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diff --git a/638-0.txt b/638-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..69425fe --- /dev/null +++ b/638-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11271 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of An Outcast of the Islands, by Joseph Conrad + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: An Outcast of the Islands + +Author: Joseph Conrad + +Release Date: January 9, 2006 [EBook #638] +Last Updated: September 9, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS *** + + + + +Produced by Judith Boss and David Widger + + + + + +AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS + +by Joseph Conrad + + + + + +_Pues el delito mayor Del hombre es haber nacito_ CALDERON + + + +TO EDWARD LANCELOT SANDERSON + + + +AUTHOR’S NOTE + +“An Outcast of the Islands” is my second novel in the absolute sense of +the word; second in conception, second in execution, second as it were +in its essence. There was no hesitation, half-formed plan, vague idea, +or the vaguest reverie of anything else between it and “Almayer’s +Folly.” The only doubt I suffered from, after the publication of +“Almayer’s Folly,” was whether I should write another line for print. +Those days, now grown so dim, had their poignant moments. Neither in +my mind nor in my heart had I then given up the sea. In truth I was +clinging to it desperately, all the more desperately because, against +my will, I could not help feeling that there was something changed in my +relation to it. “Almayer’s Folly,” had been finished and done with. The +mood itself was gone. But it had left the memory of an experience that, +both in thought and emotion was unconnected with the sea, and I suppose +that part of my moral being which is rooted in consistency was badly +shaken. I was a victim of contrary stresses which produced a state of +immobility. I gave myself up to indolence. Since it was impossible for +me to face both ways I had elected to face nothing. The discovery of +new values in life is a very chaotic experience; there is a tremendous +amount of jostling and confusion and a momentary feeling of darkness. I +let my spirit float supine over that chaos. + +A phrase of Edward Garnett’s is, as a matter of fact, responsible for +this book. The first of the friends I made for myself by my pen it +was but natural that he should be the recipient, at that time, of my +confidences. One evening when we had dined together and he had listened +to the account of my perplexities (I fear he must have been growing a +little tired of them) he pointed out that there was no need to determine +my future absolutely. Then he added: “You have the style, you have the +temperament; why not write another?” I believe that as far as one man +may wish to influence another man’s life Edward Garnett had a great +desire that I should go on writing. At that time, and I may say, ever +afterwards, he was always very patient and gentle with me. What strikes +me most however in the phrase quoted above which was offered to me in a +tone of detachment is not its gentleness but its effective wisdom. Had +he said, “Why not go on writing,” it is very probable he would have +scared me away from pen and ink for ever; but there was nothing either +to frighten one or arouse one’s antagonism in the mere suggestion to +“write another.” And thus a dead point in the revolution of my affairs +was insidiously got over. The word “another” did it. At about eleven +o’clock of a nice London night, Edward and I walked along interminable +streets talking of many things, and I remember that on getting home +I sat down and wrote about half a page of “An Outcast of the Islands” + before I slept. This was committing myself definitely, I won’t say to +another life, but to another book. There is apparently something in my +character which will not allow me to abandon for good any piece of work +I have begun. I have laid aside many beginnings. I have laid them aside +with sorrow, with disgust, with rage, with melancholy and even with +self-contempt; but even at the worst I had an uneasy consciousness that +I would have to go back to them. + +“An Outcast of the Islands” belongs to those novels of mine that were +never laid aside; and though it brought me the qualification of “exotic +writer” I don’t think the charge was at all justified. + +For the life of me I don’t see that there is the slightest exotic spirit +in the conception or style of that novel. It is certainly the most +_tropical_ of my eastern tales. The mere scenery got a great hold on +me as I went on, perhaps because (I may just as well confess that) the +story itself was never very near my heart. + +It engaged my imagination much more than my affection. As to my feeling +for Willems it was but the regard one cannot help having for one’s own +creation. Obviously I could not be indifferent to a man on whose head I +had brought so much evil simply by imagining him such as he appears in +the novel--and that, too, on a very slight foundation. + +The man who suggested Willems to me was not particularly interesting in +himself. My interest was aroused by his dependent position, his strange, +dubious status of a mistrusted, disliked, worn-out European living on +the reluctant toleration of that Settlement hidden in the heart of the +forest-land, up that sombre stream which our ship was the only white +men’s ship to visit. With his hollow, clean-shaved cheeks, a heavy grey +moustache and eyes without any expression whatever, clad always in a +spotless sleeping suit much be-frogged in front, which left his lean +neck wholly uncovered, and with his bare feet in a pair of straw +slippers, he wandered silently amongst the houses in daylight, almost as +dumb as an animal and apparently much more homeless. I don’t know +what he did with himself at night. He must have had a place, a hut, +a palm-leaf shed, some sort of hovel where he kept his razor and his +change of sleeping suits. An air of futile mystery hung over him, +something not exactly dark but obviously ugly. The only definite +statement I could extract from anybody was that it was he who had +“brought the Arabs into the river.” That must have happened many years +before. But how did he bring them into the river? He could hardly have +done it in his arms like a lot of kittens. I knew that Almayer founded +the chronology of all his misfortunes on the date of that fateful +advent; and yet the very first time we dined with Almayer there was +Willems sitting at table with us in the manner of the skeleton at the +feast, obviously shunned by everybody, never addressed by any one, and +for all recognition of his existence getting now and then from Almayer +a venomous glance which I observed with great surprise. In the course +of the whole evening he ventured one single remark which I didn’t catch +because his articulation was imperfect, as of a man who had forgotten +how to speak. I was the only person who seemed aware of the sound. +Willems subsided. Presently he retired, pointedly unnoticed--into the +forest maybe? Its immensity was there, within three hundred yards of +the verandah, ready to swallow up anything. Almayer conversing with my +captain did not stop talking while he glared angrily at the retreating +back. Didn’t that fellow bring the Arabs into the river! Nevertheless +Willems turned up next morning on Almayer’s verandah. From the bridge of +the steamer I could see plainly these two, breakfasting together, tete +a tete and, I suppose, in dead silence, one with his air of being no +longer interested in this world and the other raising his eyes now and +then with intense dislike. + +It was clear that in those days Willems lived on Almayer’s charity. Yet +on returning two months later to Sambir I heard that he had gone on an +expedition up the river in charge of a steam-launch belonging to the +Arabs, to make some discovery or other. On account of the strange +reluctance that everyone manifested to talk about Willems it was +impossible for me to get at the rights of that transaction. Moreover, I +was a newcomer, the youngest of the company, and, I suspect, not judged +quite fit as yet for a full confidence. I was not much concerned about +that exclusion. The faint suggestion of plots and mysteries pertaining +to all matters touching Almayer’s affairs amused me vastly. Almayer was +obviously very much affected. I believe he missed Willems immensely. He +wore an air of sinister preoccupation and talked confidentially with +my captain. I could catch only snatches of mumbled sentences. Then one +morning as I came along the deck to take my place at the breakfast table +Almayer checked himself in his low-toned discourse. My captain’s face +was perfectly impenetrable. There was a moment of profound silence and +then as if unable to contain himself Almayer burst out in a loud vicious +tone: + +“One thing’s certain; if he finds anything worth having up there they +will poison him like a dog.” + +Disconnected though it was, that phrase, as food for thought, was +distinctly worth hearing. We left the river three days afterwards and I +never returned to Sambir; but whatever happened to the protagonist of +my Willems nobody can deny that I have recorded for him a less squalid +fate. + +J. C. 1919. + + + + +PART I + +AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS + +CHAPTER ONE + +When he stepped off the straight and narrow path of his peculiar +honesty, it was with an inward assertion of unflinching resolve to fall +back again into the monotonous but safe stride of virtue as soon as his +little excursion into the wayside quagmires had produced the desired +effect. It was going to be a short episode--a sentence in brackets, so +to speak--in the flowing tale of his life: a thing of no moment, to be +done unwillingly, yet neatly, and to be quickly forgotten. He imagined +that he could go on afterwards looking at the sunshine, enjoying the +shade, breathing in the perfume of flowers in the small garden before +his house. He fancied that nothing would be changed, that he would be +able as heretofore to tyrannize good-humouredly over his half-caste +wife, to notice with tender contempt his pale yellow child, to patronize +loftily his dark-skinned brother-in-law, who loved pink neckties and +wore patent-leather boots on his little feet, and was so humble before +the white husband of the lucky sister. Those were the delights of his +life, and he was unable to conceive that the moral significance of any +act of his could interfere with the very nature of things, could dim +the light of the sun, could destroy the perfume of the flowers, the +submission of his wife, the smile of his child, the awe-struck respect +of Leonard da Souza and of all the Da Souza family. That family’s +admiration was the great luxury of his life. It rounded and completed +his existence in a perpetual assurance of unquestionable superiority. +He loved to breathe the coarse incense they offered before the shrine of +the successful white man; the man that had done them the honour to marry +their daughter, sister, cousin; the rising man sure to climb very +high; the confidential clerk of Hudig & Co. They were a numerous and an +unclean crowd, living in ruined bamboo houses, surrounded by neglected +compounds, on the outskirts of Macassar. He kept them at arm’s length +and even further off, perhaps, having no illusions as to their worth. +They were a half-caste, lazy lot, and he saw them as they were--ragged, +lean, unwashed, undersized men of various ages, shuffling about +aimlessly in slippers; motionless old women who looked like monstrous +bags of pink calico stuffed with shapeless lumps of fat, and deposited +askew upon decaying rattan chairs in shady corners of dusty verandahs; +young women, slim and yellow, big-eyed, long-haired, moving languidly +amongst the dirt and rubbish of their dwellings as if every step +they took was going to be their very last. He heard their shrill +quarrellings, the squalling of their children, the grunting of their +pigs; he smelt the odours of the heaps of garbage in their courtyards: +and he was greatly disgusted. But he fed and clothed that shabby +multitude; those degenerate descendants of Portuguese conquerors; he was +their providence; he kept them singing his praises in the midst of their +laziness, of their dirt, of their immense and hopeless squalor: and he +was greatly delighted. They wanted much, but he could give them all they +wanted without ruining himself. In exchange he had their silent fear, +their loquacious love, their noisy veneration. It is a fine thing to be +a providence, and to be told so on every day of one’s life. It gives one +a feeling of enormously remote superiority, and Willems revelled in +it. He did not analyze the state of his mind, but probably his greatest +delight lay in the unexpressed but intimate conviction that, should +he close his hand, all those admiring human beings would starve. His +munificence had demoralized them. An easy task. Since he descended +amongst them and married Joanna they had lost the little aptitude and +strength for work they might have had to put forth under the stress of +extreme necessity. They lived now by the grace of his will. This was +power. Willems loved it. In another, and perhaps a lower plane, his days +did not want for their less complex but more obvious pleasures. He liked +the simple games of skill--billiards; also games not so simple, and +calling for quite another kind of skill--poker. He had been the +aptest pupil of a steady-eyed, sententious American, who had drifted +mysteriously into Macassar from the wastes of the Pacific, and, after +knocking about for a time in the eddies of town life, had drifted out +enigmatically into the sunny solitudes of the Indian Ocean. The memory +of the Californian stranger was perpetuated in the game of poker--which +became popular in the capital of Celebes from that time--and in +a powerful cocktail, the recipe for which is transmitted--in the +Kwang-tung dialect--from head boy to head boy of the Chinese servants in +the Sunda Hotel even to this day. Willems was a connoisseur in the drink +and an adept at the game. Of those accomplishments he was moderately +proud. Of the confidence reposed in him by Hudig--the master--he was +boastfully and obtrusively proud. This arose from his great benevolence, +and from an exalted sense of his duty to himself and the world at large. +He experienced that irresistible impulse to impart information which is +inseparable from gross ignorance. There is always some one thing which +the ignorant man knows, and that thing is the only thing worth knowing; +it fills the ignorant man’s universe. Willems knew all about himself. +On the day when, with many misgivings, he ran away from a Dutch +East-Indiaman in Samarang roads, he had commenced that study of +himself, of his own ways, of his own abilities, of those fate-compelling +qualities of his which led him toward that lucrative position which +he now filled. Being of a modest and diffident nature, his successes +amazed, almost frightened him, and ended--as he got over the succeeding +shocks of surprise--by making him ferociously conceited. He believed in +his genius and in his knowledge of the world. Others should know of it +also; for their own good and for his greater glory. All those friendly +men who slapped him on the back and greeted him noisily should have +the benefit of his example. For that he must talk. He talked to them +conscientiously. In the afternoon he expounded his theory of success +over the little tables, dipping now and then his moustache in the +crushed ice of the cocktails; in the evening he would often hold forth, +cue in hand, to a young listener across the billiard table. The billiard +balls stood still as if listening also, under the vivid brilliance of +the shaded oil lamps hung low over the cloth; while away in the shadows +of the big room the Chinaman marker would lean wearily against the +wall, the blank mask of his face looking pale under the mahogany +marking-board; his eyelids dropped in the drowsy fatigue of late hours +and in the buzzing monotony of the unintelligible stream of words poured +out by the white man. In a sudden pause of the talk the game would +recommence with a sharp click and go on for a time in the flowing soft +whirr and the subdued thuds as the balls rolled zig-zagging towards the +inevitably successful cannon. Through the big windows and the open doors +the salt dampness of the sea, the vague smell of mould and flowers from +the garden of the hotel drifted in and mingled with the odour of lamp +oil, growing heavier as the night advanced. The players’ heads dived +into the light as they bent down for the stroke, springing back again +smartly into the greenish gloom of broad lamp-shades; the clock ticked +methodically; the unmoved Chinaman continuously repeated the score in a +lifeless voice, like a big talking doll--and Willems would win the game. +With a remark that it was getting late, and that he was a married man, +he would say a patronizing good-night and step out into the long, +empty street. At that hour its white dust was like a dazzling streak of +moonlight where the eye sought repose in the dimmer gleam of rare oil +lamps. Willems walked homewards, following the line of walls overtopped +by the luxuriant vegetation of the front gardens. The houses right and +left were hidden behind the black masses of flowering shrubs. Willems +had the street to himself. He would walk in the middle, his shadow +gliding obsequiously before him. He looked down on it complacently. +The shadow of a successful man! He would be slightly dizzy with the +cocktails and with the intoxication of his own glory. As he often told +people, he came east fourteen years ago--a cabin boy. A small boy. His +shadow must have been very small at that time; he thought with a smile +that he was not aware then he had anything--even a shadow--which +he dared call his own. And now he was looking at the shadow of the +confidential clerk of Hudig & Co. going home. How glorious! How good +was life for those that were on the winning side! He had won the game +of life; also the game of billiards. He walked faster, jingling his +winnings, and thinking of the white stone days that had marked the path +of his existence. He thought of the trip to Lombok for ponies--that +first important transaction confided to him by Hudig; then he reviewed +the more important affairs: the quiet deal in opium; the illegal traffic +in gunpowder; the great affair of smuggled firearms, the difficult +business of the Rajah of Goak. He carried that last through by sheer +pluck; he had bearded the savage old ruler in his council room; he had +bribed him with a gilt glass coach, which, rumour said, was used as a +hen-coop now; he had over-persuaded him; he had bested him in every way. +That was the way to get on. He disapproved of the elementary dishonesty +that dips the hand in the cash-box, but one could evade the laws and +push the principles of trade to their furthest consequences. Some call +that cheating. Those are the fools, the weak, the contemptible. The +wise, the strong, the respected, have no scruples. Where there are +scruples there can be no power. On that text he preached often to the +young men. It was his doctrine, and he, himself, was a shining example +of its truth. + +Night after night he went home thus, after a day of toil and pleasure, +drunk with the sound of his own voice celebrating his own prosperity. On +his thirtieth birthday he went home thus. He had spent in good company +a nice, noisy evening, and, as he walked along the empty street, the +feeling of his own greatness grew upon him, lifted him above the white +dust of the road, and filled him with exultation and regrets. He had not +done himself justice over there in the hotel, he had not talked enough +about himself, he had not impressed his hearers enough. Never mind. Some +other time. Now he would go home and make his wife get up and listen to +him. Why should she not get up?--and mix a cocktail for him--and listen +patiently. Just so. She shall. If he wanted he could make all the Da +Souza family get up. He had only to say a word and they would all come +and sit silently in their night vestments on the hard, cold ground of +his compound and listen, as long as he wished to go on explaining to +them from the top of the stairs, how great and good he was. They would. +However, his wife would do--for to-night. + +His wife! He winced inwardly. A dismal woman with startled eyes and +dolorously drooping mouth, that would listen to him in pained wonder +and mute stillness. She was used to those night-discourses now. She had +rebelled once--at the beginning. Only once. Now, while he sprawled in +the long chair and drank and talked, she would stand at the further +end of the table, her hands resting on the edge, her frightened eyes +watching his lips, without a sound, without a stir, hardly breathing, +till he dismissed her with a contemptuous: “Go to bed, dummy.” She would +draw a long breath then and trail out of the room, relieved but unmoved. +Nothing could startle her, make her scold or make her cry. She did +not complain, she did not rebel. That first difference of theirs +was decisive. Too decisive, thought Willems, discontentedly. It had +frightened the soul out of her body apparently. A dismal woman! A +damn’d business altogether! What the devil did he want to go and saddle +himself. . . . Ah! Well! he wanted a home, and the match seemed to +please Hudig, and Hudig gave him the bungalow, that flower-bowered house +to which he was wending his way in the cool moonlight. And he had +the worship of the Da Souza tribe. A man of his stamp could carry off +anything, do anything, aspire to anything. In another five years those +white people who attended the Sunday card-parties of the Governor would +accept him--half-caste wife and all! Hooray! He saw his shadow dart +forward and wave a hat, as big as a rum barrel, at the end of an +arm several yards long. . . . Who shouted hooray? . . . He smiled +shamefacedly to himself, and, pushing his hands deep into his pockets, +walked faster with a suddenly grave face. Behind him--to the left--a +cigar end glowed in the gateway of Mr. Vinck’s front yard. Leaning +against one of the brick pillars, Mr. Vinck, the cashier of Hudig & +Co., smoked the last cheroot of the evening. Amongst the shadows of +the trimmed bushes Mrs. Vinck crunched slowly, with measured steps, the +gravel of the circular path before the house. + +“There’s Willems going home on foot--and drunk I fancy,” said Mr. Vinck +over his shoulder. “I saw him jump and wave his hat.” + +The crunching of the gravel stopped. + +“Horrid man,” said Mrs. Vinck, calmly. “I have heard he beats his wife.” + +“Oh no, my dear, no,” muttered absently Mr. Vinck, with a vague gesture. +The aspect of Willems as a wife-beater presented to him no interest. How +women do misjudge! If Willems wanted to torture his wife he would have +recourse to less primitive methods. Mr. Vinck knew Willems well, and +believed him to be very able, very smart--objectionably so. As he took +the last quick draws at the stump of his cheroot, Mr. Vinck reflected +that the confidence accorded by Hudig to Willems was open, under the +circumstances, to loyal criticism from Hudig’s cashier. + +“He is becoming dangerous; he knows too much. He will have to be got rid +of,” said Mr. Vinck aloud. But Mrs. Vinck had gone in already, and after +shaking his head he threw away his cheroot and followed her slowly. + +Willems walked on homeward weaving the splendid web of his future. The +road to greatness lay plainly before his eyes, straight and shining, +without any obstacle that he could see. He had stepped off the path +of honesty, as he understood it, but he would soon regain it, never +to leave it any more! It was a very small matter. He would soon put it +right again. Meantime his duty was not to be found out, and he trusted +in his skill, in his luck, in his well-established reputation that would +disarm suspicion if anybody dared to suspect. But nobody would dare! +True, he was conscious of a slight deterioration. He had appropriated +temporarily some of Hudig’s money. A deplorable necessity. But he judged +himself with the indulgence that should be extended to the weaknesses +of genius. He would make reparation and all would be as before; nobody +would be the loser for it, and he would go on unchecked toward the +brilliant goal of his ambition. + +Hudig’s partner! + +Before going up the steps of his house he stood for awhile, his feet +well apart, chin in hand, contemplating mentally Hudig’s future partner. +A glorious occupation. He saw him quite safe; solid as the hills; +deep--deep as an abyss; discreet as the grave. + + + +CHAPTER TWO + + +The sea, perhaps because of its saltness, roughens the outside but keeps +sweet the kernel of its servants’ soul. The old sea; the sea of many +years ago, whose servants were devoted slaves and went from youth to age +or to a sudden grave without needing to open the book of life, because +they could look at eternity reflected on the element that gave the life +and dealt the death. Like a beautiful and unscrupulous woman, the sea +of the past was glorious in its smiles, irresistible in its anger, +capricious, enticing, illogical, irresponsible; a thing to love, a thing +to fear. It cast a spell, it gave joy, it lulled gently into boundless +faith; then with quick and causeless anger it killed. But its cruelty +was redeemed by the charm of its inscrutable mystery, by the immensity +of its promise, by the supreme witchery of its possible favour. Strong +men with childlike hearts were faithful to it, were content to live by +its grace--to die by its will. That was the sea before the time when the +French mind set the Egyptian muscle in motion and produced a dismal +but profitable ditch. Then a great pall of smoke sent out by countless +steam-boats was spread over the restless mirror of the Infinite. The +hand of the engineer tore down the veil of the terrible beauty in +order that greedy and faithless landlubbers might pocket dividends. The +mystery was destroyed. Like all mysteries, it lived only in the hearts +of its worshippers. The hearts changed; the men changed. The once loving +and devoted servants went out armed with fire and iron, and conquering +the fear of their own hearts became a calculating crowd of cold and +exacting masters. The sea of the past was an incomparably beautiful +mistress, with inscrutable face, with cruel and promising eyes. The sea +of to-day is a used-up drudge, wrinkled and defaced by the churned-up +wakes of brutal propellers, robbed of the enslaving charm of its +vastness, stripped of its beauty, of its mystery and of its promise. + +Tom Lingard was a master, a lover, a servant of the sea. The sea took +him young, fashioned him body and soul; gave him his fierce aspect, his +loud voice, his fearless eyes, his stupidly guileless heart. Generously +it gave him his absurd faith in himself, his universal love of creation, +his wide indulgence, his contemptuous severity, his straightforward +simplicity of motive and honesty of aim. Having made him what he was, +womanlike, the sea served him humbly and let him bask unharmed in the +sunshine of its terribly uncertain favour. Tom Lingard grew rich on the +sea and by the sea. He loved it with the ardent affection of a lover, +he made light of it with the assurance of perfect mastery, he feared it +with the wise fear of a brave man, and he took liberties with it as a +spoiled child might do with a paternal and good-natured ogre. He was +grateful to it, with the gratitude of an honest heart. His greatest +pride lay in his profound conviction of its faithfulness--in the deep +sense of his unerring knowledge of its treachery. + +The little brig Flash was the instrument of Lingard’s fortune. They came +north together--both young--out of an Australian port, and after a very +few years there was not a white man in the islands, from Palembang to +Ternate, from Ombawa to Palawan, that did not know Captain Tom and +his lucky craft. He was liked for his reckless generosity, for his +unswerving honesty, and at first was a little feared on account of his +violent temper. Very soon, however, they found him out, and the word +went round that Captain Tom’s fury was less dangerous than many a man’s +smile. He prospered greatly. After his first--and successful--fight with +the sea robbers, when he rescued, as rumour had it, the yacht of some +big wig from home, somewhere down Carimata way, his great popularity +began. As years went on it grew apace. Always visiting out-of-the-way +places of that part of the world, always in search of new markets for +his cargoes--not so much for profit as for the pleasure of finding +them--he soon became known to the Malays, and by his successful +recklessness in several encounters with pirates, established the +terror of his name. Those white men with whom he had business, and who +naturally were on the look-out for his weaknesses, could easily see that +it was enough to give him his Malay title to flatter him greatly. So +when there was anything to be gained by it, and sometimes out of pure +and unprofitable good nature, they would drop the ceremonious “Captain +Lingard” and address him half seriously as Rajah Laut--the King of the +Sea. + +He carried the name bravely on his broad shoulders. He had carried it +many years already when the boy Willems ran barefooted on the deck of +the ship Kosmopoliet IV. in Samarang roads, looking with innocent eyes +on the strange shore and objurgating his immediate surroundings with +blasphemous lips, while his childish brain worked upon the heroic idea +of running away. From the poop of the Flash Lingard saw in the early +morning the Dutch ship get lumberingly under weigh, bound for the +eastern ports. Very late in the evening of the same day he stood on the +quay of the landing canal, ready to go on board of his brig. The night +was starry and clear; the little custom-house building was shut up, and +as the gharry that brought him down disappeared up the long avenue of +dusty trees leading to the town, Lingard thought himself alone on the +quay. He roused up his sleeping boat-crew and stood waiting for them to +get ready, when he felt a tug at his coat and a thin voice said, very +distinctly-- + +“English captain.” + +Lingard turned round quickly, and what seemed to be a very lean boy +jumped back with commendable activity. + +“Who are you? Where do you spring from?” asked Lingard, in startled +surprise. + +From a safe distance the boy pointed toward a cargo lighter moored to +the quay. + +“Been hiding there, have you?” said Lingard. “Well, what do you want? +Speak out, confound you. You did not come here to scare me to death, for +fun, did you?” + +The boy tried to explain in imperfect English, but very soon Lingard +interrupted him. + +“I see,” he exclaimed, “you ran away from the big ship that sailed this +morning. Well, why don’t you go to your countrymen here?” + +“Ship gone only a little way--to Sourabaya. Make me go back to the +ship,” explained the boy. + +“Best thing for you,” affirmed Lingard with conviction. + +“No,” retorted the boy; “me want stop here; not want go home. Get money +here; home no good.” + +“This beats all my going a-fishing,” commented the astonished Lingard. +“It’s money you want? Well! well! And you were not afraid to run away, +you bag of bones, you!” + +The boy intimated that he was frightened of nothing but of being sent +back to the ship. Lingard looked at him in meditative silence. + +“Come closer,” he said at last. He took the boy by the chin, and turning +up his face gave him a searching look. “How old are you?” + +“Seventeen.” + +“There’s not much of you for seventeen. Are you hungry?” + +“A little.” + +“Will you come with me, in that brig there?” + +The boy moved without a word towards the boat and scrambled into the +bows. + +“Knows his place,” muttered Lingard to himself as he stepped heavily +into the stern sheets and took up the yoke lines. “Give way there.” + +The Malay boat crew lay back together, and the gig sprang away from the +quay heading towards the brig’s riding light. + +Such was the beginning of Willems’ career. + +Lingard learned in half an hour all that there was of Willems’ +commonplace story. Father outdoor clerk of some ship-broker in +Rotterdam; mother dead. The boy quick in learning, but idle in school. +The straitened circumstances in the house filled with small brothers and +sisters, sufficiently clothed and fed but otherwise running wild, while +the disconsolate widower tramped about all day in a shabby overcoat and +imperfect boots on the muddy quays, and in the evening piloted wearily +the half-intoxicated foreign skippers amongst the places of cheap +delights, returning home late, sick with too much smoking and +drinking--for company’s sake--with these men, who expected such +attentions in the way of business. Then the offer of the good-natured +captain of Kosmopoliet IV., who was pleased to do something for the +patient and obliging fellow; young Willems’ great joy, his still greater +disappointment with the sea that looked so charming from afar, but +proved so hard and exacting on closer acquaintance--and then this +running away by a sudden impulse. The boy was hopelessly at variance +with the spirit of the sea. He had an instinctive contempt for the +honest simplicity of that work which led to nothing he cared for. +Lingard soon found this out. He offered to send him home in an English +ship, but the boy begged hard to be permitted to remain. He wrote a +beautiful hand, became soon perfect in English, was quick at figures; +and Lingard made him useful in that way. As he grew older his trading +instincts developed themselves astonishingly, and Lingard left him +often to trade in one island or another while he, himself, made an +intermediate trip to some out-of-the-way place. On Willems expressing +a wish to that effect, Lingard let him enter Hudig’s service. He felt +a little sore at that abandonment because he had attached himself, in +a way, to his protege. Still he was proud of him, and spoke up for him +loyally. At first it was, “Smart boy that--never make a seaman though.” + Then when Willems was helping in the trading he referred to him as “that +clever young fellow.” Later when Willems became the confidential agent +of Hudig, employed in many a delicate affair, the simple-hearted old +seaman would point an admiring finger at his back and whisper to whoever +stood near at the moment, “Long-headed chap that; deuced long-headed +chap. Look at him. Confidential man of old Hudig. I picked him up in a +ditch, you may say, like a starved cat. Skin and bone. ‘Pon my word I +did. And now he knows more than I do about island trading. Fact. I am +not joking. More than I do,” he would repeat, seriously, with innocent +pride in his honest eyes. + +From the safe elevation of his commercial successes Willems patronized +Lingard. He had a liking for his benefactor, not unmixed with some +disdain for the crude directness of the old fellow’s methods of conduct. +There were, however, certain sides of Lingard’s character for which +Willems felt a qualified respect. The talkative seaman knew how to +be silent on certain matters that to Willems were very interesting. +Besides, Lingard was rich, and that in itself was enough to compel +Willems’ unwilling admiration. In his confidential chats with Hudig, +Willems generally alluded to the benevolent Englishman as the “lucky +old fool” in a very distinct tone of vexation; Hudig would grunt an +unqualified assent, and then the two would look at each other in a +sudden immobility of pupils fixed by a stare of unexpressed thought. + +“You can’t find out where he gets all that india-rubber, hey Willems?” + Hudig would ask at last, turning away and bending over the papers on his +desk. + +“No, Mr. Hudig. Not yet. But I am trying,” was Willems’ invariable +reply, delivered with a ring of regretful deprecation. + +“Try! Always try! You may try! You think yourself clever perhaps,” + rumbled on Hudig, without looking up. “I have been trading with him +twenty--thirty years now. The old fox. And I have tried. Bah!” + +He stretched out a short, podgy leg and contemplated the bare instep and +the grass slipper hanging by the toes. “You can’t make him drunk?” he +would add, after a pause of stertorous breathing. + +“No, Mr. Hudig, I can’t really,” protested Willems, earnestly. + +“Well, don’t try. I know him. Don’t try,” advised the master, and, +bending again over his desk, his staring bloodshot eyes close to the +paper, he would go on tracing laboriously with his thick fingers the +slim unsteady letters of his correspondence, while Willems waited +respectfully for his further good pleasure before asking, with great +deference-- + +“Any orders, Mr. Hudig?” + +“Hm! yes. Go to Bun-Hin yourself and see the dollars of that payment +counted and packed, and have them put on board the mail-boat for +Ternate. She’s due here this afternoon.” + +“Yes, Mr. Hudig.” + +“And, look here. If the boat is late, leave the case in Bun-Hin’s godown +till to-morrow. Seal it up. Eight seals as usual. Don’t take it away +till the boat is here.” + +“No, Mr. Hudig.” + +“And don’t forget about these opium cases. It’s for to-night. Use my own +boatmen. Transship them from the Caroline to the Arab barque,” went +on the master in his hoarse undertone. “And don’t you come to me with +another story of a case dropped overboard like last time,” he added, +with sudden ferocity, looking up at his confidential clerk. + +“No, Mr. Hudig. I will take care.” + +“That’s all. Tell that pig as you go out that if he doesn’t make the +punkah go a little better I will break every bone in his body,” finished +up Hudig, wiping his purple face with a red silk handkerchief nearly as +big as a counterpane. + +Noiselessly Willems went out, shutting carefully behind him the little +green door through which he passed to the warehouse. Hudig, pen in hand, +listened to him bullying the punkah boy with profane violence, born +of unbounded zeal for the master’s comfort, before he returned to his +writing amid the rustling of papers fluttering in the wind sent down by +the punkah that waved in wide sweeps above his head. + +Willems would nod familiarly to Mr. Vinck, who had his desk close to the +little door of the private office, and march down the warehouse with an +important air. Mr. Vinck--extreme dislike lurking in every wrinkle of +his gentlemanly countenance--would follow with his eyes the white figure +flitting in the gloom amongst the piles of bales and cases till it +passed out through the big archway into the glare of the street. + + + +CHAPTER THREE + + +The opportunity and the temptation were too much for Willems, and under +the pressure of sudden necessity he abused that trust which was his +pride, the perpetual sign of his cleverness and a load too heavy for him +to carry. A run of bad luck at cards, the failure of a small speculation +undertaken on his own account, an unexpected demand for money from one +or another member of the Da Souza family--and almost before he was well +aware of it he was off the path of his peculiar honesty. It was such a +faint and ill-defined track that it took him some time to find out how +far he had strayed amongst the brambles of the dangerous wilderness he +had been skirting for so many years, without any other guide than his +own convenience and that doctrine of success which he had found for +himself in the book of life--in those interesting chapters that the +Devil has been permitted to write in it, to test the sharpness of men’s +eyesight and the steadfastness of their hearts. For one short, dark and +solitary moment he was dismayed, but he had that courage that will not +scale heights, yet will wade bravely through the mud--if there be no +other road. He applied himself to the task of restitution, and devoted +himself to the duty of not being found out. On his thirtieth birthday he +had almost accomplished the task--and the duty had been faithfully and +cleverly performed. He saw himself safe. Again he could look hopefully +towards the goal of his legitimate ambition. Nobody would dare to +suspect him, and in a few days there would be nothing to suspect. He +was elated. He did not know that his prosperity had touched then its +high-water mark, and that the tide was already on the turn. + +Two days afterwards he knew. Mr. Vinck, hearing the rattle of the +door-handle, jumped up from his desk--where he had been tremulously +listening to the loud voices in the private office--and buried his face +in the big safe with nervous haste. For the last time Willems passed +through the little green door leading to Hudig’s sanctum, which, during +the past half-hour, might have been taken--from the fiendish noise +within--for the cavern of some wild beast. Willems’ troubled eyes took +in the quick impression of men and things as he came out from the place +of his humiliation. He saw the scared expression of the punkah boy; the +Chinamen tellers sitting on their heels with unmovable faces turned up +blankly towards him while their arrested hands hovered over the +little piles of bright guilders ranged on the floor; Mr. Vinck’s +shoulder-blades with the fleshy rims of two red ears above. He saw the +long avenue of gin cases stretching from where he stood to the arched +doorway beyond which he would be able to breathe perhaps. A thin rope’s +end lay across his path and he saw it distinctly, yet stumbled heavily +over it as if it had been a bar of iron. Then he found himself in the +street at last, but could not find air enough to fill his lungs. He +walked towards his home, gasping. + +As the sound of Hudig’s insults that lingered in his ears grew fainter +by the lapse of time, the feeling of shame was replaced slowly by a +passion of anger against himself and still more against the stupid +concourse of circumstances that had driven him into his idiotic +indiscretion. Idiotic indiscretion; that is how he defined his guilt +to himself. Could there be anything worse from the point of view of his +undeniable cleverness? What a fatal aberration of an acute mind! He did +not recognize himself there. He must have been mad. That’s it. A sudden +gust of madness. And now the work of long years was destroyed utterly. +What would become of him? + +Before he could answer that question he found himself in the garden +before his house, Hudig’s wedding gift. He looked at it with a vague +surprise to find it there. His past was so utterly gone from him that +the dwelling which belonged to it appeared to him incongruous standing +there intact, neat, and cheerful in the sunshine of the hot afternoon. +The house was a pretty little structure all doors and windows, +surrounded on all sides by the deep verandah supported on slender +columns clothed in the green foliage of creepers, which also fringed the +overhanging eaves of the high-pitched roof. Slowly, Willems mounted the +dozen steps that led to the verandah. He paused at every step. He +must tell his wife. He felt frightened at the prospect, and his alarm +dismayed him. Frightened to face her! Nothing could give him a better +measure of the greatness of the change around him, and in him. Another +man--and another life with the faith in himself gone. He could not be +worth much if he was afraid to face that woman. + +He dared not enter the house through the open door of the dining-room, +but stood irresolute by the little work-table where trailed a white +piece of calico, with a needle stuck in it, as if the work had been left +hurriedly. The pink-crested cockatoo started, on his appearance, into +clumsy activity and began to climb laboriously up and down his perch, +calling “Joanna” with indistinct loudness and a persistent screech +that prolonged the last syllable of the name as if in a peal of insane +laughter. The screen in the doorway moved gently once or twice in the +breeze, and each time Willems started slightly, expecting his wife, but +he never lifted his eyes, although straining his ears for the sound of +her footsteps. Gradually he lost himself in his thoughts, in the endless +speculation as to the manner in which she would receive his news--and +his orders. In this preoccupation he almost forgot the fear of her +presence. No doubt she will cry, she will lament, she will be helpless +and frightened and passive as ever. And he would have to drag that limp +weight on and on through the darkness of a spoiled life. Horrible! +Of course he could not abandon her and the child to certain misery or +possible starvation. The wife and the child of Willems. Willems the +successful, the smart; Willems the conf . . . . Pah! And what was +Willems now? Willems the. . . . He strangled the half-born thought, and +cleared his throat to stifle a groan. Ah! Won’t they talk to-night in +the billiard-room--his world, where he had been first--all those men to +whom he had been so superciliously condescending. Won’t they talk with +surprise, and affected regret, and grave faces, and wise nods. Some of +them owed him money, but he never pressed anybody. Not he. Willems, the +prince of good fellows, they called him. And now they will rejoice, no +doubt, at his downfall. A crowd of imbeciles. In his abasement he was +yet aware of his superiority over those fellows, who were merely honest +or simply not found out yet. A crowd of imbeciles! He shook his fist at +the evoked image of his friends, and the startled parrot fluttered its +wings and shrieked in desperate fright. + +In a short glance upwards Willems saw his wife come round the corner of +the house. He lowered his eyelids quickly, and waited silently till she +came near and stood on the other side of the little table. He would +not look at her face, but he could see the red dressing-gown he knew so +well. She trailed through life in that red dressing-gown, with its row +of dirty blue bows down the front, stained, and hooked on awry; a torn +flounce at the bottom following her like a snake as she moved languidly +about, with her hair negligently caught up, and a tangled wisp +straggling untidily down her back. His gaze travelled upwards from bow +to bow, noticing those that hung only by a thread, but it did not +go beyond her chin. He looked at her lean throat, at the obtrusive +collarbone visible in the disarray of the upper part of her attire. He +saw the thin arm and the bony hand clasping the child she carried, +and he felt an immense distaste for those encumbrances of his life. He +waited for her to say something, but as he felt her eyes rest on him in +unbroken silence he sighed and began to speak. + +It was a hard task. He spoke slowly, lingering amongst the memories of +this early life in his reluctance to confess that this was the end of +it and the beginning of a less splendid existence. In his conviction of +having made her happiness in the full satisfaction of all material wants +he never doubted for a moment that she was ready to keep him company +on no matter how hard and stony a road. He was not elated by this +certitude. He had married her to please Hudig, and the greatness of his +sacrifice ought to have made her happy without any further exertion on +his part. She had years of glory as Willems’ wife, and years of comfort, +of loyal care, and of such tenderness as she deserved. He had guarded +her carefully from any bodily hurt; and of any other suffering he had +no conception. The assertion of his superiority was only another benefit +conferred on her. All this was a matter of course, but he told her all +this so as to bring vividly before her the greatness of her loss. She +was so dull of understanding that she would not grasp it else. And now +it was at an end. They would have to go. Leave this house, leave +this island, go far away where he was unknown. To the English +Strait-Settlements perhaps. He would find an opening there for his +abilities--and juster men to deal with than old Hudig. He laughed +bitterly. + +“You have the money I left at home this morning, Joanna?” he asked. “We +will want it all now.” + +As he spoke those words he thought he was a fine fellow. Nothing new +that. Still, he surpassed there his own expectations. Hang it all, there +are sacred things in life, after all. The marriage tie was one of them, +and he was not the man to break it. The solidity of his principles +caused him great satisfaction, but he did not care to look at his wife, +for all that. He waited for her to speak. Then he would have to console +her; tell her not to be a crying fool; to get ready to go. Go where? +How? When? He shook his head. They must leave at once; that was the +principal thing. He felt a sudden need to hurry up his departure. + +“Well, Joanna,” he said, a little impatiently---“don’t stand there in a +trance. Do you hear? We must. . . .” + +He looked up at his wife, and whatever he was going to add remained +unspoken. She was staring at him with her big, slanting eyes, that +seemed to him twice their natural size. The child, its dirty little +face pressed to its mother’s shoulder, was sleeping peacefully. The deep +silence of the house was not broken, but rather accentuated, by the +low mutter of the cockatoo, now very still on its perch. As Willems was +looking at Joanna her upper lip was drawn up on one side, giving to her +melancholy face a vicious expression altogether new to his experience. +He stepped back in his surprise. + +“Oh! You great man!” she said distinctly, but in a voice that was hardly +above a whisper. + +Those words, and still more her tone, stunned him as if somebody had +fired a gun close to his ear. He stared back at her stupidly. + +“Oh! you great man!” she repeated slowly, glancing right and left as +if meditating a sudden escape. “And you think that I am going to starve +with you. You are nobody now. You think my mamma and Leonard would let +me go away? And with you! With you,” she repeated scornfully, raising +her voice, which woke up the child and caused it to whimper feebly. + +“Joanna!” exclaimed Willems. + +“Do not speak to me. I have heard what I have waited for all these +years. You are less than dirt, you that have wiped your feet on me. I +have waited for this. I am not afraid now. I do not want you; do not +come near me. Ah-h!” she screamed shrilly, as he held out his hand in an +entreating gesture--“Ah! Keep off me! Keep off me! Keep off!” + +She backed away, looking at him with eyes both angry and frightened. +Willems stared motionless, in dumb amazement at the mystery of anger and +revolt in the head of his wife. Why? What had he ever done to her? This +was the day of injustice indeed. First Hudig--and now his wife. He felt +a terror at this hate that had lived stealthily so near him for years. +He tried to speak, but she shrieked again, and it was like a needle +through his heart. Again he raised his hand. + +“Help!” called Mrs. Willems, in a piercing voice. “Help!” + +“Be quiet! You fool!” shouted Willems, trying to drown the noise of +his wife and child in his own angry accents and rattling violently the +little zinc table in his exasperation. + +From under the house, where there were bathrooms and a tool closet, +appeared Leonard, a rusty iron bar in his hand. He called threateningly +from the bottom of the stairs. + +“Do not hurt her, Mr. Willems. You are a savage. Not at all like we, +whites.” + +“You too!” said the bewildered Willems. “I haven’t touched her. Is this +a madhouse?” He moved towards the stairs, and Leonard dropped the bar +with a clang and made for the gate of the compound. Willems turned back +to his wife. + +“So you expected this,” he said. “It is a conspiracy. Who’s that sobbing +and groaning in the room? Some more of your precious family. Hey?” + +She was more calm now, and putting hastily the crying child in the big +chair walked towards him with sudden fearlessness. + +“My mother,” she said, “my mother who came to defend me from you--man +from nowhere; a vagabond!” + +“You did not call me a vagabond when you hung round my neck--before we +were married,” said Willems, contemptuously. + +“You took good care that I should not hang round your neck after we +were,” she answered, clenching her hands, and putting her face close to +his. “You boasted while I suffered and said nothing. What has become of +your greatness; of our greatness--you were always speaking about? Now +I am going to live on the charity of your master. Yes. That is true. He +sent Leonard to tell me so. And you will go and boast somewhere else, +and starve. So! Ah! I can breathe now! This house is mine.” + +“Enough!” said Willems, slowly, with an arresting gesture. + +She leaped back, the fright again in her eyes, snatched up the child, +pressed it to her breast, and, falling into a chair, drummed insanely +with her heels on the resounding floor of the verandah. + +“I shall go,” said Willems, steadily. “I thank you. For the first time +in your life you make me happy. You were a stone round my neck; you +understand. I did not mean to tell you that as long as you lived, but +you made me--now. Before I pass this gate you shall be gone from my +mind. You made it very easy. I thank you.” + +He turned and went down the steps without giving her a glance, while she +sat upright and quiet, with wide-open eyes, the child crying querulously +in her arms. At the gate he came suddenly upon Leonard, who had been +dodging about there and failed to get out of the way in time. + +“Do not be brutal, Mr. Willems,” said Leonard, hurriedly. “It is +unbecoming between white men with all those natives looking on.” + Leonard’s legs trembled very much, and his voice wavered between high +and low tones without any attempt at control on his part. “Restrain your +improper violence,” he went on mumbling rapidly. “I am a respectable man +of very good family, while you . . . it is regrettable . . . they all +say so . . .” + +“What?” thundered Willems. He felt a sudden impulse of mad anger, and +before he knew what had happened he was looking at Leonard da Souza +rolling in the dust at his feet. He stepped over his prostrate +brother-in-law and tore blindly down the street, everybody making way +for the frantic white man. + +When he came to himself he was beyond the outskirts of the town, +stumbling on the hard and cracked earth of reaped rice fields. How did +he get there? It was dark. He must get back. As he walked towards the +town slowly, his mind reviewed the events of the day and he felt a sense +of bitter loneliness. His wife had turned him out of his own house. +He had assaulted brutally his brother-in-law, a member of the Da Souza +family--of that band of his worshippers. He did. Well, no! It was some +other man. Another man was coming back. A man without a past, without +a future, yet full of pain and shame and anger. He stopped and looked +round. A dog or two glided across the empty street and rushed past him +with a frightened snarl. He was now in the midst of the Malay quarter +whose bamboo houses, hidden in the verdure of their little gardens, were +dark and silent. Men, women and children slept in there. Human beings. +Would he ever sleep, and where? He felt as if he was the outcast of all +mankind, and as he looked hopelessly round, before resuming his weary +march, it seemed to him that the world was bigger, the night more vast +and more black; but he went on doggedly with his head down as if pushing +his way through some thick brambles. Then suddenly he felt planks under +his feet and, looking up, saw the red light at the end of the jetty. He +walked quite to the end and stood leaning against the post, under the +lamp, looking at the roadstead where two vessels at anchor swayed their +slender rigging amongst the stars. The end of the jetty; and here in one +step more the end of life; the end of everything. Better so. What else +could he do? Nothing ever comes back. He saw it clearly. The respect +and admiration of them all, the old habits and old affections finished +abruptly in the clear perception of the cause of his disgrace. He +saw all this; and for a time he came out of himself, out of his +selfishness--out of the constant preoccupation of his interests and his +desires--out of the temple of self and the concentration of personal +thought. + +His thoughts now wandered home. Standing in the tepid stillness of a +starry tropical night he felt the breath of the bitter east wind, he saw +the high and narrow fronts of tall houses under the gloom of a clouded +sky; and on muddy quays he saw the shabby, high-shouldered figure--the +patient, faded face of the weary man earning bread for the children +that waited for him in a dingy home. It was miserable, miserable. But it +would never come back. What was there in common between those things and +Willems the clever, Willems the successful. He had cut himself adrift +from that home many years ago. Better for him then. Better for them now. +All this was gone, never to come back again; and suddenly he shivered, +seeing himself alone in the presence of unknown and terrible dangers. + +For the first time in his life he felt afraid of the future, because he +had lost his faith, the faith in his own success. And he had destroyed +it foolishly with his own hands! + + + +CHAPTER FOUR + + +His meditation which resembled slow drifting into suicide was +interrupted by Lingard, who, with a loud “I’ve got you at last!” dropped +his hand heavily on Willems’ shoulder. This time it was the old seaman +himself going out of his way to pick up the uninteresting waif--all +that there was left of that sudden and sordid shipwreck. To Willems, +the rough, friendly voice was a quick and fleeting relief followed by a +sharper pang of anger and unavailing regret. That voice carried him +back to the beginning of his promising career, the end of which was very +visible now from the jetty where they both stood. He shook himself free +from the friendly grasp, saying with ready bitterness-- + +“It’s all your fault. Give me a push now, do, and send me over. I have +been standing here waiting for help. You are the man--of all men. You +helped at the beginning; you ought to have a hand in the end.” + +“I have better use for you than to throw you to the fishes,” said +Lingard, seriously, taking Willems by the arm and forcing him gently to +walk up the jetty. “I have been buzzing over this town like a bluebottle +fly, looking for you high and low. I have heard a lot. I will tell you +what, Willems; you are no saint, that’s a fact. And you have not been +over-wise either. I am not throwing stones,” he added, hastily, as +Willems made an effort to get away, “but I am not going to mince +matters. Never could! You keep quiet while I talk. Can’t you?” + +With a gesture of resignation and a half-stifled groan Willems submitted +to the stronger will, and the two men paced slowly up and down the +resounding planks, while Lingard disclosed to Willems the exact manner +of his undoing. After the first shock Willems lost the faculty of +surprise in the over-powering feeling of indignation. So it was Vinck +and Leonard who had served him so. They had watched him, tracked his +misdeeds, reported them to Hudig. They had bribed obscure Chinamen, +wormed out confidences from tipsy skippers, got at various boatmen, +and had pieced out in that way the story of his irregularities. The +blackness of this dark intrigue filled him with horror. He could +understand Vinck. There was no love lost between them. But Leonard! +Leonard! + +“Why, Captain Lingard,” he burst out, “the fellow licked my boots.” + +“Yes, yes, yes,” said Lingard, testily, “we know that, and you did your +best to cram your boot down his throat. No man likes that, my boy.” + +“I was always giving money to all that hungry lot,” went on Willems, +passionately. “Always my hand in my pocket. They never had to ask +twice.” + +“Just so. Your generosity frightened them. They asked themselves +where all that came from, and concluded that it was safer to throw you +overboard. After all, Hudig is a much greater man than you, my friend, +and they have a claim on him also.” + +“What do you mean, Captain Lingard?” + +“What do I mean?” repeated Lingard, slowly. “Why, you are not going to +make me believe you did not know your wife was Hudig’s daughter. Come +now!” + +Willems stopped suddenly and swayed about. + +“Ah! I understand,” he gasped. “I never heard . . . Lately I thought +there was . . . But no, I never guessed.” + +“Oh, you simpleton!” said Lingard, pityingly. “‘Pon my word,” he +muttered to himself, “I don’t believe the fellow knew. Well! well! +Steady now. Pull yourself together. What’s wrong there. She is a good +wife to you.” + +“Excellent wife,” said Willems, in a dreary voice, looking far over the +black and scintillating water. + +“Very well then,” went on Lingard, with increasing friendliness. +“Nothing wrong there. But did you really think that Hudig was marrying +you off and giving you a house and I don’t know what, out of love for +you?” + +“I had served him well,” answered Willems. “How well, you know +yourself--through thick and thin. No matter what work and what risk, I +was always there; always ready.” + +How well he saw the greatness of his work and the immensity of that +injustice which was his reward. She was that man’s daughter! + +In the light of this disclosure the facts of the last five years of his +life stood clearly revealed in their full meaning. He had spoken first +to Joanna at the gate of their dwelling as he went to his work in +the brilliant flush of the early morning, when women and flowers are +charming even to the dullest eyes. A most respectable family--two women +and a young man--were his next-door neighbours. Nobody ever came to +their little house but the priest, a native from the Spanish islands, +now and then. The young man Leonard he had met in town, and was +flattered by the little fellow’s immense respect for the great Willems. +He let him bring chairs, call the waiters, chalk his cues when playing +billiards, express his admiration in choice words. He even condescended +to listen patiently to Leonard’s allusions to “our beloved father,” a +man of official position, a government agent in Koti, where he died of +cholera, alas! a victim to duty, like a good Catholic, and a good man. +It sounded very respectable, and Willems approved of those feeling +references. Moreover, he prided himself upon having no colour-prejudices +and no racial antipathies. He consented to drink curacoa one afternoon +on the verandah of Mrs. da Souza’s house. He remembered Joanna that day, +swinging in a hammock. She was untidy even then, he remembered, and that +was the only impression he carried away from that visit. He had no time +for love in those glorious days, no time even for a passing fancy, but +gradually he fell into the habit of calling almost every day at that +little house where he was greeted by Mrs. da Souza’s shrill voice +screaming for Joanna to come and entertain the gentleman from Hudig +& Co. And then the sudden and unexpected visit of the priest. He +remembered the man’s flat, yellow face, his thin legs, his propitiatory +smile, his beaming black eyes, his conciliating manner, his veiled hints +which he did not understand at the time. How he wondered what the man +wanted, and how unceremoniously he got rid of him. And then came vividly +into his recollection the morning when he met again that fellow coming +out of Hudig’s office, and how he was amused at the incongruous visit. +And that morning with Hudig! Would he ever forget it? Would he ever +forget his surprise as the master, instead of plunging at once into +business, looked at him thoughtfully before turning, with a furtive +smile, to the papers on the desk? He could hear him now, his nose in the +paper before him, dropping astonishing words in the intervals of wheezy +breathing. + +“Heard said . . . called there often . . . most respectable ladies . . . +knew the father very well . . . estimable . . . best thing for a young +man . . . settle down. . . . Personally, very glad to hear . . . thing +arranged. . . . Suitable recognition of valuable services. . . . Best +thing--best thing to do.” + +And he believed! What credulity! What an ass! Hudig knew the father! +Rather. And so did everybody else probably; all except himself. How +proud he had been of Hudig’s benevolent interest in his fate! How proud +he was when invited by Hudig to stay with him at his little house in the +country--where he could meet men, men of official position--as a friend. +Vinck had been green with envy. Oh, yes! He had believed in the best +thing, and took the girl like a gift of fortune. How he boasted to Hudig +of being free from prejudices. The old scoundrel must have been laughing +in his sleeve at his fool of a confidential clerk. He took the girl, +guessing nothing. How could he? There had been a father of some kind +to the common knowledge. Men knew him; spoke about him. A lank man of +hopelessly mixed descent, but otherwise--apparently--unobjectionable. +The shady relations came out afterward, but--with his freedom from +prejudices--he did not mind them, because, with their humble dependence, +they completed his triumphant life. Taken in! taken in! Hudig had found +an easy way to provide for the begging crowd. He had shifted the burden +of his youthful vagaries on to the shoulders of his confidential clerk; +and while he worked for the master, the master had cheated him; had +stolen his very self from him. He was married. He belonged to that +woman, no matter what she might do! . . . Had sworn . . . for all life! +. . . Thrown himself away. . . . And that man dared this very morning +call him a thief! Damnation! + +“Let go, Lingard!” he shouted, trying to get away by a sudden jerk from +the watchful old seaman. “Let me go and kill that . . .” + +“No you don’t!” panted Lingard, hanging on manfully. “You want to kill, +do you? You lunatic. Ah!