Humanity in J. Conrad's and W. Somerset's creativity

"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].

The concluding movement of the novel, a kind of andante, conveys a "sense of ending." Marlow's long narrative, in fact, is now coming to an end, confluent with his "last talk" with Jim and his own imminent departure from Patusan. The language belongs to the end-time, and is pervaded by deepening sorrow and pity, and by an implicit recognition "of the implacable destiny of which we are the victims--and the tools." A poetry of lamentation takes hold of these pages, and the language is brooding, ominous, recondite. Concurrently, the figure of Cornelius weaves in and out and gives "an inexpressible effect of stealthiness, of dark and secret slinking. . . . His slow, laborious walk resembled the creeping of a repulsive beetle. . . . " We realize that Marlow and Jim will never meet again, as we witness a twilight scene of departure. Having accompanied Marlow as far as the mouth of the river, Jim now watches the schooner taking Marlow to the other world "fall off and gather headway." Marlow sees Jim's figure slowly disappearing, "no bigger than a child--then only a speck, a tiny white speck . . . in a darkened world."

At the end of the novel, Jim finds himself a prisoner and ultimately a victim of treachery as he fights against invading outcasts and desperadoes who, for any price, kill living life--cutthroats led Man's moral by "the Scourge of God," "Gentleman Brown," a supreme incarnation of evil that Jim must confront. Conrad renders the power of evil in unalleviating ways, even as he sees man's moral poverty as an inescapable reality. Indeed, what makes Jim's fate so overpowering is that he never stops struggling against the ruthless forces of destruction that embody Conrad's vision of evil. What Jim has accomplished in Patusan by creating a more stable social community will now be subject to attack by invaders of "undisguised ruthlessness" who would leave Patusan "strewn over with corpses and enveloped in flames." If Jim's inner world, in the first part of the novel, is in turmoil, it is the outer world, in the second part of the novel, that is collapsing "into a ruin reeking with blood." What we hear in the concluding five chapters of Lord Jim is the braying voice of universal discord, crying out with a merciless conviction that, between the men of the Bugis nation living in Patusan and the white marauders, "there would be no faith, no compassion, no speech, no peace."

The last word of the story of Jim's life is reserved for one of Marlow's earlier listeners, "the privileged man," who receives a thick packet of handwritten materials, of which an explanatory letter by Marlow is the most illuminating. A narrative in epistolary form provides us, two years following the completion of Marlow's oral narrative, with the details of the last episode that had "come" to Jim. What Marlow has done is to fit together the fragmentary pieces of Jim's "astounding adventure" so as to record "an intelligible picture" of the last year of his life [15, 218]. The epistolary narrative here is based on the exploit of "a man called Brown," upon whom Marlow happened to come in a wretched Bangkok hovel a few hours before Brown died. The latter was thus to volunteer information that helped complete the story of Jim's life, in which Brown himself played a final and fatal role.

The son of a baronet, Brown is famous for leading a "lawless life." He is "a latter-day buccaneer," known for his "vehement scorn for mankind at large and for victims in particular." We learn that he hung around the Philippines in his rotten schooner, which, eventually, "he sails into Jim's history, a blind accomplice of the Dark Powers." Their meeting takes place as they face each other across a muddy creek--"standing on the opposite poles of that conception of life which includes all mankind." This encounter is of enormous consequence, as Jim, "the white lord," contends verbally with the "terrible," "sneering" Brown, who slyly invokes their "common blood, an assumption of common experience, a sickening suggestion of common guilt. . . ." The conversation, Marlow was to recall in his letter, appeared "as the deadliest kind of duel on which Fate looked on with her cold-eyed knowledge of the end." Brown, with his "satanic gift of finding out the best and the weakest spot in his victims," seems to be surveying and staking out Jim's character and capability. Jim, on his part, intuitively feels that Brown and his men are "the emissaries with whom the world he had renounced was pursuing him in his retreat."

