A few people recoiled.
Jim waited awhile before Doramin, and then said gently,
“I am come in sorrow.”
He waited again.
“I am come ready and unarmed,” he repeated.
‘The unwieldy old man, lowering his big forehead like an ox under a yoke, made an effort to rise, clutching at the flintlock pistols on his knees.
From his throat came gurgling, choking, inhuman sounds, and his two attendants helped him from behind.
People remarked that the ring which he had dropped on his lap fell and rolled against the foot of the white man, and that poor Jim glanced down at the talisman that had opened for him the door of fame, love, and success within the wall of forests fringed with white foam, within the coast that under the western sun looks like the very stronghold of the night.
Doramin, struggling to keep his feet, made with his two supporters a swaying, tottering group; his little eyes stared with an expression of mad pain, of rage, with a ferocious glitter, which the bystanders noticed; and then, while Jim stood stiffened and with bared head in the light of torches, looking him straight in the face, he clung heavily with his left arm round the neck of a bowed youth, and lifting deliberately his right, shot his son’s friend through the chest.
‘The crowd, which had fallen apart behind Jim as soon as Doramin had raised his hand, rushed tumultuously forward after the shot.
They say that the white man sent right and left at all those faces a proud and unflinching glance.
Then with his hand over his lips he fell forward, dead.
‘And that’s the end.
He passes away under a cloud, inscrutable at heart, forgotten, unforgiven, and excessively romantic.
Not in the wildest days of his boyish visions could he have seen the alluring shape of such an extraordinary success!
For it may very well be that in the short moment of his last proud and unflinching glance, he had beheld the face of that opportunity which, like an Eastern bride, had come veiled to his side.
‘But we can see him, an obscure conqueror of fame, tearing himself out of the arms of a jealous love at the sign, at the call of his exalted egoism.
He goes away from a living woman to celebrate his pitiless wedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct.
Is he satisfied—quite, now, I wonder?
We ought to know.
He is one of us—and have I not stood up once, like an evoked ghost, to answer for his eternal constancy?
Was I so very wrong after all?
Now he is no more, there are days when the reality of his existence comes to me with an immense, with an overwhelming force; and yet upon my honour there are moments, too when he passes from my eyes like a disembodied spirit astray amongst the passions of this earth, ready to surrender himself faithfully to the claim of his own world of shades.
‘Who knows?
He is gone, inscrutable at heart, and the poor girl is leading a sort of soundless, inert life in Stein’s house.
Stein has aged greatly of late.
He feels it himself, and says often that he is “preparing to leave all this; preparing to leave . . .” while he waves his hand sadly at his butterflies.’