--I’ve got you now! Be quiet, I say!” + +They struggled violently, Lingard forcing Willems slowly towards the +guard-rail. Under their feet the jetty sounded like a drum in the quiet +night. On the shore end the native caretaker of the wharf watched the +combat, squatting behind the safe shelter of some big cases. The next +day he informed his friends, with calm satisfaction, that two drunken +white men had fought on the jetty. + +It had been a great fight. They fought without arms, like wild beasts, +after the manner of white men. No! nobody was killed, or there would +have been trouble and a report to make. How could he know why they +fought? White men have no reason when they are like that. + +Just as Lingard was beginning to fear that he would be unable to +restrain much longer the violence of the younger man, he felt Willems’ +muscles relaxing, and took advantage of this opportunity to pin him, by +a last effort, to the rail. They both panted heavily, speechless, their +faces very close. + +“All right,” muttered Willems at last. “Don’t break my back over this +infernal rail. I will be quiet.” + +“Now you are reasonable,” said Lingard, much relieved. “What made you +fly into that passion?” he asked, leading him back to the end of the +jetty, and, still holding him prudently with one hand, he fumbled with +the other for his whistle and blew a shrill and prolonged blast. Over +the smooth water of the roadstead came in answer a faint cry from one of +the ships at anchor. + +“My boat will be here directly,” said Lingard. “Think of what you are +going to do. I sail to-night.” + +“What is there for me to do, except one thing?” said Willems, gloomily. + +“Look here,” said Lingard; “I picked you up as a boy, and consider +myself responsible for you in a way. You took your life into your own +hands many years ago--but still . . .” + +He paused, listening, till he heard the regular grind of the oars in the +rowlocks of the approaching boat then went on again. + +“I have made it all right with Hudig. You owe him nothing now. Go back +to your wife. She is a good woman. Go back to her.” + +“Why, Captain Lingard,” exclaimed Willems, “she . . .” + +“It was most affecting,” went on Lingard, without heeding him. “I +went to your house to look for you and there I saw her despair. It was +heart-breaking. She called for you; she entreated me to find you. She +spoke wildly, poor woman, as if all this was her fault.” + +Willems listened amazed. The blind old idiot! How queerly he +misunderstood! But if it was true, if it was even true, the very idea of +seeing her filled his soul with intense loathing. He did not break +his oath, but he would not go back to her. Let hers be the sin of that +separation; of the sacred bond broken. He revelled in the extreme purity +of his heart, and he would not go back to her. Let her come back to him. +He had the comfortable conviction that he would never see her again, +and that through her own fault only. In this conviction he told himself +solemnly that if she would come to him he would receive her with +generous forgiveness, because such was the praiseworthy solidity of his +principles. But he hesitated whether he would or would not disclose to +Lingard the revolting completeness of his humiliation. Turned out of his +house--and by his wife; that woman who hardly dared to breathe in his +presence, yesterday. He remained perplexed and silent. No. He lacked the +courage to tell the ignoble story. + +As the boat of the brig appeared suddenly on the black water close to +the jetty, Lingard broke the painful silence. + +“I always thought,” he said, sadly, “I always thought you were somewhat +heartless, Willems, and apt to cast adrift those that thought most of +you. I appeal to what is best in you; do not abandon that woman.” + +“I have not abandoned her,” answered Willems, quickly, with conscious +truthfulness. “Why should I? As you so justly observed, she has been a +good wife to me. A very good, quiet, obedient, loving wife, and I love +her as much as she loves me. Every bit. But as to going back now, to +that place where I . . . To walk again amongst those men who yesterday +were ready to crawl before me, and then feel on my back the sting of +their pitying or satisfied smiles--no! I can’t. I would rather hide from +them at the bottom of the sea,” he went on, with resolute energy. “I +don’t think, Captain Lingard,” he added, more quietly, “I don’t think +that you realize what my position was there.” + +In a wide sweep of his hand he took in the sleeping shore from north to +south, as if wishing it a proud and threatening good-bye. For a short +moment he forgot his downfall in the recollection of his brilliant +triumphs. Amongst the men of his class and occupation who slept in those +dark houses he had been indeed the first. + +“It is hard,” muttered Lingard, pensively. “But whose the fault? Whose +the fault?” + +“Captain Lingard!” cried Willems, under the sudden impulse of a +felicitous inspiration, “if you leave me here on this jetty--it’s +murder. I shall never return to that place alive, wife or no wife. You +may just as well cut my throat at once.” + +The old seaman started. + +“Don’t try to frighten me, Willems,” he said, with great severity, and +paused. + +Above the accents of Willems’ brazen despair he heard, with considerable +uneasiness, the whisper of his own absurd conscience. He meditated for +awhile with an irresolute air. + +“I could tell you to go and drown yourself, and be damned to you,” he +said, with an unsuccessful assumption of brutality in his manner, “but +I won’t. We are responsible for one another--worse luck. I am almost +ashamed of myself, but I can understand your dirty pride. I can! +By . . .” + +He broke off with a loud sigh and walked briskly to the steps, at the +bottom of which lay his boat, rising and falling gently on the slight +and invisible swell. + +“Below there! Got a lamp in the boat? Well, light it and bring it up, +one of you. Hurry now!” + +He tore out a page of his pocketbook, moistened his pencil with great +energy and waited, stamping his feet impatiently. + +“I will see this thing through,” he muttered to himself. “And I will +have it all square and ship-shape; see if I don’t! Are you going to +bring that lamp, you son of a crippled mud-turtle? I am waiting.” + +The gleam of the light on the paper placated his professional anger, and +he wrote rapidly, the final dash of his signature curling the paper up +in a triangular tear. + +“Take that to this white Tuan’s house. I will send the boat back for you +in half an hour.” + +The coxswain raised his lamp deliberately to Willem’s face. + +“This Tuan? Tau! I know.” + +“Quick then!” said Lingard, taking the lamp from him--and the man went +off at a run. + +“Kassi mem! To the lady herself,” called Lingard after him. + +Then, when the man disappeared, he turned to Willems. + +“I have written to your wife,” he said. “If you do not return for good, +you do not go back to that house only for another parting. You must come +as you stand. I won’t have that poor woman tormented. I will see to it +that you are not separated for long. Trust me!” + +Willems shivered, then smiled in the darkness. + +“No fear of that,” he muttered, enigmatically. “I trust you implicitly, +Captain Lingard,” he added, in a louder tone. + +Lingard led the way down the steps, swinging the lamp and speaking over +his shoulder. + +“It is the second time, Willems, I take you in hand. Mind it is the +last. The second time; and the only difference between then and now is +that you were bare-footed then and have boots now. In fourteen years. +With all your smartness! A poor result that. A very poor result.” + +He stood for awhile on the lowest platform of the steps, the light of +the lamp falling on the upturned face of the stroke oar, who held the +gunwale of the boat close alongside, ready for the captain to step in. + +“You see,” he went on, argumentatively, fumbling about the top of +the lamp, “you got yourself so crooked amongst those ‘longshore +quill-drivers that you could not run clear in any way. That’s what comes +of such talk as yours, and of such a life. A man sees so much falsehood +that he begins to lie to himself. Pah!” he said, in disgust, “there’s +only one place for an honest man. The sea, my boy, the sea! But you +never would; didn’t think there was enough money in it; and now--look!” + +He blew the light out, and, stepping into the boat, stretched quickly +his hand towards Willems, with friendly care. Willems sat by him in +silence, and the boat shoved off, sweeping in a wide circle towards the +brig. + +“Your compassion is all for my wife, Captain Lingard,” said Willems, +moodily. “Do you think I am so very happy?” + +“No! no!” said Lingard, heartily. “Not a word more shall pass my lips. +I had to speak my mind once, seeing that I knew you from a child, so +to speak. And now I shall forget; but you are young yet. Life is very +long,” he went on, with unconscious sadness; “let this be a lesson to +you.” + +He laid his hand affectionately on Willems’ shoulder, and they both sat +silent till the boat came alongside the ship’s ladder. + +When on board Lingard gave orders to his mate, and leading Willems on +the poop, sat on the breech of one of the brass six-pounders with +which his vessel was armed. The boat went off again to bring back the +messenger. As soon as it was seen returning dark forms appeared on the +brig’s spars; then the sails fell in festoons with a swish of their +heavy folds, and hung motionless under the yards in the dead calm of +the clear and dewy night. From the forward end came the clink of the +windlass, and soon afterwards the hail of the chief mate informing +Lingard that the cable was hove short. + +“Hold on everything,” hailed back Lingard; “we must wait for the +land-breeze before we let go our hold of the ground.” + +He approached Willems, who sat on the skylight, his body bent down, his +head low, and his hands hanging listlessly between his knees. + +“I am going to take you to Sambir,” he said. “You’ve never heard of the +place, have you? Well, it’s up that river of mine about which people +talk so much and know so little. I’ve found out the entrance for a ship +of Flash’s size. It isn’t easy. You’ll see. I will show you. You have +been at sea long enough to take an interest. . . . Pity you didn’t stick +to it. Well, I am going there. I have my own trading post in the place. +Almayer is my partner. You knew him when he was at Hudig’s. Oh, he lives +there as happy as a king. D’ye see, I have them all in my pocket. The +rajah is an old friend of mine. My word is law--and I am the only +trader. No other white man but Almayer had ever been in that settlement. +You will live quietly there till I come back from my next cruise to the +westward. We shall see then what can be done for you. Never fear. I have +no doubt my secret will be safe with you. Keep mum about my river when +you get amongst the traders again. There’s many would give their ears +for the knowledge of it. I’ll tell you something: that’s where I get all +my guttah and rattans. Simply inexhaustible, my boy.” + +While Lingard spoke Willems looked up quickly, but soon his head fell on +his breast in the discouraging certitude that the knowledge he and Hudig +had wished for so much had come to him too late. He sat in a listless +attitude. + +“You will help Almayer in his trading if you have a heart for it,” + continued Lingard, “just to kill time till I come back for you. Only six +weeks or so.” + +Over their heads the damp sails fluttered noisily in the first faint +puff of the breeze; then, as the airs freshened, the brig tended to the +wind, and the silenced canvas lay quietly aback. The mate spoke with low +distinctness from the shadows of the quarter-deck. + +“There’s the breeze. Which way do you want to cast her, Captain +Lingard?” + +Lingard’s eyes, that had been fixed aloft, glanced down at the dejected +figure of the man sitting on the skylight. He seemed to hesitate for a +minute. + +“To the northward, to the northward,” he answered, testily, as if +annoyed at his own fleeting thought, “and bear a hand there. Every puff +of wind is worth money in these seas.” + +He remained motionless, listening to the rattle of blocks and the +creaking of trusses as the head-yards were hauled round. Sail was made +on the ship and the windlass manned again while he stood still, lost in +thought. He only roused himself when a barefooted seacannie glided past +him silently on his way to the wheel. + +“Put the helm aport! Hard over!” he said, in his harsh sea-voice, to the +man whose face appeared suddenly out of the darkness in the circle of +light thrown upwards from the binnacle lamps. + +The anchor was secured, the yards trimmed, and the brig began to move +out of the roadstead. The sea woke up under the push of the sharp +cutwater, and whispered softly to the gliding craft in that tender and +rippling murmur in which it speaks sometimes to those it nurses and +loves. Lingard stood by the taff-rail listening, with a pleased smile +till the Flash began to draw close to the only other vessel in the +anchorage. + +“Here, Willems,” he said, calling him to his side, “d’ye see that barque +here? That’s an Arab vessel. White men have mostly given up the game, +but this fellow drops in my wake often, and lives in hopes of cutting me +out in that settlement. Not while I live, I trust. You see, Willems, +I brought prosperity to that place. I composed their quarrels, and saw +them grow under my eyes. There’s peace and happiness there. I am more +master there than his Dutch Excellency down in Batavia ever will be when +some day a lazy man-of-war blunders at last against the river. I mean to +keep the Arabs out of it, with their lies and their intrigues. I shall +keep the venomous breed out, if it costs me my fortune.” + +The Flash drew quietly abreast of the barque, and was beginning to drop +it astern when a white figure started up on the poop of the Arab vessel, +and a voice called out-- + +“Greeting to the Rajah Laut!” + +“To you greeting!” answered Lingard, after a moment of hesitating +surprise. Then he turned to Willems with a grim smile. “That’s Abdulla’s +voice,” he said. “Mighty civil all of a sudden, isn’t he? I wonder +what it means. Just like his impudence! No matter! His civility or his +impudence are all one to me. I know that this fellow will be under way +and after me like a shot. I don’t care! I have the heels of anything +that floats in these seas,” he added, while his proud and loving glance +ran over and rested fondly amongst the brig’s lofty and graceful spars. + + + +CHAPTER FIVE + + +“It was the writing on his forehead,” said Babalatchi, adding a couple +of small sticks to the little fire by which he was squatting, and +without looking at Lakamba who lay down supported on his elbow on the +other side of the embers. “It was written when he was born that he +should end his life in darkness, and now he is like a man walking in a +black night--with his eyes open, yet seeing not. I knew him well when he +had slaves, and many wives, and much merchandise, and trading praus, and +praus for fighting. Hai--ya! He was a great fighter in the days before +the breath of the Merciful put out the light in his eyes. He was a +pilgrim, and had many virtues: he was brave, his hand was open, and he +was a great robber. For many years he led the men that drank blood on +the sea: first in prayer and first in fight! Have I not stood behind +him when his face was turned to the West? Have I not watched by his side +ships with high masts burning in a straight flame on the calm water? +Have I not followed him on dark nights amongst sleeping men that woke up +only to die? His sword was swifter than the fire from Heaven, and struck +before it flashed. Hai! Tuan! Those were the days and that was a leader, +and I myself was younger; and in those days there were not so many +fireships with guns that deal fiery death from afar. Over the hill and +over the forest--O! Tuan Lakamba! they dropped whistling fireballs into +the creek where our praus took refuge, and where they dared not follow +men who had arms in their hands.” + +He shook his head with mournful regret and threw another handful of +fuel on the fire. The burst of clear flame lit up his broad, dark, and +pock-marked face, where the big lips, stained with betel-juice, looked +like a deep and bleeding gash of a fresh wound. The reflection of the +firelight gleamed brightly in his solitary eye, lending it for a moment +a fierce animation that died out together with the short-lived flame. +With quick touches of his bare hands he raked the embers into a heap, +then, wiping the warm ash on his waistcloth--his only garment--he +clasped his thin legs with his entwined fingers, and rested his chin +on his drawn-up knees. Lakamba stirred slightly without changing his +position or taking his eyes off the glowing coals, on which they had +been fixed in dreamy immobility. + +“Yes,” went on Babalatchi, in a low monotone, as if pursuing aloud a +train of thought that had its beginning in the silent contemplation of +the unstable nature of earthly greatness--“yes. He has been rich and +strong, and now he lives on alms: old, feeble, blind, and without +companions, but for his daughter. The Rajah Patalolo gives him rice, and +the pale woman--his daughter--cooks it for him, for he has no slave.” + +“I saw her from afar,” muttered Lakamba, disparagingly. “A she-dog with +white teeth, like a woman of the Orang-Putih.” + +“Right, right,” assented Babalatchi; “but you have not seen her near. +Her mother was a woman from the west; a Baghdadi woman with veiled face. +Now she goes uncovered, like our women do, for she is poor and he is +blind, and nobody ever comes near them unless to ask for a charm or a +blessing and depart quickly for fear of his anger and of the Rajah’s +hand. You have not been on that side of the river?” + +“Not for a long time. If I go . . .” + +“True! true!” interrupted Babalatchi, soothingly, “but I go often +alone--for your good--and look--and listen. When the time comes; when we +both go together towards the Rajah’s campong, it will be to enter--and +to remain.” + +Lakamba sat up and looked at Babalatchi gloomily. + +“This is good talk, once, twice; when it is heard too often it becomes +foolish, like the prattle of children.” + +“Many, many times have I seen the cloudy sky and have heard the wind of +the rainy seasons,” said Babalatchi, impressively. + +“And where is your wisdom? It must be with the wind and the clouds of +seasons past, for I do not hear it in your talk.” + +“Those are the words of the ungrateful!” shouted Babalatchi, with sudden +exasperation. “Verily, our only refuge is with the One, the Mighty, the +Redresser of . . .” + +“Peace! Peace!” growled the startled Lakamba. “It is but a friend’s +talk.” + +Babalatchi subsided into his former attitude, muttering to himself. +After awhile he went on again in a louder voice-- + +“Since the Rajah Laut left another white man here in Sambir, the +daughter of the blind Omar el Badavi has spoken to other ears than +mine.” + +“Would a white man listen to a beggar’s daughter?” said Lakamba, +doubtingly. + +“Hai! I have seen . . .” + +“And what did you see? O one-eyed one!” exclaimed Lakamba, +contemptuously. + +“I have seen the strange white man walking on the narrow path before +the sun could dry the drops of dew on the bushes, and I have heard the +whisper of his voice when he spoke through the smoke of the morning fire +to that woman with big eyes and a pale skin. Woman in body, but in heart +a man! She knows no fear and no shame. I have heard her voice too.” + +He nodded twice at Lakamba sagaciously and gave himself up to silent +musing, his solitary eye fixed immovably upon the straight wall of +forest on the opposite bank. Lakamba lay silent, staring vacantly. Under +them Lingard’s own river rippled softly amongst the piles supporting the +bamboo platform of the little watch-house before which they were lying. +Behind the house the ground rose in a gentle swell of a low hill cleared +of the big timber, but thickly overgrown with the grass and bushes, now +withered and burnt up in the long drought of the dry season. This old +rice clearing, which had been several years lying fallow, was framed +on three sides by the impenetrable and tangled growth of the untouched +forest, and on the fourth came down to the muddy river bank. There +was not a breath of wind on the land or river, but high above, in the +transparent sky, little clouds rushed past the moon, now appearing in +her diffused rays with the brilliance of silver, now obscuring her face +with the blackness of ebony. Far away, in the middle of the river, a +fish would leap now and then with a short splash, the very loudness of +which measured the profundity of the overpowering silence that swallowed +up the sharp sound suddenly. + +Lakamba dozed uneasily off, but the wakeful Babalatchi sat thinking +deeply, sighing from time to time, and slapping himself over his naked +torso incessantly in a vain endeavour to keep off an occasional and +wandering mosquito that, rising as high as the platform above the swarms +of the riverside, would settle with a ping of triumph on the unexpected +victim. The moon, pursuing her silent and toilsome path, attained +her highest elevation, and chasing the shadow of the roof-eaves from +Lakamba’s face, seemed to hang arrested over their heads. Babalatchi +revived the fire and woke up his companion, who sat up yawning and +shivering discontentedly. + +Babalatchi spoke again in a voice which was like the murmur of a brook +that runs over the stones: low, monotonous, persistent; irresistible +in its power to wear out and to destroy the hardest obstacles. Lakamba +listened, silent but interested. They were Malay adventurers; ambitious +men of that place and time; the Bohemians of their race. In the early +days of the settlement, before the ruler Patalolo had shaken off his +allegiance to the Sultan of Koti, Lakamba appeared in the river with +two small trading vessels. He was disappointed to find already some +semblance of organization amongst the settlers of various races who +recognized the unobtrusive sway of old Patalolo, and he was not politic +enough to conceal his disappointment. He declared himself to be a man +from the east, from those parts where no white man ruled, and to be of +an oppressed race, but of a princely family. And truly enough he had +all the gifts of an exiled prince. He was discontented, ungrateful, +turbulent; a man full of envy and ready for intrigue, with brave words +and empty promises for ever on his lips. He was obstinate, but his will +was made up of short impulses that never lasted long enough to carry him +to the goal of his ambition. Received coldly by the suspicious Patalolo, +he persisted--permission or no permission--in clearing the ground on +a good spot some fourteen miles down the river from Sambir, and built +himself a house there, which he fortified by a high palisade. As he had +many followers and seemed very reckless, the old Rajah did not think +it prudent at the time to interfere with him by force. Once settled, he +began to intrigue. The quarrel of Patalolo with the Sultan of Koti was +of his fomenting, but failed to produce the result he expected because +the Sultan could not back him up effectively at such a great distance. +Disappointed in that scheme, he promptly organized an outbreak of the +Bugis settlers, and besieged the old Rajah in his stockade with much +noisy valour and a fair chance of success; but Lingard then appeared on +the scene with the armed brig, and the old seaman’s hairy forefinger, +shaken menacingly in his face, quelled his martial ardour. No man cared +to encounter the Rajah Laut, and Lakamba, with momentary resignation, +subsided into a half-cultivator, half-trader, and nursed in his +fortified house his wrath and his ambition, keeping it for use on a +more propitious occasion. Still faithful to his character of a +prince-pretender, he would not recognize the constituted authorities, +answering sulkily the Rajah’s messenger, who claimed the tribute for the +cultivated fields, that the Rajah had better come and take it himself. +By Lingard’s advice he was left alone, notwithstanding his rebellious +mood; and for many days he lived undisturbed amongst his wives and +retainers, cherishing that persistent and causeless hope of better +times, the possession of which seems to be the universal privilege of +exiled greatness. + +But the passing days brought no change. The hope grew faint and the +hot ambition burnt itself out, leaving only a feeble and expiring spark +amongst a heap of dull and tepid ashes of indolent acquiescence with the +decrees of Fate, till Babalatchi fanned it again into a bright flame. +Babalatchi had blundered upon the river while in search of a safe refuge +for his disreputable head. + +He was a vagabond of the seas, a true Orang-Laut, living by rapine and +plunder of coasts and ships in his prosperous days; earning his living +by honest and irksome toil when the days of adversity were upon him. So, +although at times leading the Sulu rovers, he had also served as Serang +of country ships, and in that wise had visited the distant seas, +beheld the glories of Bombay, the might of the Mascati Sultan; had even +struggled in a pious throng for the privilege of touching with his lips +the Sacred Stone of the Holy City. He gathered experience and wisdom in +many lands, and after attaching himself to Omar el Badavi, he affected +great piety (as became a pilgrim), although unable to read the inspired +words of the Prophet. He was brave and bloodthirsty without any +affection, and he hated the white men who interfered with the manly +pursuits of throat-cutting, kidnapping, slave-dealing, and fire-raising, +that were the only possible occupation for a true man of the sea. He +found favour in the eyes of his chief, the fearless Omar el Badavi, the +leader of Brunei rovers, whom he followed with unquestioning loyalty +through the long years of successful depredation. And when that long +career of murder, robbery and violence received its first serious check +at the hands of white men, he stood faithfully by his chief, looked +steadily at the bursting shells, was undismayed by the flames of the +burning stronghold, by the death of his companions, by the shrieks +of their women, the wailing of their children; by the sudden ruin and +destruction of all that he deemed indispensable to a happy and glorious +existence. The beaten ground between the houses was slippery with blood, +and the dark mangroves of the muddy creeks were full of sighs of the +dying men who were stricken down before they could see their enemy. They +died helplessly, for into the tangled forest there was no escape, and +their swift praus, in which they had so often scoured the coast and the +seas, now wedged together in the narrow creek, were burning fiercely. +Babalatchi, with the clear perception of the coming end, devoted all his +energies to saving if it was but only one of them. He succeeded in time. +When the end came in the explosion of the stored powder-barrels, he was +ready to look for his chief. He found him half dead and totally blinded, +with nobody near him but his daughter Aissa:--the sons had fallen +earlier in the day, as became men of their courage. Helped by the girl +with the steadfast heart, Babalatchi carried Omar on board the light +prau and succeeded in escaping, but with very few companions only. As +they hauled their craft into the network of dark and silent creeks, they +could hear the cheering of the crews of the man-of-war’s boats dashing +to the attack of the rover’s village. Aissa, sitting on the high +after-deck, her father’s blackened and bleeding head in her lap, looked +up with fearless eyes at Babalatchi. “They shall find only smoke, blood +and dead men, and women mad with fear there, but nothing else living,” + she said, mournfully. Babalatchi, pressing with his right hand the deep +gash on his shoulder, answered sadly: “They are very strong. When we +fight with them we can only die. Yet,” he added, menacingly--“some of us +still live! Some of us still live!” + +For a short time he dreamed of vengeance, but his dream was dispelled by +the cold reception of the Sultan of Sulu, with whom they sought refuge +at first and who gave them only a contemptuous and grudging hospitality. +While Omar, nursed by Aissa, was recovering from his wounds, Babalatchi +attended industriously before the exalted Presence that had extended to +them the hand of Protection. For all that, when Babalatchi spoke into +the Sultan’s ear certain proposals of a great and profitable raid, that +was to sweep the islands from Ternate to Acheen, the Sultan was very +angry. “I know you, you men from the west,” he exclaimed, angrily. “Your +words are poison in a Ruler’s ears. Your talk is of fire and murder +and booty--but on our heads falls the vengeance of the blood you drink. +Begone!” + +There was nothing to be done. Times were changed. So changed that, when +a Spanish frigate appeared before the island and a demand was sent +to the Sultan to deliver Omar and his companions, Babalatchi was +not surprised to hear that they were going to be made the victims of +political expediency. But from that sane appreciation of danger to tame +submission was a very long step. And then began Omar’s second flight. It +began arms in hand, for the little band had to fight in the night on +the beach for the possession of the small canoes in which those that +survived got away at last. The story of that escape lives in the hearts +of brave men even to this day. They talk of Babalatchi and of the strong +woman who carried her blind father through the surf under the fire +of the warship from the north. The companions of that piratical and +son-less Aeneas are dead now, but their ghosts wander over the waters +and the islands at night--after the manner of ghosts--and haunt the +fires by which sit armed men, as is meet for the spirits of fearless +warriors who died in battle. There they may hear the story of their own +deeds, of their own courage, suffering and death, on the lips of living +men. That story is told in many places. On the cool mats in breezy +verandahs of Rajahs’ houses it is alluded to disdainfully by impassive +statesmen, but amongst armed men that throng the courtyards it is a tale +which stills the murmur of voices and the tinkle of anklets; arrests the +passage of the siri-vessel, and fixes the eyes in absorbed gaze. They +talk of the fight, of the fearless woman, of the wise man; of long +suffering on the thirsty sea in leaky canoes; of those who died. . . . +Many died. A few survived. The chief, the woman, and another one who +became great. + +There was no hint of incipient greatness in Babalatchi’s unostentatious +arrival in Sambir. He came with Omar and Aissa in a small prau loaded +with green cocoanuts, and claimed the ownership of both vessel and +cargo. How it came to pass that Babalatchi, fleeing for his life in a +small canoe, managed to end his hazardous journey in a vessel full of a +valuable commodity, is one of those secrets of the sea that baffle +the most searching inquiry. In truth nobody inquired much. There were +rumours of a missing trading prau belonging to Menado, but they were +vague and remained mysterious. Babalatchi told a story which--it must be +said in justice to Patalolo’s knowledge of the world--was not believed. +When the Rajah ventured to state his doubts, Babalatchi asked him in +tones of calm remonstrance whether he could reasonably suppose that two +oldish men--who had only one eye amongst them--and a young woman were +likely to gain possession of anything whatever by violence? Charity was +a virtue recommended by the Prophet. There were charitable people, and +their hand was open to the deserving. Patalolo wagged his aged head +doubtingly, and Babalatchi withdrew with a shocked mien and put himself +forthwith under Lakamba’s protection. The two men who completed the +prau’s crew followed him into that magnate’s campong. The blind +Omar, with Aissa, remained under the care of the Rajah, and the Rajah +confiscated the cargo. The prau hauled up on the mud-bank, at the +junction of the two branches of the Pantai, rotted in the rain, warped +in the sun, fell to pieces and gradually vanished into the smoke of +household fires of the settlement. Only a forgotten plank and a rib or +two, sticking neglected in the shiny ooze for a long time, served to +remind Babalatchi during many months that he was a stranger in the land. + +Otherwise, he felt perfectly at home in Lakamba’s establishment, where +his peculiar position and influence were quickly recognized and soon +submitted to even by the women. He had all a true vagabond’s pliability +to circumstances and adaptiveness to momentary surroundings. In his +readiness to learn from experience that contempt for early principles +so necessary to a true statesman, he equalled the most successful +politicians of any age; and he had enough persuasiveness and firmness +of purpose to acquire a complete mastery over Lakamba’s vacillating +mind--where there was nothing stable but an all-pervading discontent. +He kept the discontent alive, he rekindled the expiring ambition, he +moderated the poor exile’s not unnatural impatience to attain a high +and lucrative position. He--the man of violence--deprecated the use of +force, for he had a clear comprehension of the difficult situation. From +the same cause, he--the hater of white men--would to some extent admit +the eventual expediency of Dutch protection. But nothing should be done +in a hurry. Whatever his master Lakamba might think, there was no use in +poisoning old Patalolo, he maintained. It could be done, of course; +but what then? As long as Lingard’s influence was paramount--as long +as Almayer, Lingard’s representative, was the only great trader of +the settlement, it was not worth Lakamba’s while--even if it had been +possible--to grasp the rule of the young state. Killing Almayer and +Lingard was so difficult and so risky that it might be dismissed as +impracticable. What was wanted was an alliance; somebody to set up +against the white men’s influence--and somebody who, while favourable to +Lakamba, would at the same time be a person of a good standing with +the Dutch authorities. A rich and considered trader was wanted. Such a +person once firmly established in Sambir would help them to oust the old +Rajah, to remove him from power or from life if there was no other way. +Then it would be time to apply to the Orang Blanda for a flag; for a +recognition of their meritorious services; for that protection which +would make them safe for ever! The word of a rich and loyal trader would +mean something with the Ruler down in Batavia. The first thing to do +was to find such an ally and to induce him to settle in Sambir. A +white trader would not do. A white man would not fall in with their +ideas--would not be trustworthy. The man they wanted should be rich, +unscrupulous, have many followers, and be a well-known personality +in the islands. Such a man might be found amongst the Arab traders. +Lingard’s jealousy, said Babalatchi, kept all the traders out of the +river. Some were afraid, and some did not know how to get there; others +ignored the very existence of Sambir; a good many did not think it +worth their while to run the risk of Lingard’s enmity for the doubtful +advantage of trade with a comparatively unknown settlement. The great +majority were undesirable or untrustworthy. And Babalatchi mentioned +regretfully the men he had known in his young days: wealthy, resolute, +courageous, reckless, ready for any enterprise! But why lament the past +and speak about the dead? There is one man--living--great--not far +off . . . + +Such was Babalatchi’s line of policy laid before his ambitious +protector. Lakamba assented, his only objection being that it was +very slow work. In his extreme desire to grasp dollars and power, the +unintellectual exile was ready to throw himself into the arms of +any wandering cut-throat whose help could be secured, and Babalatchi +experienced great difficulty in restraining him from unconsidered +violence. It would not do to let it be seen that they had any hand in +introducing a new element into the social and political life of Sambir. +There was always a possibility of failure, and in that case Lingard’s +vengeance would be swift and certain. No risk should be run. They must +wait. + +Meantime he pervaded the settlement, squatting in the course of each +day by many household fires, testing the public temper and public +opinion--and always talking about his impending departure. + +At night he would often take Lakamba’s smallest canoe and depart +silently to pay mysterious visits to his old chief on the other side of +the river. Omar lived in odour of sanctity under the wing of Patalolo. +Between the bamboo fence, enclosing the houses of the Rajah, and the +wild forest, there was a banana plantation, and on its further edge +stood two little houses built on low piles under a few precious fruit +trees that grew on the banks of a clear brook, which, bubbling up behind +the house, ran in its short and rapid course down to the big river. +Along the brook a narrow path led through the dense second growth of +a neglected clearing to the banana plantation and to the houses in it +which the Rajah had given for residence to Omar. The Rajah was greatly +impressed by Omar’s ostentatious piety, by his oracular wisdom, by +his many misfortunes, by the solemn fortitude with which he bore his +affliction. Often the old ruler of Sambir would visit informally the +blind Arab and listen gravely to his talk during the hot hours of an +afternoon. In the night, Babalatchi would call and interrupt Omar’s +repose, unrebuked. Aissa, standing silently at the door of one of the +huts, could see the two old friends as they sat very still by the fire +in the middle of the beaten ground between the two houses, talking in +an indistinct murmur far into the night. She could not hear their words, +but she watched the two formless shadows curiously. Finally Babalatchi +would rise and, taking her father by the wrist, would lead him back +to the house, arrange his mats for him, and go out quietly. Instead of +going away, Babalatchi, unconscious of Aissa’s eyes, often sat again by +the fire, in a long and deep meditation. Aissa looked with respect on +that wise and brave man--she was accustomed to see at her father’s +side as long as she could remember--sitting alone and thoughtful in +the silent night by the dying fire, his body motionless and his mind +wandering in the land of memories, or--who knows?--perhaps groping for a +road in the waste spaces of the uncertain future. + +Babalatchi noted the arrival of Willems with alarm at this new accession +to the white men’s strength. Afterwards he changed his opinion. He met +Willems one night on the path leading to Omar’s house, and noticed later +on, with only a moderate surprise, that the blind Arab did not seem +to be aware of the new white man’s visits to the neighbourhood of his +dwelling. Once, coming unexpectedly in the daytime, Babalatchi fancied +he could see the gleam of a white jacket in the bushes on the other side +of the brook. That day he watched Aissa pensively as she moved about +preparing the evening rice; but after awhile he went hurriedly away +before sunset, refusing Omar’s hospitable invitation, in the name of +Allah, to share their meal. That same evening he startled Lakamba by +announcing that the time had come at last to make the first move in +their long-deferred game. Lakamba asked excitedly for explanation. +Babalatchi shook his head and pointed to the flitting shadows of moving +women and to the vague forms of men sitting by the evening fires in the +courtyard. Not a word would he speak here, he declared. But when the +whole household was reposing, Babalatchi and Lakamba passed silent +amongst sleeping groups to the riverside, and, taking a canoe, paddled +off stealthily on their way to the dilapidated guard-hut in the old +rice-clearing. There they were safe from all eyes and ears, and could +account, if need be, for their excursion by the wish to kill a deer, the +spot being well known as the drinking-place of all kinds of game. In +the seclusion of its quiet solitude Babalatchi explained his plan to +the attentive Lakamba. His idea was to make use of Willems for the +destruction of Lingard’s influence. + +“I know the white men, Tuan,” he said, in conclusion. “In many lands +have I seen them; always the slaves of their desires, always ready to +give up their strength and their reason into the hands of some woman. +The fate of the Believers is written by the hand of the Mighty One, +but they who worship many gods are thrown into the world with smooth +foreheads, for any woman’s hand to mark their destruction there. Let one +white man destroy another. The will of the Most High is that they should +be fools. They know how to keep faith with their enemies, but towards +each other they know only deception. Hai! I have seen! I have seen!” + +He stretched himself full length before the fire, and closed his eye in +real or simulated sleep. Lakamba, not quite convinced, sat for a long +time with his gaze riveted on the dull embers. As the night advanced, +a slight white mist rose from the river, and the declining moon, bowed +over the tops of the forest, seemed to seek the repose of the earth, +like a wayward and wandering lover who returns at last to lay his tired +and silent head on his beloved’s breast. + + + +CHAPTER SIX + + +“Lend me your gun, Almayer,” said Willems, across the table on which a +smoky lamp shone redly above the disorder of a finished meal. “I have a +mind to go and look for a deer when the moon rises to-night.” + +Almayer, sitting sidewise to the table, his elbow pushed amongst the +dirty plates, his chin on his breast and his legs stretched stiffly out, +kept his eyes steadily on the toes of his grass slippers and laughed +abruptly. + +“You might say yes or no instead of making that unpleasant noise,” + remarked Willems, with calm irritation. + +“If I believed one word of what you say, I would,” answered Almayer +without changing his attitude and speaking slowly, with pauses, as if +dropping his words on the floor. “As it is--what’s the use? You know +where the gun is; you may take it or leave it. Gun. Deer. Bosh! Hunt +deer! Pah! It’s a . . . gazelle you are after, my honoured guest. You +want gold anklets and silk sarongs for that game--my mighty hunter. And +you won’t get those for the asking, I promise you. All day amongst the +natives. A fine help you are to me.” + +“You shouldn’t drink so much, Almayer,” said Willems, disguising his +fury under an affected drawl. “You have no head. Never had, as far as I +can remember, in the old days in Macassar. You drink too much.” + +“I drink my own,” retorted Almayer, lifting his head quickly and darting +an angry glance at Willems. + +Those two specimens of the superior race glared at each other savagely +for a minute, then turned away their heads at the same moment as if by +previous arrangement, and both got up. Almayer kicked off his slippers +and scrambled into his hammock, which hung between two wooden columns +of the verandah so as to catch every rare breeze of the dry season, +and Willems, after standing irresolutely by the table for a short time, +walked without a word down the steps of the house and over the courtyard +towards the little wooden jetty, where several small canoes and a couple +of big white whale-boats were made fast, tugging at their short painters +and bumping together in the swift current of the river. He jumped into +the smallest canoe, balancing himself clumsily, slipped the rattan +painter, and gave an unnecessary and violent shove, which nearly sent +him headlong overboard. By the time he regained his balance the canoe +had drifted some fifty yards down the river. He knelt in the bottom of +his little craft and fought the current with long sweeps of the paddle. +Almayer sat up in his hammock, grasping his feet and peering over the +river with parted lips till he made out the shadowy form of man and +canoe as they struggled past the jetty again. + +“I thought you would go,” he shouted. “Won’t you take the gun? Hey?” + he yelled, straining his voice. Then he fell back in his hammock and +laughed to himself feebly till he fell asleep. On the river, Willems, +his eyes fixed intently ahead, swept his paddle right and left, +unheeding the words that reached him faintly. + +It was now three months since Lingard had landed Willems in Sambir and +had departed hurriedly, leaving him in Almayer’s care. + +The two white men did not get on well together. Almayer, remembering the +time when they both served Hudig, and when the superior Willems treated +him with offensive condescension, felt a great dislike towards his +guest. He was also jealous of Lingard’s favour. Almayer had married a +Malay girl whom the old seaman had adopted in one of his accesses of +unreasoning benevolence, and as the marriage was not a happy one from a +domestic point of view, he looked to Lingard’s fortune for compensation +in his matrimonial unhappiness. The appearance of that man, who seemed +to have a claim of some sort upon Lingard, filled him with considerable +uneasiness, the more so because the old seaman did not choose to +acquaint the husband of his adopted daughter with Willems’ history, or +to confide to him his intentions as to that individual’s future fate. +Suspicious from the first, Almayer discouraged Willems’ attempts to +help him in his trading, and then when Willems drew back, he made, with +characteristic perverseness, a grievance of his unconcern. From cold +civility in their relations, the two men drifted into silent hostility, +then into outspoken enmity, and both wished ardently for Lingard’s +return and the end of a situation that grew more intolerable from day +to day. The time dragged slowly. Willems watched the succeeding sunrises +wondering dismally whether before the evening some change would occur +in the deadly dullness of his life. He missed the commercial activity of +that existence which seemed to him far off, irreparably lost, buried out +of sight under the ruins of his past success--now gone from him beyond +the possibility of redemption. He mooned disconsolately about Almayer’s +courtyard, watching from afar, with uninterested eyes, the up-country +canoes discharging guttah or rattans, and loading rice or European goods +on the little wharf of Lingard & Co. Big as was the extent of ground +owned by Almayer, Willems yet felt that there was not enough room for +him inside those neat fences. The man who, during long years, became +accustomed to think of himself as indispensable to others, felt a bitter +and savage rage at the cruel consciousness of his superfluity, of his +uselessness; at the cold hostility visible in every look of the only +white man in this barbarous corner of the world. He gnashed his teeth +when he thought of the wasted days, of the life thrown away in the +unwilling company of that peevish and suspicious fool. He heard the +reproach of his idleness in the murmurs of the river, in the unceasing +whisper of the great forests. Round him everything stirred, moved, swept +by in a rush; the earth under his feet and the heavens above his head. +The very savages around him strove, struggled, fought, worked--if only +to prolong a miserable existence; but they lived, they lived! And it was +only himself that seemed to be left outside the scheme of creation in a +hopeless immobility filled with tormenting anger and with ever-stinging +regret. + +He took to wandering about the settlement. The afterwards flourishing +Sambir was born in a swamp and passed its youth in malodorous mud. +The houses crowded the bank, and, as if to get away from the unhealthy +shore, stepped boldly into the river, shooting over it in a close row of +bamboo platforms elevated on high piles, amongst which the current below +spoke in a soft and unceasing plaint of murmuring eddies. There was only +one path in the whole town and it ran at the back of the houses along +the succession of blackened circular patches that marked the place of +the household fires. On the other side the virgin forest bordered the +path, coming close to it, as if to provoke impudently any passer-by to +the solution of the gloomy problem of its depths. Nobody would accept +the deceptive challenge. There were only a few feeble attempts at a +clearing here and there, but the ground was low and the river, retiring +after its yearly floods, left on each a gradually diminishing mudhole, +where the imported buffaloes of the Bugis settlers wallowed happily +during the heat of the day. When Willems walked on the path, the +indolent men stretched on the shady side of the houses looked at him +with calm curiosity, the women busy round the cooking fires would send +after him wondering and timid glances, while the children would only +look once, and then run away yelling with fright at the horrible +appearance of the man with a red and white face. These manifestations +of childish disgust and fear stung Willems with a sense of absurd +humiliation; he sought in his walks the comparative solitude of the +rudimentary clearings, but the very buffaloes snorted with alarm at his +sight, scrambled lumberingly out of the cool mud and stared wildly in a +compact herd at him as he tried to slink unperceived along the edge of +the forest. One day, at some unguarded and sudden movement of his, the +whole herd stampeded down the path, scattered the fires, sent the women +flying with shrill cries, and left behind a track of smashed pots, +trampled rice, overturned children, and a crowd of angry men brandishing +sticks in loud-voiced pursuit. The innocent cause of that disturbance +ran shamefacedly the gauntlet of black looks and unfriendly remarks, +and hastily sought refuge in Almayer’s campong. After that he left the +settlement alone. + +Later, when the enforced confinement grew irksome, Willems took one +of Almayer’s many canoes and crossed the main branch of the Pantai in +search of some solitary spot where he could hide his discouragement +and his weariness. He skirted in his little craft the wall of tangled +verdure, keeping in the dead water close to the bank where the spreading +nipa palms nodded their broad leaves over his head as if in contemptuous +pity of the wandering outcast. Here and there he could see the +beginnings of chopped-out pathways, and, with the fixed idea of getting +out of sight of the busy river, he would land and follow the narrow and +winding path, only to find that it led nowhere, ending abruptly in +the discouragement of thorny thickets. He would go back slowly, with a +bitter sense of unreasonable disappointment and sadness; oppressed by +the hot smell of earth, dampness, and decay in that forest which seemed +to push him mercilessly back into the glittering sunshine of the +river. And he would recommence paddling with tired arms to seek another +opening, to find another deception. + +As he paddled up to the point where the Rajah’s stockade came down to +the river, the nipas were left behind rattling their leaves over the +brown water, and the big trees would appear on the bank, tall, strong, +indifferent in the immense solidity of their life, which endures for +ages, to that short and fleeting life in the heart of the man who crept +painfully amongst their shadows in search of a refuge from the unceasing +reproach of his thoughts. Amongst their smooth trunks a clear brook +meandered for a time in twining lacets before it made up its mind to +take a leap into the hurrying river, over the edge of the steep bank. +There was also a pathway there and it seemed frequented. Willems landed, +and following the capricious promise of the track soon found himself in +a comparatively clear space, where the confused tracery of sunlight fell +through the branches and the foliage overhead, and lay on the stream +that shone in an easy curve like a bright sword-blade dropped amongst +the long and feathery grass. + +Further on, the path continued, narrowed again in the thick undergrowth. +At the end of the first turning Willems saw a flash of white and colour, +a gleam of gold like a sun-ray lost in shadow, and a vision of blackness +darker than the deepest shade of the forest. He stopped, surprised, +and fancied he had heard light footsteps--growing lighter--ceasing. +He looked around. The grass on the bank of the stream trembled and a +tremulous path of its shivering, silver-grey tops ran from the water to +the beginning of the thicket. And yet there was not a breath of wind. +Somebody kind passed there. He looked pensive while the tremor died out +in a quick tremble under his eyes; and the grass stood high, unstirring, +with drooping heads in the warm and motionless air. + +He hurried on, driven by a suddenly awakened curiosity, and entered the +narrow way between the bushes. At the next turn of the path he caught +again the glimpse of coloured stuff and of a woman’s black hair before +him. He hastened his pace and came in full view of the object of his +pursuit. The woman, who was carrying two bamboo vessels full of water, +heard his footsteps, stopped, and putting the bamboos down half turned +to look back. Willems also stood still for a minute, then walked +steadily on with a firm tread, while the woman moved aside to let +him pass. He kept his eyes fixed straight before him, yet almost +unconsciously he took in every detail of the tall and graceful figure. +As he approached her the woman tossed her head slightly back, and with a +free gesture of her strong, round arm, caught up the mass of loose black +hair and brought it over her shoulder and across the lower part of her +face. The next moment he was passing her close, walking rigidly, like a +man in a trance. He heard her rapid breathing and he felt the touch of +a look darted at him from half-open eyes. It touched his brain and his +heart together. It seemed to him to be something loud and stirring like +a shout, silent and penetrating like an inspiration. The momentum of his +motion carried him past her, but an invisible force made up of surprise +and curiosity and desire spun him round as soon as he had passed. + +She had taken up her burden already, with the intention of pursuing her +path. His sudden movement arrested her at the first step, and again she +stood straight, slim, expectant, with a readiness to dart away suggested +in the light immobility of her pose. High above, the branches of the +trees met in a transparent shimmer of waving green mist, through which +the rain of yellow rays descended upon her head, streamed in glints down +her black tresses, shone with the changing glow of liquid metal on her +face, and lost itself in vanishing sparks in the sombre depths of her +eyes that, wide open now, with enlarged pupils, looked steadily at the +man in her path. And Willems stared at her, charmed with a charm that +carries with it a sense of irreparable loss, tingling with that feeling +which begins like a caress and ends in a blow, in that sudden hurt of a +new emotion making its way into a human heart, with the brusque stirring +of sleeping sensations awakening suddenly to the rush of new hopes, new +fears, new desires--and to the flight of one’s old self. + +She moved a step forward and again halted. A breath of wind that came +through the trees, but in Willems’ fancy seemed to be driven by her +moving figure, rippled in a hot wave round his body and scorched his +face in a burning touch. He drew it in with a long breath, the last +long breath of a soldier before the rush of battle, of a lover before +he takes in his arms the adored woman; the breath that gives courage to +confront the menace of death or the storm of passion. + +Who was she? Where did she come from? Wonderingly he took his eyes off +her face to look round at the serried trees of the forest that stood big +and still and straight, as if watching him and her breathlessly. He +had been baffled, repelled, almost frightened by the intensity of that +tropical life which wants the sunshine but works in gloom; which seems +to be all grace of colour and form, all brilliance, all smiles, but is +only the blossoming of the dead; whose mystery holds the promise of +joy and beauty, yet contains nothing but poison and decay. He had been +frightened by the vague perception of danger before, but now, as he +looked at that life again, his eyes seemed able to pierce the fantastic +veil of creepers and leaves, to look past the solid trunks, to see +through the forbidding gloom--and the mystery was disclosed--enchanting, +subduing, beautiful. He looked at the woman. Through the checkered light +between them she appeared to him with the impalpable distinctness of +a dream. The very spirit of that