Perceiving the potential menace of Brown and his "rapacious" To underesti- white followers, Jim approaches the entire situation with caution; he knows that there will be either "a clear road or else a clear fight" ahead. His one thought, as he informs Doramin, is "for the people's good." Preparations for battle now take place around the fort, and the feeling among the natives is one of anxiety, and also of hope that Jim will somehow resolve everything by convincing Brown that the way back to the sea would be a peaceful one. Jim is convinced "that it would be best to let these whites and their followers go with their lives." Unwavering as always in meeting his moral obligations, he is primarily concerned with the safety of Patusan. But he underestimates the calculating Brown, again disclosing the propensity that betrays him. Quite simply Jim does not mistrust Brown, believing as he does that both of them want to avoid bloodshed. In this respect, illusion both comforts and victimizes Jim, as the way is made clear for Brown, with the sniveling Cornelius at his side providing him with directions, to withdraw from Patusan, now guarded by Dain Waris's forces.

Brown's purpose is not only to escape but also to get even with Jim for not becoming his ally, and to punish the natives for their earlier resistance to his intrusion. When retreating towards the coast his men deceitfully open fire on an outpost of Patusan, killing the surprised and panic-stricken natives, as well as Dain Waris, "the only son of Nakhoda Doramin," who had earlier acceded to Jim's request that Brown and his party should be allowed to leave without harm. It could have been otherwise, to be sure, given the superior numbers of the native defenders. Once again, it is made painfully clear, Jim flinches in discernment and in leadership, naively trusting in his illusion, in his dream, unaware of the evil power of retribution that impels Brown and that slinks in humankind. That, too, Brown's schooner later sprung a bad leak and sank, he himself being the only survivor to be found in a white long-boat, and that the deceitful Cornelius was to be found and struck down by Jim's ever loyal servant, Tamb' Itam, can hardly compensate for the destruction and the deaths that took place as a result of Jim's failure of judgment. Marlow's earlier demurring remark has a special relevance at this point: "I would have trusted the deck to that youngster [Jim] on the strength of a single glance . . . but, by Jove! it wouldn't have been safe."

Jim's decision to allow free passage to Brown stems from his concern with preserving an orderly community in Patusan: he did Moral pride not want to see all his good work and influence destroyed by violent acts. But clearly he had misjudged Brown's character. Neither Jim's honesty nor his courage, however, are to be impugned; his moral sense, in this case, is what consciously guided his rational conception of civilization. But a failure of moral vision, induced perhaps by moral pride and romanticism, blinds him to real danger. When Tamb' Itam returns from the outpost to inform Jim about what has happened, Jim is staggered. He fathoms fully the effects of Brown's "cruel treachery," even as he understands that his own safety in Patusan is now at risk, given Dain Waris's death and Doramin's dismay and grief over events for which he holds Jim responsible. For Jim the entire situation is untenable, as well as perplexing: "He had retreated from one world for a small matter of an impulsive jump, and now the other, the work of his own hands, had fallen in ruins upon his head." His feeling of isolation is rending, as he realizes that "he has lost again all men's confidence." The "dark powers" have robbed him twice of his peace.

To Tamb' Itam's plea that he should fight for his life against Doramin's inevitable revenge, Jim bluntly cries, "`I have no life.'" Jewel, too, "wrestling with him for the possession of her happiness," also begs him to put up a fight, or try to escape, but Jim does not heed her. "He was going to prove his power in another way and conquer the fatal destiny itself." This is, truly, "`a day of evil, an accursed day,'" for Jim and for Patusan. When Dain Waris's body is brought into Doramin's campong, the "old nakhoda" was "to let out one great fierce cry . . . as mighty as the bellow of a wounded bull." The scene here is harrowing in terms of grief, as he women of the household "began to wail together; they mourned with shrill cries; the sun was setting, and in the intervals of screamed lamentations the high sing-song voices of two old men intoning the Koran chanted alone." The scene is desolate, unconsoling, rendered in the language of apocalypse; the sky over Patusan is blood-red, with "an enormous sun nestled crimson amongst the tree-tops, and the forest below had a black and forbidding face." Jim now appears silently before Doramin, who is sitting in his arm-chair, a pair of flintlock pistols on his knees. "`I am come in sorrow,'" he cries out to Doramin, who stared at Jim "with an expression of mad pain, of rage, with a ferocious glitter. . . . and lifting deliberately his right [hand], shot his son's friend through the chest."

