jim. During the confusion of the night, they had believed that it was their fellow crewman George, the "donkey-man," who escaped from the ship. They were enraged to see Jim; he was not one of them. He had stood apart while they struggled with the lifeboat, and during the night, he had overheard them plotting their alibis for deserting the ship. Jim would tell; he was a witness to their cowardice. They threatened to kill him, and Jim had to grab a tiller to ward off their advances. The light from the Patna suddenly vanished. Survival gave Jim no happiness. His thoughts were continually darkened by a sense of the "irrational that lurks at the bottom of every thought, sentiment, sensation, emotion." Next morning, he sat guardedly on the edge of the lifeboat, as if daring fate -- or the scruffy, enraged crewmen, or the sea -- to topple him over. If he could, he would swim back, witness the wreckage, and then drown himself along with the Moslems. He heard the other men absurdly feigning friendship for him and attempting all the while to rationalize their escape from the Patna. He was horrified when they tried to convince him that he was "one of them." He was not one of them. They chose to jump; Jim did not choose to jump. They chose for him. They called to him. "It was their doing as plainly as if they had reached up with a boathook and pulled over." On the verandah, Marlow is aware of the mist gathering around them, the darkness beyond, and the flickering candlelight, and he ponders how very alike truth and illusion are when compared to the mist and the candlelight and the darkness. How difficult it is to ultimately know what is "right." Even Jim said that there was not "the thickness of a sheet of paper between the right and wrong of this affair." Jim related to Marlow his thoughts about suicide, and Marlow thinks that it is ironic that Jim should think of suicide; no one died because of Jim's actions. Suicide, Jim concluded finally, "would have ended nothing." He could also have allowed himself to be killed by the crewmen, but that would have only served their alibis of half-truths. Jim suddenly asked Marlow for his opinion: did Marlow believe that Jim was innocent or guilty? Marlow was too stunned at the suddenness of Jim's question to answer him. The only thing -- the best thing -- to do now, Jim said, was to wait -- wait for another chance to prove his worth "another chance -- to find out . . ."
Chapter 10 presents the immediate horrors of Jim's jumping, and it opens with Marlow's confirming Jim's assertion at the end of Chapter 9 that Jim "had indeed jumped into an everlasting deep hole. He had tumbled from a height he could never scale again." The first horror which Jim faces as a result of his jump is that he finds himself among the dastardly people who also deserted the ship. Jim's deepest instincts tell him that he is, if not superior, at least different from these horrible, depraved cowards, yet he too did desert the ship, and thus he is "one of them." They all are literally and metaphorically in the same boat, and ironically, they misidentify Jim as George, the third engineer who died  of a heart attack. This mistaken identity further aligns Jim with the others until they discover that it is Jim and begin to curse him. But their animosity, hatred, and threats to take his life allow Jim to again see himself as a being entirely apart  from these unethical monsters, especially as they continually call him a coward or a "murdering coward." Jim sums up the first horror of jumping as the discovery that he had joined these horrible companions. He says, "Oh yes, I know very well -- I jumped. Certainly, I jumped! I told you I jumped; but I tell you they were too much for any man." A short time after he jumped, Jim could still see the masthead light, and it terrified him to see that the ship had not sunk. Then, when he and the others saw the light disappear, they all assumed that the ship had sunk. As we are later to hear from Captain Brierly, what happened was that the squall simply turned the ship around so that the light was no longer visible. Still, Jim had a deep desire to escape from the accursed lifeboat -- to swim back and see for himself because the horror of being with the captain and the others was more horrible than possible death. In Chapter 11, Jim again brings Marlow and us back to the matter of guilt by asking again if we wouldn't act the same as he did: "Suppose I had stuck to the ship? Well. How much longer? Say a minute half a minute. Come. In thirty seconds, as it seemed certain then, I would have been overboard; and do you think I would not have laid hold of the first thing that came in my way -- oar, life-buoy, grating anything? Wouldn't you?" And now if Marlow even uses a euphemism, such as "And so you cleared out," Jim emphatically corrects him: "Jumped . . . jumped, mind you." At the end of Chapter 11, Jim is waiting "for another chance," and thus, the remainder of the novel will deal with Jim's search for another chance to prove himself to himself.