land of mysterious forests, standing +before him like an apparition behind a transparent veil--a veil woven of +sunbeams and shadows. + +She had approached him still nearer. He felt a strange impatience +within him at her advance. Confused thoughts rushed through his head, +disordered, shapeless, stunning. Then he heard his own voice asking-- + +“Who are you?” + +“I am the daughter of the blind Omar,” she answered, in a low but +steady tone. “And you,” she went on, a little louder, “you are the white +trader--the great man of this place.” + +“Yes,” said Willems, holding her eyes with his in a sense of extreme +effort, “Yes, I am white.” Then he added, feeling as if he spoke about +some other man, “But I am the outcast of my people.” + +She listened to him gravely. Through the mesh of scattered hair her +face looked like the face of a golden statue with living eyes. The heavy +eyelids dropped slightly, and from between the long eyelashes she sent +out a sidelong look: hard, keen, and narrow, like the gleam of sharp +steel. Her lips were firm and composed in a graceful curve, but the +distended nostrils, the upward poise of the half-averted head, gave to +her whole person the expression of a wild and resentful defiance. + +A shadow passed over Willems’ face. He put his hand over his lips as if +to keep back the words that wanted to come out in a surge of impulsive +necessity, the outcome of dominant thought that rushes from the heart to +the brain and must be spoken in the face of doubt, of danger, of fear, +of destruction itself. + +“You are beautiful,” he whispered. + +She looked at him again with a glance that running in one quick flash of +her eyes over his sunburnt features, his broad shoulders, his straight, +tall, motionless figure, rested at last on the ground at his feet. Then +she smiled. In the sombre beauty of her face that smile was like the +first ray of light on a stormy daybreak that darts evanescent and pale +through the gloomy clouds: the forerunner of sunrise and of thunder. + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN + + +There are in our lives short periods which hold no place in memory +but only as the recollection of a feeling. There is no remembrance of +gesture, of action, of any outward manifestation of life; those are lost +in the unearthly brilliance or in the unearthly gloom of such moments. +We are absorbed in the contemplation of that something, within our +bodies, which rejoices or suffers while the body goes on breathing, +instinctively runs away or, not less instinctively, fights--perhaps +dies. But death in such a moment is the privilege of the fortunate, it +is a high and rare favour, a supreme grace. + +Willems never remembered how and when he parted from Aissa. He caught +himself drinking the muddy water out of the hollow of his hand, while +his canoe was drifting in mid-stream past the last houses of Sambir. +With his returning wits came the fear of something unknown that had +taken possession of his heart, of something inarticulate and masterful +which could not speak and would be obeyed. His first impulse was that of +revolt. He would never go back there. Never! He looked round slowly at +the brilliance of things in the deadly sunshine and took up his paddle! +How changed everything seemed! The river was broader, the sky was +higher. How fast the canoe flew under the strokes of his paddle! Since +when had he acquired the strength of two men or more? He looked up and +down the reach at the forests of the bank with a confused notion that +with one sweep of his hand he could tumble all these trees into the +stream. His face felt burning. He drank again, and shuddered with a +depraved sense of pleasure at the after-taste of slime in the water. + +It was late when he reached Almayer’s house, but he crossed the dark and +uneven courtyard, walking lightly in the radiance of some light of his +own, invisible to other eyes. His host’s sulky greeting jarred him +like a sudden fall down a great height. He took his place at the table +opposite Almayer and tried to speak cheerfully to his gloomy companion, +but when the meal was ended and they sat smoking in silence he felt an +abrupt discouragement, a lassitude in all his limbs, a sense of immense +sadness as after some great and irreparable loss. The darkness of the +night entered his heart, bringing with it doubt and hesitation and +dull anger with himself and all the world. He had an impulse to shout +horrible curses, to quarrel with Almayer, to do something violent. Quite +without any immediate provocation he thought he would like to assault +the wretched, sulky beast. He glanced at him ferociously from under +his eyebrows. The unconscious Almayer smoked thoughtfully, planning +to-morrow’s work probably. The man’s composure seemed to Willems an +unpardonable insult. Why didn’t that idiot talk to-night when he wanted +him to? . . . on other nights he was ready enough to chatter. And such +dull nonsense too! And Willems, trying hard to repress his own senseless +rage, looked fixedly through the thick tobacco-smoke at the stained +tablecloth. + +They retired early, as usual, but in the middle of the night Willems +leaped out of his hammock with a stifled execration and ran down the +steps into the courtyard. The two night watchmen, who sat by a little +fire talking together in a monotonous undertone, lifted their heads +to look wonderingly at the discomposed features of the white man as he +crossed the circle of light thrown out by their fire. He disappeared in +the darkness and then came back again, passing them close, but with +no sign of consciousness of their presence on his face. Backwards and +forwards he paced, muttering to himself, and the two Malays, after a +short consultation in whispers left the fire quietly, not thinking it +safe to remain in the vicinity of a white man who behaved in such a +strange manner. They retired round the corner of the godown and watched +Willems curiously through the night, till the short daybreak was +followed by the sudden blaze of the rising sun, and Almayer’s +establishment woke up to life and work. + +As soon as he could get away unnoticed in the bustle of the busy +riverside, Willems crossed the river on his way to the place where he +had met Aissa. He threw himself down in the grass by the side of the +brook and listened for the sound of her footsteps. The brilliant light +of day fell through the irregular opening in the high branches of the +trees and streamed down, softened, amongst the shadows of big trunks. +Here and there a narrow sunbeam touched the rugged bark of a tree with a +golden splash, sparkled on the leaping water of the brook, or rested +on a leaf that stood out, shimmering and distinct, on the monotonous +background of sombre green tints. The clear gap of blue above his head +was crossed by the quick flight of white rice-birds whose wings flashed +in the sunlight, while through it the heat poured down from the sky, +clung about the steaming earth, rolled among the trees, and wrapped up +Willems in the soft and odorous folds of air heavy with the faint scent +of blossoms and with the acrid smell of decaying life. And in that +atmosphere of Nature’s workshop Willems felt soothed and lulled into +forgetfulness of his past, into indifference as to his future. The +recollections of his triumphs, of his wrongs and of his ambition +vanished in that warmth, which seemed to melt all regrets, all hope, +all anger, all strength out of his heart. And he lay there, dreamily +contented, in the tepid and perfumed shelter, thinking of Aissa’s eyes; +recalling the sound of her voice, the quiver of her lips--her frowns and +her smile. + +She came, of course. To her he was something new, unknown and strange. +He was bigger, stronger than any man she had seen before, and altogether +different from all those she knew. He was of the victorious race. With +a vivid remembrance of the great catastrophe of her life he appeared to +her with all the fascination of a great and dangerous thing; of a terror +vanquished, surmounted, made a plaything of. They spoke with just such +a deep voice--those victorious men; they looked with just such hard +blue eyes at their enemies. And she made that voice speak softly to her, +those eyes look tenderly at her face! He was indeed a man. She could not +understand all he told her of his life, but the fragments she understood +she made up for herself into a story of a man great amongst his own +people, valorous and unfortunate; an undaunted fugitive dreaming of +vengeance against his enemies. He had all the attractiveness of the +vague and the unknown--of the unforeseen and of the sudden; of a being +strong, dangerous, alive, and human, ready to be enslaved. + +She felt that he was ready. She felt it with the unerring intuition of a +primitive woman confronted by a simple impulse. Day after day, when they +met and she stood a little way off, listening to his words, holding him +with her look, the undefined terror of the new conquest became faint and +blurred like the memory of a dream, and the certitude grew distinct, +and convincing, and visible to the eyes like some material thing in full +sunlight. It was a deep joy, a great pride, a tangible sweetness that +seemed to leave the taste of honey on her lips. He lay stretched at her +feet without moving, for he knew from experience how a slight movement +of his could frighten her away in those first days of their intercourse. +He lay very quiet, with all the ardour of his desire ringing in his +voice and shining in his eyes, whilst his body was still, like death +itself. And he looked at her, standing above him, her head lost in the +shadow of broad and graceful leaves that touched her cheek; while the +slender spikes of pale green orchids streamed down from amongst the +boughs and mingled with the black hair that framed her face, as if +all those plants claimed her for their own--the animated and brilliant +flower of all that exuberant life which, born in gloom, struggles for +ever towards the sunshine. + +Every day she came a little nearer. He watched her slow progress--the +gradual taming of that woman by the words of his love. It was the +monotonous song of praise and desire that, commencing at creation, wraps +up the world like an atmosphere and shall end only in the end of all +things--when there are no lips to sing and no ears to hear. He told +her that she was beautiful and desirable, and he repeated it again +and again; for when he told her that, he had said all there was within +him--he had expressed his only thought, his only feeling. And he watched +the startled look of wonder and mistrust vanish from her face with the +passing days, her eyes soften, the smile dwell longer and longer on her +lips; a smile as of one charmed by a delightful dream; with the slight +exaltation of intoxicating triumph lurking in its dawning tenderness. + +And while she was near there was nothing in the whole world--for that +idle man--but her look and her smile. Nothing in the past, nothing in +the future; and in the present only the luminous fact of her existence. +But in the sudden darkness of her going he would be left weak and +helpless, as though despoiled violently of all that was himself. He who +had lived all his life with no preoccupation but that of his own career, +contemptuously indifferent to all feminine influence, full of scorn +for men that would submit to it, if ever so little; he, so strong, +so superior even in his errors, realized at last that his very +individuality was snatched from within himself by the hand of a woman. +Where was the assurance and pride of his cleverness; the belief in +success, the anger of failure, the wish to retrieve his fortune, the +certitude of his ability to accomplish it yet? Gone. All gone. All that +had been a man within him was gone, and there remained only the trouble +of his heart--that heart which had become a contemptible thing; which +could be fluttered by a look or a smile, tormented by a word, soothed by +a promise. + +When the longed-for day came at last, when she sank on the grass by his +side and with a quick gesture took his hand in hers, he sat up suddenly +with the movement and look of a man awakened by the crash of his own +falling house. All his blood, all his sensation, all his life seemed to +rush into that hand leaving him without strength, in a cold shiver, in +the sudden clamminess and collapse as of a deadly gun-shot wound. +He flung her hand away brutally, like something burning, and sat +motionless, his head fallen forward, staring on the ground and catching +his breath in painful gasps. His impulse of fear and apparent horror +did not dismay her in the least. Her face was grave and her eyes looked +seriously at him. Her fingers touched the hair of his temple, ran in +a light caress down his cheek, twisted gently the end of his long +moustache: and while he sat in the tremor of that contact she ran off +with startling fleetness and disappeared in a peal of clear laughter, +in the stir of grass, in the nod of young twigs growing over the path; +leaving behind only a vanishing trail of motion and sound. + +He scrambled to his feet slowly and painfully, like a man with a burden +on his shoulders, and walked towards the riverside. He hugged to his +breast the recollection of his fear and of his delight, but told +himself seriously over and over again that this must be the end of that +adventure. After shoving off his canoe into the stream he lifted his +eyes to the bank and gazed at it long and steadily, as if taking his +last look at a place of charming memories. He marched up to Almayer’s +house with the concentrated expression and the determined step of a man +who had just taken a momentous resolution. His face was set and rigid, +his gestures and movements were guarded and slow. He was keeping a tight +hand on himself. A very tight hand. He had a vivid illusion--as vivid +as reality almost--of being in charge of a slippery prisoner. He +sat opposite Almayer during that dinner--which was their last meal +together--with a perfectly calm face and within him a growing terror of +escape from his own self. + +Now and then he would grasp the edge of the table and set his teeth hard +in a sudden wave of acute despair, like one who, falling down a smooth +and rapid declivity that ends in a precipice, digs his finger nails into +the yielding surface and feels himself slipping helplessly to inevitable +destruction. + +Then, abruptly, came a relaxation of his muscles, the giving way of his +will. Something seemed to snap in his head, and that wish, that idea +kept back during all those hours, darted into his brain with the heat +and noise of a conflagration. He must see her! See her at once! Go now! +To-night! He had the raging regret of the lost hour, of every passing +moment. There was no thought of resistance now. Yet with the instinctive +fear of the irrevocable, with the innate falseness of the human heart, +he wanted to keep open the way of retreat. He had never absented himself +during the night. What did Almayer know? What would Almayer think? +Better ask him for the gun. A moonlight night. . . . Look for deer. . . . +A colourable pretext. He would lie to Almayer. What did it matter! He +lied to himself every minute of his life. And for what? For a woman. And +such. . . . + +Almayer’s answer showed him that deception was useless. Everything +gets to be known, even in this place. Well, he did not care. Cared for +nothing but for the lost seconds. What if he should suddenly die. Die +before he saw her. Before he could . . . + +As, with the sound of Almayer’s laughter in his ears, he urged his canoe +in a slanting course across the rapid current, he tried to tell himself +that he could return at any moment. He would just go and look at the +place where they used to meet, at the tree under which he lay when she +took his hand, at the spot where she sat by his side. Just go there and +then return--nothing more; but when his little skiff touched the bank +he leaped out, forgetting the painter, and the canoe hung for a moment +amongst the bushes and then swung out of sight before he had time to +dash into the water and secure it. He was thunderstruck at first. Now he +could not go back unless he called up the Rajah’s people to get a boat +and rowers--and the way to Patalolo’s campong led past Aissa’s house! + +He went up the path with the eager eyes and reluctant steps of a man +pursuing a phantom, and when he found himself at a place where a narrow +track branched off to the left towards Omar’s clearing he stood still, +with a look of strained attention on his face as if listening to a +far-off voice--the voice of his fate. It was a sound inarticulate but +full of meaning; and following it there came a rending and tearing +within his breast. He twisted his fingers together, and the joints of +his hands and arms cracked. On his forehead the perspiration stood +out in small pearly drops. He looked round wildly. Above the shapeless +darkness of the forest undergrowth rose the treetops with their high +boughs and leaves standing out black on the pale sky--like fragments +of night floating on moonbeams. Under his feet warm steam rose from the +heated earth. Round him there was a great silence. + +He was looking round for help. This silence, this immobility of his +surroundings seemed to him a cold rebuke, a stern refusal, a cruel +unconcern. There was no safety outside of himself--and in himself there +was no refuge; there was only the image of that woman. He had a sudden +moment of lucidity--of that cruel lucidity that comes once in life to +the most benighted. He seemed to see what went on within him, and was +horrified at the strange sight. He, a white man whose worst fault till +then had been a little want of judgment and too much confidence in the +rectitude of his kind! That woman was a complete savage, and . . . He +tried to tell himself that the thing was of no consequence. It was a +vain effort. The novelty of the sensations he had never experienced +before in the slightest degree, yet had despised on hearsay from +his safe position of a civilized man, destroyed his courage. He was +disappointed with himself. He seemed to be surrendering to a wild +creature the unstained purity of his life, of his race, of his +civilization. He had a notion of being lost amongst shapeless things +that were dangerous and ghastly. He struggled with the sense of certain +defeat--lost his footing--fell back into the darkness. With a faint cry +and an upward throw of his arms he gave up as a tired swimmer gives up: +because the swamped craft is gone from under his feet; because the night +is dark and the shore is far--because death is better than strife. + + + + +PART II + + +CHAPTER ONE + + +The light and heat fell upon the settlement, the clearings, and the +river as if flung down by an angry hand. The land lay silent, still, +and brilliant under the avalanche of burning rays that had destroyed all +sound and all motion, had buried all shadows, had choked every breath. +No living thing dared to affront the serenity of this cloudless sky, +dared to revolt against the oppression of this glorious and cruel +sunshine. Strength and resolution, body and mind alike were helpless, +and tried to hide before the rush of the fire from heaven. Only the +frail butterflies, the fearless children of the sun, the capricious +tyrants of the flowers, fluttered audaciously in the open, and their +minute shadows hovered in swarms over the drooping blossoms, ran lightly +on the withering grass, or glided on the dry and cracked earth. No voice +was heard in this hot noontide but the faint murmur of the river that +hurried on in swirls and eddies, its sparkling wavelets chasing each +other in their joyous course to the sheltering depths, to the cool +refuge of the sea. + +Almayer had dismissed his workmen for the midday rest, and, his little +daughter on his shoulder, ran quickly across the courtyard, making for +the shade of the verandah of his house. He laid the sleepy child on the +seat of the big rocking-chair, on a pillow which he took out of his +own hammock, and stood for a while looking down at her with tender and +pensive eyes. The child, tired and hot, moved uneasily, sighed, and +looked up at him with the veiled look of sleepy fatigue. He picked up +from the floor a broken palm-leaf fan, and began fanning gently the +flushed little face. Her eyelids fluttered and Almayer smiled. A +responsive smile brightened for a second her heavy eyes, broke with a +dimple the soft outline of her cheek; then the eyelids dropped suddenly, +she drew a long breath through the parted lips--and was in a deep sleep +before the fleeting smile could vanish from her face. + +Almayer moved lightly off, took one of the wooden armchairs, and placing +it close to the balustrade of the verandah sat down with a sigh of +relief. He spread his elbows on the top rail and resting his chin on his +clasped hands looked absently at the river, at the dance of sunlight +on the flowing water. Gradually the forest of the further bank became +smaller, as if sinking below the level of the river. The outlines +wavered, grew thin, dissolved in the air. Before his eyes there was +now only a space of undulating blue--one big, empty sky growing dark at +times. . . . Where was the sunshine? . . . He felt soothed and happy, as +if some gentle and invisible hand had removed from his soul the burden +of his body. In another second he seemed to float out into a cool +brightness where there was no such thing as memory or pain. Delicious. +His eyes closed--opened--closed again. + +“Almayer!” + +With a sudden jerk of his whole body he sat up, grasping the front rail +with both his hands, and blinked stupidly. + +“What? What’s that?” he muttered, looking round vaguely. + +“Here! Down here, Almayer.” + +Half rising in his chair, Almayer looked over the rail at the foot of +the verandah, and fell back with a low whistle of astonishment. + +“A ghost, by heavens!” he exclaimed softly to himself. + +“Will you listen to me?” went on the husky voice from the courtyard. +“May I come up, Almayer?” + +Almayer stood up and leaned over the rail. “Don’t you dare,” he said, +in a voice subdued but distinct. “Don’t you dare! The child sleeps here. +And I don’t want to hear you--or speak to you either.” + +“You must listen to me! It’s something important.” + +“Not to me, surely.” + +“Yes! To you. Very important.” + +“You were always a humbug,” said Almayer, after a short silence, in an +indulgent tone. “Always! I remember the old days. Some fellows used to +say there was no one like you for smartness--but you never took me in. +Not quite. I never quite believed in you, Mr. Willems.” + +“I admit your superior intelligence,” retorted Willems, with scornful +impatience, from below. “Listening to me would be a further proof of it. +You will be sorry if you don’t.” + +“Oh, you funny fellow!” said Almayer, banteringly. “Well, come up. Don’t +make a noise, but come up. You’ll catch a sunstroke down there and die +on my doorstep perhaps. I don’t want any tragedy here. Come on!” + +Before he finished speaking Willems’ head appeared above the level of +the floor, then his shoulders rose gradually and he stood at last before +Almayer--a masquerading spectre of the once so very confidential clerk +of the richest merchant in the islands. His jacket was soiled and torn; +below the waist he was clothed in a worn-out and faded sarong. He flung +off his hat, uncovering his long, tangled hair that stuck in wisps on +his perspiring forehead and straggled over his eyes, which glittered +deep down in the sockets like the last sparks amongst the black embers +of a burnt-out fire. An unclean beard grew out of the caverns of his +sunburnt cheeks. The hand he put out towards Almayer was very unsteady. +The once firm mouth had the tell-tale droop of mental suffering and +physical exhaustion. He was barefooted. Almayer surveyed him with +leisurely composure. + +“Well!” he said at last, without taking the extended hand which dropped +slowly along Willems’ body. + +“I am come,” began Willems. + +“So I see,” interrupted Almayer. “You might have spared me this treat +without making me unhappy. You have been away five weeks, if I am not +mistaken. I got on very well without you--and now you are here you are +not pretty to look at.” + +“Let me speak, will you!” exclaimed Willems. + +“Don’t shout like this. Do you think yourself in the forest with your +. . . your friends? This is a civilized man’s house. A white man’s. +Understand?” + +“I am come,” began Willems again; “I am come for your good and mine.” + +“You look as if you had come for a good feed,” chimed in the +irrepressible Almayer, while Willems waved his hand in a discouraged +gesture. “Don’t they give you enough to eat,” went on Almayer, in a tone +of easy banter, “those--what am I to call them--those new relations of +yours? That old blind scoundrel must be delighted with your company. You +know, he was the greatest thief and murderer of those seas. Say! do +you exchange confidences? Tell me, Willems, did you kill somebody in +Macassar or did you only steal something?” + +“It is not true!” exclaimed Willems, hotly. “I only borrowed. . . . They +all lied! I . . .” + +“Sh-sh!” hissed Almayer, warningly, with a look at the sleeping child. +“So you did steal,” he went on, with repressed exultation. “I thought +there was something of the kind. And now, here, you steal again.” + +For the first time Willems raised his eyes to Almayer’s face. + +“Oh, I don’t mean from me. I haven’t missed anything,” said Almayer, +with mocking haste. “But that girl. Hey! You stole her. You did not pay +the old fellow. She is no good to him now, is she?” + +“Stop that. Almayer!” + +Something in Willems’ tone caused Almayer to pause. He looked narrowly +at the man before him, and could not help being shocked at his +appearance. + +“Almayer,” went on Willems, “listen to me. If you are a human being you +will. I suffer horribly--and for your sake.” + +Almayer lifted his eyebrows. “Indeed! How? But you are raving,” he +added, negligently. + +“Ah! You don’t know,” whispered Willems. “She is gone. Gone,” he +repeated, with tears in his voice, “gone two days ago.” + +“No!” exclaimed the surprised Almayer. “Gone! I haven’t heard that +news yet.” He burst into a subdued laugh. “How funny! Had enough of you +already? You know it’s not flattering for you, my superior countryman.” + +Willems--as if not hearing him--leaned against one of the columns of the +roof and looked over the river. “At first,” he whispered, dreamily, “my +life was like a vision of heaven--or hell; I didn’t know which. Since +she went I know what perdition means; what darkness is. I know what it +is to be torn to pieces alive. That’s how I feel.” + +“You may come and live with me again,” said Almayer, coldly. “After all, +Lingard--whom I call my father and respect as such--left you under my +care. You pleased yourself by going away. Very good. Now you want +to come back. Be it so. I am no friend of yours. I act for Captain +Lingard.” + +“Come back?” repeated Willems, passionately. “Come back to you and +abandon her? Do you think I am mad? Without her! Man! what are you +made of? To think that she moves, lives, breathes out of my sight. I am +jealous of the wind that fans her, of the air she breathes, of the earth +that receives the caress of her foot, of the sun that looks at her now +while I . . . I haven’t seen her for two days--two days.” + +The intensity of Willems’ feeling moved Almayer somewhat, but he +affected to yawn elaborately, “You do bore me,” he muttered. “Why don’t +you go after her instead of coming here?” + +“Why indeed?” + +“Don’t you know where she is? She can’t be very far. No native craft has +left this river for the last fortnight.” + +“No! not very far--and I will tell you where she is. She is in Lakamba’s +campong.” And Willems fixed his eyes steadily on Almayer’s face. + +“Phew! Patalolo never sent to let me know. Strange,” said Almayer, +thoughtfully. “Are you afraid of that lot?” he added, after a short +pause. + +“I--afraid!” + +“Then is it the care of your dignity which prevents you from following +her there, my high-minded friend?” asked Almayer, with mock solicitude. +“How noble of you!” + +There was a short silence; then Willems said, quietly, “You are a fool. +I should like to kick you.” + +“No fear,” answered Almayer, carelessly; “you are too weak for that. You +look starved.” + +“I don’t think I have eaten anything for the last two days; perhaps +more--I don’t remember. It does not matter. I am full of live embers,” + said Willems, gloomily. “Look!” and he bared an arm covered with fresh +scars. “I have been biting myself to forget in that pain the fire that +hurts me there!” He struck his breast violently with his fist, reeled +under his own blow, fell into a chair that stood near and closed his +eyes slowly. + +“Disgusting exhibition,” said Almayer, loftily. “What could father ever +see in you? You are as estimable as a heap of garbage.” + +“You talk like that! You, who sold your soul for a few guilders,” + muttered Willems, wearily, without opening his eyes. + +“Not so few,” said Almayer, with instinctive readiness, and stopped +confused for a moment. He recovered himself quickly, however, and went +on: “But you--you have thrown yours away for nothing; flung it under +the feet of a damned savage woman who has made you already the thing you +are, and will kill you very soon, one way or another, with her love or +with her hate. You spoke just now about guilders. You meant Lingard’s +money, I suppose. Well, whatever I have sold, and for whatever price, I +never meant you--you of all people--to spoil my bargain. I feel pretty +safe though. Even father, even Captain Lingard, would not touch you now +with a pair of tongs; not with a ten-foot pole. . . .” + +He spoke excitedly, all in one breath, and, ceasing suddenly, glared at +Willems and breathed hard through his nose in sulky resentment. Willems +looked at him steadily for a moment, then got up. + +“Almayer,” he said resolutely, “I want to become a trader in this +place.” + +Almayer shrugged his shoulders. + +“Yes. And you shall set me up. I want a house and trade goods--perhaps a +little money. I ask you for it.” + +“Anything else you want? Perhaps this coat?” and here Almayer unbuttoned +his jacket--“or my house--or my boots?” + +“After all it’s natural,” went on Willems, without paying any attention +to Almayer--“it’s natural that she should expect the advantages which +. . . and then I could shut up that old wretch and then . . .” + +He paused, his face brightened with the soft light of dreamy enthusiasm, +and he turned his eyes upwards. With his gaunt figure and dilapidated +appearance he looked like some ascetic dweller in a wilderness, finding +the reward of a self-denying life in a vision of dazzling glory. He went +on in an impassioned murmur-- + +“And then I would have her all to myself away from her people--all +to myself--under my own influence--to fashion--to mould--to adore--to +soften--to . . . Oh! Delight! And then--then go away to some distant +place where, far from all she knew, I would be all the world to her! All +the world to her!” + +His face changed suddenly. His eyes wandered for awhile and then became +steady all at once. + +“I would repay every cent, of course,” he said, in a business-like tone, +with something of his old assurance, of his old belief in himself, in +it. “Every cent. I need not interfere with your business. I shall cut +out the small native traders. I have ideas--but never mind that now. And +Captain Lingard would approve, I feel sure. After all it’s a loan, and I +shall be at hand. Safe thing for you.” + +“Ah! Captain Lingard would approve! He would app . . .” Almayer choked. +The notion of Lingard doing something for Willems enraged him. His face +was purple. He spluttered insulting words. Willems looked at him coolly. + +“I assure you, Almayer,” he said, gently, “that I have good grounds for +my demand.” + +“Your cursed impudence!” + +“Believe me, Almayer, your position here is not so safe as you may +think. An unscrupulous rival here would destroy your trade in a year. +It would be ruin. Now Lingard’s long absence gives courage to certain +individuals. You know?--I have heard much lately. They made proposals to +me . . . You are very much alone here. Even Patalolo . . .” + +“Damn Patalolo! I am master in this place.” + +“But, Almayer, don’t you see . . .” + +“Yes, I see. I see a mysterious ass,” interrupted Almayer, violently. +“What is the meaning of your veiled threats? Don’t you think I know +something also? They have been intriguing for years--and nothing has +happened. The Arabs have been hanging about outside this river for +years--and I am still the only trader here; the master here. Do you +bring me a declaration of war? Then it’s from yourself only. I know all +my other enemies. I ought to knock you on the head. You are not worth +powder and shot though. You ought to be destroyed with a stick--like a +snake.” + +Almayer’s voice woke up the little girl, who sat up on the pillow with a +sharp cry. He rushed over to the chair, caught up the child in his arms, +walked back blindly, stumbled against Willems’ hat which lay on the +floor, and kicked it furiously down the steps. + +“Clear out of this! Clear out!” he shouted. + +Willems made an attempt to speak, but Almayer howled him down. + +“Take yourself off! Don’t you see you frighten the child--you scarecrow! +No, no! dear,” he went on to his little daughter, soothingly, while +Willems walked down the steps slowly. “No. Don’t cry. See! Bad man going +away. Look! He is afraid of your papa. Nasty, bad man. Never come back +again. He shall live in the woods and never come near my little girl. If +he comes papa will kill him--so!” He struck his fist on the rail of the +balustrade to show how he would kill Willems, and, perching the consoled +child on his shoulder held her with one hand, while he pointed toward +the retreating figure of his visitor. + +“Look how he runs away, dearest,” he said, coaxingly. “Isn’t he funny. +Call ‘pig’ after him, dearest. Call after him.” + +The seriousness of her face vanished into dimples. Under the long +eyelashes, glistening with recent tears, her big eyes sparkled and +danced with fun. She took firm hold of Almayer’s hair with one hand, +while she waved the other joyously and called out with all her might, in +a clear note, soft and distinct like the pipe of a bird:-- + +“Pig! Pig! Pig!” + + + +CHAPTER TWO + +A sigh under the flaming blue, a shiver of the sleeping sea, a cool +breath as if a door had been swung upon the frozen spaces of the +universe, and with a stir of leaves, with the nod of boughs, with the +tremble of slender branches the sea breeze struck the coast, rushed up +the river, swept round the broad reaches, and travelled on in a soft +ripple of darkening water, in the whisper of branches, in the rustle of +leaves of the awakened forests. It fanned in Lakamba’s campong the dull +red of expiring embers into a pale brilliance; and, under its touch, +the slender, upright spirals of smoke that rose from every glowing heap +swayed, wavered, and eddying down filled the twilight of clustered shade +trees with the aromatic scent of the burning wood. The men who had been +dozing in the shade during the hot hours of the afternoon woke up, and +the silence of the big courtyard was broken by the hesitating murmur +of yet sleepy voices, by coughs and yawns, with now and then a burst of +laughter, a loud hail, a name or a joke sent out in a soft drawl. Small +groups squatted round the little fires, and the monotonous undertone of +talk filled the enclosure; the talk of barbarians, persistent, steady, +repeating itself in the soft syllables, in musical tones of the +never-ending discourses of those men of the forests and the sea, who +can talk most of the day and all the night; who never exhaust a subject, +never seem able to thresh a matter out; to whom that talk is poetry and +painting and music, all art, all history; their only accomplishment, +their only superiority, their only amusement. The talk of camp fires, +which speaks of bravery and cunning, of strange events and of far +countries, of the news of yesterday and the news of to-morrow. The talk +about the dead and the living--about those who fought and those who +loved. + +Lakamba came out on the platform before his own house and sat +down--perspiring, half asleep, and sulky--in a wooden armchair under the +shade of the overhanging eaves. Through the darkness of the doorway +he could hear the soft warbling of his womenkind, busy round the looms +where they were weaving the checkered pattern of his gala sarongs. Right +and left of him on the flexible bamboo floor those of his followers to +whom their distinguished birth, long devotion, or faithful service had +given the privilege of using the chief’s house, were sleeping on mats +or just sat up rubbing their eyes: while the more wakeful had mustered +enough energy to draw a chessboard with red clay on a fine mat and were +now meditating silently over their moves. Above the prostrate forms +of the players, who lay face downward supported on elbow, the soles of +their feet waving irresolutely about, in the absorbed meditation of the +game, there towered here and there the straight figure of an attentive +spectator looking down with dispassionate but profound interest. On the +edge of the platform a row of high-heeled leather sandals stood ranged +carefully in a level line, and against the rough wooden rail leaned the +slender shafts of the spears belonging to these gentlemen, the broad +blades of dulled steel looking very black in the reddening light of +approaching sunset. + +A boy of about twelve--the personal attendant of Lakamba--squatted +at his master’s feet and held up towards him a silver siri box. Slowly +Lakamba took the box, opened it, and tearing off a piece of green leaf +deposited in it a pinch of lime, a morsel of gambier, a small bit of +areca nut, and wrapped up the whole with a dexterous twist. He paused, +morsel in hand, seemed to miss something, turned his head from side +to side, slowly, like a man with a stiff neck, and ejaculated in an +ill-humoured bass-- + +“Babalatchi!” + +The players glanced up quickly, and looked down again directly. Those +men who were standing stirred uneasily as if prodded by the sound of +the chief’s voice. The one nearest to Lakamba repeated the call, after +a while, over the rail into the courtyard. There was a movement +of upturned faces below by the fires, and the cry trailed over the +enclosure in sing-song tones. The thumping of wooden pestles husking +the evening rice stopped for a moment and Babalatchi’s name rang +afresh shrilly on women’s lips in various keys. A voice far off shouted +something--another, nearer, repeated it; there was a short hubbub which +died out with extreme suddenness. The first crier turned to Lakamba, +saying indolently-- + +“He is with the blind Omar.” + +Lakamba’s lips moved inaudibly. The man who had just spoken was again +deeply absorbed in the game going on at his feet; and the chief--as if +he had forgotten all about it already--sat with a stolid face amongst +his silent followers, leaning back squarely in his chair, his hands on +the arms of his seat, his knees apart, his big blood-shot eyes blinking +solemnly, as if dazzled by the noble vacuity of his thoughts. + +Babalatchi had gone to see old Omar late in the afternoon. The delicate +manipulation of the ancient pirate’s susceptibilities, the skilful +management of Aissa’s violent impulses engrossed him to the exclusion +of every other business--interfered with his regular attendance upon his +chief and protector--even disturbed his sleep for the last three nights. +That day when he left his own bamboo hut--which stood amongst others in +Lakamba’s campong--his heart was heavy with anxiety and with doubt as +to the success of his intrigue. He walked slowly, with his usual air of +detachment from his surroundings, as if unaware that many sleepy eyes +watched from all parts of the courtyard his progress towards a small +gate at its upper end. That gate gave access to a separate enclosure +in which a rather large house, built of planks, had been prepared by +Lakamba’s orders for the reception of Omar and Aissa. It was a superior +kind of habitation which Lakamba intended for the dwelling of his chief +adviser--whose abilities were worth that honour, he thought. But after +the consultation in the deserted clearing--when Babalatchi had disclosed +his plan--they both had agreed that the new house should be used at +first to shelter Omar and Aissa after they had been persuaded to leave +the Rajah’s place, or had been kidnapped from there--as the case might +be. Babalatchi did not mind in the least the putting off of his own +occupation of the house of honour, because it had many advantages for +the quiet working out of his plans. It had a certain seclusion, having +an enclosure of its own, and that enclosure communicated also with +Lakamba’s private courtyard at the back of his residence--a place set +apart for the female household of the chief. The only communication with +the river was through the great front courtyard always full of armed men +and watchful eyes. Behind the whole group of buildings there stretched +the level ground of rice-clearings, which in their turn were closed in +by the wall of untouched forests with undergrowth so thick and tangled +that nothing but a bullet--and that fired at pretty close range--could +penetrate any distance there. + +Babalatchi slipped quietly through the little gate and, closing it, tied +up carefully the rattan fastenings. Before the house there was a square +space of ground, beaten hard into the level smoothness of asphalte. A +big buttressed tree, a giant left there on purpose during the process +of clearing the land, roofed in the clear space with a high canopy of +gnarled boughs and thick, sombre leaves. To the right--and some small +distance away from the large house--a little hut of reeds, covered with +mats, had been put up for the special convenience of Omar, who, being +blind and infirm, had some difficulty in ascending the steep plankway +that led to the more substantial dwelling, which was built on low posts +and had an uncovered verandah. Close by the trunk of the tree, and +facing the doorway of the hut, the household fire glowed in a small +handful of embers in the midst of a large circle of white ashes. An +old woman--some humble relation of one of Lakamba’s wives, who had been +ordered to attend on Aissa--was squatting over the fire and lifted up +her bleared eyes to gaze at Babalatchi in an uninterested manner, as he +advanced rapidly across the courtyard. + +Babalatchi took in the courtyard with a keen glance of his solitary eye, +and without looking down at the old woman muttered a question. Silently, +the woman stretched a tremulous and emaciated arm towards the hut. +Babalatchi made a few steps towards the doorway, but stopped outside in +the sunlight. + +“O! Tuan Omar, Omar besar! It is I--Babalatchi!” + +Within the hut there was a feeble groan, a fit of coughing and an +indistinct murmur in the broken tones of a vague plaint. Encouraged +evidently by those signs of dismal life within, Babalatchi entered the +hut, and after some time came out leading with rigid carefulness the +blind Omar, who followed with both his hands on his guide’s shoulders. +There was a rude seat under the tree, and there Babalatchi led his old +chief, who sat down with a sigh of relief and leaned wearily against the +rugged trunk. The rays of the setting sun, darting under the spreading +branches, rested on the white-robed figure sitting with head thrown back +in stiff dignity, on the thin hands moving uneasily, and on the stolid +face with its eyelids dropped over the destroyed eyeballs; a face set +into the immobility of a plaster cast yellowed by age. + +“Is the sun near its setting?” asked Omar, in a dull voice. + +“Very near,” answered Babalatchi. + +“Where am I? Why have I been taken away from the place which I +knew--where I, blind, could move without fear? It is like black night to +those who see. And the sun is near its setting--and I have not heard the +sound of her footsteps since the morning! Twice a strange hand has given +me my food to-day. Why? Why? Where is she?” + +“She is near,” said Babalatchi. + +“And he?” went on Omar, with sudden eagerness, and a drop in his voice. +“Where is he? Not here. Not here!” he repeated, turning his head from +side to side as if in deliberate attempt to see. + +“No! He is not here now,” said Babalatchi, soothingly. Then, after a +pause, he added very low, “But he shall soon return.” + +“Return! O crafty one! Will he return? I have cursed him three times,” + exclaimed Omar, with weak violence. + +“He is--no doubt--accursed,” assented Babalatchi, in a conciliating +manner--“and yet he will be here before very long--I know!” + +“You are crafty and faithless. I have made you great. You were dirt +under my feet--less than dirt,” said Omar, with tremulous energy. + +“I have fought by your side many times,” said Babalatchi, calmly. + +“Why did he come?” went on Omar. “Did you send him? Why did he come to +defile the air I breathe--to mock at my fate--to poison her mind and +steal her body? She has grown hard of heart to me. Hard and merciless +and stealthy like rocks that tear a ship’s life out under the smooth +sea.” He drew a long breath, struggled with his anger, then broke +down suddenly. “I have been hungry,” he continued, in a whimpering +tone--“often I have been very hungry--and cold--and neglected--and +nobody near me. She has often forgotten me--and my sons are dead, and +that man is an infidel and a dog. Why did he come? Did you show him the +way?” + +“He found the way himself, O Leader of the brave,” said Babalatchi, +sadly. “I only saw a way for their destruction and our own greatness. +And if I saw aright, then you shall never suffer from hunger any more. +There shall be peace for us, and glory and riches.” + +“And I shall die to-morrow,” murmured Omar, bitterly. + +“Who knows? Those things have been written since the beginning of the +world,” whispered Babalatchi, thoughtfully. + +“Do not let him come back,” exclaimed Omar. + +“Neither can he escape his fate,” went on Babalatchi. “He shall come +back, and the power of men we always hated, you and I, shall crumble +into dust in our hand.” Then he added with enthusiasm, “They shall fight +amongst themselves and perish both.” + +“And you shall see all this, while, I . . .” + +“True!” murmured Babalatchi, regretfully. “To you life is darkness.” + +“No! Flame!” exclaimed the old Arab, half rising, then falling back in +his seat. “The flame of that last day! I see it yet--the last thing I +saw! And I hear the noise of the rent earth--when they all died. And +I live to be the plaything of a crafty one,” he added, with +inconsequential peevishness. + +“You are my master still,” said Babalatchi, humbly. “You are very +wise--and in your wisdom you shall speak to Syed Abdulla when he comes +here--you shall speak to him as I advised, I, your servant, the man who +fought at your right hand for many years. I have heard by a messenger +that the Syed Abdulla is coming to-night, perhaps late; for those things +must be done secretly, lest the white man, the trader up the river, +should know of them. But he will be here. There has been a surat +delivered to Lakamba. In it, Syed Abdulla says he will leave his ship, +which is anchored outside the river, at the hour of noon to-day. He will +be here before daylight if Allah wills.” + +He spoke with his eye fixed on the ground, and did not become aware of +Aissa’s presence till he lifted his head when he ceased speaking. She +had approached so quietly that even Omar did not hear her footsteps, and +she stood now looking at them with troubled eyes and parted lips, as +if she was going to speak; but at Babalatchi’s entreating gesture she +remained silent. Omar sat absorbed in thought. + +“Ay wa! Even so!” he said at last, in a weak voice. “I am to speak +your wisdom, O Babalatchi! Tell him to trust the white man! I do not +understand. I am old and blind and weak. I do not understand. I am very +cold,” he continued, in a lower tone, moving his shoulders uneasily. He +ceased, then went on rambling in a faint whisper. “They are the sons of +witches, and their father is Satan the stoned. Sons of witches. Sons +of witches.” After a short silence he asked suddenly, in a firmer +voice--“How many white men are there here, O crafty one?” + +“There are two here. Two white men to fight one another,” answered +Babalatchi, with alacrity. + +“And how many will be left then? How many? Tell me, you who are wise.” + +“The downfall of an enemy is the consolation of the unfortunate,” said +Babalatchi, sententiously. “They are on every sea; only the wisdom of +the Most High knows their number--but you shall know that some of them +suffer.” + +“Tell me, Babalatchi, will they die? Will they both die?” asked Omar, in +sudden agitation. + +Aissa made a movement. Babalatchi held up a warning hand. + +“They shall, surely, die,” he said steadily, looking at the girl with +unflinching eye. + +“Ay wa! But die soon! So that I can pass my hand over their faces when +Allah has made them stiff.” + +“If such is their fate and yours,” answered Babalatchi, without +hesitation. “God is great!” + +A violent fit of coughing doubled Omar up, and he rocked himself to and +fro, wheezing and moaning in turns, while Babalatchi and the girl looked +at him in silence. Then he leaned back against the tree, exhausted. + +“I am alone, I am alone,” he wailed feebly, groping vaguely about with +his trembling hands. “Is there anybody near me? Is there anybody? I am +afraid of this strange place.” + +“I am by your side, O Leader of the brave,” said Babalatchi, touching +his shoulder lightly. “Always by your side as in the days when we both +were young: as in the time when we both went with arms in our hands.” + +“Has there been such a time, Babalatchi?” said Omar, wildly; “I have +forgotten. And now when I die there will be no man, no fearless man to +speak of his father’s bravery. There was a woman! A woman! And she has +forsaken me for an infidel dog. The hand of the Compassionate is heavy +on my head! Oh, my calamity! Oh, my shame!” + +He calmed down after a while, and asked quietly-- + +“Is the sun set, Babalatchi?” + +“It is now as low as the highest tree I can see from here,” answered +Babalatchi. + +“It is the time of prayer,” said Omar, attempting to get up. + +Dutifully Babalatchi helped his old chief to rise, and they walked +slowly towards the hut. Omar waited outside, while Babalatchi went in +and came out directly, dragging after him the old Arab’s praying +carpet. Out of a brass vessel he poured the water of ablution on +Omar’s outstretched hands, and eased him carefully down into a kneeling +posture, for the venerable robber was far too infirm to be able to +stand. Then as Omar droned out the first words and made his first bow +towards the Holy City, Babalatchi stepped noiselessly towards Aissa, who +did not move all the time. + +Aissa looked steadily at the one-eyed sage, who was approaching her +slowly and with a great show of deference. For a moment they stood +facing each other in silence. Babalatchi appeared embarrassed. With a +sudden and quick gesture she caught hold of his arm, and with the other +hand pointed towards the sinking red disc that glowed, rayless, through +the floating mists of the evening. + +“The third sunset! The last! And he is not here,” she whispered; “what +have you done, man without faith? What have you done?” + +“Indeed I have kept my word,” murmured Babalatchi, earnestly. “This +morning Bulangi went with a canoe to look for him. He is a strange +man, but our friend, and shall keep close to him and watch him without +ostentation. And at the third hour of the day I have sent another canoe +with four rowers. Indeed, the man you long for, O daughter of Omar! may +come when he likes.” + +“But he is not here! I waited for him yesterday. To-day! To-morrow I +shall go.” + +“Not alive!” muttered Babalatchi to himself. “And do you doubt your +power,” he went on in a louder tone--“you that to him are more beautiful +than an houri of the seventh Heaven? He is your slave.” + +“A slave does run away sometimes,” she said, gloomily, “and then the +master must go and seek him out.” + +“And do you want to live and die a beggar?” asked Babalatchi, +impatiently. + +“I care not,” she exclaimed, wringing her hands; and the black pupils of +her wide-open eyes darted wildly here and there like petrels before the +storm. + +“Sh! Sh!” hissed Babalatchi, with a glance towards Omar. “Do you think, +O girl! that he himself would live like a beggar, even with you?” + +“He is great,” she said, ardently. “He despises you all! He despises you +all! He is indeed a man!” + +“You know that best,” muttered Babalatchi, with a fugitive smile--“but +remember, woman with the strong heart, that to hold him now you must be +to him like the great sea to thirsty men--a never-ceasing torment, and a +madness.” + +He ceased and they stood in silence, both looking on the ground, and +for a time nothing was heard above the crackling of the fire but the +intoning of Omar glorifying the God--his God, and the Faith--his faith. +Then Babalatchi cocked his head on one side and appeared to listen +intently to the hum of voices in the big courtyard. The dull noise +swelled into distinct shouts, then into a great tumult of voices, dying +away, recommencing, growing louder, to cease again abruptly; and in +those short pauses the shrill vociferations of women rushed up, as if +released, towards the quiet heaven. Aissa and Babalatchi started, but +the latter gripped in his turn the girl’s arm and restrained her with a +strong grasp. + +“Wait,” he whispered. + +The little door in the heavy stockade which separated Lakamba’s private +ground from Omar’s enclosure swung back quickly, and the noble exile +appeared with disturbed mien and a naked short sword in his hand. His +turban was half unrolled, and the end trailed on the ground behind him. +His jacket was open. He breathed thickly for a moment before he spoke. + +“He came in Bulangi’s boat,” he said, “and walked quietly till he was +in my presence, when the senseless fury of white men caused him to rush +upon me. I have been in great danger,” went on the ambitious nobleman +in an aggrieved tone. “Do you hear that, Babalatchi? That eater of swine +aimed a blow at my face with his unclean fist. He tried to rush amongst +my household. Six men are holding him now.” + +A fresh outburst of yells stopped Lakamba’s discourse. Angry voices +shouted: “Hold him. Beat him down. Strike at his head.” + +Then the clamour ceased with sudden completeness, as if strangled by +a mighty hand, and after a second of surprising silence the voice of +Willems was heard alone, howling maledictions in Malay, in Dutch, and in +English. + +“Listen,” said Lakamba, speaking with unsteady lips, “he blasphemes his +God. His speech is like the raving of a mad dog. Can we hold him for +ever? He must be killed!” + +“Fool!” muttered Babalatchi, looking up at Aissa, who stood with set +teeth, with gleaming eyes and distended nostrils, yet obedient to the +touch of his restraining hand. “It is the third day, and I have kept +my promise,” he said to her, speaking very low. “Remember,” he added +warningly--“like the sea to the thirsty! And now,” he said aloud, +releasing her and stepping back, “go, fearless daughter, go!” + +Like an arrow, rapid and silent she flew down the enclosure, and +disappeared through the gate of the courtyard. Lakamba and Babalatchi +looked after her. They heard the renewed tumult, the girl’s clear voice +calling out, “Let him go!” Then after a pause in the din no longer +than half the human breath the name of Aissa rang in a shout loud, +discordant, and piercing, which sent through them an involuntary +shudder. Old Omar collapsed on his carpet and moaned feebly; Lakamba +stared with gloomy contempt in the direction of the inhuman sound; but +Babalatchi, forcing a smile, pushed his distinguished protector through +the narrow gate in the stockade, followed him, and closed it quickly. + +The old woman, who had been most of the time kneeling by the fire, now +rose, glanced round fearfully and crouched hiding behind the tree. The +gate of the great courtyard flew open with a great clatter before a +frantic kick, and Willems darted in carrying Aissa in his arms. He +rushed up the enclosure like a tornado, pressing the girl to his breast, +her arms round his neck, her head hanging back over his arm, her eyes +closed and her long hair nearly touching the ground. They appeared for +a second in the glare of the fire, then, with immense strides, he dashed +up the planks and disappeared with his burden in the doorway of the big +house. + +Inside and outside the enclosure there was silence. Omar lay supporting +himself on his elbow, his terrified face with its closed eyes giving him +the appearance of a man tormented by a nightmare. + +“What is it? Help! Help me to rise!” he called out faintly. + +The old hag, still crouching in the shadow, stared with bleared eyes +at the doorway of the big house, and took no notice of his call. He +listened for a while, then his arm gave way, and, with a deep sigh of +discouragement, he let himself fall on the carpet. + +The boughs of the tree nodded and trembled in the unsteady currents of +the light wind. A leaf fluttered down slowly from some high branch and +rested on the ground, immobile, as if resting for ever, in the glow of +the fire; but soon it stirred, then soared suddenly, and flew, spinning +and turning before the breath of the perfumed breeze, driven helplessly +into the dark night that had closed over the land. + + + +CHAPTER THREE + + +For upwards of forty years Abdulla had walked in the way of his Lord. +Son of the rich Syed Selim bin Sali, the great Mohammedan trader of the +Straits, he went forth at the age of seventeen on his first commercial +expedition, as his father’s representative on board a pilgrim ship +chartered by the wealthy Arab to convey a crowd of pious Malays to the +Holy Shrine. That was in the days when steam was not in those seas--or, +at least, not so much as now. The voyage was long, and the young man’s +eyes were opened to the wonders of many lands. Allah had made it his +fate to become a pilgrim very early in life. This was a great favour +of Heaven, and it could not have been bestowed upon a man who prized it +more, or who made himself more worthy of it by the unswerving piety of +his heart and by the religious solemnity of his demeanour. Later on it +became clear that the book of his destiny contained the programme of a +wandering life. He visited Bombay and Calcutta, looked in at the Persian +Gulf, beheld in due course the high and barren coasts of the Gulf of +Suez, and this was the limit of his wanderings westward. He was then +twenty-seven, and the writing on his forehead decreed that the time had +come for him to return to the Straits and take from his dying father’s +hands the many threads of a business that was spread over all the +Archipelago: from Sumatra to New Guinea, from Batavia to Palawan. + +Very soon his ability, his will--strong to obstinacy--his wisdom beyond +his years, caused him to be recognized as the head of a family whose +members and connections were found in every part of those seas. An uncle +here--a brother there; a father-in-law in Batavia, another in Palembang; +husbands of numerous sisters; cousins innumerable scattered north, +south, east, and west--in every place where there was trade: the great +family lay like a network over the islands. They lent money to +princes, influenced the council-rooms, faced--if need be--with peaceful +intrepidity the white rulers who held the land and the sea under the +edge of sharp swords; and they all paid great deference to Abdulla, +listened to his advice, entered into his plans--because he was wise, +pious, and fortunate. + +He bore himself with the humility becoming a Believer, who never +forgets, even for one moment of his waking life, that he is the servant +of the Most High. He was largely charitable because the charitable man +is the friend of Allah, and when he walked out of his house--built of +stone, just outside the town of Penang--on his way to his godowns in the +port, he had often to snatch his hand away sharply from under the lips +of men of his race and creed; and often he had to murmur deprecating +words, or even to rebuke with severity those who attempted to touch his +knees with their finger-tips in gratitude or supplication. He was very +handsome, and carried his small head high with meek gravity. His lofty +brow, straight nose, narrow, dark face with its chiselled delicacy of +feature, gave him an aristocratic appearance which proclaimed his pure +descent. His beard was trimmed close and to a rounded point. His large +brown eyes looked out steadily with a sweetness that was belied by the +expression of his thin-lipped mouth. His aspect was serene. He had a +belief in his own prosperity which nothing could shake. + +Restless, like all his people, he very seldom dwelt for many days +together in his splendid house in Penang. Owner of ships, he was often +on board one or another of them, traversing