At the end of his explanatory letter Marlow remarks that Jim "passes away under a cloud, inscrutable at heart, forgotten, unforgiven, and excessively romantic." Such a remark, of course, must be placed in the context of Marlow's total narrative, with all of the tensions and the ambiguities that occur in relating the story of Jim's life as it unfolds in the novel. Nor can Marlow's words here be construed as a moral censure of Jim [10, 156]. What exemplifies Marlow's narrative, in fact, is the integrity of its content, as the details, reflections, judgments, demurrals emerge with astonishing and attenuating openness, deliberation. There is no single aspect of Jim's life and character that is not measured and presented in full view of the reader. If judgment is to be made regarding Jim's situation, Conrad clearly shows, then affirmations and doubts, triumphs and failures will have to be disclosed and evaluated cumulatively.

No one is more mercilessly exposed to the world than Jim. And no one stands more naked before our judgment than he. The scrutiny of Jim's beliefs and attitudes, and of his actions and inactions, is relentless in depth and latitude. He himself cannot hide or flee, no matter where he happens to be. Marlow well discerns Jim's supreme aloneness in his struggles to find himself in himself, to master his fate, beyond the calumnies of his enemies and the loyalty and love of his friends--and beyond his own rigorous self-judgments. The anguish of struggle consumes everything and everyone in the novel, and nothing and no one can be the same again once in contact with him. In Jim, it can be said, we see ourselves, for he is "one of us," he is our "common fate," which prohibits us to "let him slip away into the darkness."

2.2 "Human Bondage" and it's moral duality

From a moral perspective the Official Court of Inquiry literally takes place throughout Lord Jim. Jim never ceases to react to charges of cowardice and of irresponsibility; never ceases to strive earnestly to prove his moral worthiness. He seems never to be in a state of repose, is always under pressure, always examining his tensive state of mind and soul. Self-illumination rather than self-justification, or even self-rehabilitation, is his central aim, and he knows, too, that such a process molds his own efforts and pain [15, 83]. He neither expects nor accepts help or absolution from others, nor does he blame others for his own sins of commission or omission. His character is thus one of singular transparency, acutely self-conscious, and vulnerable.

Jim's moral sense weighs heavily on him and drives him on sundry, sometimes contradictory, lines of moral awareness and behavior. In this respect he brings to mind the relevance of Edmund Burke's words: "The lines of morality are not like the ideal lines of mathematics. They are broad and deep as well as long. They admit of exceptions; they demand modifications."⁴ Gnostic commentators who view the moral demands of this novel as confusing or uncertain fail to see that the lines of morality, even when they take different directions and assume different forms, inevitably crystallize in something that is solid in revelation and in value.⁵

Clearly Jim's high-mindedness and character are problematic, and his scale of human values is excessively romantic. Thus heromanticizes what it means to be a sailor, what duty is, even what cowardice is. The fact is that he is too "noble" to accommodate real-life situations. In essence, then, Jim violates what the ancient Greeks revered as the "law of measure." And ultimately his pride, his lofty conception of what is required of him in responsible leadership and duty, his high idealism, mar the supreme Hellenic virtue of sophrosyne^-. Jim's conduct dramatizes to an "unsafe" degree the extremes of arrogance, and of self-delusion and self-assertion. Above all his idealism becomes a peculiar kind of escape from the paradoxes and antinomies that have to be faced in what Burke calls the "antagonist world."

In the end, Jim's habit of detachment and abstraction manifestly rarefies his moral sense and diminishes and even neutralizes the moral meaning of his decisions and actions. His self-proclaimed autonomy dramatizes monomania and egoism, and makes him incapable of harmonious human interrelations, let alone a redeeming humility. His moral sense is consequently incomplete as a paradigm, and his moral virtues are finite. And his fate, as it is defined and shaped by his tragic flaw, does not attain true grandeur. In Jim, it can be said, Conrad presents heroism with all its limitations [14, 147].

Despite the circumstances of his moral incompleteness, Jim both possesses and enacts the quality of endurance in facing the darkness in himself and in the world around him. Even when he yearns to conceal himself in some forgotten corner of the universe, there to separate himself from other imperfect or fallen humans, from thieves and renegades, and from the harsh exigencies of existence, he also knows that unconditional separation is not attainable. He persists, however erratically or skeptically, in his pursuit to reconcile the order of the community and the order of the soul; and he perseveres in his belief in the axiomatic principles of honor, of loyalty, prescribing the need to transcend inner and outer moral squalor. His death, even if it shows the power of violence, of the evil that stalks man and humanity, of the flaws and foibles that afflict one's self, does not diminish the abiding example of Jim's struggle to discover and to overcome moral lapses.

Jim can never silence the indwelling moral sense which inspires and illuminates his life-journey. Throughout this journey the virtue of endurance does not abandon him, does not betray him, even when he betrays himself and others. He endures in order to prevail. In Lord Jim, Joseph Conrad portrays a fitful but ascendant process of transfiguration in the life of a solitary hero whose courage of endurance contains the seeds of redemption. Such a life recalls the eternal promise of the Evangelist's words: "He that endureth to the end shall be saved."

The major character of the novel, Philip, spends most of his life in two places, which become the dominant settings for the book. From the time he becomes aware of the world around him until his adolescence, Philip is found in Blackstable and its neighboring town of Tercanbury. Even after he goes abroad to study, he keeps coming beck to Blackstable during the holidays and whenever he feels the need for a change.

In the process of establishing his identity, Philip visits London twice and spends the major part of his mature years in that city. Returning back from Heidelberg, he goes to London to become a clerk in the company of Chartered Accountants. When he realizes he has no aptitude for accounting, he returns……

Philip Carey - an orphan with a clubfoot. He is the protagonist of the novel whose story Maugham traces from age nine to thirty.

William Carey - the uncle of Philip and the vicar of Blackstable. He is self-centered and rigid in his views.

Mildred Rogers - Philip's antagonist on one level. Selfish, shallow, and flirtatious, she successfully lures Philip with her charms.

Thorpe Athelny - a boisterous journalist. He is a loving family man who becomes Philip's friend, philosopher, and guide.

Mrs. Carey - the kind and gentle wife of the vicar. She loves Philip and helps him fulfil his desires.

Mr. Perkins - one of Philip's well-wishers. He is the scholarly headmaster of King's School.

The novel is the story of Philip Carey. The story opens with his mother dying after childbirth. The nine-year-old Philip is taken by his uncle to Blackstable. After spending a few initial years at the Vicarage, the boy is admitted to King's School at Tercanbury. Having a clubfoot, he is ostracized and becomes introverted, but his intelligence and his aptitude for studies help him academically. Unable to bear the humiliation and taunts of his fellow students and the rigid norms of school, he finally quits and goes to Germany. In Germany, Philip learns new languages, is introduced to philosophy, and discovers the beauty of nature. His stay in Heidelberg expands his vision of humanity and life. He graduates and starts planning his future.

After talking to his uncle, Philip decides to go to London to become a clerk; however, he discovers after a few months that he is more inclined toward art than accounting. Taking financial aid from his aunt, he leaves for Paris to study. The city gives him an insight into the world of artists and their struggle to exhibit their talent. At the end of two years, he also discovers that he lacks the potential to be a great artist. As a result, he leaves Paris and returns back to Blackstable.

Philip decides to take up his father's profession of medicine and enrolls as a student in St. Luke's hospital. He does not, however, pursue his goal in earnest because of a waitress named Mildred [8, 121].

The major theme of the novel is that the submission to passion is human bondage, while the exercise of reason is human liberty. Philip Carey loves Mildred passionately and, in trying to possess her, traps himself in her bondage. His freedom is curbed, his education is disrupted, and his fortune is lost. All his reasoning, power, and intelligence are eradicated by his passion for Mildred.

There are several minor themes in the novel. The first is that inappropriate love can be destructive. In spite of her many weaknesses, Philip loves Mildred and showers his affection and money on her. He even sacrifices his education and limited resources to please her. In the process, Philip wastes the important years of his life following a woman who is not deserving of his love. It is definitely a destructive relationship for Philip, one that keeps him in bondage [8, 128].