in all directions the field +of his operations. In every port he had a household--his own or that +of a relation--to hail his advent with demonstrative joy. In every port +there were rich and influential men eager to see him, there was +business to talk over, there were important letters to read: an immense +correspondence, enclosed in silk envelopes--a correspondence which had +nothing to do with the infidels of colonial post-offices, but came into +his hands by devious, yet safe, ways. It was left for him by taciturn +nakhodas of native trading craft, or was delivered with profound salaams +by travel-stained and weary men who would withdraw from his presence +calling upon Allah to bless the generous giver of splendid rewards. And +the news was always good, and all his attempts always succeeded, and +in his ears there rang always a chorus of admiration, of gratitude, of +humble entreaties. + +A fortunate man. And his felicity was so complete that the good genii, +who ordered the stars at his birth, had not neglected--by a refinement +of benevolence strange in such primitive beings--to provide him with a +desire difficult to attain, and with an enemy hard to overcome. The envy +of Lingard’s political and commercial successes, and the wish to get the +best of him in every way, became Abdulla’s mania, the paramount interest +of his life, the salt of his existence. + +For the last few months he had been receiving mysterious messages from +Sambir urging him to decisive action. He had found the river a couple of +years ago, and had been anchored more than once off that estuary where +the, till then, rapid Pantai, spreading slowly over the lowlands, seems +to hesitate, before it flows gently through twenty outlets; over a maze +of mudflats, sandbanks and reefs, into the expectant sea. He had never +attempted the entrance, however, because men of his race, although brave +and adventurous travellers, lack the true seamanlike instincts, and he +was afraid of getting wrecked. He could not bear the idea of the Rajah +Laut being able to boast that Abdulla bin Selim, like other and lesser +men, had also come to grief when trying to wrest his secret from him. +Meantime he returned encouraging answers to his unknown friends in +Sambir, and waited for his opportunity in the calm certitude of ultimate +triumph. + +Such was the man whom Lakamba and Babalatchi expected to see for the +first time on the night of Willems’ return to Aissa. Babalatchi, who had +been tormented for three days by the fear of having over-reached +himself in his little plot, now, feeling sure of his white man, felt +lighthearted and happy as he superintended the preparations in the +courtyard for Abdulla’s reception. Half-way between Lakamba’s house and +the river a pile of dry wood was made ready for the torch that would +set fire to it at the moment of Abdulla’s landing. Between this and +the house again there was, ranged in a semicircle, a set of low +bamboo frames, and on those were piled all the carpets and cushions of +Lakamba’s household. It had been decided that the reception was to take +place in the open air, and that it should be made impressive by the +great number of Lakamba’s retainers, who, clad in clean white, with +their red sarongs gathered round their waists, chopper at side and lance +in hand, were moving about the compound or, gathering into small knots, +discussed eagerly the coming ceremony. + +Two little fires burned brightly on the water’s edge on each side of +the landing place. A small heap of damar-gum torches lay by each, and +between them Babalatchi strolled backwards and forwards, stopping often +with his face to the river and his head on one side, listening to the +sounds that came from the darkness over the water. There was no moon and +the night was very clear overhead, but, after the afternoon breeze had +expired in fitful puffs, the vapours hung thickening over the glancing +surface of the Pantai and clung to the shore, hiding from view the +middle of the stream. + +A cry in the mist--then another--and, before Babalatchi could answer, +two little canoes dashed up to the landing-place, and two of the +principal citizens of Sambir, Daoud Sahamin and Hamet Bahassoen, who had +been confidentially invited to meet Abdulla, landed quickly and after +greeting Babalatchi walked up the dark courtyard towards the house. The +little stir caused by their arrival soon subsided, and another silent +hour dragged its slow length while Babalatchi tramped up and down +between the fires, his face growing more anxious with every passing +moment. + +At last there was heard a loud hail from down the river. At a call from +Babalatchi men ran down to the riverside and, snatching the torches, +thrust them into the fires, then waved them above their heads till they +burst into a flame. The smoke ascended in thick, wispy streams, and hung +in a ruddy cloud above the glare that lit up the courtyard and flashed +over the water, showing three long canoes manned by many paddlers lying +a little off; the men in them lifting their paddles on high and dipping +them down together, in an easy stroke that kept the small flotilla +motionless in the strong current, exactly abreast of the landing-place. +A man stood up in the largest craft and called out-- + +“Syed Abdulla bin Selim is here!” + +Babalatchi answered aloud in a formal tone-- + +“Allah gladdens our hearts! Come to the land!” + +Abdulla landed first, steadying himself by the help of Babalatchi’s +extended hand. In the short moment of his passing from the boat to the +shore they exchanged sharp glances and a few rapid words. + +“Who are you?” + +“Babalatchi. The friend of Omar. The protected of Lakamba.” + +“You wrote?” + +“My words were written, O Giver of alms!” + +And then Abdulla walked with composed face between the two lines of +men holding torches, and met Lakamba in front of the big fire that was +crackling itself up into a great blaze. For a moment they stood with +clasped hands invoking peace upon each other’s head, then Lakamba, still +holding his honoured guest by the hand, led him round the fire to the +prepared seats. Babalatchi followed close behind his protector. Abdulla +was accompanied by two Arabs. He, like his companions, was dressed in a +white robe of starched muslin, which fell in stiff folds straight from +the neck. It was buttoned from the throat halfway down with a close row +of very small gold buttons; round the tight sleeves there was a narrow +braid of gold lace. On his shaven head he wore a small skull-cap of +plaited grass. He was shod in patent leather slippers over his naked +feet. A rosary of heavy wooden beads hung by a round turn from his right +wrist. He sat down slowly in the place of honour, and, dropping his +slippers, tucked up his legs under him decorously. + +The improvised divan was arranged in a wide semi-circle, of which the +point most distant from the fire--some ten yards--was also the nearest +to Lakamba’s dwelling. As soon as the principal personages were seated, +the verandah of the house was filled silently by the muffled-up forms of +Lakamba’s female belongings. They crowded close to the rail and looked +down, whispering faintly. Below, the formal exchange of compliments +went on for some time between Lakamba and Abdulla, who sat side by side. +Babalatchi squatted humbly at his protector’s feet, with nothing but a +thin mat between himself and the hard ground. + +Then there was a pause. Abdulla glanced round in an expectant manner, +and after a while Babalatchi, who had been sitting very still in a +pensive attitude, seemed to rouse himself with an effort, and began to +speak in gentle and persuasive tones. He described in flowing sentences +the first beginnings of Sambir, the dispute of the present ruler, +Patalolo, with the Sultan of Koti, the consequent troubles ending +with the rising of Bugis settlers under the leadership of Lakamba. At +different points of the narrative he would turn for confirmation to +Sahamin and Bahassoen, who sat listening eagerly and assented together +with a “Betul! Betul! Right! Right!” ejaculated in a fervent undertone. + +Warming up with his subject as the narrative proceeded, Babalatchi went +on to relate the facts connected with Lingard’s action at the critical +period of those internal dissensions. He spoke in a restrained voice +still, but with a growing energy of indignation. What was he, that +man of fierce aspect, to keep all the world away from them? Was he a +government? Who made him ruler? He took possession of Patalolo’s mind +and made his heart hard; he put severe words into his mouth and caused +his hand to strike right and left. That unbeliever kept the Faithful +panting under the weight of his senseless oppression. They had to trade +with him--accept such goods as he would give--such credit as he would +accord. And he exacted payment every year . . . + +“Very true!” exclaimed Sahamin and Bahassoen together. + +Babalatchi glanced at them approvingly and turned to Abdulla. + +“Listen to those men, O Protector of the oppressed!” he exclaimed. “What +could we do? A man must trade. There was nobody else.” + +Sahamin got up, staff in hand, and spoke to Abdulla with ponderous +courtesy, emphasizing his words by the solemn flourishes of his right +arm. + +“It is so. We are weary of paying our debts to that white man here, +who is the son of the Rajah Laut. That white man--may the grave of his +mother be defiled!--is not content to hold us all in his hand with a +cruel grasp. He seeks to cause our very death. He trades with the Dyaks +of the forest, who are no better than monkeys. He buys from them guttah +and rattans--while we starve. Only two days ago I went to him and +said, ‘Tuan Almayer’--even so; we must speak politely to that friend of +Satan--‘Tuan Almayer, I have such and such goods to sell. Will you buy?’ +And he spoke thus--because those white men have no understanding of any +courtesy--he spoke to me as if I was a slave: ‘Daoud, you are a lucky +man’--remark, O First amongst the Believers! that by those words he +could have brought misfortune on my head--‘you are a lucky man to have +anything in these hard times. Bring your goods quickly, and I shall +receive them in payment of what you owe me from last year.’ And he +laughed, and struck me on the shoulder with his open hand. May Jehannum +be his lot!” + +“We will fight him,” said young Bahassoen, crisply. “We shall fight if +there is help and a leader. Tuan Abdulla, will you come among us?” + +Abdulla did not answer at once. His lips moved in an inaudible whisper +and the beads passed through his fingers with a dry click. All waited in +respectful silence. “I shall come if my ship can enter this river,” said +Abdulla at last, in a solemn tone. + +“It can, Tuan,” exclaimed Babalatchi. “There is a white man here +who . . .” + +“I want to see Omar el Badavi and that white man you wrote about,” + interrupted Abdulla. + +Babalatchi got on his feet quickly, and there was a general move. + +The women on the verandah hurried indoors, and from the crowd that had +kept discreetly in distant parts of the courtyard a couple of men ran +with armfuls of dry fuel, which they cast upon the fire. One of them, at +a sign from Babalatchi, approached and, after getting his orders, went +towards the little gate and entered Omar’s enclosure. While waiting +for his return, Lakamba, Abdulla, and Babalatchi talked together in low +tones. Sahamin sat by himself chewing betel-nut sleepily with a slight +and indolent motion of his heavy jaw. Bahassoen, his hand on the hilt +of his short sword, strutted backwards and forwards in the full light of +the fire, looking very warlike and reckless; the envy and admiration of +Lakamba’s retainers, who stood in groups or flitted about noiselessly in +the shadows of the courtyard. + +The messenger who had been sent to Omar came back and stood at a +distance, waiting till somebody noticed him. Babalatchi beckoned him +close. + +“What are his words?” asked Babalatchi. + +“He says that Syed Abdulla is welcome now,” answered the man. + +Lakamba was speaking low to Abdulla, who listened to him with deep +interest. + +“. . . We could have eighty men if there was need,” he was +saying--“eighty men in fourteen canoes. The only thing we want is +gunpowder . . .” + +“Hai! there will be no fighting,” broke in Babalatchi. “The fear of your +name will be enough and the terror of your coming.” + +“There may be powder too,” muttered Abdulla with great nonchalance, “if +only the ship enters the river safely.” + +“If the heart is stout the ship will be safe,” said Babalatchi. “We will +go now and see Omar el Badavi and the white man I have here.” + +Lakamba’s dull eyes became animated suddenly. + +“Take care, Tuan Abdulla,” he said, “take care. The behaviour of that +unclean white madman is furious in the extreme. He offered to +strike . . .” + +“On my head, you are safe, O Giver of alms!” interrupted Babalatchi. + +Abdulla looked from one to the other, and the faintest flicker of a +passing smile disturbed for a moment his grave composure. He turned to +Babalatchi, and said with decision-- + +“Let us go.” + +“This way, O Uplifter of our hearts!” rattled on Babalatchi, with fussy +deference. “Only a very few paces and you shall behold Omar the brave, +and a white man of great strength and cunning. This way.” + +He made a sign for Lakamba to remain behind, and with respectful touches +on the elbow steered Abdulla towards the gate at the upper end of the +court-yard. As they walked on slowly, followed by the two Arabs, he kept +on talking in a rapid undertone to the great man, who never looked at +him once, although appearing to listen with flattering attention. When +near the gate Babalatchi moved forward and stopped, facing Abdulla, with +his hand on the fastenings. + +“You shall see them both,” he said. “All my words about them are true. +When I saw him enslaved by the one of whom I spoke, I knew he would be +soft in my hand like the mud of the river. At first he answered my +talk with bad words of his own language, after the manner of white +men. Afterwards, when listening to the voice he loved, he hesitated. +He hesitated for many days--too many. I, knowing him well, made Omar +withdraw here with his . . . household. Then this red-faced man raged +for three days like a black panther that is hungry. And this evening, +this very evening, he came. I have him here. He is in the grasp of one +with a merciless heart. I have him here,” ended Babalatchi, exultingly +tapping the upright of the gate with his hand. + +“That is good,” murmured Abdulla. + +“And he shall guide your ship and lead in the fight--if fight there be,” + went on Babalatchi. “If there is any killing--let him be the slayer. You +should give him arms--a short gun that fires many times.” + +“Yes, by Allah!” assented Abdulla, with slow thoughtfulness. + +“And you will have to open your hand, O First amongst the generous!” + continued Babalatchi. “You will have to satisfy the rapacity of a +white man, and also of one who is not a man, and therefore greedy of +ornaments.” + +“They shall be satisfied,” said Abdulla; “but . . .” He hesitated, +looking down on the ground and stroking his beard, while Babalatchi +waited, anxious, with parted lips. After a short time he spoke again +jerkily in an indistinct whisper, so that Babalatchi had to turn his +head to catch the words. “Yes. But Omar is the son of my father’s uncle +. . . and all belonging to him are of the Faith . . . while that man is +an unbeliever. It is most unseemly . . . very unseemly. He cannot live +under my shadow. Not that dog. Penitence! I take refuge with my God,” he +mumbled rapidly. “How can he live under my eyes with that woman, who is +of the Faith? Scandal! O abomination!” + +He finished with a rush and drew a long breath, then added dubiously-- + +“And when that man has done all we want, what is to be done with him?” + +They stood close together, meditative and silent, their eyes roaming +idly over the courtyard. The big bonfire burned brightly, and a wavering +splash of light lay on the dark earth at their feet, while the lazy +smoke wreathed itself slowly in gleaming coils amongst the black boughs +of the trees. They could see Lakamba, who had returned to his place, +sitting hunched up spiritlessly on the cushions, and Sahamin, who had +got on his feet again and appeared to be talking to him with dignified +animation. Men in twos or threes came out of the shadows into the light, +strolling slowly, and passed again into the shadows, their faces turned +to each other, their arms moving in restrained gestures. Bahassoen, his +head proudly thrown back, his ornaments, embroideries, and sword-hilt +flashing in the light, circled steadily round the fire like a planet +round the sun. A cool whiff of damp air came from the darkness of the +riverside; it made Abdulla and Babalatchi shiver, and woke them up from +their abstraction. + +“Open the gate and go first,” said Abdulla; “there is no danger?” + +“On my life, no!” answered Babalatchi, lifting the rattan ring. “He is +all peace and content, like a thirsty man who has drunk water after many +days.” + +He swung the gate wide, made a few paces into the gloom of the +enclosure, and retraced his steps suddenly. + +“He may be made useful in many ways,” he whispered to Abdulla, who had +stopped short, seeing him come back. + +“O Sin! O Temptation!” sighed out Abdulla, faintly. “Our refuge is with +the Most High. Can I feed this infidel for ever and for ever?” he added, +impatiently. + +“No,” breathed out Babalatchi. “No! Not for ever. Only while he serves +your designs, O Dispenser of Allah’s gifts! When the time comes--and +your order . . .” + +He sidled close to Abdulla, and brushed with a delicate touch the hand +that hung down listlessly, holding the prayer-beads. + +“I am your slave and your offering,” he murmured, in a distinct and +polite tone, into Abdulla’s ear. “When your wisdom speaks, there may be +found a little poison that will not lie. Who knows?” + + + +CHAPTER FOUR + + +Babalatchi saw Abdulla pass through the low and narrow entrance into the +darkness of Omar’s hut; heard them exchange the usual greetings and +the distinguished visitor’s grave voice asking: “There is no +misfortune--please God--but the sight?” and then, becoming aware of +the disapproving looks of the two Arabs who had accompanied Abdulla, +he followed their example and fell back out of earshot. He did it +unwillingly, although he did not ignore that what was going to happen +in there was now absolutely beyond his control. He roamed irresolutely +about for awhile, and at last wandered with careless steps towards the +fire, which had been moved, from under the tree, close to the hut and a +little to windward of its entrance. He squatted on his heels and began +playing pensively with live embers, as was his habit when engrossed in +thought, withdrawing his hand sharply and shaking it above his head when +he burnt his fingers in a fit of deeper abstraction. Sitting there +he could hear the murmur of the talk inside the hut, and he could +distinguish the voices but not the words. Abdulla spoke in deep tones, +and now and then this flowing monotone was interrupted by a querulous +exclamation, a weak moan or a plaintive quaver of the old man. Yes. It +was annoying not to be able to make out what they were saying, thought +Babalatchi, as he sat gazing fixedly at the unsteady glow of the fire. +But it will be right. All will be right. Abdulla inspired him with +confidence. He came up fully to his expectation. From the very first +moment when he set his eye on him he felt sure that this man--whom he +had known by reputation only--was very resolute. Perhaps too resolute. +Perhaps he would want to grasp too much later on. A shadow flitted over +Babalatchi’s face. On the eve of the accomplishment of his desires he +felt the bitter taste of that drop of doubt which is mixed with the +sweetness of every success. + +When, hearing footsteps on the verandah of the big house, he lifted his +head, the shadow had passed away and on his face there was an expression +of watchful alertness. Willems was coming down the plankway, into the +courtyard. The light within trickled through the cracks of the badly +joined walls of the house, and in the illuminated doorway appeared +the moving form of Aissa. She also passed into the night outside and +disappeared from view. Babalatchi wondered where she had got to, and for +the moment forgot the approach of Willems. The voice of the white man +speaking roughly above his head made him jump to his feet as if impelled +upwards by a powerful spring. + +“Where’s Abdulla?” + +Babalatchi waved his hand towards the hut and stood listening intently. +The voices within had ceased, then recommenced again. He shot an oblique +glance at Willems, whose indistinct form towered above the glow of dying +embers. + +“Make up this fire,” said Willems, abruptly. “I want to see your face.” + +With obliging alacrity Babalatchi put some dry brushwood on the coals +from a handy pile, keeping all the time a watchful eye on Willems. +When he straightened himself up his hand wandered almost involuntarily +towards his left side to feel the handle of a kriss amongst the folds of +his sarong, but he tried to look unconcerned under the angry stare. + +“You are in good health, please God?” he murmured. + +“Yes!” answered Willems, with an unexpected loudness that caused +Babalatchi to start nervously. “Yes! . . . Health! . . . You . . .” + +He made a long stride and dropped both his hands on the Malay’s +shoulders. In the powerful grip Babalatchi swayed to and fro limply, but +his face was as peaceful as when he sat--a little while ago--dreaming by +the fire. With a final vicious jerk Willems let go suddenly, and turning +away on his heel stretched his hands over the fire. Babalatchi stumbled +backwards, recovered himself, and wriggled his shoulders laboriously. + +“Tse! Tse! Tse!” he clicked, deprecatingly. After a short silence he +went on with accentuated admiration: “What a man it is! What a strong +man! A man like that”--he concluded, in a tone of meditative wonder--“a +man like that could upset mountains--mountains!” + +He gazed hopefully for a while at Willems’ broad shoulders, and +continued, addressing the inimical back, in a low and persuasive voice-- + +“But why be angry with me? With me who think only of your good? Did I +not give her refuge, in my own house? Yes, Tuan! This is my own house. +I will let you have it without any recompense because she must have a +shelter. Therefore you and she shall live here. Who can know a woman’s +mind? And such a woman! If she wanted to go away from that other place, +who am I--to say no! I am Omar’s servant. I said: ‘Gladden my heart by +taking my house.’ Did I say right?” + +“I’ll tell you something,” said Willems, without changing his position; +“if she takes a fancy to go away from this place it is you who shall +suffer. I will wring your neck.” + +“When the heart is full of love there is no room in it for justice,” + recommenced Babalatchi, with unmoved and persistent softness. “Why slay +me? You know, Tuan, what she wants. A splendid destiny is her desire--as +of all women. You have been wronged and cast out by your people. She +knows that. But you are brave, you are strong--you are a man; and, +Tuan--I am older than you--you are in her hand. Such is the fate of +strong men. And she is of noble birth and cannot live like a slave. You +know her--and you are in her hand. You are like a snared bird, because +of your strength. And--remember I am a man that has seen much--submit, +Tuan! Submit! . . . Or else . . .” + +He drawled out the last words in a hesitating manner and broke off his +sentence. Still stretching his hands in turns towards the blaze and +without moving his head, Willems gave a short, lugubrious laugh, and +asked-- + +“Or else what?” + +“She may go away again. Who knows?” finished Babalatchi, in a gentle and +insinuating tone. + +This time Willems spun round sharply. Babalatchi stepped back. + +“If she does it will be the worse for you,” said Willems, in a menacing +voice. “It will be your doing, and I . . .” + +Babalatchi spoke, from beyond the circle of light, with calm disdain. + +“Hai--ya! I have heard before. If she goes--then I die. Good! Will that +bring her back do you think--Tuan? If it is my doing it shall be well +done, O white man! and--who knows--you will have to live without her.” + +Willems gasped and started back like a confident wayfarer who, pursuing +a path he thinks safe, should see just in time a bottomless chasm +under his feet. Babalatchi came into the light and approached Willems +sideways, with his head thrown back and a little on one side so as to +bring his only eye to bear full on the countenance of the tall white +man. + +“You threaten me,” said Willems, indistinctly. + +“I, Tuan!” exclaimed Babalatchi, with a slight suspicion of irony in the +affected surprise of his tone. “I, Tuan? Who spoke of death? Was it +I? No! I spoke of life only. Only of life. Of a long life for a lonely +man!” + +They stood with the fire between them, both silent, both aware, each +in his own way, of the importance of the passing minutes. Babalatchi’s +fatalism gave him only an insignificant relief in his suspense, because +no fatalism can kill the thought of the future, the desire of success, +the pain of waiting for the disclosure of the immutable decrees of +Heaven. Fatalism is born of the fear of failure, for we all believe that +we carry success in our own hands, and we suspect that our hands are +weak. Babalatchi looked at Willems and congratulated himself upon his +ability to manage that white man. There was a pilot for Abdulla--a +victim to appease Lingard’s anger in case of any mishap. He would take +good care to put him forward in everything. In any case let the white +men fight it out amongst themselves. They were fools. He hated them--the +strong fools--and knew that for his righteous wisdom was reserved the +safe triumph. + +Willems measured dismally the depth of his degradation. He--a white man, +the admired of white men, was held by those miserable savages whose tool +he was about to become. He felt for them all the hate of his race, of +his morality, of his intelligence. He looked upon himself with dismay +and pity. She had him. He had heard of such things. He had heard of +women who . . . He would never believe such stories. . . . Yet they +were true. But his own captivity seemed more complete, terrible, and +final--without the hope of any redemption. He wondered at the wickedness +of Providence that had made him what he was; that, worse still, +permitted such a creature as Almayer to live. He had done his duty by +going to him. Why did he not understand? All men were fools. He gave +him his chance. The fellow did not see it. It was hard, very hard on +himself--Willems. He wanted to take her from amongst her own people. +That’s why he had condescended to go to Almayer. He examined himself. +With a sinking heart he thought that really he could not--somehow--live +without her. It was terrible and sweet. He remembered the first days. +Her appearance, her face, her smile, her eyes, her words. A savage +woman! Yet he perceived that he could think of nothing else but of the +three days of their separation, of the few hours since their reunion. +Very well. If he could not take her away, then he would go to her. . . . +He had, for a moment, a wicked pleasure in the thought that what he had +done could not be undone. He had given himself up. He felt proud of it. +He was ready to face anything, do anything. He cared for nothing, for +nobody. He thought himself very fearless, but as a matter of fact he was +only drunk; drunk with the poison of passionate memories. + +He stretched his hands over the fire, looked round and called out-- + +“Aissa!” + +She must have been near, for she appeared at once within the light of +the fire. The upper part of her body was wrapped up in the thick folds +of a head covering which was pulled down over her brow, and one end of +it thrown across from shoulder to shoulder hid the lower part of her +face. Only her eyes were visible--sombre and gleaming like a starry +night. + +Willems, looking at this strange, muffled figure, felt exasperated, +amazed and helpless. The ex-confidential clerk of the rich Hudig would +hug to his breast settled conceptions of respectable conduct. He sought +refuge within his ideas of propriety from the dismal mangroves, from +the darkness of the forests and of the heathen souls of the savages that +were his masters. She looked like an animated package of cheap cotton +goods! It made him furious. She had disguised herself so because a man +of her race was near! He told her not to do it, and she did not obey. +Would his ideas ever change so as to agree with her own notions of what +was becoming, proper and respectable? He was really afraid they +would, in time. It seemed to him awful. She would never change! This +manifestation of her sense of proprieties was another sign of their +hopeless diversity; something like another step downwards for him. She +was too different from him. He was so civilized! It struck him suddenly +that they had nothing in common--not a thought, not a feeling; he could +not make clear to her the simplest motive of any act of his . . . and he +could not live without her. + +The courageous man who stood facing Babalatchi gasped unexpectedly with +a gasp that was half a groan. This little matter of her veiling +herself against his wish acted upon him like a disclosure of some +great disaster. It increased his contempt for himself as the slave of +a passion he had always derided, as the man unable to assert his will. +This will, all his sensations, his personality--all this seemed to be +lost in the abominable desire, in the priceless promise of that woman. +He was not, of course, able to discern clearly the causes of his misery; +but there are none so ignorant as not to know suffering, none so simple +as not to feel and suffer from the shock of warring impulses. The +ignorant must feel and suffer from their complexity as well as the +wisest; but to them the pain of struggle and defeat appears strange, +mysterious, remediable and unjust. He stood watching her, watching +himself. He tingled with rage from head to foot, as if he had been +struck in the face. Suddenly he laughed; but his laugh was like a +distorted echo of some insincere mirth very far away. + +From the other side of the fire Babalatchi spoke hurriedly-- + +“Here is Tuan Abdulla.” + + + +CHAPTER FIVE + + +Directly on stepping outside Omar’s hut Abdulla caught sight of Willems. +He expected, of course, to see a white man, but not that white man, whom +he knew so well. Everybody who traded in the islands, and who had any +dealings with Hudig, knew Willems. For the last two years of his stay in +Macassar the confidential clerk had been managing all the local trade +of the house under a very slight supervision only on the part of the +master. So everybody knew Willems, Abdulla amongst others--but he was +ignorant of Willems’ disgrace. As a matter of fact the thing had been +kept very quiet--so quiet that a good many people in Macassar were +expecting Willems’ return there, supposing him to be absent on some +confidential mission. Abdulla, in his surprise, hesitated on the +threshold. He had prepared himself to see some seaman--some old officer +of Lingard’s; a common man--perhaps difficult to deal with, but still +no match for him. Instead, he saw himself confronted by an individual +whose reputation for sagacity in business was well known to him. How did +he get here, and why? Abdulla, recovering from his surprise, advanced in +a dignified manner towards the fire, keeping his eyes fixed steadily on +Willems. When within two paces from Willems he stopped and lifted his +right hand in grave salutation. Willems nodded slightly and spoke after +a while. + +“We know each other, Tuan Abdulla,” he said, with an assumption of easy +indifference. + +“We have traded together,” answered Abdulla, solemnly, “but it was far +from here.” + +“And we may trade here also,” said Willems. + +“The place does not matter. It is the open mind and the true heart that +are required in business.” + +“Very true. My heart is as open as my mind. I will tell you why I am +here.” + +“What need is there? In leaving home one learns life. You travel. +Travelling is victory! You shall return with much wisdom.” + +“I shall never return,” interrupted Willems. “I have done with my +people. I am a man without brothers. Injustice destroys fidelity.” + +Abdulla expressed his surprise by elevating his eyebrows. At the same +time he made a vague gesture with his arm that could be taken as an +equivalent of an approving and conciliating “just so!” + +Till then the Arab had not taken any notice of Aissa, who stood by the +fire, but now she spoke in the interval of silence following Willems’ +declaration. In a voice that was much deadened by her wrappings she +addressed Abdulla in a few words of greeting, calling him a kinsman. +Abdulla glanced at her swiftly for a second, and then, with perfect +good breeding, fixed his eyes on the ground. She put out towards him her +hand, covered with a corner of her face-veil, and he took it, pressed it +twice, and dropping it turned towards Willems. She looked at the two +men searchingly, then backed away and seemed to melt suddenly into the +night. + +“I know what you came for, Tuan Abdulla,” said Willems; “I have been +told by that man there.” He nodded towards Babalatchi, then went on +slowly, “It will be a difficult thing.” + +“Allah makes everything easy,” interjected Babalatchi, piously, from a +distance. + +The two men turned quickly and stood looking at him thoughtfully, as +if in deep consideration of the truth of that proposition. Under their +sustained gaze Babalatchi experienced an unwonted feeling of shyness, +and dared not approach nearer. At last Willems moved slightly, Abdulla +followed readily, and they both walked down the courtyard, their voices +dying away in the darkness. Soon they were heard returning, and the +voices grew distinct as their forms came out of the gloom. By the fire +they wheeled again, and Babalatchi caught a few words. Willems was +saying-- + +“I have been at sea with him many years when young. I have used my +knowledge to observe the way into the river when coming in, this time.” + +Abdulla assented in general terms. + +“In the variety of knowledge there is safety,” he said; and then they +passed out of earshot. + +Babalatchi ran to the tree and took up his position in the solid +blackness under its branches, leaning against the trunk. There he was +about midway between the fire and the other limit of the two men’s walk. +They passed him close. Abdulla slim, very straight, his head high, and +his hands hanging before him and twisting mechanically the string of +beads; Willems tall, broad, looking bigger and stronger in contrast to +the slight white figure by the side of which he strolled carelessly, +taking one step to the other’s two; his big arms in constant motion as +he gesticulated vehemently, bending forward to look Abdulla in the face. + +They passed and repassed close to Babalatchi some half a dozen times, +and, whenever they were between him and the fire, he could see them +plain enough. Sometimes they would stop short, Willems speaking +emphatically, Abdulla listening with rigid attention, then, when the +other had ceased, bending his head slightly as if consenting to some +demand, or admitting some statement. Now and then Babalatchi caught +a word here and there, a fragment of a sentence, a loud exclamation. +Impelled by curiosity he crept to the very edge of the black shadow +under the tree. They were nearing him, and he heard Willems say-- + +“You will pay that money as soon as I come on board. That I must have.” + +He could not catch Abdulla’s reply. When they went past again, Willems +was saying-- + +“My life is in your hand anyway. The boat that brings me on board your +ship shall take the money to Omar. You must have it ready in a sealed +bag.” + +Again they were out of hearing, but instead of coming back they stopped +by the fire facing each other. Willems moved his arm, shook his hand +on high talking all the time, then brought it down jerkily--stamped his +foot. A short period of immobility ensued. Babalatchi, gazing intently, +saw Abdulla’s lips move almost imperceptibly. Suddenly Willems seized +the Arab’s passive hand and shook it. Babalatchi drew the long breath of +relieved suspense. The conference was over. All well, apparently. + +He ventured now to approach the two men, who saw him and waited in +silence. Willems had retired within himself already, and wore a look of +grim indifference. Abdulla moved away a step or two. Babalatchi looked +at him inquisitively. + +“I go now,” said Abdulla, “and shall wait for you outside the river, +Tuan Willems, till the second sunset. You have only one word, I know.” + +“Only one word,” repeated Willems. + +Abdulla and Babalatchi walked together down the enclosure, leaving the +white man alone by the fire. The two Arabs who had come with Abdulla +preceded them and passed at once through the little gate into the light +and the murmur of voices of the principal courtyard, but Babalatchi and +Abdulla stopped on this side of it. Abdulla said-- + +“It is well. We have spoken of many things. He consents.” + +“When?” asked Babalatchi, eagerly. + +“On the second day from this. I have promised every thing. I mean to +keep much.” + +“Your hand is always open, O Most Generous amongst Believers! You will +not forget your servant who called you here. Have I not spoken the +truth? She has made roast meat of his heart.” + +With a horizontal sweep of his arm Abdulla seemed to push away that last +statement, and said slowly, with much meaning-- + +“He must be perfectly safe; do you understand? Perfectly safe--as if he +was amongst his own people--till . . .” + +“Till when?” whispered Babalatchi. + +“Till I speak,” said Abdulla. “As to Omar.” He hesitated for a moment, +then went on very low: “He is very old.” + +“Hai-ya! Old and sick,” murmured Babalatchi, with sudden melancholy. + +“He wanted me to kill that white man. He begged me to have him killed at +once,” said Abdulla, contemptuously, moving again towards the gate. + +“He is impatient, like those who feel death near them,” exclaimed +Babalatchi, apologetically. + +“Omar shall dwell with me,” went on Abdulla, “when . . . But no matter. +Remember! The white man must be safe.” + +“He lives in your shadow,” answered Babalatchi, solemnly. “It is +enough!” He touched his forehead and fell back to let Abdulla go first. + +And now they are back in the courtyard wherefrom, at their appearance, +listlessness vanishes, and all the faces become alert and interested +once more. Lakamba approaches his guest, but looks at Babalatchi, who +reassures him by a confident nod. Lakamba clumsily attempts a smile, +and looking, with natural and ineradicable sulkiness, from under his +eyebrows at the man whom he wants to honour, asks whether he would +condescend to visit the place of sitting down and take food. Or perhaps +he would prefer to give himself up to repose? The house is his, and what +is in it, and those many men that stand afar watching the interview are +his. Syed Abdulla presses his host’s hand to his breast, and informs him +in a confidential murmur that his habits are ascetic and his temperament +inclines to melancholy. No rest; no food; no use whatever for those +many men who are his. Syed Abdulla is impatient to be gone. Lakamba is +sorrowful but polite, in his hesitating, gloomy way. Tuan Abdulla must +have fresh boatmen, and many, to shorten the dark and fatiguing road. +Hai-ya! There! Boats! + +By the riverside indistinct forms leap into a noisy and disorderly +activity. There are cries, orders, banter, abuse. Torches blaze sending +out much more smoke than light, and in their red glare Babalatchi comes +up to say that the boats are ready. + +Through that lurid glare Syed Abdulla, in his long white gown, seems +to glide fantastically, like a dignified apparition attended by two +inferior shades, and stands for a moment at the landing-place to +take leave of his host and ally--whom he loves. Syed Abdulla says so +distinctly before embarking, and takes his seat in the middle of the +canoe under a small canopy of blue calico stretched on four sticks. +Before and behind Syed Abdulla, the men squatting by the gunwales hold +high the blades of their paddles in readiness for a dip, all together. +Ready? Not yet. Hold on all! Syed Abdulla speaks again, while Lakamba +and Babalatchi stand close on the bank to hear his words. His words are +encouraging. Before the sun rises for the second time they shall meet, +and Syed Abdulla’s ship shall float on the waters of this river--at +last! Lakamba and Babalatchi have no doubt--if Allah wills. They are in +the hands of the Compassionate. No doubt. And so is Syed Abdulla, the +great trader who does not know what the word failure means; and so is +the white man--the smartest business man in the islands--who is lying +now by Omar’s fire with his head on Aissa’s lap, while Syed Abdulla +flies down the muddy river with current and paddles between the sombre +walls of the sleeping forest; on his way to the clear and open sea where +the Lord of the Isles (formerly of Greenock, but condemned, sold, and +registered now as of Penang) waits for its owner, and swings erratically +at anchor in the currents of the capricious tide, under the crumbling +red cliffs of Tanjong Mirrah. + +For some time Lakamba, Sahamin, and Bahassoen looked silently into the +humid darkness which had swallowed the big canoe that carried Abdulla +and his unvarying good fortune. Then the two guests broke into a talk +expressive of their joyful anticipations. The venerable Sahamin, as +became his advanced age, found his delight in speculation as to the +activities of a rather remote future. He would buy praus, he would send +expeditions up the river, he would enlarge his trade, and, backed by +Abdulla’s capital, he would grow rich in a very few years. Very few. +Meantime it would be a good thing to interview Almayer to-morrow and, +profiting by the last day of the hated man’s prosperity, obtain some +goods from him on credit. Sahamin thought it could be done by skilful +wheedling. After all, that son of Satan was a fool, and the thing was +worth doing, because the coming revolution would wipe all debts out. +Sahamin did not mind imparting that idea to his companions, with much +senile chuckling, while they strolled together from the riverside +towards the residence. The bull-necked Lakamba, listening with pouted +lips without the sign of a smile, without a gleam in his dull, bloodshot +eyes, shuffled slowly across the courtyard between his two guests. But +suddenly Bahassoen broke in upon the old man’s prattle with the generous +enthusiasm of his youth. . . . Trading was very good. But was the +change that would make them happy effected yet? The white man should be +despoiled with a strong hand! . . . He grew excited, spoke very loud, +and his further discourse, delivered with his hand on the hilt of his +sword, dealt incoherently with the honourable topics of throat-cutting, +fire-raising, and with the far-famed valour of his ancestors. + +Babalatchi remained behind, alone with the greatness of his conceptions. +The sagacious statesman of Sambir sent a scornful glance after his noble +protector and his noble protector’s friends, and then stood meditating +about that future which to the others seemed so assured. Not so to +Babalatchi, who paid the penalty of his wisdom by a vague sense of +insecurity that kept sleep at arm’s length from his tired body. When he +thought at last of leaving the waterside, it was only to strike a path +for himself and to creep along the fences, avoiding the middle of the +courtyard where small fires glimmered and winked as though the sinister +darkness there had reflected the stars of the serene heaven. He slunk +past the wicket-gate of Omar’s enclosure, and crept on patiently along +the light bamboo palisade till he was stopped by the angle where it +joined the heavy stockade of Lakamba’s private ground. Standing there, +he could look over the fence and see Omar’s hut and the fire before its +door. He could also see the shadow of two human beings sitting between +him and the red glow. A man and a woman. The sight seemed to inspire the +careworn sage with a frivolous desire to sing. It could hardly be called +a song; it was more in the nature of a recitative without any rhythm, +delivered rapidly but distinctly in a croaking and unsteady voice; and +if Babalatchi considered it a song, then it was a song with a purpose +and, perhaps for that reason, artistically defective. It had all the +imperfections of unskilful improvisation and its subject was gruesome. +It told a tale of shipwreck and of thirst, and of one brother killing +another for the sake of a gourd of water. A repulsive story which might +have had a purpose but possessed no moral whatever. Yet it must have +pleased Babalatchi for he repeated it twice, the second time even in +louder tones than at first, causing a disturbance amongst the white +rice-birds and the wild fruit-pigeons which roosted on the boughs of +the big tree growing in Omar’s compound. There was in the thick foliage +above the singer’s head a confused beating of wings, sleepy remarks in +bird-language, a sharp stir of leaves. The forms by the fire moved; the +shadow of the woman altered its shape, and Babalatchi’s song was cut +short abruptly by a fit of soft and persistent coughing. He did not try +to resume his efforts after that interruption, but went away stealthily +to seek--if not sleep--then, at least, repose. + + + +CHAPTER SIX + + +As soon as Abdulla and his companions had left the enclosure, Aissa +approached Willems and stood by his side. He took no notice of her +expectant attitude till she touched him gently, when he turned furiously +upon her and, tearing off her face-veil, trampled upon it as though +it had been a mortal enemy. She looked at him with the faint smile of +patient curiosity, with the puzzled interest of ignorance watching the +running of a complicated piece of machinery. After he had exhausted his +rage, he stood again severe and unbending looking down at the fire, but +the touch of her fingers at the nape of his neck effaced instantly the +hard lines round his mouth; his eyes wavered uneasily; his lips trembled +slightly. Starting with the unresisting rapidity of a particle of +iron--which, quiescent one moment, leaps in the next to a powerful +magnet--he moved forward, caught her in his arms and pressed her +violently to his breast. He released her as suddenly, and she stumbled a +little, stepped back, breathed quickly through her parted lips, and said +in a tone of pleased reproof-- + +“O Fool-man! And if you had killed me in your strong arms what would you +have done?” + +“You want to live . . . and to run away from me again,” he said gently. +“Tell me--do you?” + +She moved towards him with very short steps, her head a little on one +side, hands on hips, with a slight balancing of her body: an approach +more tantalizing than an escape. He looked on, eager--charmed. She spoke +jestingly. + +“What am I to say to a man who has been away three days from me? Three!” + she repeated, holding up playfully three fingers before Willems’ eyes. +He snatched at the hand, but she was on her guard and whisked it behind +her back. + +“No!” she said. “I cannot be caught. But I will come. I am coming myself +because I like. Do not move. Do not touch me with your mighty hands, O +child!” + +As she spoke she made a step nearer, then another. Willems did not stir. +Pressing against him she stood on tiptoe to look into his eyes, and +her own seemed to grow bigger, glistening and tender, appealing and +promising. With that look she drew the man’s soul away from him through +his immobile pupils, and from Willems’ features the spark of reason +vanished under her gaze and was replaced by an appearance of physical +well-being, an ecstasy of the senses which had taken possession of his +rigid body; an ecstasy that drove out regrets, hesitation and doubt, +and proclaimed its terrible work by an appalling aspect of idiotic +beatitude. He never stirred a limb, hardly breathed, but stood in stiff +immobility, absorbing the delight of her close contact by every pore. + +“Closer! Closer!” he murmured. + +Slowly she raised her arms, put them over his shoulders, and clasping +her hands at the back of his neck, swung off the full length of her +arms. Her head fell back, the eyelids dropped slightly, and her thick +hair hung straight down: a mass of ebony touched by the red gleams of +the fire. He stood unyielding under the strain, as solid and motionless +as one of the big trees of the surrounding forests; and his eyes +looked at the modelling of her chin, at the outline of her neck, at +the swelling lines of her bosom, with the famished and concentrated +expression of a starving man looking at food. She drew herself up to him +and rubbed her head against his cheek slowly and gently. He sighed. She, +with her hands still on his shoulders, glanced up at the placid stars +and said-- + +“The night is half gone. We shall finish it by this fire. By this +fire you shall tell me all: your words and Syed Abdulla’s words; and +listening to you I shall forget the three days--because I am good. Tell +me--am I good?” + +He said “Yes” dreamily, and she ran off towards the big house. + +When she came back, balancing a roll of fine mats on her head, he had +replenished the fire and was ready to help her in arranging a couch +on the side of it nearest to the hut. She sank down with a quick but +gracefully controlled movement, and he threw himself full length with +impatient haste, as if he wished to forestall somebody. She took his +head on her knees, and when he felt her hands touching his face, her +fingers playing with his hair, he had an expression of being taken +possession of; he experienced a sense of peace, of rest, of happiness, +and of soothing delight. His hands strayed upwards about her neck, and +he drew her down so as to have her face above his. Then he whispered--“I +wish I could die like this--now!” She looked at him with her big sombre +eyes, in which there was no responsive light. His thought was so remote +from her understanding that she let the words pass by unnoticed, like +the breath of the wind, like the flight of a cloud. Woman though +she was, she could not comprehend, in her simplicity, the tremendous +compliment of that speech, that whisper of deadly happiness, so +sincere, so spontaneous, coming so straight from the heart--like every +corruption. It was the voice of madness, of a delirious peace, of +happiness that is infamous, cowardly, and so exquisite that the debased +mind refuses to contemplate its termination: for to the victims of such +happiness the moment of its ceasing is the beginning afresh of that +torture which is its price. + +With her brows slightly knitted in the determined preoccupation of her +own desires, she said-- + +“Now tell me all. All the words spoken between you and Syed Abdulla.” + +Tell what? What words? Her voice recalled back the consciousness that +had departed under her touch, and he became aware of the passing minutes +every one of which was like a reproach; of those minutes that falling, +slow, reluctant, irresistible into the past, marked his footsteps on the +way to perdition. Not that he had any conviction about it, any notion of +the possible ending on that painful road. It was an indistinct feeling, +a threat of suffering like the confused warning of coming disease, +an inarticulate monition of evil made up of fear and pleasure, of +resignation and of revolt. He was ashamed of his state of mind. After +all, what was he afraid of? Were those scruples? Why that hesitation to +think, to speak of what he intended doing? Scruples were for imbeciles. +His clear duty was to make himself happy. Did he ever take an oath of +fidelity to Lingard? No. Well then--he would not let any interest of +that old fool stand between Willems and Willems’ happiness. Happiness? +Was he not, perchance, on a false track? Happiness meant money. Much +money. At least he had always thought so till he had experienced those +new sensations which . . . + +Aissa’s question, repeated impatiently, interrupted his musings, and +looking up at her face shining above him in the dim light of the fire +he stretched his limbs luxuriously and obedient to her desire, he spoke +slowly and hardly above his breath. She, with her head close to his +lips, listened absorbed, interested, in attentive immobility. The many +noises of the great courtyard were hushed up gradually by the sleep that +stilled all voices and closed all eyes. Then somebody droned out a song +with a nasal drawl at the end of every verse. He stirred. She put her +hand suddenly on his lips and sat upright. There was a feeble coughing, +a rustle of leaves, and then a complete silence took possession of the +land; a silence cold, mournful, profound; more like death than peace; +more hard to bear than the fiercest tumult. As soon as she removed her +hand he hastened to speak, so insupportable to him was that stillness +perfect and absolute in which his thoughts seemed to ring with the +loudness of shouts. + +“Who was there making that noise?” he asked. + +“I do not know. He is gone now,” she answered, hastily. “Tell me, you +will not return to your people; not without me. Not with me. Do you +promise?” + +“I have promised already. I have no people of my own. Have I not told +you, that you are everybody to me?” + +“Ah, yes,” she said, slowly, “but I like to hear you say that +again--every day, and every night, whenever I ask; and never to be angry +because I ask. I am afraid of white women who are shameless and have +fierce eyes.” She scanned his features close for a moment and added: + +“Are they very beautiful? They must be.” + +“I do not know,” he whispered, thoughtfully. “And if I ever did know, +looking at you I have forgotten.” + +“Forgotten! And for three days and two nights you have forgotten me +also! Why? Why were you angry with me when I spoke at first of Tuan +Abdulla, in the days when we lived beside the brook? You remembered +somebody then. Somebody in the land whence you come. Your tongue is +false. You are white indeed, and your heart is full of deception. I know +it. And yet I cannot help believing you when you talk of your love for +me. But I am afraid!” + +He felt flattered and annoyed by her vehemence, and said-- + +“Well, I am with you now. I did come back. And it was you that went +away.” + +“When you have helped Abdulla against the Rajah Laut, who is the first +of white men, I shall not be afraid any more,” she whispered. + +“You must believe what I say when I tell you that there never was +another woman; that there is nothing for me to regret, and nothing but +my enemies to remember.” + +“Where do you come from?” she said, impulsive and inconsequent, in a +passionate whisper. “What is that land beyond the great sea from which +you come? A land of lies and of evil from which nothing but misfortune +ever comes to us--who are not white. Did you not at first ask me to go +there with you? That is why I went away.” + +“I shall never ask you again.” + +“And there is no woman waiting for you there?” + +“No!” said Willems, firmly. + +She bent over him. Her lips hovered above his face and her long hair +brushed his cheeks. + +“You taught me the love of your people which is of the Devil,” she +murmured, and bending still lower, she said faintly, “Like this?” + +“Yes, like this!” he answered very low, in a voice that trembled +slightly with eagerness; and she pressed suddenly her lips to his while +he closed his eyes in an ecstasy of delight. + +There was a long interval of silence. She stroked his head with gentle +touches, and he lay dreamily, perfectly happy but for the annoyance of +an indistinct vision of a well-known figure; a man going away from him +and diminishing in a long perspective of fantastic trees, whose every +leaf was an eye looking after that man, who walked away growing smaller, +but never getting out of sight for all his steady progress. He felt a +desire to see him vanish, a hurried impatience of his disappearance, and +he watched for it with a careful and irksome effort. There was something +familiar about that figure. Why! Himself! He gave a sudden start and +opened his eyes, quivering with the emotion of that quick return from so +far, of finding himself back by the fire with the rapidity of a flash of +lightning. It had been half a dream; he had slumbered in her arms for +a few seconds. Only the beginning of a dream--nothing more. But it was +some time before he recovered from the shock of seeing himself go away +so deliberately, so definitely, so unguardedly; and going away--where? +Now, if he had not woke up in time he would never have come back again +from there; from whatever place he was going to. He felt indignant. It +was like an evasion, like a prisoner breaking his parole--that thing +slinking off stealthily while he slept. He was very indignant, and was +also astonished at the absurdity of his own emotions. + +She felt him tremble, and murmuring tender words, pressed his head +to her breast. Again he felt very peaceful with a peace that was as +complete as the silence round them. He muttered-- + +“You are tired, Aissa.” + +She answered so low that it was like a sigh shaped into faint words. + +“I shall watch your sleep, O child!” + +He lay very quiet, and listened to the beating of her heart. That sound, +light, rapid, persistent, and steady; her very life beating against his +cheek, gave him a clear perception of secure ownership, strengthened his +belief in his possession of that human being, was like an assurance of +the vague felicity of the future. There were no regrets, no doubts, +no hesitation now. Had there ever been? All that seemed far away, ages +ago--as unreal and pale as the fading memory of some delirium. All the +anguish, suffering, strife of the past days; the humiliation and anger +of his downfall; all that was an infamous nightmare, a thing born in +sleep to be forgotten and leave no trace--and true life was this: this +dreamy immobility with his head against her heart that beat so steadily. + +He was broad awake now, with that tingling wakefulness of the tired body +which succeeds to the few refreshing seconds of irresistible sleep, and +his wide-open eyes looked absently at the doorway of Omar’s hut. The +reed walls glistened in the light of the fire, the smoke of which, thin +and blue, drifted slanting in a succession of rings and spirals across +the doorway, whose empty blackness seemed to him impenetrable and +enigmatical like a curtain hiding vast spaces full of unexpected +surprises. This was only his fancy, but it was absorbing enough to make +him accept the sudden appearance of a head, coming out of the gloom, as +part of his idle fantasy or as the beginning of another short dream, +of another vagary of his overtired brain. A face with drooping eyelids, +old, thin, and yellow, above the scattered white of a long beard that +touched the earth. A head without a body, only a foot above the ground, +turning slightly from side to side on the edge of the circle of light +as if to catch the radiating heat of the fire on either cheek in +succession. He watched it in passive amazement, growing distinct, as if +coming nearer to him, and the confused outlines of a body crawling +on all fours came out, creeping inch by inch towards the fire, with +a silent and all but imperceptible movement. He was astounded at the +appearance of that blind head dragging that crippled body behind, +without a sound, without a change in the composure of the sightless +face, which was plain one second, blurred the next in the play of the +light that drew it to itself steadily. A mute face with a kriss between +its lips. This was no dream. Omar’s face. But why? What was he after? + +He was too indolent in the happy languor of the moment to answer the +question. It darted through his brain and passed out, leaving him +free to listen again to the beating of her heart; to that precious and +delicate sound which filled the quiet immensity of the night. Glancing +upwards he saw the motionless head of the woman looking down at him in +a tender gleam of liquid white between the long eyelashes, whose shadow +rested on the soft curve of her cheek; and under the caress of that +look, the uneasy wonder and the obscure fear of that apparition, +crouching and creeping in turns towards the fire that was its guide, +were lost--were drowned in the quietude of all his senses, as pain is +drowned in the flood of drowsy serenity that follows upon a dose of +opium. + +He altered the position of his head by ever so little, and now could see +easily that apparition which he had seen a minute before and had nearly +forgotten already. It had moved closer, gliding and noiseless like the +shadow of some nightmare, and now it was there, very near, motionless +and still as if listening; one hand and one knee advanced; the neck +stretched out and the head turned full towards the fire. He could see +the emaciated face, the skin shiny over the prominent bones, the black +shadows of the hollow