The mood of the novel is serious, but not gloomy. Maugham, with irony and cynicism, presents the struggle of a lonely protagonist and the turmoil in his mind.

William Somerset Maugham, the youngest child of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Maugham, was born in Paris, France on January 25, 1874. At the time of his birth, his father was working as a lawyer for the British Embassy in Paris. In 1882, his mother died of tuberculosis. His three brothers went to study in London, and William was sent to a clergyman attached to the British Embassy. When his father died two years later, there was no one to look after him in Paris. As a result, h e was sent to Kent to live with his uncle, Henry Maugham. Since his uncle and aunt were childless, they found it difficult to care for him. William, at the age of ten, was a lonely and unhappy child. His life at King's School in Canterbury was no better. Frail and sensitive, he felt isolated from the other boys because of his stammer.

Maugham was smart, but the rigid school discipline and the taunts of his classmates made him leave school before he could complete his education. He left for Germany with the help of his uncle.

Of Human Bondage is semi-autobiographical. In it Maugham reveals his childhood, his student days in Heidelberg and London, and his philosophy of life. It was not, however, his first autobiographical attempt. In the Artistic Temperament of Stephen Carey, Maugham retold much of his first twenty-four years of life. The protagonist, however, was sent to Rouen instead of Heidelberg and studied music instead of painting. The novel did not come up to Maugham's expectations and was not published. [10, 183]

The novel opens with the scene of a dying woman attended by a doctor and the nurses. She has just delivered a stillborn child, and her condition is critical. At her request, the nurse brings her first-born child, Philip, to her bedside. Mrs. Carey caresses him, tenderly touches his feet, and bursts into tears. The doctor advises her to rest, and the boy is taken away by the nurse to his godmother, Miss Wilkens. Shortly afterwards, the woman dies.

Philip is brought back home to meet his uncle, William Carey, the brother of Philip's father and the vicar of Blackstable. The Vicar informs the boy that he would be accompanying him to Blackstable to live there. Even though William Carey and his wife are kind and childless, the prospect of having a boy under their roof does not really delight them. Their means are limited, and Philip's father had left behind only 2000 pounds for the boy, which had to last him until he was old enough to earn his own living.

Philip, though disturbed by the thought of leaving his home, is reconciled to the situation. As a mark of remembrance, he picks up his mother's favorite clock, visits his mother's room, and prepares to depart. As he journeys with his uncle to Blackstable, he forgets his sorrows and enjoys the countryside scenery. When they reach Blackstable, everything about the place and its people seems strange to Philip.

In these opening chapters, Maugham conveys the poignancy of Philip's situation through clear descriptions and short conversations. It is a touching scene when his mother calls him to her bedside before she dies. They obviously had a close relationship, as evidenced by her tender touches, by his taking her favorite clock as a remembrance, and by his trying to feel her presence left in her room. Because Philip has a clubfoot, she has probably been particularly gentle and patient with her first-born son [10, 187].

The loss of his mother and her baby are made all the more tragic when Philip finds out he must leave home. Because he is now an orphan at the age of nine, he must go to live with his uncle, William Carey, and his wife in Blackstable; unfortunately, they are not particularly pleased about raising the child, and Philip is not pleased about going. He does not want to leave his home and the memories of his mother. He goes into her room to vent his emotions. Hiding his face in her clothes, he tries to breathe her into his being by touching and smelling the things that belonged to her. In these first chapters, Maugham does an outstanding job of presenting Philip as a sensitive and intelligent child who craves affection and sympathy.

Philip shows his innocence when he looks with curiosity at all the sights on his way to Blackstable; he is struck with wonder at the vision and temporarily forgets his sorrow and loneliness. He is almost eager to see a new place. After all, as a handicapped child he has been closely watched and protected. He has not experienced much of the world.

At Blackstable, Philip finds the ways of his uncle and aunt quite different. Although they are kind, he is not comfortable with them, and they feel strange with a child in the vicarage. Philip watches in amazement as his uncle offers him only the top portion of a boiled egg at tea, when he craves the whole thing. In spite of such peculiar habits, Philip learns to adjust to his surroundings and tries to please his guardians. It is important to notice several things in these opening chapters. Although Philip's clubfoot is not made an issue here, it is mentioned because it becomes more important later in the novel. The interest in money is also presented. The Careys are not well off, and they worry that the 2,000 pounds (equivalent to about $10,000 at the time of the novel) will not be enough to provide for Philip until he is on his own. A concern about money will be seen throughout the book, for Philip will have and lose a fortune. Finally, the British tradition of tea is presented and will be seen frequently throughout the novel.

The plot of Of Human Bondage traces the story of one man's struggle for survival in a cruel world. Most of the action is mental, as the protagonist tries to conquer his passion and replace it with reason. There is a great deal of introductory material to establish Philip's background and philosophies. It is not until the book is almost half over that the antagonist, Mildred, is introduced. The rising action of the plot is then one misadventure with Mildred after another.

The dominant theme in the novel is human bondage. Throughout life, Philip experiences bondage to different things, and the novel is his fight to find freedom from the bondage. Philip is born with a physical deformity that causes him to suffer humiliation and isolation. His clubfoot becomes a bondage to him throughout the book. It curbs his physical activity in school and makes him the object of criticism.

Of Human Bondage is a novel of adolescence, initiation, passage into adulthood,… the traditional bildungsroman, fashionable in the first half of the XXth century. It soon established itself as a classic and became a favorite of many readers in their twenties, mostly men.

Of Human Bondage introduces the hero, Philip Carey, at eight years old, as he becomes an orphan when his mother dies, soon after giving birth to a stillborn child. Philip is sent to be raised by his uncle and aunt, sixty miles from London. His uncle, a vicar, is self-centered and thinks only about fulfilling his appetites and attracting people to his church. His aunt cares for him but is very awkward at showing her feelings, as she never had any children of her own.

Philip is afflicted by a handicap: a clubfoot that makes him a scapegoat in the boarding-school where he studies until he is old enough to be ordained and follow in the steps of his uncle. But Philip, growing up, develops different ambitions…

He first realizes that the almighty God who can move mountains can't or won't cure his clubfoot, despite his ardent prayers. Little by little, he looses his faith and starts to turn to philosophy to understand the world. Along the way, he meets people who, with their perspectives on life, make him think differently; he progressively builds his own personality. Before graduating from school, he decides that he will not go to Oxford, despite the fact that he is clever and hard-working enough to earn a scholarship: instead, he decides to spend some time in Germany.

He starts to wonder about love and gets romantic ideas and ideals, first by observing couples and then by a first-hand experience with an older woman, a friend of his aunt and uncle. But his frustration grows, when he realizes that he has not experienced love as it is described in the numerous novels he likes to read [9, 96].

Training for some months as an accountant in London, he understands that this is not what he is meant to do and, since he can draw, sets his mind on becoming an artist and goes to Paris to learn the craft. The part of the book set in Montmartre reminds strongly of Zola's The Masterpiece. Sensing and having been confirmed that he has no real talent, he gives up la vie de boheme after a while and returns to London to study medicine. Surprisingly, he shows real compassion to his patients and finally succeeds in the profession that he chose as the last resort.

But the turning-point of the book, from which the title derives, is his passionate and destructive relationship with Mildred, a waitress whom he finds common, vulgar, stupid and anemic, but whom he is desperately attracted to, against reason and his best interest. Because of this attraction, he will compromise his studies, loose his money and almost his sanity.

Of Human Bondage certainly appeals most to readers between fifteen and twenty, at the age when one spends hours philosophizing about love, arts and the meaning of life (later we turn to the Monthy Python to understand the meaning of life!)… The ideas discussed by Philip and his friends probably sound familiar to many readers, which explains why so many people are drawn to this book. I probably would have enjoyed it more a decade ago…

The main themes developed in the book are of course the passage into adulthood, the opposition between passion and reason, bondage and freedom, and we see that even if Philip is completely aware of being used and ridiculed by Mildred, he cannot get away from her… Other minor themes treated along the way are art (how does one define a piece of art? does art reproduce reality or is reality defined by the painter who gives to see?), religion (must a man abide by the law if he doesn't believe in God, knowing that the conception of good and evil is based on Judeo-Christianism?), etc.