temples and sunken cheeks, and the two patches of +blackness over the eyes, over those eyes that were dead and could not +see. What was the impulse which drove out this blind cripple into +the night to creep and crawl towards that fire? He looked at him, +fascinated, but the face, with its shifting lights and shadows, let out +nothing, closed and impenetrable like a walled door. + +Omar raised himself to a kneeling posture and sank on his heels, with +his hands hanging down before him. Willems, looking out of his dreamy +numbness, could see plainly the kriss between the thin lips, a bar +across the face; the handle on one side where the polished wood caught a +red gleam from the fire and the thin line of the blade running to a dull +black point on the other. He felt an inward shock, which left his body +passive in Aissa’s embrace, but filled his breast with a tumult of +powerless fear; and he perceived suddenly that it was his own death that +was groping towards him; that it was the hate of himself and the hate of +her love for him which drove this helpless wreck of a once brilliant and +resolute pirate, to attempt a desperate deed that would be the glorious +and supreme consolation of an unhappy old age. And while he looked, +paralyzed with dread, at the father who had resumed his cautious +advance--blind like fate, persistent like destiny--he listened with +greedy eagerness to the heart of the daughter beating light, rapid, and +steady against his head. + +He was in the grip of horrible fear; of a fear whose cold hand robs its +victim of all will and of all power; of all wish to escape, to resist, +or to move; which destroys hope and despair alike, and holds the empty +and useless carcass as if in a vise under the coming stroke. It was not +the fear of death--he had faced danger before--it was not even the fear +of that particular form of death. It was not the fear of the end, for he +knew that the end would not come then. A movement, a leap, a shout would +save him from the feeble hand of the blind old man, from that hand that +even now was, with cautious sweeps along the ground, feeling for his +body in the darkness. It was the unreasoning fear of this glimpse +into the unknown things, into those motives, impulses, desires he had +ignored, but that had lived in the breasts of despised men, close by his +side, and were revealed to him for a second, to be hidden again behind +the black mists of doubt and deception. It was not death that frightened +him: it was the horror of bewildered life where he could understand +nothing and nobody round him; where he could guide, control, comprehend +nothing and no one--not even himself. + +He felt a touch on his side. That contact, lighter than the caress of a +mother’s hand on the cheek of a sleeping child, had for him the force of +a crushing blow. Omar had crept close, and now, kneeling above him, held +the kriss in one hand while the other skimmed over his jacket up towards +his breast in gentle touches; but the blind face, still turned to +the heat of the fire, was set and immovable in its aspect of stony +indifference to things it could not hope to see. With an effort Willems +took his eyes off the deathlike mask and turned them up to Aissa’s head. +She sat motionless as if she had been part of the sleeping earth, then +suddenly he saw her big sombre eyes open out wide in a piercing stare +and felt the convulsive pressure of her hands pinning his arms along +his body. A second dragged itself out, slow and bitter, like a day of +mourning; a second full of regret and grief for that faith in her which +took its flight from the shattered ruins of his trust. She was holding +him! She too! He felt her heart give a great leap, his head slipped down +on her knees, he closed his eyes and there was nothing. Nothing! It was +as if she had died; as though her heart had leaped out into the night, +abandoning him, defenceless and alone, in an empty world. + +His head struck the ground heavily as she flung him aside in her sudden +rush. He lay as if stunned, face up and, daring not move, did not see +the struggle, but heard the piercing shriek of mad fear, her low angry +words; another shriek dying out in a moan. When he got up at last he +looked at Aissa kneeling over her father, he saw her bent back in the +effort of holding him down, Omar’s contorted limbs, a hand thrown up +above her head and her quick movement grasping the wrist. He made an +impulsive step forward, but she turned a wild face to him and called out +over her shoulder-- + +“Keep back! Do not come near! Do not. . . .” + +And he stopped short, his arms hanging lifelessly by his side, as if +those words had changed him into stone. She was afraid of his possible +violence, but in the unsettling of all his convictions he was struck +with the frightful thought that she preferred to kill her father all +by herself; and the last stage of their struggle, at which he looked +as though a red fog had filled his eyes, loomed up with an unnatural +ferocity, with a sinister meaning; like something monstrous and +depraved, forcing its complicity upon him under the cover of that awful +night. He was horrified and grateful; drawn irresistibly to her--and +ready to run away. He could not move at first--then he did not want +to stir. He wanted to see what would happen. He saw her lift, with +a tremendous effort, the apparently lifeless body into the hut, and +remained standing, after they disappeared, with the vivid image in his +eyes of that head swaying on her shoulder, the lower jaw hanging down, +collapsed, passive, meaningless, like the head of a corpse. + +Then after a while he heard her voice speaking inside, harshly, with an +agitated abruptness of tone; and in answer there were groans and +broken murmurs of exhaustion. She spoke louder. He heard her saying +violently--“No! No! Never!” + +And again a plaintive murmur of entreaty as of some one begging for a +supreme favour, with a last breath. Then she said-- + +“Never! I would sooner strike it into my own heart.” + +She came out, stood panting for a short moment in the doorway, and then +stepped into the firelight. Behind her, through the darkness came the +sound of words calling the vengeance of heaven on her head, rising +higher, shrill, strained, repeating the curse over and over again--till +the voice cracked in a passionate shriek that died out into hoarse +muttering ending with a deep and prolonged sigh. She stood facing +Willems, one hand behind her back, the other raised in a gesture +compelling attention, and she listened in that attitude till all was +still inside the hut. Then she made another step forward and her hand +dropped slowly. + +“Nothing but misfortune,” she whispered, absently, to herself. “Nothing +but misfortune to us who are not white.” The anger and excitement died +out of her face, and she looked straight at Willems with an intense and +mournful gaze. + +He recovered his senses and his power of speech with a sudden start. + +“Aissa,” he exclaimed, and the words broke out through his lips with +hurried nervousness. “Aissa! How can I live here? Trust me. Believe in +me. Let us go away from here. Go very far away! Very far; you and I!” + +He did not stop to ask himself whether he could escape, and how, and +where. He was carried away by the flood of hate, disgust, and contempt +of a white man for that blood which is not his blood, for that race +which is not his race; for the brown skins; for the hearts false like +the sea, blacker than night. This feeling of repulsion overmastered his +reason in a clear conviction of the impossibility for him to live with +her people. He urged her passionately to fly with him because out of all +that abhorred crowd he wanted this one woman, but wanted her away from +them, away from that race of slaves and cut-throats from which she +sprang. He wanted her for himself--far from everybody, in some safe and +dumb solitude. And as he spoke his anger and contempt rose, his hate +became almost fear; and his desire of her grew immense, burning, +illogical and merciless; crying to him through all his senses; +louder than his hate, stronger than his fear, deeper than his +contempt--irresistible and certain like death itself. + +Standing at a little distance, just within the light--but on the +threshold of that darkness from which she had come--she listened, one +hand still behind her back, the other arm stretched out with the hand +half open as if to catch the fleeting words that rang around her, +passionate, menacing, imploring, but all tinged with the anguish of his +suffering, all hurried by the impatience that gnawed his breast. And +while she listened she felt a slowing down of her heart-beats as the +meaning of his appeal grew clearer before her indignant eyes, as she saw +with rage and pain the edifice of her love, her own work, crumble slowly +to pieces, destroyed by that man’s fears, by that man’s falseness. Her +memory recalled the days by the brook when she had listened to other +words--to other thoughts--to promises and to pleadings for other things, +which came from that man’s lips at the bidding of her look or her smile, +at the nod of her head, at the whisper of her lips. Was there then in +his heart something else than her image, other desires than the desires +of her love, other fears than the fear of losing her? How could that be? +Had she grown ugly or old in a moment? She was appalled, surprised and +angry with the anger of unexpected humiliation; and her eyes looked +fixedly, sombre and steady, at that man born in the land of violence +and of evil wherefrom nothing but misfortune comes to those who are not +white. Instead of thinking of her caresses, instead of forgetting all +the world in her embrace, he was thinking yet of his people; of that +people that steals every land, masters every sea, that knows no mercy +and no truth--knows nothing but its own strength. O man of strong arm +and of false heart! Go with him to a far country, be lost in the throng +of cold eyes and false hearts--lose him there! Never! He was mad--mad +with fear; but he should not escape her! She would keep him here a slave +and a master; here where he was alone with her; where he must live for +her--or die. She had a right to his love which was of her making, to the +love that was in him now, while he spoke those words without sense. She +must put between him and other white men a barrier of hate. He must not +only stay, but he must also keep his promise to Abdulla, the fulfilment +of which would make her safe. + +“Aissa, let us go! With you by my side I would attack them with my naked +hands. Or no! Tomorrow we shall be outside, on board Abdulla’s ship. +You shall come with me and then I could . . . If the ship went ashore by +some chance, then we could steal a canoe and escape in the confusion. +. . . You are not afraid of the sea . . . of the sea that would give me +freedom . . .” + +He was approaching her gradually with extended arms, while he pleaded +ardently in incoherent words that ran over and tripped each other in the +extreme eagerness of his speech. She stepped back, keeping her distance, +her eyes on his face, watching on it the play of his doubts and of his +hopes with a piercing gaze, that seemed to search out the innermost +recesses of his thought; and it was as if she had drawn slowly the +darkness round her, wrapping herself in its undulating folds that made +her indistinct and vague. He followed her step by step till at last they +both stopped, facing each other under the big tree of the enclosure. +The solitary exile of the forests, great, motionless and solemn in his +abandonment, left alone by the life of ages that had been pushed away +from him by those pigmies that crept at his foot, towered high and +straight above their heads. He seemed to look on, dispassionate and +imposing, in his lonely greatness, spreading his branches wide in a +gesture of lofty protection, as if to hide them in the sombre shelter +of innumerable leaves; as if moved by the disdainful compassion of the +strong, by the scornful pity of an aged giant, to screen this struggle +of two human hearts from the cold scrutiny of glittering stars. + +The last cry of his appeal to her mercy rose loud, vibrated under the +sombre canopy, darted among the boughs startling the white birds that +slept wing to wing--and died without an echo, strangled in the dense +mass of unstirring leaves. He could not see her face, but he heard +her sighs and the distracted murmur of indistinct words. Then, as he +listened holding his breath, she exclaimed suddenly-- + +“Have you heard him? He has cursed me because I love you. You brought +me suffering and strife--and his curse. And now you want to take me far +away where I would lose you, lose my life; because your love is my +life now. What else is there? Do not move,” she cried violently, as he +stirred a little--“do not speak! Take this! Sleep in peace!” + +He saw a shadowy movement of her arm. Something whizzed past and struck +the ground behind him, close to the fire. Instinctively he turned round +to look at it. A kriss without its sheath lay by the embers; a sinuous +dark object, looking like something that had been alive and was now +crushed, dead and very inoffensive; a black wavy outline very distinct +and still in the dull red glow. Without thinking he moved to pick it up, +stooping with the sad and humble movement of a beggar gathering the +alms flung into the dust of the roadside. Was this the answer to his +pleading, to the hot and living words that came from his heart? Was this +the answer thrown at him like an insult, that thing made of wood and +iron, insignificant and venomous, fragile and deadly? He held it by the +blade and looked at the handle stupidly for a moment before he let +it fall again at his feet; and when he turned round he faced only the +night:--the night immense, profound and quiet; a sea of darkness in +which she had disappeared without leaving a trace. + +He moved forward with uncertain steps, putting out both his hands before +him with the anguish of a man blinded suddenly. + +“Aissa!” he cried--“come to me at once.” + +He peered and listened, but saw nothing, heard nothing. After a while +the solid blackness seemed to wave before his eyes like a curtain +disclosing movements but hiding forms, and he heard light and hurried +footsteps, then the short clatter of the gate leading to Lakamba’s +private enclosure. He sprang forward and brought up against the rough +timber in time to hear the words, “Quick! Quick!” and the sound of the +wooden bar dropped on the other side, securing the gate. With his arms +thrown up, the palms against the paling, he slid down in a heap on the +ground. + +“Aissa,” he said, pleadingly, pressing his lips to a chink between the +stakes. “Aissa, do you hear me? Come back! I will do what you want, give +you all you desire--if I have to set the whole Sambir on fire and put +that fire out with blood. Only come back. Now! At once! Are you there? +Do you hear me? Aissa!” + +On the other side there were startled whispers of feminine voices; a +frightened little laugh suddenly interrupted; some woman’s admiring +murmur--“This is brave talk!” Then after a short silence Aissa cried-- + +“Sleep in peace--for the time of your going is near. Now I am afraid of +you. Afraid of your fear. When you return with Tuan Abdulla you shall +be great. You will find me here. And there will be nothing but love. +Nothing else!--Always!--Till we die!” + +He listened to the shuffle of footsteps going away, and staggered to his +feet, mute with the excess of his passionate anger against that being +so savage and so charming; loathing her, himself, everybody he had +ever known; the earth, the sky, the very air he drew into his oppressed +chest; loathing it because it made him live, loathing her because she +made him suffer. But he could not leave that gate through which she had +passed. He wandered a little way off, then swerved round, came back and +fell down again by the stockade only to rise suddenly in another attempt +to break away from the spell that held him, that brought him back there, +dumb, obedient and furious. And under the immobilized gesture of lofty +protection in the branches outspread wide above his head, under the +high branches where white birds slept wing to wing in the shelter of +countless leaves, he tossed like a grain of dust in a whirlwind--sinking +and rising--round and round--always near that gate. All through the +languid stillness of that night he fought with the impalpable; he fought +with the shadows, with the darkness, with the silence. He fought without +a sound, striking futile blows, dashing from side to side; obstinate, +hopeless, and always beaten back; like a man bewitched within the +invisible sweep of a magic circle. + + + + +PART III + + +CHAPTER ONE + +“Yes! Cat, dog, anything that can scratch or bite; as long as it is +harmful enough and mangy enough. A sick tiger would make you happy--of +all things. A half-dead tiger that you could weep over and palm upon +some poor devil in your power, to tend and nurse for you. Never mind +the consequences--to the poor devil. Let him be mangled or eaten up, of +course! You haven’t any pity to spare for the victims of your infernal +charity. Not you! Your tender heart bleeds only for what is poisonous +and deadly. I curse the day when you set your benevolent eyes on him. I +curse it . . .” + +“Now then! Now then!” growled Lingard in his moustache. Almayer, who had +talked himself up to the choking point, drew a long breath and went on-- + +“Yes! It has been always so. Always. As far back as I can remember. +Don’t you recollect? What about that half-starved dog you brought on +board in Bankok in your arms. In your arms by . . . ! It went mad next +day and bit the serang. You don’t mean to say you have forgotten? The +best serang you ever had! You said so yourself while you were helping +us to lash him down to the chain-cable, just before he died in his fits. +Now, didn’t you? Two wives and ever so many children the man left. That +was your doing. . . . And when you went out of your way and risked +your ship to rescue some Chinamen from a water-logged junk in Formosa +Straits, that was also a clever piece of business. Wasn’t it? Those +damned Chinamen rose on you before forty-eight hours. They were +cut-throats, those poor fishermen. You knew they were cut-throats before +you made up your mind to run down on a lee shore in a gale of wind +to save them. A mad trick! If they hadn’t been scoundrels--hopeless +scoundrels--you would not have put your ship in jeopardy for them, I +know. You would not have risked the lives of your crew--that crew you +loved so--and your own life. Wasn’t that foolish! And, besides, you were +not honest. Suppose you had been drowned? I would have been in a pretty +mess then, left alone here with that adopted daughter of yours. Your +duty was to myself first. I married that girl because you promised to +make my fortune. You know you did! And then three months afterwards you +go and do that mad trick--for a lot of Chinamen too. Chinamen! You have +no morality. I might have been ruined for the sake of those murderous +scoundrels that, after all, had to be driven overboard after killing +ever so many of your crew--of your beloved crew! Do you call that +honest?” + +“Well, well!” muttered Lingard, chewing nervously the stump of his +cheroot that had gone out and looking at Almayer--who stamped wildly +about the verandah--much as a shepherd might look at a pet sheep in +his obedient flock turning unexpectedly upon him in enraged revolt. He +seemed disconcerted, contemptuously angry yet somewhat amused; and also +a little hurt as if at some bitter jest at his own expense. Almayer +stopped suddenly, and crossing his arms on his breast, bent his body +forward and went on speaking. + +“I might have been left then in an awkward hole--all on account of your +absurd disregard for your safety--yet I bore no grudge. I knew your +weaknesses. But now--when I think of it! Now we are ruined. Ruined! +Ruined! My poor little Nina. Ruined!” + +He slapped his thighs smartly, walked with small steps this way and +that, seized a chair, planted it with a bang before Lingard, and sat +down staring at the old seaman with haggard eyes. Lingard, returning his +stare steadily, dived slowly into various pockets, fished out at last a +box of matches and proceeded to light his cheroot carefully, rolling it +round and round between his lips, without taking his gaze for a moment +off the distressed Almayer. Then from behind a cloud of tobacco smoke he +said calmly-- + +“If you had been in trouble as often as I have, my boy, you wouldn’t +carry on so. I have been ruined more than once. Well, here I am.” + +“Yes, here you are,” interrupted Almayer. “Much good it is to me. Had +you been here a month ago it would have been of some use. But now! . . +You might as well be a thousand miles off.” + +“You scold like a drunken fish-wife,” said Lingard, serenely. He got up +and moved slowly to the front rail of the verandah. The floor shook and +the whole house vibrated under his heavy step. For a moment he stood +with his back to Almayer, looking out on the river and forest of the +east bank, then turned round and gazed mildly down upon him. + +“It’s very lonely this morning here. Hey?” he said. + +Almayer lifted up his head. + +“Ah! you notice it--don’t you? I should think it is lonely! Yes, Captain +Lingard, your day is over in Sambir. Only a month ago this verandah +would have been full of people coming to greet you. Fellows would be +coming up those steps grinning and salaaming--to you and to me. But our +day is over. And not by my fault either. You can’t say that. It’s all +the doing of that pet rascal of yours. Ah! He is a beauty! You should +have seen him leading that hellish crowd. You would have been proud of +your old favourite.” + +“Smart fellow that,” muttered Lingard, thoughtfully. Almayer jumped up +with a shriek. + +“And that’s all you have to say! Smart fellow! O Lord!” + +“Don’t make a show of yourself. Sit down. Let’s talk quietly. I want to +know all about it. So he led?” + +“He was the soul of the whole thing. He piloted Abdulla’s ship in. He +ordered everything and everybody,” said Almayer, who sat down again, +with a resigned air. + +“When did it happen--exactly?” + +“On the sixteenth I heard the first rumours of Abdulla’s ship being in +the river; a thing I refused to believe at first. Next day I could not +doubt any more. There was a great council held openly in Lakamba’s place +where almost everybody in Sambir attended. On the eighteenth the Lord of +the Isles was anchored in Sambir reach, abreast of my house. Let’s see. +Six weeks to-day, exactly.” + +“And all that happened like this? All of a sudden. You never heard +anything--no warning. Nothing. Never had an idea that something was up? +Come, Almayer!” + +“Heard! Yes, I used to hear something every day. Mostly lies. Is there +anything else in Sambir?” + +“You might not have believed them,” observed Lingard. “In fact you ought +not to have believed everything that was told to you, as if you had been +a green hand on his first voyage.” + +Almayer moved in his chair uneasily. + +“That scoundrel came here one day,” he said. “He had been away from the +house for a couple of months living with that woman. I only heard about +him now and then from Patalolo’s people when they came over. Well one +day, about noon, he appeared in this courtyard, as if he had been jerked +up from hell-where he belongs.” + +Lingard took his cheroot out, and, with his mouth full of white smoke +that oozed out through his parted lips, listened, attentive. After a +short pause Almayer went on, looking at the floor moodily-- + +“I must say he looked awful. Had a bad bout of the ague probably. The +left shore is very unhealthy. Strange that only the breadth of the river +. . .” + +He dropped off into deep thoughtfulness as if he had forgotten his +grievances in a bitter meditation upon the unsanitary condition of the +virgin forests on the left bank. Lingard took this opportunity to expel +the smoke in a mighty expiration and threw the stump of his cheroot over +his shoulder. + +“Go on,” he said, after a while. “He came to see you . . .” + +“But it wasn’t unhealthy enough to finish him, worse luck!” went on +Almayer, rousing himself, “and, as I said, he turned up here with his +brazen impudence. He bullied me, he threatened vaguely. He wanted +to scare me, to blackmail me. Me! And, by heaven--he said you would +approve. You! Can you conceive such impudence? I couldn’t exactly make +out what he was driving at. Had I known, I would have approved him. Yes! +With a bang on the head. But how could I guess that he knew enough to +pilot a ship through the entrance you always said was so difficult. And, +after all, that was the only danger. I could deal with anybody here--but +when Abdulla came. . . . That barque of his is armed. He carries twelve +brass six-pounders, and about thirty men. Desperate beggars. Sumatra +men, from Deli and Acheen. Fight all day and ask for more in the +evening. That kind.” + +“I know, I know,” said Lingard, impatiently. + +“Of course, then, they were cheeky as much as you please after he +anchored abreast of our jetty. Willems brought her up himself in +the best berth. I could see him from this verandah standing forward, +together with the half-caste master. And that woman was there too. Close +to him. I heard they took her on board off Lakamba’s place. Willems said +he would not go higher without her. Stormed and raged. Frightened them, +I believe. Abdulla had to interfere. She came off alone in a canoe, and +no sooner on deck than she fell at his feet before all hands, embraced +his knees, wept, raved, begged his pardon. Why? I wonder. Everybody in +Sambir is talking of it. They never heard tell or saw anything like it. +I have all this from Ali, who goes about in the settlement and brings me +the news. I had better know what is going on--hadn’t I? From what I +can make out, they--he and that woman--are looked upon as something +mysterious--beyond comprehension. Some think them mad. They live alone +with an old woman in a house outside Lakamba’s campong and are greatly +respected--or feared, I should say rather. At least, he is. He is very +violent. She knows nobody, sees nobody, will speak to nobody but him. +Never leaves him for a moment. It’s the talk of the place. There are +other rumours. From what I hear I suspect that Lakamba and Abdulla are +tired of him. There’s also talk of him going away in the Lord of the +Isles--when she leaves here for the southward--as a kind of Abdulla’s +agent. At any rate, he must take the ship out. The half-caste is not +equal to it as yet.” + +Lingard, who had listened absorbed till then, began now to walk with +measured steps. Almayer ceased talking and followed him with his eyes as +he paced up and down with a quarter-deck swing, tormenting and twisting +his long white beard, his face perplexed and thoughtful. + +“So he came to you first of all, did he?” asked Lingard, without +stopping. + +“Yes. I told you so. He did come. Came to extort money, goods--I don’t +know what else. Wanted to set up as a trader--the swine! I kicked his +hat into the courtyard, and he went after it, and that was the last of +him till he showed up with Abdulla. How could I know that he could do +harm in that way? Or in any way at that! Any local rising I could put +down easy with my own men and with Patalolo’s help.” + +“Oh! yes. Patalolo. No good. Eh? Did you try him at all?” + +“Didn’t I!” exclaimed Almayer. “I went to see him myself on the twelfth. +That was four days before Abdulla entered the river. In fact, same day +Willems tried to get at me. I did feel a little uneasy then. Patalolo +assured me that there was no human being that did not love me in Sambir. +Looked as wise as an owl. Told me not to listen to the lies of wicked +people from down the river. He was alluding to that man Bulangi, who +lives up the sea reach, and who had sent me word that a strange ship was +anchored outside--which, of course, I repeated to Patalolo. He would not +believe. Kept on mumbling ‘No! No! No!’ like an old parrot, his head all +of a tremble, all beslobbered with betel-nut juice. I thought there was +something queer about him. Seemed so restless, and as if in a hurry to +get rid of me. Well. Next day that one-eyed malefactor who lives with +Lakamba--what’s his name--Babalatchi, put in an appearance here! Came +about mid-day, casually like, and stood there on this verandah chatting +about one thing and another. Asking when I expected you, and so on. +Then, incidentally, he mentioned that they--his master and himself--were +very much bothered by a ferocious white man--my friend--who was hanging +about that woman--Omar’s daughter. Asked my advice. Very deferential and +proper. I told him the white man was not my friend, and that they had +better kick him out. Whereupon he went away salaaming, and protesting +his friendship and his master’s goodwill. Of course I know now the +infernal nigger came to spy and to talk over some of my men. Anyway, +eight were missing at the evening muster. Then I took alarm. Did not +dare to leave my house unguarded. You know what my wife is, don’t you? +And I did not care to take the child with me--it being late--so I sent +a message to Patalolo to say that we ought to consult; that there were +rumours and uneasiness in the settlement. Do you know what answer I +got?” + +Lingard stopped short in his walk before Almayer, who went on, after an +impressive pause, with growing animation. + +“All brought it: ‘The Rajah sends a friend’s greeting, and does not +understand the message.’ That was all. Not a word more could Ali get +out of him. I could see that Ali was pretty well scared. He hung about, +arranging my hammock--one thing and another. Then just before going +away he mentioned that the water-gate of the Rajah’s place was heavily +barred, but that he could see only very few men about the courtyard. +Finally he said, ‘There is darkness in our Rajah’s house, but no sleep. +Only darkness and fear and the wailing of women.’ Cheerful, wasn’t it? +It made me feel cold down my back somehow. After Ali slipped away I +stood here--by this table, and listened to the shouting and drumming in +the settlement. Racket enough for twenty weddings. It was a little past +midnight then.” + +Again Almayer stopped in his narrative with an abrupt shutting of lips, +as if he had said all that there was to tell, and Lingard stood staring +at him, pensive and silent. A big bluebottle fly flew in recklessly into +the cool verandah, and darted with loud buzzing between the two men. +Lingard struck at it with his hat. The fly swerved, and Almayer dodged +his head out of the way. Then Lingard aimed another ineffectual blow; +Almayer jumped up and waved his arms about. The fly buzzed desperately, +and the vibration of minute wings sounded in the peace of the early +morning like a far-off string orchestra accompanying the hollow, +determined stamping of the two men, who, with heads thrown back and +arms gyrating on high, or again bending low with infuriated lunges, were +intent upon killing the intruder. But suddenly the buzz died out in a +thin thrill away in the open space of the courtyard, leaving Lingard +and Almayer standing face to face in the fresh silence of the young day, +looking very puzzled and idle, their arms hanging uselessly by their +sides--like men disheartened by some portentous failure. + +“Look at that!” muttered Lingard. “Got away after all.” + +“Nuisance,” said Almayer in the same tone. “Riverside is overrun with +them. This house is badly placed . . . mosquitos . . . and these big +flies . . . . last week stung Nina . . . been ill four days . . . poor +child. . . . I wonder what such damned things are made for!” + + + +CHAPTER TWO + +After a long silence, during which Almayer had moved towards the table +and sat down, his head between his hands, staring straight before him, +Lingard, who had recommenced walking, cleared his throat and said-- + +“What was it you were saying?” + +“Ah! Yes! You should have seen this settlement that night. I don’t think +anybody went to bed. I walked down to the point, and could see them. +They had a big bonfire in the palm grove, and the talk went on there +till the morning. When I came back here and sat in the dark verandah in +this quiet house I felt so frightfully lonely that I stole in and took +the child out of her cot and brought her here into my hammock. If it +hadn’t been for her I am sure I would have gone mad; I felt so utterly +alone and helpless. Remember, I hadn’t heard from you for four months. +Didn’t know whether you were alive or dead. Patalolo would have nothing +to do with me. My own men were deserting me like rats do a sinking hulk. +That was a black night for me, Captain Lingard. A black night as I sat +here not knowing what would happen next. They were so excited and rowdy +that I really feared they would come and burn the house over my head. +I went and brought my revolver. Laid it loaded on the table. There were +such awful yells now and then. Luckily the child slept through it, and +seeing her so pretty and peaceful steadied me somehow. Couldn’t believe +there was any violence in this world, looking at her lying so quiet and +so unconscious of what went on. But it was very hard. Everything was at +an end. You must understand that on that night there was no government +in Sambir. Nothing to restrain those fellows. Patalolo had collapsed. I +was abandoned by my own people, and all that lot could vent their spite +on me if they wanted. They know no gratitude. How many times haven’t I +saved this settlement from starvation? Absolute starvation. Only three +months ago I distributed again a lot of rice on credit. There was +nothing to eat in this infernal place. They came begging on their +knees. There isn’t a man in Sambir, big or little, who is not in debt to +Lingard & Co. Not one. You ought to be satisfied. You always said +that was the right policy for us. Well, I carried it out. Ah! Captain +Lingard, a policy like that should be backed by loaded rifles . . .” + +“You had them!” exclaimed Lingard in the midst of his promenade, that +went on more rapid as Almayer talked: the headlong tramp of a man +hurrying on to do something violent. The verandah was full of dust, +oppressive and choking, which rose under the old seaman’s feet, and made +Almayer cough again and again. + +“Yes, I had! Twenty. And not a finger to pull a trigger. It’s easy to +talk,” he spluttered, his face very red. + +Lingard dropped into a chair, and leaned back with one hand stretched +out at length upon the table, the other thrown over the back of his +seat. The dust settled, and the sun surging above the forest flooded +the verandah with a clear light. Almayer got up and busied himself in +lowering the split rattan screens that hung between the columns of the +verandah. + +“Phew!” said Lingard, “it will be a hot day. That’s right, my boy. Keep +the sun out. We don’t want to be roasted alive here.” + +Almayer came back, sat down, and spoke very calmly-- + +“In the morning I went across to see Patalolo. I took the child with me, +of course. I found the water-gate barred, and had to walk round through +the bushes. Patalolo received me lying on the floor, in the dark, all +the shutters closed. I could get nothing out of him but lamentations +and groans. He said you must be dead. That Lakamba was coming now with +Abdulla’s guns to kill everybody. Said he did not mind being killed, +as he was an old man, but that the wish of his heart was to make a +pilgrimage. He was tired of men’s ingratitude--he had no heirs--he +wanted to go to Mecca and die there. He would ask Abdulla to let him go. +Then he abused Lakamba--between sobs--and you, a little. You prevented +him from asking for a flag that would have been respected--he was right +there--and now when his enemies were strong he was weak, and you were +not there to help him. When I tried to put some heart into him, telling +him he had four big guns--you know the brass six-pounders you left here +last year--and that I would get powder, and that, perhaps, together we +could make head against Lakamba, he simply howled at me. No matter which +way he turned--he shrieked--the white men would be the death of him, +while he wanted only to be a pilgrim and be at peace. My belief is,” + added Almayer, after a short pause, and fixing a dull stare upon +Lingard, “that the old fool saw this thing coming for a long time, and +was not only too frightened to do anything himself, but actually +too scared to let you or me know of his suspicions. Another of your +particular pets! Well! You have a lucky hand, I must say!” + +Lingard struck a sudden blow on the table with his clenched hand. There +was a sharp crack of splitting wood. Almayer started up violently, then +fell back in his chair and looked at the table. + +“There!” he said, moodily, “you don’t know your own strength. This table +is completely ruined. The only table I had been able to save from +my wife. By and by I will have to eat squatting on the floor like a +native.” + +Lingard laughed heartily. “Well then, don’t nag at me like a woman at a +drunken husband!” He became very serious after awhile, and added, “If +it hadn’t been for the loss of the Flash I would have been here three +months ago, and all would have been well. No use crying over that. Don’t +you be uneasy, Kaspar. We will have everything ship-shape here in a very +short time.” + +“What? You don’t mean to expel Abdulla out of here by force! I tell you, +you can’t.” + +“Not I!” exclaimed Lingard. “That’s all over, I am afraid. Great pity. +They will suffer for it. He will squeeze them. Great pity. Damn it! I +feel so sorry for them if I had the Flash here I would try force. Eh! +Why not? However, the poor Flash is gone, and there is an end of it. +Poor old hooker. Hey, Almayer? You made a voyage or two with me. Wasn’t +she a sweet craft? Could make her do anything but talk. She was better +than a wife to me. Never scolded. Hey? . . . And to think that it should +come to this. That I should leave her poor old bones sticking on a reef +as though I had been a damned fool of a southern-going man who must have +half a mile of water under his keel to be safe! Well! well! It’s only +those who do nothing that make no mistakes, I suppose. But it’s hard. +Hard.” + +He nodded sadly, with his eyes on the ground. Almayer looked at him with +growing indignation. + +“Upon my word, you are heartless,” he burst out; “perfectly +heartless--and selfish. It does not seem to strike you--in all +that--that in losing your ship--by your recklessness, I am sure--you +ruin me--us, and my little Nina. What’s going to become of me and of +her? That’s what I want to know. You brought me here, made me your +partner, and now, when everything is gone to the devil--through your +fault, mind you--you talk about your ship . . . ship! You can get +another. But here. This trade. That’s gone now, thanks to Willems. . . . +Your dear Willems!” + +“Never you mind about Willems. I will look after him,” said Lingard, +severely. “And as to the trade . . . I will make your fortune yet, my +boy. Never fear. Have you got any cargo for the schooner that brought me +here?” + +“The shed is full of rattans,” answered Almayer, “and I have about +eighty tons of guttah in the well. The last lot I ever will have, no +doubt,” he added, bitterly. + +“So, after all, there was no robbery. You’ve lost nothing actually. +Well, then, you must . . . Hallo! What’s the matter! . . . Here! . . .” + +“Robbery! No!” screamed Almayer, throwing up his hands. + +He fell back in the chair and his face became purple. A little white +foam appeared on his lips and trickled down his chin, while he lay back, +showing the whites of his upturned eyes. When he came to himself he saw +Lingard standing over him, with an empty water-chatty in his hand. + +“You had a fit of some kind,” said the old seaman with much concern. +“What is it? You did give me a fright. So very sudden.” + +Almayer, his hair all wet and stuck to his head, as if he had been +diving, sat up and gasped. + +“Outrage! A fiendish outrage. I . . .” + +Lingard put the chatty on the table and looked at him in attentive +silence. Almayer passed his hand over his forehead and went on in an +unsteady tone: + +“When I remember that, I lose all control,” he said. “I told you he +anchored Abdulla’s ship abreast our jetty, but over to the other shore, +near the Rajah’s place. The ship was surrounded with boats. From here it +looked as if she had been landed on a raft. Every dugout in Sambir was +there. Through my glass I could distinguish the faces of people on the +poop--Abdulla, Willems, Lakamba--everybody. That old cringing scoundrel +Sahamin was there. I could see quite plain. There seemed to be much talk +and discussion. Finally I saw a ship’s boat lowered. Some Arab got into +her, and the boat went towards Patalolo’s landing-place. It seems +they had been refused admittance--so they say. I think myself that +the water-gate was not unbarred quick enough to please the exalted +messenger. At any rate I saw the boat come back almost directly. I +was looking on, rather interested, when I saw Willems and some more go +forward--very busy about something there. That woman was also amongst +them. Ah, that woman . . .” + +Almayer choked, and seemed on the point of having a relapse, but by a +violent effort regained a comparative composure. + +“All of a sudden,” he continued--“bang! They fired a shot into +Patalolo’s gate, and before I had time to catch my breath--I was +startled, you may believe--they sent another and burst the gate open. +Whereupon, I suppose, they thought they had done enough for a while, and +probably felt hungry, for a feast began aft. Abdulla sat amongst +them like an idol, cross-legged, his hands on his lap. He’s too great +altogether to eat when others do, but he presided, you see. Willems kept +on dodging about forward, aloof from the crowd, and looking at my house +through the ship’s long glass. I could not resist it. I shook my fist at +him.” + +“Just so,” said Lingard, gravely. “That was the thing to do, of course. +If you can’t fight a man the best thing is to exasperate him.” + +Almayer waved his hand in a superior manner, and continued, unmoved: +“You may say what you like. You can’t realize my feelings. He saw me, +and, with his eye still at the small end of the glass, lifted his arm +as if answering a hail. I thought my turn to be shot at would come next +after Patalolo, so I ran up the Union Jack to the flagstaff in the yard. +I had no other protection. There were only three men besides Ali that +stuck to me--three cripples, for that matter, too sick to get away. I +would have fought singlehanded, I think, I was that angry, but there was +the child. What to do with her? Couldn’t send her up the river with the +mother. You know I can’t trust my wife. I decided to keep very quiet, +but to let nobody land on our shore. Private property, that; under a +deed from Patalolo. I was within my right--wasn’t I? The morning was +very quiet. After they had a feed on board the barque with Abdulla most +of them went home; only the big people remained. Towards three o’clock +Sahamin crossed alone in a small canoe. I went down on our wharf with +my gun to speak to him, but didn’t let him land. The old hypocrite said +Abdulla sent greetings and wished to talk with me on business; would I +come on board? I said no; I would not. Told him that Abdulla may write +and I would answer, but no interview, neither on board his ship nor on +shore. I also said that if anybody attempted to land within my fences +I would shoot--no matter whom. On that he lifted his hands to heaven, +scandalized, and then paddled away pretty smartly--to report, I suppose. +An hour or so afterwards I saw Willems land a boat party at the Rajah’s. +It was very quiet. Not a shot was fired, and there was hardly any +shouting. They tumbled those brass guns you presented to Patalolo last +year down the bank into the river. It’s deep there close to. The channel +runs that way, you know. About five, Willems went back on board, and +I saw him join Abdulla by the wheel aft. He talked a lot, swinging his +arms about--seemed to explain things--pointed at my house, then down the +reach. Finally, just before sunset, they hove upon the cable and dredged +the ship down nearly half a mile to the junction of the two branches of +the river--where she is now, as you might have seen.” + +Lingard nodded. + +“That evening, after dark--I was informed--Abdulla landed for the first +time in Sambir. He was entertained in Sahamin’s house. I sent Ali to the +settlement for news. He returned about nine, and reported that Patalolo +was sitting on Abdulla’s left hand before Sahamin’s fire. There was a +great council. Ali seemed to think that Patalolo was a prisoner, but +he was wrong there. They did the trick very neatly. Before midnight +everything was arranged as I can make out. Patalolo went back to his +demolished stockade, escorted by a dozen boats with torches. It appears +he begged Abdulla to let him have a passage in the Lord of the Isles to +Penang. From there he would go to Mecca. The firing business was alluded +to as a mistake. No doubt it was in a sense. Patalolo never meant +resisting. So he is going as soon as the ship is ready for sea. He went +on board next day with three women and half a dozen fellows as old as +himself. By Abdulla’s orders he was received with a salute of seven +guns, and he has been living on board ever since--five weeks. I doubt +whether he will leave the river alive. At any rate he won’t live to +reach Penang. Lakamba took over all his goods, and gave him a draft on +Abdulla’s house payable in Penang. He is bound to die before he gets +there. Don’t you see?” + +He sat silent for a while in dejected meditation, then went on: + +“Of course there were several rows during the night. Various fellows +took the opportunity of the unsettled state of affairs to pay off old +scores and settle old grudges. I passed the night in that chair there, +dozing uneasily. Now and then there would be a great tumult and yelling +which would make me sit up, revolver in hand. However, nobody was +killed. A few broken heads--that’s all. Early in the morning Willems +caused them to make a fresh move which I must say surprised me not a +little. As soon as there was daylight they busied themselves in setting +up a flag-pole on the space at the other end of the settlement, where +Abdulla is having his houses built now. Shortly after sunrise there was +a great gathering at the flag-pole. All went there. Willems was standing +leaning against the mast, one arm over that woman’s shoulders. They had +brought an armchair for Patalolo, and Lakamba stood on the right hand +of the old man, who made a speech. Everybody in Sambir was there: women, +slaves, children--everybody! Then Patalolo spoke. He said that by the +mercy of the Most High he was going on a pilgrimage. The dearest wish +of his heart was to be accomplished. Then, turning to Lakamba, he begged +him to rule justly during his--Patalolo’s--absence There was a bit +of play-acting there. Lakamba said he was unworthy of the honourable +burden, and Patalolo insisted. Poor old fool! It must have been bitter +to him. They made him actually entreat that scoundrel. Fancy a man +compelled to beg of a robber to despoil him! But the old Rajah was +so frightened. Anyway, he did it, and Lakamba accepted at last. Then +Willems made a speech to the crowd. Said that on his way to the west the +Rajah--he meant Patalolo--would see the Great White Ruler in Batavia +and obtain his protection for Sambir. Meantime, he went on, I, an Orang +Blanda and your friend, hoist the flag under the shadow of which there +is safety. With that he ran up a Dutch flag to the mast-head. It was +made hurriedly, during the night, of cotton stuffs, and, being heavy, +hung down the mast, while the crowd stared. Ali told me there was a +great sigh of surprise, but not a word was spoken till Lakamba advanced +and proclaimed in a loud voice that during all that day every one +passing by the flagstaff must uncover his head and salaam before the +emblem.” + +“But, hang it all!” exclaimed Lingard--“Abdulla is British!” + +“Abdulla wasn’t there at all--did not go on shore that day. Yet Ali, who +has his wits about him, noticed that the space where the crowd stood +was under the guns of the Lord of the Isles. They had put a coir warp +ashore, and gave the barque a cant in the current, so as to bring the +broadside to bear on the flagstaff. Clever! Eh? But nobody dreamt of +resistance. When they recovered from the surprise there was a little +quiet jeering; and Bahassoen abused Lakamba violently till one of +Lakamba’s men hit him on the head with a staff. Frightful crack, I +am told. Then they left off jeering. Meantime Patalolo went away, and +Lakamba sat in the chair at the foot of the flagstaff, while the crowd +surged around, as if they could not make up their minds to go. Suddenly +there was a great noise behind Lakamba’s chair. It was that woman, who +went for Willems. Ali says she was like a wild beast, but he twisted her +wrist and made her grovel in the dust. Nobody knows exactly what it was +about. Some say it was about that flag. He carried her off, flung her +into a canoe, and went on board Abdulla’s ship. After that Sahamin +was the first to salaam to the flag. Others followed suit. Before noon +everything was quiet in the settlement, and Ali came back and told me +all this.” + +Almayer drew a long breath. Lingard stretched out his legs. + +“Go on!” he said. + +Almayer seemed to struggle with himself. At last he spluttered out: + +“The hardest is to tell yet. The most unheard-of thing! An outrage! A +fiendish outrage!” + + + +CHAPTER THREE + + +“Well! Let’s know all about it. I can’t imagine . . .” began Lingard, +after waiting for some time in silence. + +“Can’t imagine! I should think you couldn’t,” interrupted Almayer. “Why! +. . . You just listen. When Ali came back I felt a little easier in my +mind. There was then some semblance of order in Sambir. I had the Jack +up since the morning and began to feel safer. Some of my men turned up +in the afternoon. I did not ask any questions; set them to work as if +nothing had happened. Towards the evening--it might have been five or +half-past--I was on our jetty with the child when I heard shouts at the +far-off end of the settlement. At first I didn’t take much notice. By +and by Ali came to me and says, ‘Master, give me the child, there is +much trouble in the settlement.’ So I gave him Nina and went in, took +my revolver, and passed through the house into the back courtyard. As +I came down the steps I saw all the serving girls clear out from the +cooking shed, and I heard a big crowd howling on the other side of +the dry ditch which is the limit of our ground. Could not see them on +account of the fringe of bushes along the ditch, but I knew that crowd +was angry and after somebody. As I stood wondering, that Jim-Eng--you +know the Chinaman who settled here a couple of years ago?” + +“He was my passenger; I brought him here,” exclaimed Lingard. “A +first-class Chinaman that.” + +“Did you? I had forgotten. Well, that Jim-Eng, he burst through the bush +and fell into my arms, so to speak. He told me, panting, that they were +after him because he wouldn’t take off his hat to the flag. He was not +so much scared, but he was very angry and indignant. Of course he had to +run for it; there were some fifty men after him--Lakamba’s friends--but +he was full of fight. Said he was an Englishman, and would not take off +his hat to any flag but English. I tried to soothe him while the crowd +was shouting on the other side of the ditch. I told him he must take one +of my canoes and cross the river. Stop on the other side for a couple of +days. He wouldn’t. Not he. He was English, and he would fight the whole +lot. Says he: ‘They are only black fellows. We white men,’ meaning me +and himself, ‘can fight everybody in Sambir.’ He was mad with passion. +The crowd quieted a little, and I thought I could shelter Jim-Eng +without much risk, when all of a sudden I heard Willems’ voice. He +shouted to me in English: ‘Let four men enter your compound to get that +Chinaman!’ I said nothing. Told Jim-Eng to keep quiet too. Then after +a while Willems shouts again: ‘Don’t resist, Almayer. I give you good +advice. I am keeping this crowd back. Don’t resist them!’ That beggar’s +voice enraged me; I could not help it. I cried to him: ‘You are a liar!’ +and just then Jim-Eng, who had flung off his jacket and had tucked up +his trousers ready for a fight; just then that fellow he snatches the +revolver out of my hand and lets fly at them through the bush. There was +a sharp cry--he must have hit somebody--and a great yell, and before I +could wink twice they were over the ditch and through the bush and on +top of us! Simply rolled over us! There wasn’t the slightest chance to +resist. I was trampled under foot, Jim-Eng got a dozen gashes about his +body, and we were carried halfway up the yard in the first rush. My eyes +and mouth were full of dust; I was on my back with three or four fellows +sitting on me. I could hear Jim-Eng trying to shout not very far from +me. Now and then they would throttle him and he would gurgle. I could +hardly breathe myself with two heavy fellows on my chest. Willems came +up running and ordered them to raise me up, but to keep good hold. They +led me into the verandah. I looked round, but did not see either Ali or +the child. Felt easier. Struggled a little. . . . Oh, my God!” + +Almayer’s face was distorted with a passing spasm of rage. Lingard moved +in his chair slightly. Almayer went on after a short pause: + +“They held me, shouting threats in my face. Willems took down my hammock +and threw it to them. He pulled out the drawer of this table, and found +there a palm and needle and some sail-twine. We were making awnings for +your brig, as you had asked me last voyage before you left. He knew, of +course, where to look for what he wanted. By his orders they laid me out +on the floor, wrapped me in my hammock, and he started to stitch me in, +as if I had been a corpse, beginning at the feet. While he worked he +laughed wickedly. I called him all the names I could think of. He +told them to put their dirty paws over my mouth and nose. I was nearly +choked. Whenever I moved they punched me in the ribs. He went on taking +fresh needlefuls as he wanted them, and working steadily. Sewed me up to +my throat. Then he rose, saying, ‘That will do; let go.’ That woman had +been standing by; they must have been reconciled. She clapped her hands. +I lay on the floor like a bale of goods while he stared at me, and the +woman shrieked with delight. Like a bale of goods! There was a grin on +every face, and the verandah was full of them. I wished myself +dead--‘pon my word, Captain Lingard, I did! I do now whenever I think +of it!” + +Lingard’s face expressed sympathetic indignation. Almayer dropped +his head upon his arms on the table, and spoke in that position in an +indistinct and muffled voice, without looking up. + +“Finally, by his directions, they flung me into the big rocking-chair. +I was sewed in so tight that I was stiff like a piece of wood. He was +giving orders in a very loud voice, and that man Babalatchi saw that +they were executed. They obeyed him implicitly. Meantime I lay there in +the chair like a log, and that woman capered before me and made faces; +snapped her fingers before my nose. Women are bad!--ain’t they? I never +saw her before, as far as I know. Never done anything to her. Yet she +was perfectly fiendish. Can you understand it? Now and then she would +leave me alone to hang round his neck for awhile, and then she would +return before my chair and begin her exercises again. He looked on, +indulgent. The perspiration ran down my face, got into my eyes--my arms +were sewn in. I was blinded half the time; at times I could see better. +She drags him before my chair. ‘I am like white women,’ she says, her +arms round his neck. You should have seen the faces of the fellows in +the verandah! They were scandalized and ashamed of themselves to see her +behaviour. Suddenly she asks him, alluding to me: ‘When are you going +to kill him?’ Imagine how I felt. I must have swooned; I don’t remember +exactly. I fancy there was a row; he was angry. When I got my wits again +he was sitting close to me, and she was gone. I understood he sent her +to my wife, who was hiding in the back room and never came out during +this affair. Willems says to me--I fancy I can hear his voice, hoarse +and dull--he says to me: ‘Not a hair of your head shall be touched.’ I +made no sound. Then he goes on: ‘Please remark that the flag you have +hoisted--which, by the by, is not yours--has been respected. Tell +Captain Lingard so when you do see him. But,’ he says, ‘you first fired +at the crowd.’ ‘You are a liar, you blackguard!’ I shouted. He winced, I +am sure. It hurt him to see I was not frightened. ‘Anyways,’ he says, ‘a +shot had been fired out of your compound and a man was hit. Still, all +your property shall be respected on account of the Union Jack. Moreover, +I have no quarrel with Captain Lingard, who is the senior partner in +this business. As to you,’ he continued, ‘you will not forget this +day--not if you live to be a hundred years old--or I don’t know your +nature. You will keep the bitter taste of this humiliation to the last +day of your life, and so your kindness to me shall be repaid. I shall +remove all the powder you have. This coast is under the protection of +the Netherlands, and you have no right to have any powder. There are the +Governor’s Orders in Council to that effect, and you know it. Tell me +where the key of the small storehouse is?’ I said not a word, and he +waited a little, then rose, saying: ‘It’s your own fault if there is any +damage done.’ He ordered Babalatchi to have the lock of the office-room +forced, and went in--rummaged amongst my drawers--could not find the +key. Then that woman Aissa asked my wife, and she gave them the key. +After awhile they tumbled every barrel into the river. Eighty-three +hundredweight! He superintended himself, and saw every barrel roll into +the water. There were mutterings. Babalatchi was angry and tried to +expostulate, but he gave him a good shaking. I must say he was perfectly +fearless with those fellows. Then he came back to the verandah, sat down +by me again, and says: ‘We found your man Ali with your little daughter +hiding in the bushes up the river. We brought them in. They are +perfectly safe, of course. Let me congratulate you, Almayer, upon the +cleverness of your child. She recognized me at once, and cried “pig” + as naturally as you would yourself. Circumstances alter feelings. You +should have seen how frightened your man Ali was. Clapped his hands over +her mouth. I think you spoil her, Almayer. But I am not angry. Really, +you look so ridiculous in this chair that I can’t feel angry.’ I made +a frantic effort to burst out of my hammock to get at that scoundrel’s +throat, but I only fell off and upset the chair over myself. He laughed +and said only: ‘I leave you half of your revolver cartridges and take +half myself; they will fit mine. We are both white men, and should back +each other up. I may want them.’ I shouted at him from under the chair: +‘You are a thief,’ but he never looked, and went away, one hand round +that woman’s waist, the other on Babalatchi’s shoulder, to whom he was +talking--laying down the law about something or other. In less than five +minutes there was nobody inside our fences. After awhile Ali came to +look for me and cut me free. I haven’t seen Willems since--nor anybody +else for that matter. I have been left alone. I offered sixty dollars to +the man who had been wounded, which were accepted. They released Jim-Eng +the next day, when the flag had been hauled down. He sent six cases of +opium to me for safe keeping but has not left his house. I think he is +safe enough now. Everything is very quiet.” + +Towards the end of his narrative Almayer lifted his head off the table, +and now sat back in his chair and stared at the bamboo rafters of the +roof above him. Lingard lolled in his seat with his legs stretched out. +In the peaceful gloom of the verandah, with its lowered screens, they +heard faint noises from the world outside in the blazing sunshine: a +hail on the river, the answer from the shore, the creak of a pulley; +sounds short, interrupted, as if lost suddenly in the brilliance of +noonday. Lingard got up slowly, walked to the front rail, and holding +one of the screens aside, looked out in silence. Over the water and the +empty courtyard came a distinct voice from a small schooner anchored +abreast of the Lingard jetty. + +“Serang! Take a pull at the main peak halyards. This gaff is down on the +boom.” + +There was a shrill pipe dying in long-drawn cadence, the song of the men +swinging on the rope. The voice said sharply: “That will do!” Another +voice--the serang’s probably--shouted: “Ikat!” and as Lingard dropped +the blind and turned away all was silent again, as if there had been +nothing on the other side of the swaying screen; nothing but the light, +brilliant, crude, heavy, lying on a dead land like a pall of fire. +Lingard sat down again, facing Almayer, his elbow on the table, in a +thoughtful attitude. + +“Nice little schooner,” muttered Almayer, wearily. “Did you buy her?” + +“No,” answered Lingard. “After I lost the Flash we got to Palembang in +our boats. I chartered her there, for six months. From young Ford, you +know. Belongs to him. He wanted a spell ashore, so I took charge myself. +Of course all Ford’s people on board. Strangers to me. I had to go to +Singapore about the insurance; then I went to Macassar, of course. Had +long passages. No wind. It was like a curse on me. I had lots of trouble +with old Hudig. That delayed me much.” + +“Ah! Hudig! Why with Hudig?” asked Almayer, in a perfunctory manner. + +“Oh! about a . . . a woman,” mumbled Lingard. + +Almayer looked at him with languid surprise. The old seaman had twisted +his white beard into a point, and now was busy giving his moustaches a +fierce curl. His little red eyes--those eyes that had smarted under the +salt sprays of every sea, that had looked unwinking to windward in the +gales of all latitudes--now glared at Almayer from behind the lowered +eyebrows like a pair of frightened wild beasts crouching in a bush. + +“Extraordinary! So like you! What can you have to do with Hudig’s women? +The old sinner!” said Almayer, negligently. + +“What are you talking about! Wife of a friend of . . . I mean of a man I +know . . .” + +“Still, I don’t see . . .” interjected Almayer carelessly. + +“Of a man you know too. Well. Very well.” + +“I knew so many men before you made me bury myself in this hole!” + growled Almayer, unamiably. “If she had anything to do with Hudig--that +wife--then she can’t be up to much. I would be sorry for the man,” + added Almayer, brightening up with the recollection of the scandalous +tittle-tattle of the past, when he was a young man in the second capital +of the Islands--and so well informed, so well informed. He laughed. +Lingard’s frown deepened. + +“Don’t talk foolish! It’s Willems’ wife.” + +Almayer grasped the sides of his seat, his eyes and mouth opened wide. + +“What? Why!” he exclaimed, bewildered. + +“Willems’--wife,” repeated Lingard distinctly. “You ain’t deaf, are you? +The wife of Willems. Just so. As to why! There was a promise. And I did +not know what had happened here.” + +“What is it. You’ve been giving her money, I bet,” cried Almayer. + +“Well, no!” said Lingard, deliberately. “Although I suppose I shall have +to . . .” + +Almayer groaned. + +“The fact is,” went on Lingard, speaking slowly and steadily, “the fact +is that I have . . . I have brought her here. Here. To Sambir.” + +“In heaven’s name! why?” shouted Almayer, jumping up. The chair tilted +and fell slowly over. He raised his clasped hands above his head and +brought them down jerkily, separating his fingers with an effort, as if +tearing them apart. Lingard nodded, quickly, several times. + +“I have. Awkward. Hey?” he said, with a puzzled look upwards. + +“Upon my word,” said Almayer, tearfully. “I can’t understand you at all. +What will you do next! Willems’ wife!” + +“Wife and child. Small boy, you know. They are on board the schooner.” + +Almayer looked at Lingard with sudden suspicion, then turning away +busied himself in picking up the chair, sat down in it turning his back +upon the old seaman, and tried to whistle, but gave it up directly. +Lingard went on-- + +“Fact is, the fellow got into trouble with Hudig. Worked upon my +feelings. I promised to arrange matters. I did. With much trouble. Hudig +was angry with her for wishing to join her husband. Unprincipled old +fellow. You know she is his daughter. Well, I said I would see her +through it all right; help Willems to a fresh start and so on. I spoke +to Craig in Palembang. He is getting on in years, and wanted a manager +or partner. I promised to guarantee Willems’ good behaviour. We settled +all that. Craig is an old crony of mine. Been shipmates in the forties. +He’s waiting for him now. A pretty mess! What do you think?” + +Almayer shrugged his shoulders. + +“That woman broke with Hudig on my assurance that all would be well,” + went on Lingard, with growing dismay. “She did. Proper thing, of course. +Wife, husband . . . together . . . as it should be . . . Smart fellow +. . . Impossible scoundrel . . . Jolly old go! Oh! damn!” + +Almayer laughed spitefully. + +“How delighted he will be,” he said, softly. “You will make two people +happy. Two at least!” He laughed again, while Lingard looked at his +shaking shoulders in consternation. + +“I am jammed on a lee shore this time, if ever I was,” muttered Lingard. + +“Send her back quick,” suggested Almayer, stifling another laugh. + +“What are you sniggering at?” growled Lingard, angrily. “I’ll work it +out all clear yet. Meantime you must receive her into this house.” + +“My house!” cried Almayer, turning round. + +“It’s mine too--a little isn’t it?” said Lingard. “Don’t argue,” + he shouted, as Almayer opened his mouth. “Obey orders and hold your +tongue!” + +“Oh! If you take it in that tone!” mumbled Almayer, sulkily, with a +gesture of assent. + +“You are so aggravating too, my boy,” said the old seaman, with +unexpected placidity. “You must give me time to turn round. I can’t keep +her on board all the time. I must tell her something. Say, for instance, +that he is gone up the river. Expected back every day. That’s it. D’ye +hear? You must put her on that tack and dodge her along easy, while I +take the kinks out of the situation. By God!” he exclaimed, mournfully, +after a short pause, “life is foul! Foul like a lee forebrace on a dirty +night. And yet. And yet. One must see it clear for running before going +below--for good. Now you attend to what I said,” he added, sharply, “if +you don’t want to quarrel with me, my boy.” + +“I don’t want to quarrel with you,” murmured Almayer with unwilling +deference. “Only I wish I could understand you. I know you are my +best friend, Captain Lingard; only, upon my word, I can’t make you out +sometimes! I wish I could . . .” + +Lingard burst into a loud laugh which ended shortly in a deep sigh. He +closed his eyes, tilting his head over the back of his armchair; and on +his face, baked by the unclouded suns of many hard years, there appeared +for a moment a weariness and a look of age which startled Almayer, like +an unexpected disclosure of evil. + +“I am done up,” said Lingard, gently. “Perfectly done up. All night on +deck getting that schooner up the river. Then talking with you. Seems to +me I could go to sleep on a clothes-line. I should like to eat something +though. Just see about that, Kaspar.” + +Almayer clapped his hands, and receiving no response was going to call, +when in the central passage of the house, behind the red curtain of the +doorway opening upon the verandah, they heard a child’s imperious voice +speaking shrilly. + +“Take me up at once. I want to be carried into the verandah. I shall be +very angry. Take me up.” + +A man’s voice answered, subdued, in humble remonstrance. The faces of +Almayer and Lingard brightened at once. The old seaman called out-- + +“Bring the child. Lekas!” + +“You will see how she has grown,” exclaimed Almayer, in a jubilant tone. + +Through the curtained doorway Ali appeared with little Nina Almayer in +his arms. The child had one arm round his neck, and with the other she +hugged a ripe pumelo nearly as big as her own head. Her little pink, +sleeveless robe had half slipped off her shoulders, but the long black +hair, that framed her olive face, in which the big black eyes looked out +in childish solemnity, fell in luxuriant profusion over her shoulders, +all round her and over Ali’s arms, like a close-meshed and delicate net +of silken threads. Lingard got up to meet Ali, and as soon as she caught +sight of the old seaman she dropped the fruit and put out both her hands +with a cry of delight. He took her from the Malay, and she laid hold of +his moustaches with an affectionate goodwill that brought unaccustomed +tears into his little red eyes. + +“Not so hard, little one, not so hard,” he murmured, pressing with an +enormous hand, that covered it entirely, the child’s head to his face. + +“Pick up my pumelo, O Rajah of the sea!” she said, speaking in a +high-pitched, clear voice with great volubility. “There, under the +table. I want it quick! Quick! You have been away fighting with many +men. Ali says so. You are a mighty fighter. Ali says so. On the great +sea far away, away, away.” + +She waved her hand, staring with dreamy vacancy, while Lingard looked at +her, and squatting down groped under the table after the pumelo. + +“Where does she get those notions?” said Lingard, getting up cautiously, +to Almayer, who had been giving orders to Ali. + +“She is always with the men. Many a time I’ve found her with her fingers +in their rice dish, of an evening. She does not care for her mother +though--I am glad to say. How pretty she is--and so sharp. My very +image!” + +Lingard had put the child on the table, and both men stood looking at +her with radiant faces. + +“A perfect little woman,” whispered Lingard. “Yes, my dear boy, we shall +make her somebody. You’ll see!” + +“Very little chance of that now,” remarked Almayer, sadly. + +“You do not know!” exclaimed Lingard, taking up the child again, +and beginning to walk up and down the verandah. “I have my plans. I +have--listen.” + +And he began to explain to the interested Almayer his plans for the +future. He would interview Abdulla and Lakamba. There must be some +understanding with those fellows now they had the upper hand. Here +he interrupted himself to swear freely, while the child, who had been +diligently fumbling about his neck, had found his whistle and blew a +loud blast now and then close to his ear--which made him wince and laugh +as he put her hands down, scolding her lovingly. Yes--that would be +easily settled. He was a man to be reckoned with yet. Nobody knew that +better than Almayer. Very well. Then he must patiently try and keep some +little trade together. It would be all right. But the great thing--and +here Lingard spoke lower, bringing himself to a sudden standstill before +the entranced Almayer--the great thing would be the gold hunt up the +river. He--Lingard--would devote himself to it. He had been in the +interior before. There were immense deposits of alluvial gold there. +Fabulous. He felt sure. Had seen places. Dangerous work? Of course! But +what a reward! He would explore--and find. Not a shadow of doubt. Hang +the danger! They would first get as much as they could for themselves. +Keep the thing quiet. Then after a time form a Company. In Batavia or +in England. Yes, in England. Much better. Splendid! Why, of course. And +that baby would be the richest woman in the world. He--Lingard--would +not, perhaps, see it--although he felt good for many years yet--but +Almayer would. Here was something to live for yet! Hey? + +But the richest woman in the world had been for the last five minutes +shouting shrilly--“Rajah Laut! Rajah Laut! Hai! Give ear!” while the old +seaman had been speaking louder, unconsciously, to make his deep bass +heard above the impatient clamour. He stopped now and said tenderly-- + +“What is it, little woman?” + +“I am not a little woman. I am a white child. Anak Putih. A white child; +and the white men are my brothers. Father says so. And Ali says so too. +Ali knows as much as father. Everything.” + +Almayer almost danced with paternal delight. + +“I taught her. I taught her,” he repeated, laughing with tears in his +eyes. “Isn’t she sharp?” + +“I am the slave of the white child,” said Lingard, with playful +solemnity. “What is the order?” + +“I want a house,” she warbled, with great eagerness. “I want a house, +and another house on the roof, and another on the roof--high. High! +Like the places where they dwell--my brothers--in the land where the sun +sleeps.” + +“To the westward,” explained Almayer, under his breath. “She remembers +everything. She wants you to build a house of cards. You did, last time +you were here.” + +Lingard sat down with the child on his knees, and Almayer pulled out +violently one drawer after another, looking for the cards, as if the +fate of the world depended upon his haste. He produced a dirty double +pack which was only used during Lingard’s visit to Sambir, when he would +sometimes play--of an evening--with Almayer, a game which he called +Chinese bezique. It bored Almayer, but the old seaman delighted in it, +considering it a remarkable product of Chinese genius--a race for which +he had an unaccountable liking and admiration. + +“Now we will get on, my little pearl,” he said, putting together with +extreme precaution two cards that looked absurdly flimsy between his big +fingers. Little Nina watched him with intense seriousness as he went on +erecting the ground floor, while he continued to speak to Almayer with +his head over his shoulder so as not to endanger the structure with his +breath. + +“I know what I am talking about. . . . Been in California in forty-nine. +. . . Not that I made much . . . then in Victoria in the early days +. . . . I know all about it. Trust me. Moreover a blind man could . . . +Be quiet, little sister, or you will knock this affair down. . . . My hand +pretty steady yet! Hey, Kaspar? . . . Now, delight of my heart, we shall +put a third house on the top of these two . . . keep very quiet. . . . +As I was saying, you got only to stoop and gather handfuls of gold . . . +dust . . . there. Now here we are. Three houses on top of one another. +Grand!” + +He leaned back in his chair, one hand on the child’s head, which he +smoothed mechanically, and gesticulated with the other, speaking to +Almayer. + +“Once on the spot, there would be only the trouble to pick up the stuff. +Then we shall all go to Europe. The child must be educated. We shall be +rich. Rich is no name for it. Down in Devonshire where I belong, there +was a fellow who built a house near Teignmouth which had as many windows +as a three-decker has ports. Made all his money somewhere out here in +the good old days. People around said he had been a pirate. We boys--I +was a boy in a Brixham trawler then--certainly believed that. He went +about in a bath-chair in his grounds. Had a glass eye . . .” + +“Higher, Higher!” called out Nina, pulling the old seaman’s beard. + +“You do worry me--don’t you?” said Lingard, gently, giving her a tender +kiss. “What? One more house on top of all these? Well! I will try.” + +The child watched him breathlessly. When the difficult feat was +accomplished she clapped her hands, looked on steadily, and after a +while gave a great sigh of content. + +“Oh! Look out!” shouted Almayer. + +The structure collapsed suddenly before the child’s light breath. +Lingard looked discomposed for a moment. Almayer laughed, but the little +girl began to cry. + +“Take her,” said the old seaman, abruptly. Then, after Almayer went +away with the crying child, he remained sitting by the table, looking +gloomily at the heap of cards. + +“Damn this Willems,” he muttered to himself. “But I will do it yet!” + +He got up, and with an angry push of his hand swept the cards off the +table. Then he fell back in his chair. + +“Tired as a dog,” he sighed out, closing his eyes. + + + +CHAPTER FOUR + + +Consciously or unconsciously, men are proud of their firmness, +steadfastness of purpose, directness of aim. They go straight towards +their desire, to the accomplishment of virtue--sometimes of crime--in an +uplifting persuasion of their firmness. They walk the road of life, the +road fenced in by their tastes, prejudices, disdains or enthusiasms, +generally honest, invariably stupid, and are proud of never losing their +way. If they do stop, it is to look for a moment over the hedges that +make them safe, to look at the misty valleys, at the distant peaks, at +cliffs and morasses, at the dark forests and the hazy plains where other +human beings grope their days painfully away, stumbling over the bones +of the wise, over the unburied remains of their predecessors who died +alone, in gloom or in sunshine, halfway from anywhere. The man of +purpose does not understand, and goes on, full of contempt. He never +loses his way. He knows where he is going and what he wants. Travelling +on, he achieves great length without any breadth, and battered, +besmirched, and weary, he touches the goal at last; he grasps the +reward of his perseverance, of his virtue, of his healthy optimism: an +untruthful tombstone over a dark and soon forgotten grave. + +Lingard had never hesitated in his life. Why should he? He had been +a most successful trader, and a man lucky in his fights, skilful in +navigation, undeniably first in seamanship in those seas. He knew it. +Had he not heard the voice of common consent? + +The voice of the world that respected him so much; the whole world to +him--for to us the limits of the universe are strictly defined by those +we know. There is nothing for us outside the babble of praise and blame +on familiar lips, and beyond our last acquaintance there lies only +a vast chaos; a chaos of laughter and tears which concerns us not; +laughter and tears unpleasant, wicked, morbid, contemptible--because +heard imperfectly by ears rebellious to strange sounds. To +Lingard--simple himself--all things were simple. He seldom read. Books +were not much in his way, and he had to work hard navigating, trading, +and also, in obedience to his benevolent instincts, shaping stray +lives he found here and there under his busy hand. He remembered the +Sunday-school teachings of his native village and the discourses of +the black-coated gentleman connected with the Mission to Fishermen and +Seamen, whose yawl-rigged boat darting through rain-squalls amongst the +coasters wind-bound in Falmouth Bay, was part of those precious pictures +of his youthful days that lingered in his memory. “As clever a sky-pilot +as you could wish to see,” he would say with conviction, “and the best +man to handle a boat in any weather I ever did meet!” Such were the +agencies that had roughly shaped his young soul before he went away to +see the world in a southern-going ship--before he went, ignorant and +happy, heavy of hand, pure in heart, profane in speech, to give himself +up to the great sea that took his life and gave him his fortune. When +thinking of his rise in the world--commander of ships, then shipowner, +then a man of much capital, respected wherever he went, Lingard in a +word, the Rajah Laut--he was amazed and awed by his fate, that seemed to +his ill-informed mind the most wondrous known in the annals of men. +His experience appeared to him immense and conclusive, teaching him the +lesson of the simplicity of life. In life--as in seamanship--there were +only two ways of doing a thing: the right way and the wrong way. Common +sense and experience taught a man the way that was right. The other +was for lubbers and fools, and led, in seamanship, to loss of spars and +sails or shipwreck; in life, to loss of money and consideration, or +to an unlucky knock on the head. He did not consider it his duty to +be angry with rascals. He was only angry with things he could not +understand, but for the weaknesses of humanity he could find a +contemptuous tolerance. It being manifest that he was wise and +lucky--otherwise how could he have been as successful in life as he had +been?--he had an inclination to set right the lives of other people, +just as he could hardly refrain--in defiance of nautical etiquette--from +interfering with his chief officer when the crew was sending up a new +topmast, or generally when busy about, what he called, “a heavy job.” He +was meddlesome with perfect modesty; if he knew a thing or two there was +no merit in it. “Hard knocks taught me wisdom, my boy,” he used to say, +“and you had better take the advice of a man who has been a fool in his +time. Have another.” And “my boy” as a rule took the cool drink, the +advice, and the consequent help which Lingard felt himself bound in +honour to give, so as to back up his opinion like an honest man. Captain +Tom went sailing from island to island, appearing unexpectedly +in various localities, beaming, noisy, anecdotal, commendatory or +comminatory, but always welcome. + +It was only since his return to Sambir that the old seaman had for the +first time known doubt and unhappiness, The loss of the Flash--planted +firmly and for ever on a ledge of rock at the north end of Gaspar +Straits in the uncertain light of a cloudy morning--shook him +considerably; and the amazing news which he heard on his arrival +in Sambir were not made to soothe his feelings. A good many years +ago--prompted by his love of adventure--he, with infinite trouble, had +found out and surveyed--for his own benefit only--the entrances to that +river, where, he had heard through native report, a new settlement of +Malays was forming. No doubt he thought at the time mostly of personal +gain; but, received with hearty friendliness by Patalolo, he soon came +to like the ruler and the people, offered his counsel and his help, +and--knowing nothing of Arcadia--he dreamed of Arcadian happiness for +that little corner of the world which he loved to think all his own. +His deep-seated and immovable conviction that only he--he, Lingard--knew +what was good for them was characteristic of him and, after all, not so +very far wrong. He would make them happy whether or no, he said, and he +meant it. His trade brought prosperity to the young state, and the fear +of his heavy hand secured its internal peace for many years. + +He looked proudly upon his work. With every passing year he loved more +the land, the people, the muddy river that, if he could help it, would +carry no other craft but the Flash on its unclean and friendly surface. +As he slowly warped his vessel up-stream he would scan with knowing +looks the riverside clearings, and pronounce solemn judgment upon the +prospects of the season’s rice-crop. He knew every settler on the banks +between the sea and Sambir; he knew their wives, their children; he +knew every individual of the multi-coloured groups that, standing on +the flimsy platforms of tiny reed dwellings built over the water, waved +their hands and shouted shrilly: “O! Kapal layer! Hai!” while the Flash +swept slowly through the populated reach, to enter the lonely stretches +of sparkling brown water bordered by the dense and silent forest, +whose big trees nodded their outspread boughs gently in the faint, warm +breeze--as if in sign of tender but melancholy welcome. He loved it all: +the landscape of brown golds and brilliant emeralds under the dome of +hot sapphire; the whispering big trees; the loquacious nipa-palms that +rattled their leaves volubly in the night breeze, as if in haste to tell +him all the secrets of the great forest behind them. He loved the heavy +scents of blossoms and black earth, that breath of life and of death +which lingered over his brig in the damp air of tepid and peaceful +nights. He loved the narrow and sombre creeks, strangers to sunshine: +black, smooth, tortuous--like byways of despair. He liked even the +troops of sorrowful-faced monkeys that profaned the quiet spots with +capricious gambols and insane gestures of inhuman madness. He loved +everything there, animated or inanimated; the very mud of the riverside; +the very alligators, enormous and stolid, basking on it with impertinent +unconcern. Their size was a source of pride to him. “Immense fellows! +Make two of them Palembang reptiles! I tell you, old man!” he would +shout, poking some crony of his playfully in the ribs: “I tell you, +big as you are, they could swallow you in one gulp, hat, boots and all! +Magnificent beggars! Wouldn’t you like to see them? Wouldn’t you! Ha! +ha! ha!” His thunderous laughter filled the verandah, rolled over the +hotel garden, overflowed into the street, paralyzing for a short moment +the noiseless traffic of bare brown feet; and its loud reverberations +would even startle the landlord’s tame bird--a shameless mynah--into +a momentary propriety of behaviour under the nearest chair. In the big +billiard-room perspiring men in thin cotton singlets would stop the +game, listen, cue in hand, for a while through the open windows, then +nod their moist faces at each other sagaciously and whisper: “The old +fellow is talking about his river.” + +His river! The whispers of curious men, the mystery of the thing, +were to Lingard a source of never-ending delight. The common talk of +ignorance exaggerated the profits of his queer monopoly, and, although +strictly truthful in general, he liked, on that matter, to mislead +speculation still further by boasts full of cold raillery. His river! +By it he was not only rich--he was interesting. This secret of his which +made him different to the other traders of those seas gave intimate +satisfaction to that desire for singularity which he shared with the +rest of mankind, without being aware of its presence within his breast. +It was the greater part of his happiness, but he only knew it after its +loss, so unforeseen, so sudden and so cruel. + +After his conversation with Almayer he went on board the schooner, sent +Joanna on shore, and shut himself up in his cabin, feeling very unwell. +He made the most of his indisposition to Almayer, who came to visit him +twice a day. It was an excuse for doing nothing just yet. He wanted to +think. He was very angry. Angry with himself, with Willems. Angry at +what Willems had done--and also angry at what he had left undone. +The scoundrel was not complete. The conception was perfect, but +the execution, unaccountably, fell short. Why? He ought to have cut +Almayer’s throat and burnt the place to ashes--then cleared out. Got +out of his way; of him, Lingard! Yet he didn’t. Was it impudence, +contempt--or what? He felt hurt at the implied disrespect of his +power, and the incomplete rascality of the proceeding disturbed him +exceedingly. There was something short, something wanting, something +that would have given him a free hand in the work of retribution. The +obvious, the right thing to do, was to shoot Willems. Yet how could he? +Had the fellow resisted, showed fight, or ran away; had he shown any +consciousness of harm done, it would have been more possible, more +natural. But no! The fellow actually had sent him a message. Wanted +to see him. What for? The thing could not be explained. An unexampled, +cold-blooded treachery, awful, incomprehensible. Why did he do it? Why? +Why? The old seaman in the stuffy solitude of his little cabin on board +the schooner groaned out many times that question, striking with an open +palm his perplexed forehead. + +During his four days of seclusion he had received two messages from the +outer world; from that world of Sambir which had, so suddenly and so +finally, slipped from his grasp. One, a few words from Willems written +on a torn-out page of a small notebook; the other, a communication +from Abdulla caligraphed carefully on a large sheet of flimsy paper +and delivered to him in a green silk wrapper. The first he could not +understand. It said: “Come and see me. I am not afraid. Are you? W.” + He tore it up angrily, but before the small bits of dirty paper had the +time to flutter down and settle on the floor, the anger was gone and was +replaced by a sentiment that induced him to go on his knees, pick up +the fragments of the torn message, piece it together on the top of his +chronometer box, and contemplate it long and thoughtfully, as if he had +hoped to read the answer of the horrible riddle in the very form of the +letters that went to make up that fresh insult. Abdulla’s letter he read +carefully and rammed it into his pocket, also with anger, but with anger +that ended in a half-resigned, half-amused smile. He would never give in +as long as there was a chance. “It’s generally the safest way to stick +to the ship as long as she will swim,” was one of his favourite sayings: +“The safest and the right way. To abandon a craft because it leaks is +easy--but poor work. Poor work!” Yet he was intelligent enough to know +when he was beaten, and to accept the situation like a man, without +repining. When Almayer came on board that afternoon he handed him the +letter without comment. + +Almayer read it, returned it in silence, and leaning over the taffrail +(the two men were on deck) looked down for some time at the play of the +eddies round the schooner’s rudder. At last he said without looking up-- + +“That’s a decent enough letter. Abdulla gives him up to you. I told you +they were getting sick of him. What are you going to do?” + +Lingard cleared his throat, shuffled his feet, opened his mouth with +great determination, but said nothing for a while. At last he murmured-- + +“I’ll be hanged if I know--just yet.” + +“I wish you would do something soon . . .” + +“What’s the hurry?” interrupted Lingard. “He can’t get away. As it +stands he is at my mercy, as far as I can see.” + +“Yes,” said Almayer, reflectively--“and very little mercy he deserves +too. Abdulla’s meaning--as I can make it out amongst all those +compliments--is: ‘Get rid for me of that white man--and we shall live in +peace and share the trade.”’ + +“You believe that?” asked Lingard, contemptuously. + +“Not altogether,” answered Almayer. “No doubt we will share the trade +for a time--till he can grab the lot. Well, what are you going to do?” + +He looked up as he spoke and was surprised to see Lingard’s discomposed +face. + +“You ain’t well. Pain anywhere?” he asked, with real solicitude. + +“I have been queer--you know--these last few days, but no pain.” He +struck his broad chest several times, cleared his throat with a powerful +“Hem!” and repeated: “No. No pain. Good for a few years yet. But I am +bothered with all this, I can tell you!” + +“You must take care of yourself,” said Almayer. Then after a pause he +added: “You will see Abdulla. Won’t you?” + +“I don’t know. Not yet. There’s plenty of time,” said Lingard, +impatiently. + +“I wish you would do something,” urged Almayer, moodily. “You know, that +woman is a perfect nuisance to me. She and her brat! Yelps all day. And +the children don’t get on together. Yesterday the little devil wanted to +fight with my Nina. Scratched her face, too. A perfect savage! Like +his honourable papa. Yes, really. She worries about her husband, and +whimpers from morning to night. When she isn’t weeping she is furious +with me. Yesterday she tormented me to tell her when he would be +back and cried because he was engaged in such dangerous work. I said +something about it being all right--no necessity to make a fool of +herself, when she turned upon me like a wild cat. Called me a brute, +selfish, heartless; raved about her beloved Peter risking his life for +my benefit, while I did not care. Said I took advantage of his generous +good-nature to get him to do dangerous work--my work. That he was worth +twenty of the likes of me. That she would tell you--open your eyes as +to the kind of man I was, and so on. That’s what I’ve got to put up with +for your sake. You really might consider me a little. I haven’t robbed +anybody,” went on Almayer, with an attempt at bitter irony--“or sold +my best friend, but still you ought to have some pity on me. It’s like +living in a hot fever. She is out of her wits. You make my house a +refuge for scoundrels and lunatics. It isn’t fair. ‘Pon my word +it isn’t! When she is in her tantrums she is ridiculously ugly and +screeches so--it sets my teeth on edge. Thank God! my wife got a fit of +the sulks and cleared out of the house. Lives in a riverside hut since +that affair--you know. But this Willems’ wife by herself is almost more +than I can bear. And I ask myself why should I? You are exacting and no +mistake. This morning I thought she was going to claw me. Only think! +She wanted to go prancing about the settlement. She might have heard +something there, so I told her she mustn’t. It wasn’t safe outside our +fences, I said. Thereupon she rushes at me with her ten nails up to my +eyes. ‘You miserable man,’ she yells, ‘even this place is not safe, and +you’ve sent him up this awful river where he may lose his head. If he +dies before forgiving me, Heaven will punish you for your crime . . .’ +My crime! I ask myself sometimes whether I am dreaming! It will make me +ill, all this. I’ve lost my appetite already.” + +He flung his hat on deck and laid hold of his hair despairingly. Lingard +looked at him with concern. + +“What did she mean by it?” he muttered, thoughtfully. + +“Mean! She is crazy, I tell you--and I will be, very soon, if this +lasts!” + +“Just a little patience, Kaspar,” pleaded Lingard. “A day or so more.” + +Relieved or tired by his violent outburst, Almayer calmed down, picked +up his hat and, leaning against the bulwark, commenced to fan himself +with it. + +“Days do pass,” he said, resignedly--“but that kind of thing makes a +man old before his time. What is there to think about?--I can’t imagine! +Abdulla says plainly that if you undertake to pilot his ship out and +instruct the half-caste, he will drop Willems like a hot potato and be +your friend ever after. I believe him perfectly, as to Willems. It’s so +natural. As to being your friend it’s a lie of course, but we need +not bother about that just yet. You just say yes to Abdulla, and then +whatever happens to Willems will be nobody’s business.” + +He interrupted himself and remained silent for a while, glaring about +with set teeth and dilated nostrils. + +“You leave it to me. I’ll see to it that something happens to him,” he +said at last, with calm ferocity. Lingard smiled faintly. + +“The fellow isn’t worth a shot. Not the trouble of it,” he whispered, as +if to himself. Almayer fired up suddenly. + +“That’s what you think,” he cried. “You haven’t been sewn up in your +hammock to be made a laughing-stock of before a parcel of savages. Why! +I daren’t look anybody here in the face while that scoundrel is alive. I +will . . . I will settle him.” + +“I don’t think you will,” growled Lingard. + +“Do you think I am afraid of him?” + +“Bless you! no!” said Lingard with alacrity. “Afraid! Not you. I know +you. I don’t doubt your courage. It’s your head, my boy, your head that +I . . .” + +“That’s it,” said the aggrieved Almayer. “Go on. Why don’t you call me a +fool at once?” + +“Because I don’t want to,” burst out Lingard, with nervous irritability. +“If I wanted to call you a fool, I would do so without asking your +leave.” He began to walk athwart the narrow quarter-deck, kicking ropes’ +ends out of his way and growling to himself: “Delicate gentleman . . . +what next? . . . I’ve done man’s work before you could toddle. +Understand . . . say what I like.” + +“Well! well!” said Almayer, with affected resignation. “There’s no +talking to you these last few days.” He put on his hat, strolled to +the gangway and stopped, one foot on the little inside ladder, as if +hesitating, came back and planted himself in Lingard’s way, compelling +him to stand still and listen. + +“Of course you will do what you like. You never take advice--I know +that; but let me tell you that it wouldn’t be honest to let that fellow +get away from here. If you do nothing, that scoundrel will leave in +Abdulla’s ship for sure. Abdulla will make use of him to hurt you and +others elsewhere. Willems knows too much about your affairs. He will +cause you lots of trouble. You mark my words. Lots of trouble. To +you--and to others perhaps. Think of that, Captain Lingard. That’s all +I’ve got to say. Now I must go back on shore. There’s lots of work. We +will begin loading this schooner to-morrow morning, first thing. All the +bundles are ready. If you should want me for anything, hoist some kind +of flag on the mainmast. At night two shots will fetch me.” Then +he added, in a friendly tone, “Won’t you come and dine in the house +to-night? It can’t be good for you to stew on board like that, day after +day.” + +Lingard did not answer. The image evoked by Almayer; the picture of +Willems ranging over the islands and disturbing the harmony of +the universe by robbery, treachery, and violence, held him silent, +entranced--painfully spellbound. Almayer, after waiting for a little +while, moved reluctantly towards the gangway, lingered there, then +sighed and got over the side, going down step by step. His head +disappeared slowly below the rail. Lingard, who had been staring at him +absently, started suddenly, ran to the side, and looking over, called +out-- + +“Hey! Kaspar! Hold on a bit!” + +Almayer signed to his boatmen to cease paddling, and turned his head +towards the schooner. The boat drifted back slowly abreast of Lingard, +nearly alongside. + +“Look here,” said Lingard, looking down--“I want a good canoe with four +men to-day.” + +“Do you want it now?” asked Almayer. + +“No! Catch this rope. Oh, you clumsy devil! . . . No, Kaspar,” went on +Lingard, after the bow-man had got hold of the end of the brace he had +thrown down into the canoe--“No, Kaspar. The sun is too much for me. And +it would be better to keep my affairs quiet, too. Send the canoe--four +good paddlers, mind, and your canvas chair for me to sit in. Send it +about sunset. D’ye hear?” + +“All right, father,” said Almayer, cheerfully--“I will send Ali for a +steersman, and the best men I’ve got. Anything else?” + +“No, my lad. Only don’t let them be late.” + +“I suppose it’s no use asking you where you are going,” said Almayer, +tentatively. “Because if it is to see Abdulla, I . . .” + +“I am not going to see Abdulla. Not to-day. Now be off with you.” + +He watched the canoe dart away shorewards, waved his hand in response +to Almayer’s nod, and walked to the taffrail smoothing out Abdulla’s +letter, which he had pulled out of his pocket. He read it over +carefully, crumpled it up slowly, smiling the while and closing his +fingers firmly over the crackling paper as though he had hold there +of Abdulla’s throat. Halfway to his pocket he changed his mind, and +flinging the ball overboard looked at it thoughtfully as it spun round +in the eddies for a moment, before the current bore it away down-stream, +towards the sea. + + + + +PART IV + + +CHAPTER ONE + +The night was very dark. For the first time in many months the East +Coast slept unseen by the stars under a veil of motionless cloud that, +driven before the first breath of the rainy monsoon, had drifted slowly +from the eastward all the afternoon; pursuing the declining sun with +its masses of black and grey that seemed to chase the light with wicked +intent, and with an ominous and gloomy steadiness, as though conscious +of the message of violence and turmoil they carried. At the sun’s +disappearance below the western horizon, the immense cloud, in quickened +motion, grappled with the glow of retreating light, and rolling down +to the clear and jagged outline of the distant mountains, hung arrested +above the steaming forests; hanging low, silent and menacing over the +unstirring tree-tops; withholding the blessing of rain, nursing the +wrath of its thunder; undecided--as if brooding over its own power for +good or for evil. + +Babalatchi, coming out of the red and smoky light of his little bamboo +house, glanced upwards, drew in a long breath of the warm and stagnant +air, and stood for a moment with his good eye closed tightly, as if +intimidated by the unwonted and deep silence of Lakamba’s courtyard. +When he opened his eye he had recovered his sight so far, that he could +distinguish the various degrees of formless blackness which marked the +places of trees, of abandoned houses, of riverside bushes, on the dark +background of the night. + +The careworn sage walked cautiously down the deserted courtyard to the +waterside, and stood on the bank listening to the voice of the invisible +river that flowed at his feet; listening to the soft whispers, to the +deep murmurs, to the sudden gurgles and the short hisses of the swift +current racing along the bank through the hot darkness. + +He stood with his face turned to the river, and it seemed to him that he +could breathe easier with the knowledge of the clear vast space before +him; then, after a while he leaned heavily forward on his staff, his +chin fell on his breast, and a deep sigh was his answer to the selfish +discourse of the river that hurried on unceasing and fast, regardless of +joy or sorrow, of suffering and of strife, of failures and triumphs that +lived on its banks. The brown water was there, ready to carry friends or +enemies, to nurse love or hate on its submissive and heartless bosom, +to help or to hinder, to save life or give death; the great and rapid +river: a deliverance, a prison, a refuge or a grave. + +Perchance such thoughts as these caused Babalatchi to send another +mournful sigh into the trailing mists of the unconcerned Pantai. The +barbarous politician had forgotten the recent success of his plottings +in the melancholy contemplation of a sorrow that made the night blacker, +the clammy heat more oppressive, the still air more heavy, the dumb +solitude more significant of torment than of peace. He had spent the +night before by the side of the dying Omar, and now, after twenty-four +hours, his memory persisted in returning to that low and sombre reed +hut from which the fierce spirit of the incomparably accomplished pirate +took its flight, to learn too late, in a worse world, the error of +its earthly ways. The mind of the savage statesman, chastened by +bereavement, felt for a moment the weight of his loneliness with +keen perception worthy even of a sensibility exasperated by all the +refinements of tender sentiment that a glorious civilization brings in +its train, among other blessings and virtues, into this excellent world. +For the space of about thirty seconds, a half-naked, betel-chewing +pessimist stood upon the bank of the tropical river, on the edge of the +still and immense forests; a man angry, powerless, empty-handed, with a +cry of bitter discontent ready on his lips; a cry that, had it come out, +would have rung through the virgin solitudes of the woods, as true, as +great, as profound, as any philosophical shriek that ever came from the +depths of an easy-chair to disturb the impure wilderness of chimneys and +roofs. + +For half a minute and no more did Babalatchi face the gods in the +sublime privilege of his revolt, and then the one-eyed puller of wires +became himself again, full of care and wisdom and far-reaching plans, +and a victim to the tormenting superstitions of his race. The night, no +matter how quiet, is never perfectly silent to attentive ears, and now +Babalatchi fancied he could detect in it other noises than those caused +by the ripples and eddies of the river. He turned his head sharply to +the right and to the left in succession, and then spun round quickly in +a startled and watchful manner, as if he had expected to see the blind +ghost of his departed leader wandering in the obscurity of the empty +courtyard behind his back. Nothing there. Yet he had heard a noise; +a strange noise! No doubt a ghostly voice of a complaining and angry +spirit. He listened. Not a sound. Reassured, Babalatchi made a few paces +towards his house, when a very human noise, that of hoarse coughing, +reached him from the river. He stopped, listened attentively, but now +without any sign of emotion, and moving briskly back to the waterside +stood expectant with parted lips, trying to pierce with his eye the +wavering curtain of mist that hung low over the water. He could see +nothing, yet some people in a canoe must have been very near, for he +heard words spoken in an ordinary tone. + +“Do you think this is the place, Ali? I can see nothing.” + +“It must be near here, Tuan,” answered another voice. “Shall we try the +bank?” + +“No! . . . Let drift a little. If you go poking into the bank in the +dark you might stove the canoe on some log. We must be careful. . . . +Let drift! Let drift! . . . This does seem to be a clearing of +some sort. We may see a light by and by from some house or other. In +Lakamba’s campong there are many houses? Hey?” + +“A great number, Tuan . . . I do not see any light.” + +“Nor I,” grumbled the first voice again, this time nearly abreast of the +silent Babalatchi who looked uneasily towards his own house, the doorway +of which glowed with the dim light of a torch burning within. The +house stood end on to the river, and its doorway faced down-stream, so +Babalatchi reasoned rapidly that the strangers on the river could not +see the light from the position their boat was in at the moment. He +could not make up his mind to call out to them, and while he hesitated +he heard the voices again, but now some way below the landing-place +where he stood. + +“Nothing. This cannot be it. Let them give way, Ali! Dayong there!” + +That order was followed by the splash of paddles, then a sudden cry-- + +“I see a light. I see it! Now I know where to land, Tuan.” + +There was more splashing as the canoe was paddled sharply round and came +back up-stream close to the bank. + +“Call out,” said very near a deep voice, which Babalatchi felt sure must +belong to a white man. “Call out--and somebody may come with a torch. I +can’t see anything.” + +The loud hail that succeeded these words was emitted nearly under the +silent listener’s nose. Babalatchi, to preserve appearances, ran with +long but noiseless strides halfway up the courtyard, and only then +shouted in answer and kept on shouting as he walked slowly back again +towards the river bank. He saw there an indistinct shape of a boat, not +quite alongside the landing-place. + +“Who speaks on the river?” asked Babalatchi, throwing a tone of surprise +into his question. + +“A white man,” answered Lingard from the canoe. “Is there not one torch +in rich Lakamba’s campong to light a guest on his landing?” + +“There are no torches and no men. I am alone here,” said Babalatchi, +with some hesitation. + +“Alone!” exclaimed Lingard. “Who are you?” + +“Only a servant of Lakamba. But land, Tuan Putih, and see my face. Here +is my hand. No! Here! . . . By your mercy. . . . Ada! . . . Now you are +safe.” + +“And you are alone here?” said Lingard, moving with precaution a few +steps into the courtyard. “How dark it is,” he muttered to himself--“one +would think the world had been painted black.” + +“Yes. Alone. What more did you say, Tuan? I did not understand your +talk.” + +“It is nothing. I expected to find here . . . But where are they all?” + +“What matters where they are?” said Babalatchi, gloomily. “Have you come +to see my people? The last departed on a long journey--and I am alone. +Tomorrow I go too.” + +“I came to see a white man,” said Lingard, walking on slowly. “He is not +gone, is he?” + +“No!” answered Babalatchi, at his elbow. “A man with a red skin and hard +eyes,” he went on, musingly, “whose hand is strong, and whose heart is +foolish and weak. A white man indeed . . . But still a man.” + +They were now at the foot of the short ladder which led to the +split-bamboo platform surrounding Babalatchi’s habitation. The faint +light from the doorway fell down upon the two men’s faces as they stood +looking at each other curiously. + +“Is he there?” asked Lingard, in a low voice, with a wave of his hand +upwards. + +Babalatchi, staring hard at his long-expected visitor, did not answer at +once. “No, not there,” he said at last, placing his foot on the lowest +rung and looking back. “Not there, Tuan--yet not very far. Will you sit +down in my dwelling? There may be rice and fish and clear water--not +from the river, but from a spring . . .” + +“I am not hungry,” interrupted Lingard, curtly, “and I did not come here +to sit in your dwelling. Lead me to the white man who expects me. I have +no time to lose.” + +“The night is long, Tuan,” went on Babalatchi, softly, “and there are +other nights and other days. Long. Very long . . . How much time it +takes for a man to die! O Rajah Laut!” + +Lingard started. + +“You know me!” he exclaimed. + +“Ay--wa! I have seen your face and felt your hand before--many years +ago,” said Babalatchi, holding on halfway up the ladder, and bending +down from above to peer into Lingard’s upturned face. “You do not +remember--but I have not forgotten. There are many men like me: there is +only one Rajah Laut.” + +He climbed with sudden agility the last few steps, and stood on the +platform waving his hand invitingly to Lingard, who followed after a +short moment of indecision. + +The elastic bamboo floor of the hut bent under the heavy weight of the +old seaman, who, standing within the threshold, tried to look into the +smoky gloom of the low dwelling. Under the torch, thrust into the cleft +of a stick, fastened at a right angle to the middle stay of the ridge +pole, lay a red patch of light, showing a few shabby mats and a corner +of a big wooden chest the rest of which was lost in shadow. In the +obscurity of the more remote parts of the house a lance-head, a brass +tray hung on the wall, the long barrel of a gun leaning against the +chest, caught the stray rays of the smoky illumination in trembling +gleams that wavered, disappeared, reappeared, went out, came back--as if +engaged in a doubtful struggle with the darkness that, lying in wait in +distant corners, seemed to dart out viciously towards its feeble enemy. +The vast space under the high pitch of the roof was filled with a thick +cloud of smoke, whose under-side--level like a ceiling--reflected the +light of the swaying dull flame, while at the top it oozed out through +the imperfect thatch of dried palm leaves. An indescribable and +complicated smell, made up of the exhalation of damp earth below, of +the taint of dried fish and of the effluvia of rotting vegetable matter, +pervaded the place and caused Lingard to sniff strongly as he strode +over, sat on the chest, and, leaning his elbows on his knees, took his +head between his hands and stared at the doorway thoughtfully. + +Babalatchi moved about in the shadows, whispering to an indistinct form +or two that flitted about at the far end of the hut. Without stirring +Lingard glanced sideways, and caught sight of muffled-up human shapes +that hovered for a moment near the edge of light and retreated suddenly +back into the darkness. Babalatchi approached, and sat at Lingard’s feet +on a rolled-up bundle of mats. + +“Will you eat rice and drink sagueir?” he said. “I have waked up my +household.” + +“My friend,” said Lingard, without looking at him, “when I come to +see Lakamba, or any of Lakamba’s servants, I am never hungry and never +thirsty. Tau! Savee! Never! Do you think I am devoid of reason? That +there is nothing there?” + +He sat up, and, fixing abruptly his eyes on Babalatchi, tapped his own +forehead significantly. + +“Tse! Tse! Tse! How can you talk like that, Tuan!” exclaimed Babalatchi, +in a horrified tone. + +“I talk as I think. I have lived many years,” said Lingard, stretching +his arm negligently to take up the gun, which he began to examine +knowingly, cocking it, and easing down the hammer several times. “This +is good. Mataram make. Old, too,” he went on. + +“Hai!” broke in Babalatchi, eagerly. “I got it when I was young. He +was an Aru trader, a man with a big stomach and a loud voice, and +brave--very brave. When we came up with his prau in the grey morning, he +stood aft shouting to his men and fired this gun at us once. Only once!” + . . . He paused, laughed softly, and went on in a low, dreamy voice. “In +the grey morning we came up: forty silent men in a swift Sulu prau; and +when the sun was so high”--here he held up his hands about three feet +apart--“when the sun was only so high, Tuan, our work was done--and +there was a feast ready for the fishes of the sea.” + +“Aye! aye!” muttered Lingard, nodding his head slowly. “I see. You +should not let it get rusty like this,” he added. + +He let the gun fall between his knees, and moving back on his seat, +leaned his head against the wall of the hut, crossing his arms on his +breast. + +“A good gun,” went on Babalatchi. “Carry far and true. Better than +this--there.” + +With the tips of his fingers he touched gently the butt of a revolver +peeping out of the right pocket of Lingard’s white jacket. + +“Take your hand off that,” said Lingard sharply, but in a good-humoured +tone and without making the slightest movement. + +Babalatchi smiled and hitched his seat a little further off. + +For some time they sat in silence. Lingard, with his head tilted back, +looked downwards with lowered eyelids at Babalatchi, who was tracing +invisible lines with his finger on the mat between his feet. Outside, +they could hear Ali and the other boatmen chattering and laughing round +the fire they had lighted in the big and deserted courtyard. + +“Well, what about that white man?” said Lingard, quietly. + +It seemed as if Babalatchi had not heard the question. He went on +tracing elaborate patterns on the floor for a good while. Lingard waited +motionless. At last the Malay lifted his head. + +“Hai! The white man. I know!” he murmured absently. “This white man or +another. . . . Tuan,” he said aloud with unexpected animation, “you are +a man of the sea?” + +“You know me. Why ask?” said Lingard, in a low tone. + +“Yes. A man of the sea--even as we are. A true Orang Laut,” went on +Babalatchi, thoughtfully, “not like the rest of the white men.” + +“I am like other whites, and do not wish to speak many words when the +truth is short. I came here to see the white man that helped Lakamba +against Patalolo, who is my friend. Show me where that white man lives; +I want him to hear my talk.” + +“Talk only? Tuan! Why hurry? The night is long and death is swift--as +you ought to know; you who have dealt it to so many of my people. Many +years ago I have faced you, arms in hand. Do you not remember? It was in +Carimata--far from here.” + +“I cannot remember every vagabond that came in my way,” protested +Lingard, seriously. + +“Hai! Hai!” continued Babalatchi, unmoved and dreamy. “Many years +ago. Then all this”--and looking up suddenly at Lingard’s beard, he +flourished his fingers below his own beardless chin--“then all this was +like gold in sunlight, now it is like the foam of an angry sea.” + +“Maybe, maybe,” said Lingard, patiently, paying the involuntary tribute +of a faint sigh to the memories of the past evoked by Babalatchi’s +words. + +He had been living with Malays so long and so close that the extreme +deliberation and deviousness of their mental proceedings had ceased to +irritate him much. To-night, perhaps, he was less prone to impatience +than ever. He was disposed, if not to listen to Babalatchi, then to let +him talk. It was evident to him that the man had something to say, and +he hoped that from the talk a ray of light would shoot through the thick +blackness of inexplicable treachery, to show him clearly--if only for +a second--the man upon whom he would have to execute the verdict of +justice. Justice only! Nothing was further from his thoughts than such +an useless thing as revenge. Justice only. It was his duty that justice +should be done--and by his own hand. He did not like to think how. To +him, as to Babalatchi, it seemed that the night would be long enough for +the work he had to do. But he did not define to himself the nature +of the work, and he sat very still, and willingly dilatory, under the +fearsome oppression of his call. What was the good to think about it? +It was inevitable, and its time was near. Yet he could not command his +memories that came crowding round him in that evil-smelling hut, while +Babalatchi talked on in a flowing monotone, nothing of him moving but +the lips, in the artificially inanimated face. Lingard, like an anchored +ship that had broken her sheer, darted about here and there on the rapid +tide of his recollections. The subdued sound of soft words rang around +him, but his thoughts were lost, now in the contemplation of the past +sweetness and strife of Carimata days, now in the uneasy wonder at the +failure of his judgment; at the fatal blindness of accident that had +caused him, many years ago, to rescue a half-starved runaway from a +Dutch ship in Samarang roads. How he had liked the man: his assurance, +his push, his desire to get on, his conceited good-humour and his +selfish eloquence. He had liked his very faults--those faults that had +so many, to him, sympathetic sides. + +And he had always dealt fairly by him from the very beginning; and +he would deal fairly by him now--to the very end. This last thought +darkened Lingard’s features with a responsive and menacing frown. The +doer of justice sat with compressed lips and a heavy heart, while in the +calm darkness outside the silent world seemed to be waiting breathlessly +for that justice he held in his hand--in his strong hand:--ready to +strike--reluctant to move. + + + +CHAPTER TWO + +Babalatchi ceased speaking. Lingard shifted his feet a little, uncrossed +his arms, and shook his head slowly. The narrative of the events in +Sambir, related from the point of view of the astute statesman, the +sense of which had been caught here and there by his inattentive ears, +had been yet like a thread to guide him out of the sombre labyrinth of +his thoughts; and now he had come to the end of it, out of the tangled +past into the pressing necessities of the present. With the palms of his +hands on his knees, his elbows squared out, he looked down on Babalatchi +who sat in a stiff attitude, inexpressive and mute as a talking doll the +mechanism of which had at length run down. + +“You people did all this,” said Lingard at last, “and you will be sorry +for it before the dry wind begins to blow again. Abdulla’s voice will +bring the Dutch rule here.” + +Babalatchi waved his hand towards the dark doorway. + +“There are forests there. Lakamba rules the land now. Tell me, Tuan, do +you think the big trees know the name of the ruler? No. They are born, +they grow, they live and they die--yet know not, feel not. It is their +land.” + +“Even a big tree may be killed by a small axe,” said Lingard, drily. +“And, remember, my one-eyed friend, that axes are made by white hands. +You will soon find that out, since you have hoisted the flag of the +Dutch.” + +“Ay--wa!” said Babalatchi, slowly. “It is written that the earth belongs +to those who have fair skins and hard but foolish hearts. The farther +away is the master, the easier it is for the slave, Tuan! You were too +near. Your voice rang in our ears always. Now it is not going to be so. +The great Rajah in Batavia is strong, but he may be deceived. He must +speak very loud to be heard here. But if we have need to shout, then he +must hear the many voices that call for protection. He is but a white +man.” + +“If I ever spoke to Patalolo, like an elder brother, it was for your +good--for the good of all,” said Lingard with great earnestness. + +“This is a white man’s talk,” exclaimed Babalatchi, with bitter +exultation. “I know you. That is how you all talk while you load your +guns and sharpen your swords; and when you are ready, then to those who +are weak you say: ‘Obey me and be happy, or die! You are strange, you +white men. You think it is only your wisdom and your virtue and your +happiness that are true. You are stronger than the wild beasts, but not +so wise. A black tiger knows when he is not hungry--you do not. He knows +the difference between himself and those that can speak; you do not +understand the difference between yourselves and us--who are men. You +are wise and great--and you shall always be fools.” + +He threw up both his hands, stirring the sleeping cloud of smoke that +hung above his head, and brought the open palms on the flimsy floor on +each side of his outstretched legs. The whole hut shook. Lingard looked +at the excited statesman curiously. + +“Apa! Apa! What’s the matter?” he murmured, soothingly. “Whom did I kill +here? Where are my guns? What have I done? What have I eaten up?” + +Babalatchi calmed down, and spoke with studied courtesy. + +“You, Tuan, are of the sea, and more like what we are. Therefore I speak +to you all the words that are in my heart. . . . Only once has the sea +been stronger than the Rajah of the sea.” + +“You know it; do you?” said Lingard, with pained sharpness. + +“Hai! We have heard about your ship--and some rejoiced. Not I. Amongst +the whites, who are devils, you are a man.” + +“Trima kassi! I give you thanks,” said Lingard, gravely. + +Babalatchi looked down with a bashful smile, but his face became +saddened directly, and when he spoke again it was in a mournful tone. + +“Had you come a day sooner, Tuan, you would have seen an enemy die. You +would have seen him die poor, blind, unhappy--with no son to dig his +grave and speak of his wisdom and courage. Yes; you would have seen the +man that fought you in Carimata many years ago, die alone--but for one +friend. A great sight to you.” + +“Not to me,” answered Lingard. “I did not even remember him till +you spoke his name just now. You do not understand us. We fight, we +vanquish--and we forget.” + +“True, true,” said Babalatchi, with polite irony; “you whites are so +great that you disdain to remember your enemies. No! No!” he went on, in +the same tone, “you have so much mercy for us, that there is no room for +any remembrance. Oh, you are great and good! But it is in my mind that +amongst yourselves you know how to remember. Is it not so, Tuan?” + +Lingard said nothing. His shoulders moved imperceptibly. He laid his gun +across his knees and stared at the flint lock absently. + +“Yes,” went on Babalatchi, falling again into a mournful mood, “yes, he +died in darkness. I sat by his side and held his hand, but he could not +see the face of him who watched the faint breath on his lips. She, whom +he had cursed because of the white man, was there too, and wept with +covered face. The white man walked about the courtyard making many +noises. Now and then he would come to the doorway and glare at us who +mourned. He stared with wicked eyes, and then I was glad that he who was +dying was blind. This is true talk. I was glad; for a white man’s eyes +are not good to see when the devil that lives within is looking out +through them.” + +“Devil! Hey?” said Lingard, half aloud to himself, as if struck with the +obviousness of some novel idea. Babalatchi went on: + +“At the first hour of the morning he sat up--he so weak--and said +plainly some words that were not meant for human ears. I held his hand +tightly, but it was time for the leader of brave men to go amongst the +Faithful who are happy. They of my household brought a white sheet, and +I began to dig a grave in the hut in which he died. She mourned aloud. +The white man came to the doorway and shouted. He was angry. Angry with +her because she beat her breast, and tore her hair, and mourned with +shrill cries as a woman should. Do you understand what I say, Tuan? +That white man came inside the hut with great fury, and took her by the +shoulder, and dragged her out. Yes, Tuan. I saw Omar dead, and I saw her +at the feet of that white dog who has deceived me. I saw his face grey, +like the cold mist of the morning; I saw his pale eyes looking down at +Omar’s daughter beating her head on the ground at his feet. At the feet +of him who is Abdulla’s slave. Yes, he lives by Abdulla’s will. That is +why I held my hand while I saw all this. I held my hand because we are +now under the flag of the Orang Blanda, and Abdulla can speak into the +ears of the great. We must not have any trouble with white men. Abdulla +has spoken--and I must obey.” + +“That’s it, is it?” growled Lingard in his moustache. Then in Malay, “It +seems that you are angry, O Babalatchi!” + +“No; I am not angry, Tuan,” answered Babalatchi, descending from the +insecure heights of his indignation into the insincere depths of safe +humility. “I am not angry. What am I to be angry? I am only an Orang +Laut, and I have fled before your people many times. Servant of this +one--protected of another; I have given my counsel here and there for a +handful of rice. What am I, to be angry with a white man? What is anger +without the power to strike? But you whites have taken all: the land, +the sea, and the power to strike! And there is nothing left for us in +the islands but your white men’s justice; your great justice that knows +not anger.” + +He got up and stood for a moment in the doorway, sniffing the hot air of +the courtyard, then turned back and leaned against the stay of the ridge +pole, facing Lingard who kept his seat on the chest. The torch, consumed +nearly to the end, burned noisily. Small explosions took place in the +heart of the flame, driving through its smoky blaze strings of hard, +round puffs of white smoke, no bigger than peas, which rolled out of +doors in the faint draught that came from invisible cracks of the bamboo +walls. The pungent taint of unclean things below and about the hut +grew heavier, weighing down Lingard’s resolution and his thoughts in an +irresistible numbness of the brain. He thought drowsily of himself and +of that man who wanted to see him--who waited to see him. Who waited! +Night and day. Waited. . . . A spiteful but vaporous idea floated +through his brain that such waiting could not be very pleasant to the +fellow. Well, let him wait. He would see him soon enough. And for how +long? Five seconds--five minutes--say nothing--say something. What? No! +Just give him time to take one good look, and then . . . + +Suddenly Babalatchi began to speak in a soft voice. Lingard blinked, +cleared his throat--sat up straight. + +“You know all now, Tuan. Lakamba dwells in the stockaded house of +Patalolo; Abdulla has begun to build godowns of plank and stone; and now +that Omar is dead, I myself shall depart from this place and live with +Lakamba and speak in his ear. I have served many. The best of them all +sleeps in the ground in a white sheet, with nothing to mark his grave +but the ashes of the hut in which he died. Yes, Tuan! the white man +destroyed it himself. With a blazing brand in his hand he strode around, +shouting to me to come out--shouting to me, who was throwing earth on +the body of a great leader. Yes; swearing to me by the name of your +God and ours that he would burn me and her in there if we did not make +haste. . . . Hai! The white men are very masterful and wise. I dragged +her out quickly!” + +“Oh, damn it!” exclaimed Lingard--then went on in Malay, speaking +earnestly. “Listen. That man is not like other white men. You know he is +not. He is not a man at all. He is . . . I don’t know.” + +Babalatchi lifted his hand deprecatingly. His eye twinkled, and his +red-stained big lips, parted by an expressionless grin, uncovered a +stumpy row of black teeth filed evenly to the gums. + +“Hai! Hai! Not like you. Not like you,” he said, increasing the softness +of his tones as he neared the object uppermost in his mind during that +much-desired interview. “Not like you, Tuan, who are like ourselves, +only wiser and stronger. Yet he, also, is full of great cunning, and +speaks of you without any respect, after the manner of white men when +they talk of one another.” + +Lingard leaped in his seat as if he had been prodded. + +“He speaks! What does he say?” he shouted. + +“Nay, Tuan,” protested the composed Babalatchi; “what matters his talk +if he is not a man? I am nothing before you--why should I repeat words +of one white man about another? He did boast to Abdulla of having +learned much from your wisdom in years past. Other words I have +forgotten. Indeed, Tuan, I have . . .” + +Lingard cut short Babalatchi’s protestations by a contemptuous wave of +the hand and reseated himself with dignity. + +“I shall go,” said Babalatchi, “and the white man will remain here, +alone with the spirit of the dead and with her who has been the delight +of his heart. He, being white, cannot hear the voice of those that +died. . . . Tell me, Tuan,” he went on, looking at Lingard with +curiosity--“tell me, Tuan, do you white people ever hear the voices of +the invisible ones?” + +“We do not,” answered Lingard, “because those that we cannot see do not +speak.” + +“Never speak! And never complain with sounds that are not words?” + exclaimed Babalatchi, doubtingly. “It may be so--or your ears are +dull. We Malays hear many sounds near the places where men are buried. +To-night I heard . . . Yes, even I have heard. . . . I do not want to +hear any more,” he added, nervously. “Perhaps I was wrong when I . . . +There are things I regret. The trouble was heavy in his heart when he +died. Sometimes I think I was wrong . . . but I do not want to hear +the complaint of invisible lips. Therefore I go, Tuan. Let the unquiet +spirit speak to his enemy the white man who knows not fear, or love, +or mercy--knows nothing but contempt and violence. I have been wrong! I +have! Hai! Hai!” + +He stood for awhile with his elbow in the palm of his left hand, the +fingers of the other over his lips as if to stifle the expression of +inconvenient remorse; then, after glancing at the torch, burnt out +nearly to its end, he moved towards the wall by the chest, fumbled about +there and suddenly flung open a large shutter of attaps woven in a light +framework of sticks. Lingard swung his legs quickly round the corner of +his seat. + +“Hallo!” he said, surprised. + +The cloud of smoke stirred, and a slow wisp curled out through the new +opening. The torch flickered, hissed, and went out, the glowing end +falling on the mat, whence Babalatchi snatched it up and tossed it +outside through the open square. It described a vanishing curve of red +light, and lay below, shining feebly in the vast darkness. Babalatchi +remained with his arm stretched out into the empty night. + +“There,” he said, “you can see the white man’s courtyard, Tuan, and his +house.” + +“I can see nothing,” answered Lingard, putting his head through the +shutter-hole. “It’s too dark.” + +“Wait, Tuan,” urged Babalatchi. “You have been looking long at the +burning torch. You will soon see. Mind the gun, Tuan. It is loaded.” + +“There is no flint in it. You could not find a fire-stone for a hundred +miles round this spot,” said Lingard, testily. “Foolish thing to load +that gun.” + +“I have a stone. I had it from a man wise and pious that lives in Menang +Kabau. A very pious man--very good fire. He spoke words over that stone +that make its sparks good. And the gun is good--carries straight and +far. Would carry from here to the door of the white man’s house, I +believe, Tuan.” + +“Tida apa. Never mind your gun,” muttered Lingard, peering into the +formless darkness. “Is that the house--that black thing over there?” he +asked. + +“Yes,” answered Babalatchi; “that is his house. He lives there by the +will of Abdulla, and shall live there till . . . From where you stand, +Tuan, you can look over the fence and across the courtyard straight at +the door--at the door from which he comes out every morning, looking +like a man that had seen Jehannum in his sleep.” + +Lingard drew his head in. Babalatchi touched his shoulder with a groping +hand. + +“Wait a little, Tuan. Sit still. The morning is not far off now--a +morning without sun after a night without stars. But there will be light +enough to see the man who said not many days ago that he alone has made +you less than a child in Sambir.” + +He felt a slight tremor under his hand, but took it off directly and +began feeling all over the lid of the chest, behind Lingard’s back, for +the gun. + +“What are you at?” said Lingard, impatiently. “You do worry about that +rotten gun. You had better get a light.” + +“A light! I tell you, Tuan, that the light of heaven is very near,” + said Babalatchi, who had now obtained possession of the object of his +solicitude, and grasping it strongly by its long barrel, grounded the +stock at his feet. + +“Perhaps it is near,” said Lingard, leaning both his elbows on the lower +cross-piece of the primitive window and looking out. “It is very black +outside yet,” he remarked carelessly. + +Babalatchi fidgeted about. + +“It is not good for you to sit where you may be seen,” he muttered. + +“Why not?” asked Lingard. + +“The white man sleeps, it is true,” explained Babalatchi, softly; “yet +he may come out early, and he has arms.” + +“Ah! he has arms?” said Lingard. + +“Yes; a short gun that fires many times--like yours here. Abdulla had to +give it to him.” + +Lingard heard Babalatchi’s words, but made no movement. To the old +adventurer the idea that fire arms could be dangerous in other hands +than his own did not occur readily, and certainly not in connection with +Willems. He was so busy with the thoughts about what he considered +his own sacred duty, that he could not give any consideration to the +probable actions of the man of whom he thought--as one may think of an +executed criminal--with wondering indignation tempered by scornful pity. +While he sat staring into the darkness, that every minute grew thinner +before his pensive eyes, like a dispersing mist, Willems appeared to him +as a figure belonging already wholly to the past--a figure that could +come in no way into his life again. He had made up his mind, and the +thing was as well as done. In his weary thoughts he had closed this +fatal, inexplicable, and horrible episode in his life. The worst had +happened. The coming days would see the retribution. + +He had removed an enemy once or twice before, out of his path; he had +paid off some very heavy scores a good many times. Captain Tom had been +a good friend to many: but it was generally understood, from Honolulu +round about to Diego Suarez, that Captain Tom’s enmity was rather more +than any man single-handed could easily manage. He would not, as he said +often, hurt a fly as long as the fly left him alone; yet a man does not +live for years beyond the pale of civilized laws without evolving for +himself some queer notions of justice. Nobody of those he knew had ever +cared to point out to him the errors of his conceptions. + +It was not worth anybody’s while to run counter to Lingard’s ideas of +the fitness of things--that fact was acquired to the floating wisdom +of the South Seas, of the Eastern Archipelago, and was nowhere better +understood than in out-of-the-way nooks of the world; in those nooks +which he filled, unresisted and masterful, with the echoes of his noisy +presence. There is not much use in arguing with a man who boasts of +never having regretted a single action of his life, whose answer to a +mild criticism is a good-natured shout--“You know nothing about it. +I would do it again. Yes, sir!” His associates and his acquaintances +accepted him, his opinions, his actions like things preordained and +unchangeable; looked upon his many-sided manifestations with passive +wonder not unmixed with that admiration which is only the rightful due +of a successful man. But nobody had ever seen him in the mood he was in +now. Nobody had seen Lingard doubtful and giving way to doubt, unable to +make up his mind and unwilling to act; Lingard timid and hesitating one +minute, angry yet inactive the next; Lingard puzzled in a word, because +confronted with a situation that discomposed him by its unprovoked +malevolence, by its ghastly injustice, that to his rough but +unsophisticated palate tasted distinctly of sulphurous fumes from the +deepest hell. + +The smooth darkness filling the shutter-hole grew paler and became +blotchy with ill-defined shapes, as if a new universe was being evolved +out of sombre chaos. Then outlines came out, defining forms without any +details, indicating here a tree, there a bush; a black belt of forest +far off; the straight lines of a house, the ridge of a high roof near +by. Inside the hut, Babalatchi, who lately had been only a persuasive +voice, became a human shape leaning its chin imprudently on the muzzle +of a gun and rolling an uneasy eye over the reappearing world. The day +came rapidly, dismal and oppressed by the fog of the river and by the +heavy vapours of the sky--a day without colour and without sunshine: +incomplete, disappointing, and sad. + +Babalatchi twitched gently Lingard’s sleeve, and when the old seaman +had lifted up his head interrogatively, he stretched out an arm and a +pointing forefinger towards Willems’ house, now plainly visible to the +right and beyond the big tree of the courtyard. + +“Look, Tuan!” he said. “He lives there. That is the door--his door. +Through it he will appear soon, with his hair in disorder and his mouth +full of curses. That is so. He is a white man, and never satisfied. It +is in my mind he is angry even in his sleep. A dangerous man. As Tuan +may observe,” he went on, obsequiously, “his door faces this opening, +where you condescend to sit, which is concealed from all eyes. Faces +it--straight--and not far. Observe, Tuan, not at all far.” + +“Yes, yes; I can see. I shall see him when he wakes.” + +“No doubt, Tuan. When he wakes. . . . If you remain here he can not see +you. I shall withdraw quickly and prepare my canoe myself. I am only a +poor man, and must go to Sambir to greet Lakamba when he opens his eyes. +I must bow before Abdulla who has strength--even more strength than you. +Now if you remain here, you shall easily behold the man who boasted to +Abdulla that he had been your friend, even while he prepared to fight +those who called you protector. Yes, he plotted with Abdulla for that +cursed flag. Lakamba was blind then, and I was deceived. But you, Tuan! +Remember, he deceived you more. Of that he boasted before all men.” + +He leaned the gun quietly against the wall close to the window, and said +softly: “Shall I go now, Tuan? Be careful of the gun. I have put the +fire-stone in. The fire-stone of the wise man, which never fails.” + +Lingard’s eyes were fastened on the distant doorway. Across his line +of sight, in the grey emptiness of the courtyard, a big fruit-pigeon +flapped languidly towards the forests with a loud booming cry, like +the note of a deep gong: a brilliant bird looking in the gloom of +threatening day as black as a crow. A serried flock of white rice birds +rose above the trees with a faint scream, and hovered, swaying in a +disordered mass that suddenly scattered in all directions, as if burst +asunder by a silent explosion. Behind his back Lingard heard a shuffle +of feet--women leaving the hut. In the other courtyard a voice was heard +complaining of cold, and coming very feeble, but exceedingly distinct, +out of the vast silence of the abandoned houses and clearings. +Babalatchi coughed discreetly. From under the house the thumping of +wooden pestles husking the rice started with unexpected abruptness. The +weak but clear voice in the yard again urged, “Blow up the embers, O +brother!” Another voice answered, drawling in modulated, thin sing-song, +“Do it yourself, O shivering pig!” and the drawl of the last words +stopped short, as if the man had fallen into a deep hole. Babalatchi +coughed again a little impatiently, and said in a confidential tone-- + +“Do you think it is time for me to go, Tuan? Will you take care of my +gun, Tuan? I am a man that knows how to obey; even obey Abdulla, who has +deceived me. Nevertheless this gun carries far and true--if you would +want to know, Tuan. And I have put in a double measure of powder, and +three slugs. Yes, Tuan. Now--perhaps--I go.” + +When Babalatchi commenced speaking, Lingard turned slowly round and +gazed upon him with the dull and unwilling look of a sick man waking to +another day of suffering. As the astute statesman proceeded, Lingard’s +eyebrows came close, his eyes became animated, and a big vein stood out +on his forehead, accentuating a lowering frown. When speaking his last +words Babalatchi faltered, then stopped, confused, before the steady +gaze of the old seaman. + +Lingard rose. His face cleared, and he looked down at the anxious +Babalatchi with sudden benevolence. + +“So! That’s what you were after,” he said, laying a heavy hand on +Babalatchi’s yielding shoulder. “You thought I came here to murder him. +Hey? Speak! You faithful dog of an Arab trader!” + +“And what else, Tuan?” shrieked Babalatchi, exasperated into sincerity. +“What else, Tuan! Remember what he has done; he poisoned our ears with +his talk about you. You are a man. If you did not come to kill, Tuan, +then either I am a fool or . . .” + +He paused, struck his naked breast with his open palm, and finished in a +discouraged whisper--“or, Tuan, you are.” + +Lingard looked down at him with scornful serenity. After his long and +painful gropings amongst the obscure abominations of Willems’ conduct, +the logical if tortuous evolutions of Babalatchi’s diplomatic mind +were to him welcome as daylight. There was something at last he could +understand--the clear effect of a simple cause. He felt indulgent +towards the disappointed sage. + +“So you are angry with your friend, O one-eyed one!” he said slowly, +nodding his fierce countenance close to Babalatchi’s discomfited face. +“It seems to me that you must have had much to do with what happened in +Sambir lately. Hey? You son of a burnt father.” + +“May I perish under your hand, O Rajah of the sea, if my words are not +true!” said Babalatchi, with reckless excitement. “You are here in the +midst of your enemies. He the greatest. Abdulla would do nothing without +him, and I could do nothing without Abdulla. Strike me--so that you +strike all!” + +“Who are you,” exclaimed Lingard contemptuously--“who are you to +dare call yourself my enemy! Dirt! Nothing! Go out first,” he went on +severely. “Lakas! quick. March out!” + +He pushed Babalatchi through the doorway and followed him down the short +ladder into the courtyard. The boatmen squatting over the fire turned +their slow eyes with apparent difficulty towards the two men; then, +unconcerned, huddled close together again, stretching forlornly their +hands over the embers. The women stopped in their work and with uplifted +pestles flashed quick and curious glances from the gloom under the +house. + +“Is that the way?” asked Lingard with a nod towards the little +wicket-gate of Willems’ enclosure. + +“If you seek death, that is surely the way,” answered Babalatchi in a +dispassionate voice, as if he had exhausted all the emotions. “He lives +there: he who destroyed your friends; who hastened Omar’s death; who +plotted with Abdulla first against you, then against me. I have been +like a child. O shame! . . . But go, Tuan. Go there.” + +“I go where I like,” said Lingard, emphatically, “and you may go to the +devil; I do not want you any more. The islands of these seas shall sink +before I, Rajah Laut, serve the will of any of your people. Tau? But I +tell you this: I do not care what you do with him after to-day. And I +say that because I am merciful.” + +“Tida! I do nothing,” said Babalatchi, shaking his head with bitter +apathy. “I am in Abdulla’s hand and care not, even as you do. No! no!” + he added, turning away, “I have learned much wisdom this morning. There +are no men anywhere. You whites are cruel to your friends and merciful +to your enemies--which is the work of fools.” + +He went away towards the riverside, and, without once looking back, +disappeared in the low bank of mist that lay over the water and the +shore. Lingard followed him with his eyes thoughtfully. After awhile he +roused himself and called out to his boatmen-- + +“Hai--ya there! After you have eaten rice, wait for me with your paddles +in your hands. You hear?” + +“Ada, Tuan!” answered Ali through the smoke of the morning fire that was +spreading itself, low and gentle, over the courtyard--“we hear!” + +Lingard opened slowly the little wicket-gate, made a few steps into +the empty enclosure, and stopped. He had felt about his head the short +breath of a puff of wind that passed him, made every leaf of the big +tree shiver--and died out in a hardly perceptible tremor of branches and +twigs. Instinctively he glanced upwards with a seaman’s impulse. Above +him, under the grey motionless waste of a stormy sky, drifted low black +vapours, in stretching bars, in shapeless patches, in sinuous wisps and +tormented spirals. Over the courtyard and the house floated a round, +sombre, and lingering cloud, dragging behind a tail of tangled and filmy +streamers--like the dishevelled hair of a mourning woman. + + + +CHAPTER THREE + + +“Beware!” + +The tremulous effort and the broken, inadequate tone of the faint cry, +surprised Lingard more than the unexpected suddenness of the warning +conveyed, he did not know by whom and to whom. Besides himself there was +no one in the courtyard as far as he could see. + +The cry was not renewed, and his watchful eyes, scanning warily the +misty solitude of Willems’ enclosure, were met everywhere only by the +stolid impassiveness of inanimate things: the big sombre-looking tree, +the shut-up, sightless house, the glistening bamboo fences, the damp and +drooping bushes further off--all these things, that condemned to look +for ever at the incomprehensible afflictions or joys of mankind, assert +in their aspect of cold unconcern the high dignity of lifeless matter +that surrounds, incurious and unmoved, the restless mysteries of the +ever-changing, of the never-ending life. + +Lingard, stepping aside, put the trunk of the tree between himself +and the house, then, moving cautiously round one of the projecting +buttresses, had to tread short in order to avoid scattering a small heap +of black embers upon which he came unexpectedly on the other side. A +thin, wizened, little old woman, who, standing behind the tree, had been +looking at the house, turned towards him with a start, gazed with faded, +expressionless eyes at the intruder, then made a limping attempt to get +away. She seemed, however, to realize directly the hopelessness or the +difficulty of the undertaking, stopped, hesitated, tottered back slowly; +then, after blinking dully, fell suddenly on her knees amongst the white +ashes, and, bending over the heap of smouldering coals, distended her +sunken cheeks in a steady effort to blow up the hidden sparks into a +useful blaze. Lingard looked down on her, but she seemed to have made +up her mind that there was not enough life left in her lean body for +anything else than the discharge of the simple domestic duty, and, +apparently, she begrudged him the least moment of attention. + +After waiting for awhile, Lingard asked-- + +“Why did you call, O daughter?” + +“I saw you enter,” she croaked feebly, still grovelling with her +face near the ashes and without looking up, “and I called--the cry of +warning. It was her order. Her order,” she repeated, with a moaning +sigh. + +“And did she hear?” pursued Lingard, with gentle composure. + +Her projecting shoulder-blades moved uneasily under the thin stuff of +the tight body jacket. She scrambled up with difficulty to her feet, +and hobbled away, muttering peevishly to herself, towards a pile of dry +brushwood heaped up against the fence. + +Lingard, looking idly after her, heard the rattle of loose planks that +led from the ground to the door of the house. He moved his head beyond +the shelter of the tree and saw Aissa coming down the inclined way into +the courtyard. After making a few hurried paces towards the tree, she +stopped with one foot advanced in an appearance of sudden terror, and +her eyes glanced wildly right and left. Her head was uncovered. A blue +cloth wrapped her from her head to foot in close slanting folds, with +one end thrown over her shoulder. A tress of her black hair strayed +across her bosom. Her bare arms pressed down close to her body, with +hands open and outstretched fingers; her slightly elevated shoulders and +the backward inclination of her torso gave her the aspect of one defiant +yet shrinking from a coming blow. She had closed the door of the house +behind her; and as she stood solitary in the unnatural and threatening +twilight of the murky day, with everything unchanged around her, she +appeared to Lingard as if she had been made there, on the spot, out +of the black vapours of the sky and of the sinister gleams of feeble +sunshine that struggled, through the thickening clouds, into the +colourless desolation of the world. + +After a short but attentive glance towards the shut-up house, Lingard +stepped out from behind the tree and advanced slowly towards her. The +sudden fixity of her--till then--restless eyes and a slight twitch of +her hands were the only signs she gave at first of having seen him. +She made a long stride forward, and putting herself right in his path, +stretched her arms across; her black eyes opened wide, her lips parted +as if in an uncertain attempt to speak--but no sound came out to break +the significant silence of their meeting. Lingard stopped and looked at +her with stern curiosity. After a while he said composedly-- + +“Let me pass. I came here to talk to a man. Does he hide? Has he sent +you?” + +She made a step nearer, her arms fell by her side, then she put them +straight out nearly touching Lingard’s breast. + +“He knows not fear,” she said, speaking low, with a forward throw of +her head, in a voice trembling but distinct. “It is my own fear that has +sent me here. He sleeps.” + +“He has slept long enough,” said Lingard, in measured tones. “I am +come--and now is the time of his waking. Go and tell him this--or else +my own voice will call him up. A voice he knows well.” + +He put her hands down firmly and again made as if to pass by her. + +“Do not!” she exclaimed, and fell at his feet as if she had been cut +down by a scythe. The unexpected suddenness of her movement startled +Lingard, who stepped back. + +“What’s this?” he exclaimed in a wondering whisper--then added in a tone +of sharp command: “Stand up!” + +She rose at once and stood looking at him, timorous and fearless; yet +with a fire of recklessness burning in her eyes that made clear her +resolve to pursue her purpose even to the death. Lingard went on in a +severe voice-- + +“Go out of my path. You are Omar’s daughter, and you ought to know that +when men meet in daylight women must be silent and abide their fate.” + +“Women!” she retorted, with subdued vehemence. “Yes, I am a woman! +Your eyes see that, O Rajah Laut, but can you see my life? I also have +heard--O man of many fights--I also have heard the voice of fire-arms; +I also have felt the rain of young twigs and of leaves cut up by bullets +fall down about my head; I also know how to look in silence at angry +faces and at strong hands raised high grasping sharp steel. I also saw +men fall dead around me without a cry of fear and of mourning; and I +have watched the sleep of weary fugitives, and looked at night shadows +full of menace and death with eyes that knew nothing but watchfulness. +And,” she went on, with a mournful drop in her voice, “I have faced the +heartless sea, held on my lap the heads of those who died raving from +thirst, and from their cold hands took the paddle and worked so that +those with me did not know that one man more was dead. I did all this. +What more have you done? That was my life. What has been yours?” + +The matter and the manner of her speech held Lingard motionless, +attentive and approving against his will. She ceased speaking, and from +her staring black eyes with a narrow border of white above and below, a +double ray of her very soul streamed out in a fierce desire to light +up the most obscure designs of his heart. After a long silence, which +served to emphasize the meaning of her words, she added in the whisper +of bitter regret-- + +“And I have knelt at your feet! And I am afraid!” + +“You,” said Lingard deliberately, and returning her look with an +interested gaze, “you are a woman whose heart, I believe, is great +enough to fill a man’s breast: but still you are a woman, and to you, I, +Rajah Laut, have nothing to say.” + +She listened bending her head in a movement of forced attention; and his +voice sounded to her unexpected, far off, with the distant and unearthly +ring of voices that we hear in dreams, saying faintly things startling, +cruel or absurd, to which there is no possible reply. To her he had +nothing to say! She wrung her hands, glanced over the courtyard with +that eager and distracted look that sees nothing, then looked up at the +hopeless sky of livid grey and drifting black; at the unquiet mourning +of the hot and brilliant heaven that had seen the beginning of her love, +that had heard his entreaties and her answers, that had seen his desire +and her fear; that had seen her joy, her surrender--and his defeat. +Lingard moved a little, and this slight stir near her precipitated her +disordered and shapeless thoughts into hurried words. + +“Wait!” she exclaimed in a stifled voice, and went on disconnectedly and +rapidly--“Stay. I have heard. Men often spoke by the fires . . . men of +my people. And they said of you--the first on the sea--they said that to +men’s cries you were deaf in battle, but after . . . No! even while you +fought, your ears were open to the voice of children and women. They +said . . . that. Now I, a woman, I . . .” + +She broke off suddenly and stood before him with dropped eyelids and +parted lips, so still now that she seemed to have been changed into a +breathless, an unhearing, an unseeing figure, without knowledge of fear +or hope, of anger or despair. In the astounding repose that came on +her face, nothing moved but the delicate nostrils that expanded and +collapsed quickly, flutteringly, in interrupted beats, like the wings of +a snared bird. + +“I am white,” said Lingard, proudly, looking at her with a steady gaze +where simple curiosity was giving way to a pitying annoyance, “and men +you have heard, spoke only what is true over the evening fires. My ears +are open to your prayer. But listen to me before you speak. For yourself +you need not be afraid. You can come even now with me and you shall find +refuge in the household of Syed Abdulla--who is of your own faith. And +this also you must know: nothing that you may say will change my purpose +towards the man who is sleeping--or hiding--in that house.” + +Again she gave him the look that was like a stab, not of anger but of +desire; of the intense, over-powering desire to see in, to see through, +to understand everything: every thought, emotion, purpose; every +impulse, every hesitation inside that man; inside that white-clad +foreign being who looked at her, who spoke to her, who breathed +before her like any other man, but bigger, red-faced, white-haired and +mysterious. It was the future clothed in flesh; the to-morrow; the day +after; all the days, all the years of her life standing there before her +alive and secret, with all their good or evil shut up within the breast +of that man; of that man who could be persuaded, cajoled, entreated, +perhaps touched, worried; frightened--who knows?--if only first he could +be understood! She had seen a long time ago whither events were tending. +She had noted the contemptuous yet menacing coldness of Abdulla; she +had heard--alarmed yet unbelieving--Babalatchi’s gloomy hints, covert +allusions and veiled suggestions to abandon the useless white man whose +fate would be the price of the peace secured by the wise and good who +had no need of him any more. And he--himself! She clung to him. There +was nobody else. Nothing else. She would try to cling to him always--all +the life! And yet he was far from her. Further every day. Every day he +seemed more distant, and she followed him patiently, hopefully, blindly, +but steadily, through all the devious wanderings of his mind. She +followed as well as she could. Yet at times--very often lately--she had +felt lost like one strayed in the thickets of tangled undergrowth of a +great forest. To her the ex-clerk of old Hudig appeared as remote, as +brilliant, as terrible, as necessary, as the sun that gives life to +these lands: the sun of unclouded skies that dazzles and withers; the +sun beneficent and wicked--the giver of light, perfume, and pestilence. +She had watched him--watched him close; fascinated by love, fascinated +by danger. He was alone now--but for her; and she saw--she thought she +saw--that he was like a man afraid of something. Was it possible? He +afraid? Of what? Was it of that old white man who was coming--who had +come? Possibly. She had heard of that man ever since she could remember. +The bravest were afraid of him! And now what was in the mind of this +old, old man who looked so strong? What was he going to do with the +light of her life? Put it out? Take it away? Take it away for ever!--for +ever!--and leave her in darkness:--not in the stirring, whispering, +expectant night in which the hushed world awaits the return of sunshine; +but in the night without end, the night of the grave, where nothing +breathes, nothing moves, nothing thinks--the last darkness of cold and +silence without hope of another sunrise. + +She cried--“Your purpose! You know nothing. I must . . .” + +He interrupted--unreasonably excited, as if she had, by her look, +inoculated him with some of her own distress. + +“I know enough.” + +She approached, and stood facing him at arm’s length, with both her +hands on his shoulders; and he, surprised by that audacity, closed and +opened his eyes two or three times, aware of some emotion arising +within him, from her words, her tone, her contact; an emotion unknown, +singular, penetrating and sad--at the close sight of that strange +woman, of that being savage and tender, strong and delicate, fearful and +resolute, that had got entangled so fatally between their two lives--his +own and that other white man’s, the abominable scoundrel. + +“How can you know?” she went on, in a persuasive tone that seemed to +flow out of her very heart--“how can you know? I live with him all +the days. All the nights. I look at him; I see his every breath, every +glance of his eye, every movement of his lips. I see nothing else! +What else is there? And even I do not understand. I do not understand +him!--Him!--My life! Him who to me is so great that his presence hides +the earth and the water from my sight!” + +Lingard stood straight, with his hands deep in the pockets of his +jacket. His eyes winked quickly, because she spoke very close to his +face. She disturbed him and he had a sense of the efforts he was making +to get hold of her meaning, while all the time he could not help telling +himself that all this was of no use. + +She added after a pause--“There has been a time when I could understand +him. When I knew what was in his mind better than he knew it himself. +When I felt him. When I held him. . . . And now he has escaped.” + +“Escaped? What? Gone away!” shouted Lingard. + +“Escaped from me,” she said; “left me alone. Alone. And I am ever near +him. Yet alone.” + +Her hands slipped slowly off Lingard’s shoulders and her arms fell +by her side, listless, discouraged, as if to her--to her, the savage, +violent, and ignorant creature--had been revealed clearly in that moment +the tremendous fact of our isolation, of the loneliness impenetrable and +transparent, elusive and everlasting; of the indestructible loneliness +that surrounds, envelopes, clothes every human soul from the cradle to +the grave, and, perhaps, beyond. + +“Aye! Very well! I understand. His face is turned away from you,” said +Lingard. “Now, what do you want?” + +“I want . . . I have looked--for help . . . everywhere . . . against +men. . . . All men . . . I do not know. First they came, the invisible +whites, and dealt death from afar . . . then he came. He came to me who +was alone and sad. He came; angry with his brothers; great amongst his +own people; angry with those I have not seen: with the people where men +have no mercy and women have no shame. He was of them, and great amongst +them. For he was great?” + +Lingard shook his head slightly. She frowned at him, and went on in +disordered haste-- + +“Listen. I saw him. I have lived by the side of brave men . . . of +chiefs. When he came I was the daughter of a beggar--of a blind man +without strength and hope. He spoke to me as if I had been brighter than +the sunshine--more delightful than the cool water of the brook by which +we met--more . . .” Her anxious eyes saw some shade of expression pass +on her listener’s face that made her hold her breath for a second, and +then explode into pained fury so violent that it drove Lingard back +a pace, like an unexpected blast of wind. He lifted both his hands, +incongruously paternal in his venerable aspect, bewildered and soothing, +while she stretched her neck forward and shouted at him. + +“I tell you I was all that to him. I know it! I saw it! . . . There are +times when even you white men speak the truth. I saw his eyes. I +felt his eyes, I tell you! I saw him tremble when I came near--when I +spoke--when I touched him. Look at me! You have been young. Look at me. +Look, Rajah Laut!” + +She stared at Lingard with provoking fixity, then, turning her head +quickly, she sent over her shoulder a glance, full of humble fear, at +the house that stood high behind her back--dark, closed, rickety and +silent on its crooked posts. + +Lingard’s eyes followed her look, and remained gazing expectantly at the +house. After a minute or so he muttered, glancing at her suspiciously-- + +“If he has not heard your voice now, then he must be far away--or dead.” + +“He is there,” she whispered, a little calmed but still anxious--“he +is there. For three days he waited. Waited for you night and day. And +I waited with him. I waited, watching his face, his eyes, his lips; +listening to his words.--To the words I could not understand.--To the +words he spoke in daylight; to the words he spoke at night in his short +sleep. I listened. He spoke to himself walking up and down here--by the +river; by the bushes. And I followed. I wanted to know--and I could not! +He was tormented by things that made him speak in the words of his own +people. Speak to himself--not to me. Not to me! What was he saying? What +was he going to do? Was he afraid of you?--Of death? What was in +his heart? . . . Fear? . . . Or anger? . . . what desire? . . . what +sadness? He spoke; spoke; many words. All the time! And I could not +know! I wanted to speak to him. He was deaf to me. I followed him +everywhere, watching for some word I could understand; but his mind +was in the land of his people--away from me. When I touched him he was +angry--so!” + +She imitated the movement of some one shaking off roughly an importunate +hand, and looked at Lingard with tearful and unsteady eyes. + +After a short interval of laboured panting, as if she had been out of +breath with running or fighting, she looked down and went on-- + +“Day after day, night after night, I lived watching him--seeing nothing. +And my heart was heavy--heavy with the presence of death that dwelt +amongst us. I could not believe. I thought he was afraid. Afraid of you! +Then I, myself, knew fear. . . . Tell me, Rajah Laut, do you know the +fear without voice--the fear of silence--the fear that comes when there +is no one near--when there is no battle, no cries, no angry faces or +armed hands anywhere? . . . The fear from which there is no escape!” + +She paused, fastened her eyes again on the puzzled Lingard, and hurried +on in a tone of despair-- + +“And I knew then he would not fight you! Before--many days ago--I went +away twice to make him obey my desire; to make him strike at his own +people so that he could be mine--mine! O calamity! His hand was false as +your white hearts. It struck forward, pushed by my desire--by his +desire of me. . . . It struck that strong hand, and--O shame!--it killed +nobody! Its fierce and lying blow woke up hate without any fear. Round +me all was lies. His strength was a lie. My own people lied to me and to +him. And to meet you--you, the great!--he had no one but me? But me +with my rage, my pain, my weakness. Only me! And to me he would not even +speak. The fool!” + +She came up close to Lingard, with the wild and stealthy aspect of a +lunatic longing to whisper out an insane secret--one of those misshapen, +heart-rending, and ludicrous secrets; one of those thoughts that, like +monsters--cruel, fantastic, and mournful, wander about terrible and +unceasing in the night of madness. Lingard looked at her, astounded but +unflinching. She spoke in his face, very low. + +“He is all! Everything. He is my breath, my light, my heart. . . . Go +away. . . . Forget him. . . . He has no courage and no wisdom any more +. . . and I have lost my power. . . . Go away and forget. There are other +enemies. . . . Leave him to me. He had been a man once. . . . You are +too great. Nobody can withstand you. . . . I tried. . . . I know now +. . . . I cry for mercy. Leave him to me and go away.” + +The fragments of her supplicating sentences were as if tossed on the +crest of her sobs. Lingard, outwardly impassive, with his eyes fixed +on the house, experienced that feeling of condemnation, deep-seated, +persuasive, and masterful; that illogical impulse of disapproval which +is half disgust, half vague fear, and that wakes up in our hearts in the +presence of anything new or unusual, of anything that is not run +into the mould of our own conscience; the accursed feeling made up of +disdain, of anger, and of the sense of superior virtue that leaves us +deaf, blind, contemptuous and stupid before anything which is not like +ourselves. + +He answered, not looking at her at first, but speaking towards the house +that fascinated him-- + +“_I_ go away! He wanted me to come--he himself did! . . . _You_ must go +away. You do not know what you are asking for. Listen. Go to your own +people. Leave him. He is . . .” + +He paused, looked down at her with his steady eyes; hesitated, as if +seeking an adequate expression; then snapped his fingers, and said-- + +“Finish.” + +She stepped back, her eyes on the ground, and pressed her temples +with both her hands, which she raised to her head in a slow and ample +movement full of unconscious tragedy. The tone of her words was gentle +and vibrating, like a loud meditation. She said-- + +“Tell the brook not to run to the river; tell the river not to run to +the sea. Speak loud. Speak angrily. Maybe they will obey you. But it is +in my mind that the brook will not care. The brook that springs out of +the hillside and runs to the great river. He would not care for your +words: he that cares not for the very mountain that gave him life; he +that tears the earth from which he springs. Tears it, eats it, destroys +it--to hurry faster to the river--to the river in which he is lost for +ever. . . . O Rajah Laut! I do not care.” + +She drew close again to Lingard, approaching slowly, reluctantly, as if +pushed by an invisible hand, and added in words that seemed to be torn +out of her-- + +“I cared not for my own father. For him that died. I would have rather +. . . You do not know what I have done . . . I . . .” + +“You shall have his life,” said Lingard, hastily. + +They stood together, crossing their glances; she suddenly appeased, and +Lingard thoughtful and uneasy under a vague sense of defeat. And yet +there was no defeat. He never intended to kill the fellow--not after the +first moment of anger, a long time ago. The days of bitter wonder had +killed anger; had left only a bitter indignation and a bitter wish for +complete justice. He felt discontented and surprised. Unexpectedly he +had come upon a human being--a woman at that--who had made him disclose +his will before its time. She should have his life. But she must be +told, she must know, that for such men as Willems there was no favour +and no grace. + +“Understand,” he said slowly, “that I leave him his life not in mercy +but in punishment.” + +She started, watched every word on his lips, and after he finished +speaking she remained still and mute in astonished immobility. A +single big drop of rain, a drop enormous, pellucid and heavy--like a +super-human tear coming straight and rapid from above, tearing its way +through the sombre sky--struck loudly the dry ground between them in a +starred splash. She wrung her hands in the bewilderment of the new and +incomprehensible fear. The anguish of her whisper was more piercing than +the shrillest cry. + +“What punishment! Will you take him away then? Away from me? Listen to +what I have done. . . . It is I who . . .” + +“Ah!” exclaimed Lingard, who had been looking at the house. + +“Don’t you believe her, Captain Lingard,” shouted Willems from the +doorway, where he appeared with swollen eyelids and bared breast. He +stood for a while, his hands grasping the lintels on each side of the +door, and writhed about, glaring wildly, as if he had been crucified +there. Then he made a sudden rush head foremost down the plankway that +responded with hollow, short noises to every footstep. + +She heard him. A slight thrill passed on her face and the words that +were on her lips fell back unspoken into her benighted heart; fell back +amongst the mud, the stones--and the flowers, that are at the bottom of +every heart. + + + +CHAPTER FOUR + + +When he felt the solid ground of the courtyard under his feet, Willems +pulled himself up in his headlong rush and moved forward with a moderate +gait. He paced stiffly, looking with extreme exactitude at Lingard’s +face; looking neither to the right nor to the left but at the face only, +as if there was nothing in the world but those features familiar and +dreaded; that white-haired, rough and severe head upon which he gazed in +a fixed effort of his eyes, like a man trying to read small print at +the full range of human vision. As soon as Willems’ feet had left the +planks, the silence which had been lifted up by the jerky rattle of his +footsteps fell down again upon the courtyard; the silence of the cloudy +sky and of the windless air, the sullen silence of the earth oppressed +by the aspect of coming turmoil, the silence of the world collecting its +faculties to withstand the storm. Through this silence Willems pushed +his way, and stopped about six feet from Lingard. He stopped simply +because he could go no further. He had started from the door with the +reckless purpose of clapping the old fellow on the shoulder. He had +no idea that the man would turn out to be so tall, so big and so +unapproachable. It seemed to him that he had never, never in his life, +seen Lingard. + +He tried to say-- + +“Do not believe . . .” + +A fit of coughing checked his sentence in a faint splutter. Directly +afterwards he swallowed--as it were--a couple of pebbles, throwing his +chin up in the act; and Lingard, who looked at him narrowly, saw a bone, +sharp and triangular like the head of a snake, dart up and down twice +under the skin of his throat. Then that, too, did not move. Nothing +moved. + +“Well,” said Lingard, and with that word he came unexpectedly to the end +of his speech. His hand in his pocket closed firmly round the butt of +his revolver bulging his jacket on the hip, and he thought how soon and +how quickly he could terminate his quarrel with that man who had been so +anxious to deliver himself into his hands--and how inadequate would be +that ending! He could not bear the idea of that man escaping from him by +going out of life; escaping from fear, from doubt, from remorse into the +peaceful certitude of death. He held him now. And he was not going to +let him go--to let him disappear for ever in the faint blue smoke of a +pistol shot. His anger grew within him. He felt a touch as of a burning +hand on his heart. Not on the flesh of his breast, but a touch on his +heart itself, on the palpitating and untiring particle of matter that +responds to every emotion of the soul; that leaps with joy, with terror, +or with anger. + +He drew a long breath. He could see before him the bare chest of the man +expanding and collapsing under the wide-open jacket. He glanced +aside, and saw the bosom of the woman near him rise and fall in quick +respirations that moved slightly up and down her hand, which was pressed +to her breast with all the fingers spread out and a little curved, as if +grasping something too big for its span. And nearly a minute passed. One +of those minutes when the voice is silenced, while the thoughts flutter +in the head, like captive birds inside a cage, in rushes desperate, +exhausting and vain. + +During that minute of silence Lingard’s anger kept rising, immense and +towering, such as a crested wave running over the troubled shallows of +the sands. Its roar filled his cars; a roar so powerful and distracting +that, it seemed to him, his head must burst directly with the expanding +volume of that sound. He looked at that man. That infamous figure +upright on its feet, still, rigid, with stony eyes, as if its rotten +soul had departed that moment and the carcass hadn’t had the time yet +to topple over. For the fraction of a second he had the illusion and the +fear of the scoundrel having died there before the enraged glance of his +eyes. Willems’ eyelids fluttered, and the unconscious and passing tremor +in that stiffly erect body exasperated Lingard like a fresh outrage. The +fellow dared to stir! Dared to wink, to breathe, to exist; here, right +before his eyes! His grip on the revolver relaxed gradually. As +the transport of his rage increased, so also his contempt for the +instruments that pierce or stab, that interpose themselves between the +hand and the object of hate. He wanted another kind of satisfaction. +Naked hands, by heaven! No firearms. Hands that could take him by the +throat, beat down his defence, batter his face into shapeless flesh; +hands that could feel all the desperation of his resistance and +overpower it in the violent delight of a contact lingering and furious, +intimate and brutal. + +He let go the revolver altogether, stood hesitating, then throwing his +hands out, strode forward--and everything passed from his sight. He +could not see the man, the woman, the earth, the sky--saw nothing, as if +in that one stride he had left the visible world behind to step into a +black and deserted space. He heard screams round him in that obscurity, +screams like the melancholy and pitiful cries of sea-birds that dwell on +the lonely reefs of great oceans. Then suddenly a face appeared within a +few inches of his own. His face. He felt something in his left hand. His +throat . . . Ah! the thing like a snake’s head that darts up and down +. . . He squeezed hard. He was back in the world. He could see the quick +beating of eyelids over a pair of eyes that were all whites, the grin of +a drawn-up lip, a row of teeth gleaming through the drooping hair of a +moustache . . . Strong white teeth. Knock them down his lying throat +. . . He drew back his right hand, the fist up to the shoulder, knuckles +out. From under his feet rose the screams of sea-birds. Thousands of +them. Something held his legs . . . What the devil . . . He delivered +his blow straight from the shoulder, felt the jar right up his arm, +and realized suddenly that he was striking something passive and +unresisting. His heart sank within him with disappointment, with rage, +with mortification. He pushed with his left arm, opening the hand with +haste, as if he had just perceived that he got hold by accident +of something repulsive--and he watched with stupefied eyes Willems +tottering backwards in groping strides, the white sleeve of his jacket +across his face. He watched his distance from that man increase, while +he remained motionless, without being able to account to himself for the +fact that so much empty space had come in between them. It should have +been the other way. They ought to have been very close, and . . . Ah! He +wouldn’t fight, he wouldn’t resist, he wouldn’t defend himself! A +cur! Evidently a cur! . . . He was amazed and aggrieved--profoundly, +bitterly--with the immense and blank desolation of a small child robbed +of a toy. He shouted--unbelieving: + +“Will you be a cheat to the end?” + +He waited for some answer. He waited anxiously with an impatience that +seemed to lift him off his feet. He waited for some word, some sign; +for some threatening stir. Nothing! Only two unwinking eyes glittered +intently at him above the white sleeve. He saw the raised arm detach +itself from the face and sink along the body. A white clad arm, with +a big stain on the white sleeve. A red stain. There was a cut on +the cheek. It bled. The nose bled too. The blood ran down, made one +moustache look like a dark rag stuck over the lip, and went on in a wet +streak down the clipped beard on one side of the chin. A drop of blood +hung on the end of some hairs that were glued together; it hung for a +while and took a leap down on the ground. Many more followed, leaping +one after another in close file. One alighted on the breast and glided +down instantly with devious vivacity, like a small insect running away; +it left a narrow dark track on the white skin. He looked at it, looked +at the tiny and active drops, looked at what he had done, with obscure +satisfaction, with anger, with regret. This wasn’t much like an act of +justice. He had a desire to go up nearer to the man, to hear him speak, +to hear him say something atrocious and wicked that would justify the +violence of the blow. He made an attempt to move, and became aware of a +close embrace round both his legs, just above the ankles. Instinctively, +he kicked out with his foot, broke through the close bond and felt at +once the clasp transferred to his other leg; the clasp warm, desperate +and soft, of human arms. He looked down bewildered. He saw the body of +the woman stretched at length, flattened on the ground like a dark blue +rag. She trailed face downwards, clinging to his leg with both arms in a +tenacious hug. He saw the top of her head, the long black hair streaming +over his foot, all over the beaten earth, around his boot. He couldn’t +see his foot for it. He heard the short and repeated moaning of her +breath. He imagined the invisible face close to his heel. With one kick +into that face he could free himself. He dared not stir, and shouted +down-- + +“Let go! Let go! Let go!” + +The only result of his shouting was a tightening of the pressure of her +arms. With a tremendous effort he tried to bring his right foot up to +his left, and succeeded partly. He heard distinctly the rub of her body +on the ground as he jerked her along. He tried to disengage himself by +drawing up his foot. He stamped. He heard a voice saying sharply-- + +“Steady, Captain Lingard, steady!” + +His eyes flew back to Willems at the sound of that voice, and, in the +quick awakening of sleeping memories, Lingard stood suddenly still, +appeased by the clear ring of familiar words. Appeased as in days of +old, when they were trading together, when Willems was his trusted and +helpful companion in out-of-the-way and dangerous places; when that +fellow, who could keep his temper so much better than he could himself, +had spared him many a difficulty, had saved him from many an act of +hasty violence by the timely and good-humoured warning, whispered or +shouted, “Steady, Captain Lingard, steady.” A smart fellow. He had +brought him up. The smartest fellow in the islands. If he had only +stayed with him, then all this . . . He called out to Willems-- + +“Tell her to let me go or . . .” + +He heard Willems shouting something, waited for awhile, then glanced +vaguely down and saw the woman still stretched out perfectly mute and +unstirring, with her head at his feet. He felt a nervous impatience +that, somehow, resembled fear. + +“Tell her to let go, to go away, Willems, I tell you. I’ve had enough of +this,” he cried. + +“All right, Captain Lingard,” answered the calm voice of Willems, “she +has let go. Take your foot off her hair; she can’t get up.” + +Lingard leaped aside, clean away, and spun round quickly. He saw her sit +up and cover her face with both hands, then he turned slowly on his +heel and looked at the man. Willems held himself very straight, but was +unsteady on his feet, and moved about nearly on the same spot, like a +tipsy man attempting to preserve his balance. After gazing at him for a +while, Lingard called, rancorous and irritable-- + +“What have you got to say for yourself?” + +Willems began to walk towards him. He walked slowly, reeling a little +before he took each step, and Lingard saw him put his hand to his face, +then look at it holding it up to his eyes, as if he had there, concealed +in the hollow of the palm, some small object which he wanted to examine +secretly. Suddenly he drew it, with a brusque movement, down the front +of his jacket and left a long smudge. + +“That’s a fine thing to do,” said Willems. + +He stood in front of Lingard, one of his eyes sunk deep in the +increasing swelling of his cheek, still repeating mechanically the +movement of feeling his damaged face; and every time he did this he +pressed the palm to some clean spot on his jacket, covering the white +cotton with bloody imprints as of some deformed and monstrous hand. +Lingard said nothing, looking on. At last Willems left off staunching +the blood and stood, his arms hanging by his side, with his face stiff +and distorted under the patches of coagulated blood; and he seemed +as though he had been set up there for a warning: an incomprehensible +figure marked all over with some awful and symbolic signs of deadly +import. Speaking with difficulty, he repeated in a reproachful tone-- + +“That was a fine thing to do.” + +“After all,” answered Lingard, bitterly, “I had too good an opinion of +you.” + +“And I of you. Don’t you see that I could have had that fool over there +killed and the whole thing burnt to the ground, swept off the face of +the earth. You wouldn’t have found as much as a heap of ashes had I +liked. I could have done all that. And I wouldn’t.” + +“You--could--not. You dared not. You scoundrel!” cried Lingard. + +“What’s the use of calling me names?” + +“True,” retorted Lingard--“there’s no name bad enough for you.” + +There was a short interval of silence. At the sound of their rapidly +exchanged words, Aissa had got up from the ground where she had been +sitting, in a sorrowful and dejected pose, and approached the two men. +She stood on one side and looked on eagerly, in a desperate effort of +her brain, with the quick and distracted eyes of a person trying for her +life to penetrate the meaning of sentences uttered in a foreign +tongue: the meaning portentous and fateful that lurks in the sounds of +mysterious words; in the sounds surprising, unknown and strange. + +Willems let the last speech of Lingard pass by; seemed by a slight +movement of his hand to help it on its way to join the other shadows of +the past. Then he said-- + +“You have struck me; you have insulted me . . .” + +“Insulted you!” interrupted Lingard, passionately. “Who--what can insult +you . . . you . . .” + +He choked, advanced a step. + +“Steady! steady!” said Willems calmly. “I tell you I sha’n’t fight. Is +it clear enough to you that I sha’n’t? I--shall--not--lift--a--finger.” + +As he spoke, slowly punctuating each word with a slight jerk of his +head, he stared at Lingard, his right eye open and big, the left small +and nearly closed by the swelling of one half of his face, that appeared +all drawn out on one side like faces seen in a concave glass. And they +stood exactly opposite each other: one tall, slight and disfigured; the +other tall, heavy and severe. + +Willems went on-- + +“If I had wanted to hurt you--if I had wanted to destroy you, it was +easy. I stood in the doorway long enough to pull a trigger--and you know +I shoot straight.” + +“You would have missed,” said Lingard, with assurance. “There is, under +heaven, such a thing as justice.” + +The sound of that word on his own lips made him pause, confused, like an +unexpected and unanswerable rebuke. The anger of his outraged pride, +the anger of his outraged heart, had gone out in the blow; and there +remained nothing but the sense of some immense infamy--of something +vague, disgusting and terrible, which seemed to surround him on all +sides, hover about him with shadowy and stealthy movements, like a band +of assassins in the darkness of vast and unsafe places. Was there, under +heaven, such a thing as justice? He looked at the man before him with +such an intensity of prolonged glance that he seemed to see right +through him, that at last he saw but a floating and unsteady mist in +human shape. Would it blow away before the first breath of the breeze +and leave nothing behind? + +The sound of Willems’ voice made him start violently. Willems was +saying-- + +“I have always led a virtuous life; you know I have. You always praised +me for my steadiness; you know you have. You know also I never stole--if +that’s what you’re thinking of. I borrowed. You know how much I repaid. +It was an error of judgment. But then consider my position there. I had +been a little unlucky in my private affairs, and had debts. Could I +let myself go under before the eyes of all those men who envied me? But +that’s all over. It was an error of judgment. I’ve paid for it. An error +of judgment.” + +Lingard, astounded into perfect stillness, looked down. He looked down +at Willems’ bare feet. Then, as the other had paused, he repeated in a +blank tone-- + +“An error of judgment . . .” + +“Yes,” drawled out Willems, thoughtfully, and went on with increasing +animation: “As I said, I have always led a virtuous life. More so than +Hudig--than you. Yes, than you. I drank a little, I played cards a +little. Who doesn’t? But I had principles from a boy. Yes, principles. +Business is business, and I never was an ass. I never respected fools. +They had to suffer for their folly when they dealt with me. The evil was +in them, not in me. But as to principles, it’s another matter. I kept +clear of women. It’s forbidden--I had no time--and I despised them. Now +I hate them!” + +He put his tongue out a little; a tongue whose pink and moist end ran +here and there, like something independently alive, under his swollen +and blackened lip; he touched with the tips of his fingers the cut on +his cheek, felt all round it with precaution: and the unharmed side of +his face appeared for a moment to be preoccupied and uneasy about the +state of that other side which was so very sore and stiff. + +He recommenced speaking, and his voice vibrated as though with repressed +emotion of some kind. + +“You ask my wife, when you see her in Macassar, whether I have no reason +to hate her. She was nobody, and I made her Mrs. Willems. A half-caste +girl! You ask her how she showed her gratitude to me. You ask . . . +Never mind that. Well, you came and dumped me here like a load of +rubbish; dumped me here and left me with nothing to do--nothing good to +remember--and damn little to hope for. You left me here at the mercy of +that fool, Almayer, who suspected me of something. Of what? Devil only +knows. But he suspected and hated me from the first; I suppose because +you befriended me. Oh! I could read him like a book. He isn’t very +deep, your Sambir partner, Captain Lingard, but he knows how to be +disagreeable. Months passed. I thought I would die of sheer weariness, +of my thoughts, of my regrets And then . . .” + +He made a quick step nearer to Lingard, and as if moved by the same +thought, by the same instinct, by the impulse of his will, Aissa also +stepped nearer to them. They stood in a close group, and the two men +could feel the calm air between their faces stirred by the light breath +of the anxious woman who enveloped them both in the uncomprehending, in +the despairing and wondering glances of her wild and mournful eyes. + + + +CHAPTER FIVE + + +Willems turned a little from her and spoke lower. + +“Look at that,” he said, with an almost imperceptible movement of his +head towards the woman to whom he was presenting his shoulder. “Look at +that! Don’t believe her! What has she been saying to you? What? I have +been asleep. Had to sleep at last. I’ve been waiting for you three days +and nights. I had to sleep some time. Hadn’t I? I told her to remain +awake and watch for you, and call me at once. She did watch. You can’t +believe her. You can’t believe any woman. Who can tell what’s inside +their heads? No one. You can know nothing. The only thing you can know +is that it isn’t anything like what comes through their lips. They live +by the side of you. They seem to hate you, or they seem to love you; +they caress or torment you; they throw you over or stick to you closer +than your skin for some inscrutable and awful reason of their own--which +you can never know! Look at her--and look at me. At me!