Of Human Bondage is largely autobiographical. Somerset Maugham started of as a doctor before becoming a novel writer, a successful play writer, and again a novelist. His mother passed away when he was eight, a very traumatic experience in his life, and he was raised, like Philip, by his vicar uncle. He didn't have a clubfoot, but was stammering. Critics have pointed out that the clubfoot however didn't symbolize his stammer, but his homosexuality, that was considered a handicap back then. They also argue that Mildred's description corresponds to a very androgynous woman (flat chest, thin lips, etc.). Somerset Maugham is not the first author to describe a heroine in ambiguous terms. After all, Marcel Proust's model for Albertine was probably a man and Poe's Ligeia has masculine physical features (for a different reason though: Poe couldn't conceive an actual woman clever and learned like his Ligeia is supposed to be: that is what happens when one marries his thirteen-years-old tuberculous cousin!). Since I like to get unprejudiced ideas on the books I discover, I only read the preface afterwards and I had gotten a hint that Somerset Maugham was homosexual, not through the description of Mildred though, but rather, when he describes the relationships he shares with his male friends (Philip is jealous, exclusive, enjoys to be mothered by a friend while he is sick in bed): it had seemed to me pretty obvious then…

Conclusion to part II

Lord Jim (1900), Joseph Conrad's fourth novel, is the story of a ship which collides with "a floating derelict" and will doubtlessly "go down at any moment" during a "silent black squall."

This novel, from beginning to end, is the story of Jim; throughout the focus is on his life and character, on what he has done, or A story not done, on his crime and punishment, his failure of nerve as a seaman. It is, as well, the story of his predicament and his fate, the destiny of his soul--of high expectations and the great "chance missed," of "wasted opportunity" and "what he had failed to ob- pretence stain," all the result of leaving his post, and abdicating his responsibility.

From a moral perspective the Official Court of Inquiry literally takes place throughout Lord Jim. Jim never ceases to react to charges of cowardice and of irresponsibility; never ceases to strive earnestly to prove his moral worthiness. He seems never to be in a state of repose, is always under pressure, always examining his tensive state of mind and soul.

Jim's moral sense weighs heavily on him and drives him on sundry, sometimes contradictory, lines of moral awareness and behavior. In this respect he brings to mind the relevance of Edmund Burke's words: "The lines of morality are not like the ideal lines of mathematics.

The major theme of the novel is that the submission to passion is human bondage, while the exercise of reason is human liberty. Philip Carey loves Mildred passionately and, in trying to possess her, traps himself in her bondage. His freedom is curbed, his education is disrupted, and his fortune is lost. All his reasoning, power, and intelligence are eradicated by his passion for Mildred.

There are several minor themes in the novel. The first is that inappropriate love can be destructive. In spite of her many weaknesses, Philip loves Mildred and showers his affection and money on her. He even sacrifices his education and limited resources to please her. In the process, Philip wastes the important years of his life following a woman who is not deserving of his love. It is definitely a destructive relationship for Philip, one that keeps him in bondage.

The major theme of the novel is that the submission to passion is human bondage, while the exercise of reason is human liberty. Philip Carey loves Mildred passionately and, in trying to possess her, traps himself in her bondage. His freedom is curbed, his education is disrupted, and his fortune is lost. All his reasoning, power, and intelligence are eradicated by his passion for Mildred.

There are several minor themes in the novel. The first is that inappropriate love can be destructive. In spite of her many weaknesses, Philip loves Mildred and showers his affection and money on her. He even sacrifices his education and limited resources to please her. In the process, Philip wastes the important years of his life following a woman who is not deserving of his love. It is definitely a destructive relationship for Philip, one that keeps him in bondage.

GENERAL CONCLUSION

On the basis of above-stated we came to a conclusion, that Literature in 20th century begins with a serie of movements, some of them contradictory between them, as Symbolism, Decadentism, Impressionism and, in Hispanic literature, Modernism, The Generation of '98.

During the two first decades , two literary conceptions are imposed to writers: Those writers for whom literary work is the expression of a cultural experience and fall in intellectualism; and writers who, in view of the chaos of the time and the dissatisfaction of bourgeois world, see literary work as an adventure, as an irrational experience.