--her infernal +work. What has she been saying?” + +His voice had sunk to a whisper. Lingard listened with great attention, +holding his chin in his hand, which grasped a great handful of his white +beard. His elbow was in the palm of his other hand, and his eyes were +still fixed on the ground. He murmured, without looking up-- + +“She begged me for your life--if you want to know--as if the thing were +worth giving or taking!” + +“And for three days she begged me to take yours,” said Willems quickly. +“For three days she wouldn’t give me any peace. She was never still. She +planned ambushes. She has been looking for places all over here where I +could hide and drop you with a safe shot as you walked up. It’s true. I +give you my word.” + +“Your word,” muttered Lingard, contemptuously. + +Willems took no notice. + +“Ah! She is a ferocious creature,” he went on. “You don’t know . . . +I wanted to pass the time--to do something--to have something to think +about--to forget my troubles till you came back. And . . . look at her +. . . she took me as if I did not belong to myself. She did. I did not +know there was something in me she could get hold of. She, a savage. +I, a civilized European, and clever! She that knew no more than a wild +animal! Well, she found out something in me. She found it out, and I +was lost. I knew it. She tormented me. I was ready to do anything. I +resisted--but I was ready. I knew that too. That frightened me more than +anything; more than my own sufferings; and that was frightful enough, I +assure you.” + +Lingard listened, fascinated and amazed like a child listening to a +fairy tale, and, when Willems stopped for breath, he shuffled his feet a +little. + +“What does he say?” cried out Aissa, suddenly. + +The two men looked at her quickly, and then looked at one another. + +Willems began again, speaking hurriedly-- + +“I tried to do something. Take her away from those people. I went +to Almayer; the biggest blind fool that you ever . . . Then Abdulla +came--and she went away. She took away with her something of me which I +had to get back. I had to do it. As far as you are concerned, the change +here had to happen sooner or later; you couldn’t be master here for +ever. It isn’t what I have done that torments me. It is the why. It’s +the madness that drove me to it. It’s that thing that came over me. That +may come again, some day.” + +“It will do no harm to anybody then, I promise you,” said Lingard, +significantly. + +Willems looked at him for a second with a blank stare, then went on-- + +“I fought against her. She goaded me to violence and to murder. Nobody +knows why. She pushed me to it persistently, desperately, all the time. +Fortunately Abdulla had sense. I don’t know what I wouldn’t have done. +She held me then. Held me like a nightmare that is terrible and sweet. +By and by it was another life. I woke up. I found myself beside an +animal as full of harm as a wild cat. You don’t know through what I have +passed. Her father tried to kill me--and she very nearly killed him. +I believe she would have stuck at nothing. I don’t know which was more +terrible! She would have stuck at nothing to defend her own. And when +I think that it was me--me--Willems . . . I hate her. To-morrow she +may want my life. How can I know what’s in her? She may want to kill me +next!” + +He paused in great trepidation, then added in a scared tone-- + +“I don’t want to die here.” + +“Don’t you?” said Lingard, thoughtfully. + +Willems turned towards Aissa and pointed at her with a bony forefinger. + +“Look at her! Always there. Always near. Always watching, watching . . . +for something. Look at her eyes. Ain’t they big? Don’t they stare? You +wouldn’t think she can shut them like human beings do. I don’t believe +she ever does. I go to sleep, if I can, under their stare, and when I +wake up I see them fixed on me and moving no more than the eyes of a +corpse. While I am still they are still. By God--she can’t move them +till I stir, and then they follow me like a pair of jailers. They watch +me; when I stop they seem to wait patient and glistening till I am off +my guard--for to do something. To do something horrible. Look at them! +You can see nothing in them. They are big, menacing--and empty. The eyes +of a savage; of a damned mongrel, half-Arab, half-Malay. They hurt me! +I am white! I swear to you I can’t stand this! Take me away. I am white! +All white!” + +He shouted towards the sombre heaven, proclaiming desperately under the +frown of thickening clouds the fact of his pure and superior descent. +He shouted, his head thrown up, his arms swinging about wildly; lean, +ragged, disfigured; a tall madman making a great disturbance about +something invisible; a being absurd, repulsive, pathetic, and droll. +Lingard, who was looking down as if absorbed in deep thought, gave him a +quick glance from under his eyebrows: Aissa stood with clasped hands. At +the other end of the courtyard the old woman, like a vague and decrepit +apparition, rose noiselessly to look, then sank down again with a +stealthy movement and crouched low over the small glow of the fire. +Willems’ voice filled the enclosure, rising louder with every word, and +then, suddenly, at its very loudest, stopped short--like water stops +running from an over-turned vessel. As soon as it had ceased the thunder +seemed to take up the burden in a low growl coming from the inland +hills. The noise approached in confused mutterings which kept on +increasing, swelling into a roar that came nearer, rushed down the +river, passed close in a tearing crash--and instantly sounded faint, +dying away in monotonous and dull repetitions amongst the endless +sinuosities of the lower reaches. Over the great forests, over all the +innumerable people of unstirring trees--over all that living people +immense, motionless, and mute--the silence, that had rushed in on the +track of the passing tumult, remained suspended as deep and complete as +if it had never been disturbed from the beginning of remote ages. +Then, through it, after a time, came to Lingard’s ears the voice of the +running river: a voice low, discreet, and sad, like the persistent and +gentle voices that speak of the past in the silence of dreams. + +He felt a great emptiness in his heart. It seemed to him that there was +within his breast a great space without any light, where his thoughts +wandered forlornly, unable to escape, unable to rest, unable to die, +to vanish--and to relieve him from the fearful oppression of their +existence. Speech, action, anger, forgiveness, all appeared to him alike +useless and vain, appeared to him unsatisfactory, not worth the effort +of hand or brain that was needed to give them effect. He could not see +why he should not remain standing there, without ever doing anything, to +the end of time. He felt something, something like a heavy chain, that +held him there. This wouldn’t do. He backed away a little from Willems +and Aissa, leaving them close together, then stopped and looked at both. +The man and the woman appeared to him much further than they really +were. He had made only about three steps backward, but he believed for +a moment that another step would take him out of earshot for ever. They +appeared to him slightly under life size, and with a great cleanness of +outlines, like figures carved with great precision of detail and highly +finished by a skilful hand. He pulled himself together. The strong +consciousness of his own personality came back to him. He had a notion +of surveying them from a great and inaccessible height. + +He said slowly: “You have been possessed of a devil.” + +“Yes,” answered Willems gloomily, and looking at Aissa. “Isn’t it +pretty?” + +“I’ve heard this kind of talk before,” said Lingard, in a scornful tone; +then paused, and went on steadily after a while: “I regret nothing. I +picked you up by the waterside, like a starving cat--by God. I regret +nothing; nothing that I have done. Abdulla--twenty others--no doubt +Hudig himself, were after me. That’s business--for them. But that you +should . . . Money belongs to him who picks it up and is strong enough +to keep it--but this thing was different. It was part of my life. . . . +I am an old fool.” + +He was. The breath of his words, of the very words he spoke, fanned +the spark of divine folly in his breast, the spark that made him--the +hard-headed, heavy-handed adventurer--stand out from the crowd, from the +sordid, from the joyous, unscrupulous, and noisy crowd of men that were +so much like himself. + +Willems said hurriedly: “It wasn’t me. The evil was not in me, Captain +Lingard.” + +“And where else confound you! Where else?” interrupted Lingard, raising +his voice. “Did you ever see me cheat and lie and steal? Tell me that. +Did you? Hey? I wonder where in perdition you came from when I found you +under my feet. . . . No matter. You will do no more harm.” + +Willems moved nearer, gazing upon him anxiously. Lingard went on with +distinct deliberation-- + +“What did you expect when you asked me to see you? What? You know me. I +am Lingard. You lived with me. You’ve heard men speak. You knew what you +had done. Well! What did you expect?” + +“How can I know?” groaned Willems, wringing his hands; “I was alone in +that infernal savage crowd. I was delivered into their hands. After the +thing was done, I felt so lost and weak that I would have called the +devil himself to my aid if it had been any good--if he hadn’t put in +all his work already. In the whole world there was only one man that had +ever cared for me. Only one white man. You! Hate is better than being +alone! Death is better! I expected . . . anything. Something to expect. +Something to take me out of this. Out of her sight!” + +He laughed. His laugh seemed to be torn out from him against his will, +seemed to be brought violently on the surface from under his bitterness, +his self-contempt, from under his despairing wonder at his own nature. + +“When I think that when I first knew her it seemed to me that my whole +life wouldn’t be enough to . . . And now when I look at her! She did +it all. I must have been mad. I was mad. Every time I look at her I +remember my madness. It frightens me. . . . And when I think that of +all my life, of all my past, of all my future, of my intelligence, of my +work, there is nothing left but she, the cause of my ruin, and you whom +I have mortally offended . . .” + +He hid his face for a moment in his hands, and when he took them away +he had lost the appearance of comparative calm and gave way to a wild +distress. + +“Captain Lingard . . . anything . . . a deserted island . . . anywhere +. . . I promise . . .” + +“Shut up!” shouted Lingard, roughly. + +He became dumb, suddenly, completely. + +The wan light of the clouded morning retired slowly from the courtyard, +from the clearings, from the river, as if it had gone unwillingly to +hide in the enigmatical solitudes of the gloomy and silent forests. The +clouds over their heads thickened into a low vault of uniform blackness. +The air was still and inexpressibly oppressive. Lingard unbuttoned his +jacket, flung it wide open and, inclining his body sideways a little, +wiped his forehead with his hand, which he jerked sharply afterwards. +Then he looked at Willems and said-- + +“No promise of yours is any good to me. I am going to take your conduct +into my own hands. Pay attention to what I am going to say. You are my +prisoner.” + +Willems’ head moved imperceptibly; then he became rigid and still. He +seemed not to breathe. + +“You shall stay here,” continued Lingard, with sombre deliberation. “You +are not fit to go amongst people. Who could suspect, who could guess, +who could imagine what’s in you? I couldn’t! You are my mistake. I shall +hide you here. If I let you out you would go amongst unsuspecting men, +and lie, and steal, and cheat for a little money or for some woman. I +don’t care about shooting you. It would be the safest way though. But +I won’t. Do not expect me to forgive you. To forgive one must have been +angry and become contemptuous, and there is nothing in me now--no anger, +no contempt, no disappointment. To me you are not Willems, the man I +befriended and helped through thick and thin, and thought much of . . . +You are not a human being that may be destroyed or forgiven. You are a +bitter thought, a something without a body and that must be hidden . . . +You are my shame.” + +He ceased and looked slowly round. How dark it was! It seemed to him +that the light was dying prematurely out of the world and that the air +was already dead. + +“Of course,” he went on, “I shall see to it that you don’t starve.” + +“You don’t mean to say that I must live here, Captain Lingard?” said +Willems, in a kind of mechanical voice without any inflections. + +“Did you ever hear me say something I did not mean?” asked Lingard. “You +said you didn’t want to die here--well, you must live . . . Unless you +change your mind,” he added, as if in involuntary afterthought. + +He looked at Willems narrowly, then shook his head. + +“You are alone,” he went on. “Nothing can help you. Nobody will. You are +neither white nor brown. You have no colour as you have no heart. Your +accomplices have abandoned you to me because I am still somebody to be +reckoned with. You are alone but for that woman there. You say you did +this for her. Well, you have her.” + +Willems mumbled something, and then suddenly caught his hair with both +his hands and remained standing so. Aissa, who had been looking at him, +turned to Lingard. + +“What did you say, Rajah Laut?” she cried. + +There was a slight stir amongst the filmy threads of her disordered +hair, the bushes by the river sides trembled, the big tree nodded +precipitately over them with an abrupt rustle, as if waking with a +start from a troubled sleep--and the breath of hot breeze passed, light, +rapid, and scorching, under the clouds that whirled round, unbroken but +undulating, like a restless phantom of a sombre sea. + +Lingard looked at her pityingly before he said-- + +“I have told him that he must live here all his life . . . and with +you.” + +The sun seemed to have gone out at last like a flickering light away up +beyond the clouds, and in the stifling gloom of the courtyard the three +figures stood colourless and shadowy, as if surrounded by a black and +superheated mist. Aissa looked at Willems, who remained still, as though +he had been changed into stone in the very act of tearing his hair. Then +she turned her head towards Lingard and shouted-- + +“You lie! You lie! . . . White man. Like you all do. You . . . whom +Abdulla made small. You lie!” + +Her words rang out shrill and venomous with her secret scorn, with her +overpowering desire to wound regardless of consequences; in her woman’s +reckless desire to cause suffering at any cost, to cause it by the sound +of her own voice--by her own voice, that would carry the poison of her +thought into the hated heart. + +Willems let his hands fall, and began to mumble again. Lingard turned +his ear towards him instinctively, caught something that sounded like +“Very well”--then some more mumbling--then a sigh. + +“As far as the rest of the world is concerned,” said Lingard, after +waiting for awhile in an attentive attitude, “your life is finished. +Nobody will be able to throw any of your villainies in my teeth; +nobody will be able to point at you and say, ‘Here goes a scoundrel of +Lingard’s up-bringing.’ You are buried here.” + +“And you think that I will stay . . . that I will submit?” exclaimed +Willems, as if he had suddenly recovered the power of speech. + +“You needn’t stay here--on this spot,” said Lingard, drily. “There are +the forests--and here is the river. You may swim. Fifteen miles up, or +forty down. At one end you will meet Almayer, at the other the sea. Take +your choice.” + +He burst into a short, joyless laugh, then added with severe gravity-- + +“There is also another way.” + +“If you want to drive my soul into damnation by trying to drive me to +suicide you will not succeed,” said Willems in wild excitement. “I will +live. I shall repent. I may escape. . . . Take that woman away--she is +sin.” + +A hooked dart of fire tore in two the darkness of the distant horizon +and lit up the gloom of the earth with a dazzling and ghastly flame. +Then the thunder was heard far away, like an incredibly enormous voice +muttering menaces. + +Lingard said-- + +“I don’t care what happens, but I may tell you that without that woman +your life is not worth much--not twopence. There is a fellow here who +. . . and Abdulla himself wouldn’t stand on any ceremony. Think of that! +And then she won’t go.” + +He began, even while he spoke, to walk slowly down towards the little +gate. He didn’t look, but he felt as sure that Willems was following +him as if he had been leading him by a string. Directly he had passed +through the wicket-gate into the big courtyard he heard a voice, behind +his back, saying-- + +“I think she was right. I ought to have shot you. I couldn’t have been +worse off.” + +“Time yet,” answered Lingard, without stopping or looking back. “But, +you see, you can’t. There is not even that in you.” + +“Don’t provoke me, Captain Lingard,” cried Willems. + +Lingard turned round sharply. Willems and Aissa stopped. Another forked +flash of lightning split up the clouds overhead, and threw upon their +faces a sudden burst of light--a blaze violent, sinister and fleeting; +and in the same instant they were deafened by a near, single crash of +thunder, which was followed by a rushing noise, like a frightened sigh +of the startled earth. + +“Provoke you!” said the old adventurer, as soon as he could make himself +heard. “Provoke you! Hey! What’s there in you to provoke? What do I +care?” + +“It is easy to speak like that when you know that in the whole world--in +the whole world--I have no friend,” said Willems. + +“Whose fault?” said Lingard, sharply. + +Their voices, after the deep and tremendous noise, sounded to them very +unsatisfactory--thin and frail, like the voices of pigmies--and they +became suddenly silent, as if on that account. From up the courtyard +Lingard’s boatmen came down and passed them, keeping step in a single +file, their paddles on shoulder, and holding their heads straight with +their eyes fixed on the river. Ali, who was walking last, stopped before +Lingard, very stiff and upright. He said-- + +“That one-eyed Babalatchi is gone, with all his women. He took +everything. All the pots and boxes. Big. Heavy. Three boxes.” + +He grinned as if the thing had been amusing, then added with an +appearance of anxious concern, “Rain coming.” + +“We return,” said Lingard. “Make ready.” + +“Aye, aye, sir!” ejaculated Ali with precision, and moved on. He had +been quartermaster with Lingard before making up his mind to stay in +Sambir as Almayer’s head man. He strutted towards the landing-place +thinking proudly that he was not like those other ignorant boatmen, and +knew how to answer properly the very greatest of white captains. + +“You have misunderstood me from the first, Captain Lingard,” said +Willems. + +“Have I? It’s all right, as long as there is no mistake about my +meaning,” answered Lingard, strolling slowly to the landing-place. +Willems followed him, and Aissa followed Willems. + +Two hands were extended to help Lingard in embarking. He stepped +cautiously and heavily into the long and narrow canoe, and sat in the +canvas folding-chair that had been placed in the middle. He leaned back +and turned his head to the two figures that stood on the bank a +little above him. Aissa’s eyes were fastened on his face in a visible +impatience to see him gone. Willems’ look went straight above the canoe, +straight at the forest on the other side of the river. + +“All right, Ali,” said Lingard, in a low voice. + +A slight stir animated the faces, and a faint murmur ran along the +line of paddlers. The foremost man pushed with the point of his paddle, +canted the fore end out of the dead water into the current; and the +canoe fell rapidly off before the rush of brown water, the stern rubbing +gently against the low bank. + +“We shall meet again, Captain Lingard!” cried Willems, in an unsteady +voice. + +“Never!” said Lingard, turning half round in his chair to look at +Willems. His fierce red eyes glittered remorselessly over the high back +of his seat. + +“Must cross the river. Water less quick over there,” said Ali. + +He pushed in his turn now with all his strength, throwing his body +recklessly right out over the stern. Then he recovered himself just in +time into the squatting attitude of a monkey perched on a high shelf, +and shouted: “Dayong!” + +The paddles struck the water together. The canoe darted forward and went +on steadily crossing the river with a sideways motion made up of its own +speed and the downward drift of the current. + +Lingard watched the shore astern. The woman shook her hand at him, and +then squatted at the feet of the man who stood motionless. After a while +she got up and stood beside him, reaching up to his head--and Lingard +saw then that she had wetted some part of her covering and was trying to +wash the dried blood off the man’s immovable face, which did not seem +to know anything about it. Lingard turned away and threw himself back in +his chair, stretching his legs out with a sigh of fatigue. His head +fell forward; and under his red face the white beard lay fan-like on his +breast, the ends of fine long hairs all astir in the faint draught +made by the rapid motion of the craft that carried him away from his +prisoner--from the only thing in his life he wished to hide. + +In its course across the river the canoe came into the line of Willems’ +sight and his eyes caught the image, followed it eagerly as it glided, +small but distinct, on the dark background of the forest. He could see +plainly the figure of the man sitting in the middle. All his life he had +felt that man behind his back, a reassuring presence ready with help, +with commendation, with advice; friendly in reproof, enthusiastic +in approbation; a man inspiring confidence by his strength, by his +fearlessness, by the very weakness of his simple heart. And now that man +was going away. He must call him back. + +He shouted, and his words, which he wanted to throw across the river, +seemed to fall helplessly at his feet. Aissa put her hand on his arm in +a restraining attempt, but he shook it off. He wanted to call back his +very life that was going away from him. He shouted again--and this time +he did not even hear himself. No use. He would never return. And he +stood in sullen silence looking at the white figure over there, lying +back in the chair in the middle of the boat; a figure that struck him +suddenly as very terrible, heartless and astonishing, with its unnatural +appearance of running over the water in an attitude of languid repose. + +For a time nothing on earth stirred, seemingly, but the canoe, which +glided up-stream with a motion so even and smooth that it did not convey +any sense of movement. Overhead, the massed clouds appeared solid and +steady as if held there in a powerful grip, but on their uneven surface +there was a continuous and trembling glimmer, a faint reflection of the +distant lightning from the thunderstorm that had broken already on the +coast and was working its way up the river with low and angry growls. +Willems looked on, as motionless as everything round him and above him. +Only his eyes seemed to live, as they followed the canoe on its course +that carried it away from him, steadily, unhesitatingly, finally, as if +it were going, not up the great river into the momentous excitement of +Sambir, but straight into the past, into the past crowded yet empty, +like an old cemetery full of neglected graves, where lie dead hopes that +never return. + +From time to time he felt on his face the passing, warm touch of an +immense breath coming from beyond the forest, like the short panting of +an oppressed world. Then the heavy air round him was pierced by a sharp +gust of wind, bringing with it the fresh, damp feel of the falling rain; +and all the innumerable tree-tops of the forests swayed to the left +and sprang back again in a tumultuous balancing of nodding branches and +shuddering leaves. A light frown ran over the river, the clouds stirred +slowly, changing their aspect but not their place, as if they had +turned ponderously over; and when the sudden movement had died out in +a quickened tremor of the slenderest twigs, there was a short period +of formidable immobility above and below, during which the voice of the +thunder was heard, speaking in a sustained, emphatic and vibrating +roll, with violent louder bursts of crashing sound, like a wrathful and +threatening discourse of an angry god. For a moment it died out, and +then another gust of wind passed, driving before it a white mist which +filled the space with a cloud of waterdust that hid suddenly from +Willems the canoe, the forests, the river itself; that woke him up from +his numbness in a forlorn shiver, that made him look round despairingly +to see nothing but the whirling drift of rain spray before the +freshening breeze, while through it the heavy big drops fell about him +with sonorous and rapid beats upon the dry earth. He made a few hurried +steps up the courtyard and was arrested by an immense sheet of water +that fell all at once on him, fell sudden and overwhelming from the +clouds, cutting his respiration, streaming over his head, clinging to +him, running down his body, off his arms, off his legs. He stood gasping +while the water beat him in a vertical downpour, drove on him slanting +in squalls, and he felt the drops striking him from above, from +everywhere; drops thick, pressed and dashing at him as if flung from all +sides by a mob of infuriated hands. From under his feet a great vapour +of broken water floated up, he felt the ground become soft--melt under +him--and saw the water spring out from the dry earth to meet the water +that fell from the sombre heaven. An insane dread took possession of +him, the dread of all that water around him, of the water that ran down +the courtyard towards him, of the water that pressed him on every side, +of the slanting water that drove across his face in wavering sheets +which gleamed pale red with the flicker of lightning streaming through +them, as if fire and water were falling together, monstrously mixed, +upon the stunned earth. + +He wanted to run away, but when he moved it was to slide about painfully +and slowly upon that earth which had become mud so suddenly under his +feet. He fought his way up the courtyard like a man pushing through +a crowd, his head down, one shoulder forward, stopping often, and +sometimes carried back a pace or two in the rush of water which his +heart was not stout enough to face. Aissa followed him step by step, +stopping when he stopped, recoiling with him, moving forward with him +in his toilsome way up the slippery declivity of the courtyard, of that +courtyard, from which everything seemed to have been swept away by the +first rush of the mighty downpour. They could see nothing. The tree, the +bushes, the house, and the fences--all had disappeared in the thickness +of the falling rain. Their hair stuck, streaming, to their heads; their +clothing clung to them, beaten close to their bodies; water ran off +them, off their heads over their shoulders. They moved, patient, +upright, slow and dark, in the gleam clear or fiery of the falling +drops, under the roll of unceasing thunder, like two wandering ghosts +of the drowned that, condemned to haunt the water for ever, had come up +from the river to look at the world under a deluge. + +On the left the tree seemed to step out to meet them, appearing vaguely, +high, motionless and patient; with a rustling plaint of its innumerable +leaves through which every drop of water tore its separate way with +cruel haste. And then, to the right, the house surged up in the +mist, very black, and clamorous with the quick patter of rain on its +high-pitched roof above the steady splash of the water running off the +eaves. Down the plankway leading to the door flowed a thin and pellucid +stream, and when Willems began his ascent it broke over his foot as +if he were going up a steep ravine in the bed of a rapid and shallow +torrent. Behind his heels two streaming smudges of mud stained for an +instant the purity of the rushing water, and then he splashed his way up +with a spurt and stood on the bamboo platform before the open door under +the shelter of the overhanging eaves--under shelter at last! + +A low moan ending in a broken and plaintive mutter arrested Willems on +the threshold. He peered round in the half-light under the roof and saw +the old woman crouching close to the wall in a shapeless heap, and while +he looked he felt a touch of two arms on his shoulders. Aissa! He had +forgotten her. He turned, and she clasped him round the neck instantly, +pressing close to him as if afraid of violence or escape. He stiffened +himself in repulsion, in horror, in the mysterious revolt of his heart; +while she clung to him--clung to him as if he were a refuge from misery, +from storm, from weariness, from fear, from despair; and it was on the +part of that being an embrace terrible, enraged and mournful, in which +all her strength went out to make him captive, to hold him for ever. + +He said nothing. He looked into her eyes while he struggled with her +fingers about the nape of his neck, and suddenly he tore her hands +apart, holding her arms up in a strong grip of her wrists, and bending +his swollen face close over hers, he said-- + +“It is all your doing. You . . .” + +She did not understand him--not a word. He spoke in the language of his +people--of his people that know no mercy and no shame. And he was angry. +Alas! he was always angry now, and always speaking words that she could +not understand. She stood in silence, looking at him through her patient +eyes, while he shook her arms a little and then flung them down. + +“Don’t follow me!” he shouted. “I want to be alone--I mean to be left +alone!” + +He went in, leaving the door open. + +She did not move. What need to understand the words when they are spoken +in such a voice? In that voice which did not seem to be his voice--his +voice when he spoke by the brook, when he was never angry and always +smiling! Her eyes were fixed upon the dark doorway, but her hands +strayed mechanically upwards; she took up all her hair, and, inclining +her head slightly over her shoulder, wrung out the long black tresses, +twisting them persistently, while she stood, sad and absorbed, like one +listening to an inward voice--the voice of bitter, of unavailing +regret. The thunder had ceased, the wind had died out, and the rain fell +perpendicular and steady through a great pale clearness--the light of +remote sun coming victorious from amongst the dissolving blackness of +the clouds. She stood near the doorway. He was there--alone in the gloom +of the dwelling. He was there. He spoke not. What was in his mind now? +What fear? What desire? Not the desire of her as in the days when he +used to smile . . . How could she know? . . . + +A sigh coming from the bottom of her heart, flew out into the world +through her parted lips. A sigh faint, profound, and broken; a sigh +full of pain and fear, like the sigh of those who are about to face the +unknown: to face it in loneliness, in doubt, and without hope. She let +go her hair, that fell scattered over her shoulders like a funeral veil, +and she sank down suddenly by the door. Her hands clasped her ankles; +she rested her head on her drawn-up knees, and remained still, very +still, under the streaming mourning of her hair. She was thinking of +him; of the days by the brook; she was thinking of all that had been +their love--and she sat in the abandoned posture of those who sit +weeping by the dead, of those who watch and mourn over a corpse. + + + + +PART V + + +CHAPTER ONE + +Almayer propped, alone on the verandah of his house, with both his +elbows on the table, and holding his head between his hands, stared +before him, away over the stretch of sprouting young grass in his +courtyard, and over the short jetty with its cluster of small canoes, +amongst which his big whale-boat floated high, like a white mother +of all that dark and aquatic brood. He stared on the river, past the +schooner anchored in mid-stream, past the forests of the left bank; he +stared through and past the illusion of the material world. + +The sun was sinking. Under the sky was stretched a network of white +threads, a network fine and close-meshed, where here and there were +caught thicker white vapours of globular shape; and to the eastward, +above the ragged barrier of the forests, surged the summits of a chain +of great clouds, growing bigger slowly, in imperceptible motion, as if +careful not to disturb the glowing stillness of the earth and of the +sky. Abreast of the house the river was empty but for the motionless +schooner. Higher up, a solitary log came out from the bend above and +went on drifting slowly down the straight reach: a dead and wandering +tree going out to its grave in the sea, between two ranks of trees +motionless and living. + +And Almayer sat, his face in his hands, looking on and hating all this: +the muddy river; the faded blue of the sky; the black log passing by on +its first and last voyage; the green sea of leaves--the sea that glowed +shimmered, and stirred above the uniform and impenetrable gloom of the +forests--the joyous sea of living green powdered with the brilliant dust +of oblique sunrays. + +He hated all this; he begrudged every day--every minute--of his life +spent amongst all these things; he begrudged it bitterly, angrily, with +enraged and immense regret, like a miser compelled to give up some of +his treasure to a near relation. And yet all this was very precious to +him. It was the present sign of a splendid future. + +He pushed the table away impatiently, got up, made a few steps +aimlessly, then stood by the balustrade and again looked at the +river--at that river which would have been the instrument for the making +of his fortune if . . . if . . . + +“What an abominable brute!” he said. + +He was alone, but he spoke aloud, as one is apt to do under the impulse +of a strong, of an overmastering thought. + +“What a brute!” he muttered again. + +The river was dark now, and the schooner lay on it, a black, a lonely, +and a graceful form, with the slender masts darting upwards from it +in two frail and raking lines. The shadows of the evening crept up the +trees, crept up from bough to bough, till at last the long sunbeams +coursing from the western horizon skimmed lightly over the topmost +branches, then flew upwards amongst the piled-up clouds, giving them +a sombre and fiery aspect in the last flush of light. And suddenly the +light disappeared as if lost in the immensity of the great, blue, +and empty hollow overhead. The sun had set: and the forests became +a straight wall of formless blackness. Above them, on the edge of +lingering clouds, a single star glimmered fitfully, obscured now and +then by the rapid flight of high and invisible vapours. + +Almayer fought with the uneasiness within his breast. He heard Ali, +who moved behind him preparing his evening meal, and he listened with +strange attention to the sounds the man made--to the short, dry bang +of the plate put upon the table, to the clink of glass and the metallic +rattle of knife and fork. The man went away. Now he was coming back. He +would speak directly; and Almayer, notwithstanding the absorbing gravity +of his thoughts, listened for the sound of expected words. He heard +them, spoken in English with painstaking distinctness. + +“Ready, sir!” + +“All right,” said Almayer, curtly. He did not move. He remained pensive, +with his back to the table upon which stood the lighted lamp brought +by Ali. He was thinking: “Where was Lingard now? Halfway down the +river probably, in Abdulla’s ship. He would be back in about three +days--perhaps less. And then? Then the schooner would have to be got out +of the river, and when that craft was gone they--he and Lingard--would +remain here; alone with the constant thought of that other man, that +other man living near them! What an extraordinary idea to keep him +there for ever. For ever! What did that mean--for ever? Perhaps a year, +perhaps ten years. Preposterous! Keep him there ten years--or may be +twenty! The fellow was capable of living more than twenty years. And for +all that time he would have to be watched, fed, looked after. There was +nobody but Lingard to have such notions. Twenty years! Why, no! In less +than ten years their fortune would be made and they would leave this +place, first for Batavia--yes, Batavia--and then for Europe. England, +no doubt. Lingard would want to go to England. And would they leave that +man here? How would that fellow look in ten years? Very old probably. +Well, devil take him. Nina would be fifteen. She would be rich and very +pretty and he himself would not be so old then. . . .” + +Almayer smiled into the night. + +. . . Yes, rich! Why! Of course! Captain Lingard was a resourceful man, +and he had plenty of money even now. They were rich already; but not +enough. Decidedly not enough. Money brings money. That gold business was +good. Famous! Captain Lingard was a remarkable man. He said the gold was +there--and it was there. Lingard knew what he was talking about. But he +had queer ideas. For instance, about Willems. Now what did he want to +keep him alive for? Why? + +“That scoundrel,” muttered Almayer again. + +“Makan Tuan!” ejaculated Ali suddenly, very loud in a pressing tone. + +Almayer walked to the table, sat down, and his anxious visage dropped +from above into the light thrown down by the lamp-shade. He helped +himself absently, and began to eat in great mouthfuls. + +. . . Undoubtedly, Lingard was the man to stick to! The man undismayed, +masterful and ready. How quickly he had planned a new future when +Willems’ treachery destroyed their established position in Sambir! And +the position even now was not so bad. What an immense prestige that +Lingard had with all those people--Arabs, Malays and all. Ah, it was +good to be able to call a man like that father. Fine! Wonder how much +money really the old fellow had. People talked--they exaggerated surely, +but if he had only half of what they said . . . + +He drank, throwing his head up, and fell to again. + +. . . Now, if that Willems had known how to play his cards well, had he +stuck to the old fellow he would have been in his position, he would +be now married to Lingard’s adopted daughter with his future +assured--splendid . . . + +“The beast!” growled Almayer, between two mouthfuls. + +Ali stood rigidly straight with an uninterested face, his gaze lost in +the night which pressed round the small circle of light that shone on +the table, on the glass, on the bottle, and on Almayer’s head as he +leaned over his plate moving his jaws. + +. . . A famous man Lingard--yet you never knew what he would do next. +It was notorious that he had shot a white man once for less than Willems +had done. For less? . . . Why, for nothing, so to speak! It was not even +his own quarrel. It was about some Malay returning from pilgrimage +with wife and children. Kidnapped, or robbed, or something. A stupid +story--an old story. And now he goes to see that Willems and--nothing. +Comes back talking big about his prisoner; but after all he said very +little. What did that Willems tell him? What passed between them? +The old fellow must have had something in his mind when he let that +scoundrel off. And Joanna! She would get round the old fellow. Sure. +Then he would forgive perhaps. Impossible. But at any rate he would +waste a lot of money on them. The old man was tenacious in his hates, +but also in his affections. He had known that beast Willems from a boy. +They would make it up in a year or so. Everything is possible: why did +he not rush off at first and kill the brute? That would have been more +like Lingard. . . . + +Almayer laid down his spoon suddenly, and pushing his plate away, threw +himself back in the chair. + +. . . Unsafe. Decidedly unsafe. He had no mind to share Lingard’s +money with anybody. Lingard’s money was Nina’s money in a sense. And +if Willems managed to become friendly with the old man it would be +dangerous for him--Almayer. Such an unscrupulous scoundrel! He would +oust him from his position. He would lie and slander. Everything would +be lost. Lost. Poor Nina. What would become of her? Poor child. For her +sake he must remove that Willems. Must. But how? Lingard wanted to be +obeyed. Impossible to kill Willems. Lingard might be angry. Incredible, +but so it was. He might . . . + +A wave of heat passed through Almayer’s body, flushed his face, and +broke out of him in copious perspiration. He wriggled in his chair, and +pressed his hands together under the table. What an awful prospect! +He fancied he could see Lingard and Willems reconciled and going away +arm-in-arm, leaving him alone in this God-forsaken hole--in Sambir--in +this deadly swamp! And all his sacrifices, the sacrifice of his +independence, of his best years, his surrender to Lingard’s fancies and +caprices, would go for nothing! Horrible! Then he thought of his +little daughter--his daughter!--and the ghastliness of his supposition +overpowered him. He had a deep emotion, a sudden emotion that made him +feel quite faint at the idea of that young life spoiled before it had +fairly begun. His dear child’s life! Lying back in his chair he covered +his face with both his hands. + +Ali glanced down at him and said, unconcernedly--“Master finish?” + +Almayer was lost in the immensity of his commiseration for himself, for +his daughter, who was--perhaps--not going to be the richest woman in +the world--notwithstanding Lingard’s promises. He did not understand the +other’s question, and muttered through his fingers in a doleful tone-- + +“What did you say? What? Finish what?” + +“Clear up meza,” explained Ali. + +“Clear up!” burst out Almayer, with incomprehensible exasperation. +“Devil take you and the table. Stupid! Chatterer! Chelakka! Get out!” + +He leaned forward, glaring at his head man, then sank back in his seat +with his arms hanging straight down on each side of the chair. And he +sat motionless in a meditation so concentrated and so absorbing, with +all his power of thought so deep within himself, that all expression +disappeared from his face in an aspect of staring vacancy. + +Ali was clearing the table. He dropped negligently the tumbler into the +greasy dish, flung there the spoon and fork, then slipped in the plate +with a push amongst the remnants of food. He took up the dish, tucked up +the bottle under his armpit, and went off. + +“My hammock!” shouted Almayer after him. + +“Ada! I come soon,” answered Ali from the doorway in an offended tone, +looking back over his shoulder. . . . How could he clear the table +and hang the hammock at the same time. Ya-wa! Those white men were all +alike. Wanted everything done at once. Like children . . . + +The indistinct murmur of his criticism went away, faded and died out +together with the soft footfall of his bare feet in the dark passage. + +For some time Almayer did not move. His thoughts were busy at work +shaping a momentous resolution, and in the perfect silence of the house +he believed that he could hear the noise of the operation as if the work +had been done with a hammer. He certainly felt a thumping of strokes, +faint, profound, and startling, somewhere low down in his breast; and +he was aware of a sound of dull knocking, abrupt and rapid, in his ears. +Now and then he held his breath, unconsciously, too long, and had to +relieve himself by a deep expiration that whistled dully through his +pursed lips. The lamp standing on the far side of the table threw a +section of a lighted circle on the floor, where his out-stretched legs +stuck out from under the table with feet rigid and turned up like the +feet of a corpse; and his set face with fixed eyes would have been also +like the face of the dead, but for its vacant yet conscious aspect; +the hard, the stupid, the stony aspect of one not dead, but only buried +under the dust, ashes, and corruption of personal thoughts, of base +fears, of selfish desires. + +“I will do it!” + +Not till he heard his own voice did he know that he had spoken. It +startled him. He stood up. The knuckles of his hand, somewhat behind +him, were resting on the edge of the table as he remained still with one +foot advanced, his lips a little open, and thought: It would not do to +fool about with Lingard. But I must risk it. It’s the only way I can +see. I must tell her. She has some little sense. I wish they were a +thousand miles off already. A hundred thousand miles. I do. And if +it fails. And she blabs out then to Lingard? She seemed a fool. No; +probably they will get away. And if they did, would Lingard believe me? +Yes. I never lied to him. He would believe. I don’t know . . . Perhaps +he won’t. . . . “I must do it. Must!” he argued aloud to himself. + +For a long time he stood still, looking before him with an intense gaze, +a gaze rapt and immobile, that seemed to watch the minute quivering of a +delicate balance, coming to a rest. + +To the left of him, in the whitewashed wall of the house that formed +the back of the verandah, there was a closed door. Black letters were +painted on it proclaiming the fact that behind that door there was the +office of Lingard & Co. The interior had been furnished by Lingard when +he had built the house for his adopted daughter and her husband, and it +had been furnished with reckless prodigality. There was an office desk, +a revolving chair, bookshelves, a safe: all to humour the weakness of +Almayer, who thought all those paraphernalia necessary to successful +trading. Lingard had laughed, but had taken immense trouble to get the +things. It pleased him to make his protege, his adopted son-in-law, +happy. It had been the sensation of Sambir some five years ago. While +the things were being landed, the whole settlement literally lived on +the river bank in front of the Rajah Laut’s house, to look, to wonder, +to admire. . . . What a big meza, with many boxes fitted all over it and +under it! What did the white man do with such a table? And look, look, O +Brothers! There is a green square box, with a gold plate on it, a box +so heavy that those twenty men cannot drag it up the bank. Let us go, +brothers, and help pull at the ropes, and perchance we may see what’s +inside. Treasure, no doubt. Gold is heavy and hard to hold, O Brothers! +Let us go and earn a recompense from the fierce Rajah of the Sea who +shouts over there, with a red face. See! There is a man carrying a pile +of books from the boat! What a number of books. What were they for? +. . . And an old invalided jurumudi, who had travelled over many seas and +had heard holy men speak in far-off countries, explained to a small knot +of unsophisticated citizens of Sambir that those books were books of +magic--of magic that guides the white men’s ships over the seas, that +gives them their wicked wisdom and their strength; of magic that makes +them great, powerful, and irresistible while they live, and--praise be +to Allah!--the victims of Satan, the slaves of Jehannum when they die. + +And when he saw the room furnished, Almayer had felt proud. In his +exultation of an empty-headed quill-driver, he thought himself, by the +virtue of that furniture, at the head of a serious business. He had +sold himself to Lingard for these things--married the Malay girl of his +adoption for the reward of these things and of the great wealth that +must necessarily follow upon conscientious book-keeping. He found out +very soon that trade in Sambir meant something entirely different. He +could not guide Patalolo, control the irrepressible old Sahamin, or +restrain the youthful vagaries of the fierce Bahassoen with pen, ink, +and paper. He found no successful magic in the blank pages of his +ledgers; and gradually he lost his old point of view in the saner +appreciation of his situation. The room known as the office became +neglected then like a temple of an exploded superstition. At first, when +his wife reverted to her original savagery, Almayer, now and again, had +sought refuge from her there; but after their child began to speak, to +know him, he became braver, for he found courage and consolation in his +unreasoning and fierce affection for his daughter--in the impenetrable +mantle of selfishness he wrapped round both their lives: round himself, +and that young life that was also his. + +When Lingard ordered him to receive Joanna into his house, he had a +truckle bed put into the office--the only room he could spare. The big +office desk was pushed on one side, and Joanna came with her little +shabby trunk and with her child and took possession in her dreamy, +slack, half-asleep way; took possession of the dust, dirt, and squalor, +where she appeared naturally at home, where she dragged a melancholy and +dull existence; an existence made up of sad remorse and frightened hope, +amongst the hopeless disorder--the senseless and vain decay of all these +emblems of civilized commerce. Bits of white stuff; rags yellow, pink, +blue: rags limp, brilliant and soiled, trailed on the floor, lay on the +desk amongst the sombre covers of books soiled, grimy, but stiff-backed, +in virtue, perhaps, of their European origin. The biggest set of +bookshelves was partly hidden by a petticoat, the waistband of which was +caught upon the back of a slender book pulled a little out of the row so +as to make an improvised clothespeg. The folding canvas bedstead stood +nearly in the middle of the room, stood anyhow, parallel to no wall, as +if it had been, in the process of transportation to some remote place, +dropped casually there by tired bearers. And on the tumbled blankets +that lay in a disordered heap on its edge, Joanna sat almost all day +with her stockingless feet upon one of the bed pillows that were somehow +always kicking about the floor. She sat there, vaguely tormented +at times by the thought of her absent husband, but most of the time +thinking tearfully of nothing at all, looking with swimming eyes at +her little son--at the big-headed, pasty-faced, and sickly Louis +Willems--who rolled a glass inkstand, solid with dried ink, about the +floor, and tottered after it with the portentous gravity of demeanour +and absolute absorption by the business in hand that characterize the +pursuits of early childhood. Through the half-open shutter a ray of +sunlight, a ray merciless and crude, came into the room, beat in the +early morning upon the safe in the far-off corner, then, travelling +against the sun, cut at midday the big desk in two with its solid and +clean-edged brilliance; with its hot brilliance in which a swarm of +flies hovered in dancing flight over some dirty plate forgotten there +amongst yellow papers for many a day. And towards the evening the +cynical ray seemed to cling to the ragged petticoat, lingered on it with +wicked enjoyment of that misery it had exposed all day; lingered on the +corner of the dusty bookshelf, in a red glow intense and mocking, till +it was suddenly snatched by the setting sun out of the way of the coming +night. And the night entered the room. The night abrupt, impenetrable +and all-filling with its flood of darkness; the night cool and merciful; +the blind night that saw nothing, but could hear the fretful whimpering +of the child, the creak of the bedstead, Joanna’s deep sighs as she +turned over, sleepless, in the confused conviction of her wickedness, +thinking of that man masterful, fair-headed, and strong--a man hard +perhaps, but her husband; her clever and handsome husband to whom she +had acted so cruelly on the advice of bad people, if her own people; and +of her poor, dear, deceived mother. + +To Almayer, Joanna’s presence was a constant worry, a worry unobtrusive +yet intolerable; a constant, but mostly mute, warning of possible +danger. In view of the absurd softness of Lingard’s heart, every one in +whom Lingard manifested the slightest interest was to Almayer a natural +enemy. He was quite alive to that feeling, and in the intimacy of the +secret intercourse with his inner self had often congratulated himself +upon his own wide-awake comprehension of his position. In that way, and +impelled by that motive, Almayer had hated many and various persons at +various times. But he never had hated and feared anybody so much as he +did hate and fear Willems. Even after Willems’ treachery, which seemed +to remove him beyond the pale of all human sympathy, Almayer mistrusted +the situation and groaned in spirit every time he caught sight of +Joanna. + +He saw her very seldom in the daytime. But in the short and opal-tinted +twilights, or in the azure dusk of starry evenings, he often saw, before +he slept, the slender and tall figure trailing to and fro the ragged +tail of its white gown over the dried mud of the riverside in front of +the house. Once or twice when he sat late on the verandah, with his feet +upon the deal table on a level with the lamp, reading the seven months’ +old copy of the North China Herald, brought by Lingard, he heard the +stairs creak, and, looking round the paper, he saw her frail and meagre +form rise step by step and toil across the verandah, carrying with +difficulty the big, fat child, whose head, lying on the mother’s bony +shoulder, seemed of the same size as Joanna’s own. Several times she had +assailed him with tearful clamour or mad entreaties: asking about her +husband, wanting to know where he was, when he would be back; and ending +every such outburst with despairing and incoherent self-reproaches that +were absolutely incomprehensible to Almayer. On one or two occasions she +had overwhelmed her host with vituperative abuse, making him responsible +for her husband’s absence. Those scenes, begun without any warning, +ended abruptly in a sobbing flight and a bang of the door; stirred the +house with a sudden, a fierce, and an evanescent disturbance; like those +inexplicable whirlwinds that rise, run, and vanish without apparent +cause upon the sun-scorched dead level of arid and lamentable plains. + +But to-night the house was quiet, deadly quiet, while Almayer stood +still, watching that delicate balance where he was weighing all his +chances: Joanna’s intelligence, Lingard’s credulity, Willems’ +reckless audacity, desire to escape, readiness to seize an unexpected +opportunity. He weighed, anxious and attentive, his fears and his +desires against the tremendous risk of a quarrel with Lingard. . . . +Yes. Lingard would be angry. Lingard might suspect him of some +connivance in his prisoner’s escape--but surely he would not quarrel +with him--Almayer--about those people once they were gone--gone to the +devil in their own way. And then he had hold of Lingard through the +little girl. Good. What an annoyance! A prisoner! As if one could keep +him in there. He was bound to get away some time or other. Of course. +A situation like that can’t last. Anybody could see that. Lingard’s +eccentricity passed all bounds. You may kill a man, but you mustn’t +torture him. It was almost criminal. It caused worry, trouble, and +unpleasantness. . . . Almayer for a moment felt very angry with Lingard. +He made him responsible for the anguish he suffered from, for the +anguish of doubt and fear; for compelling him--the practical and +innocent Almayer--to such painful efforts of mind in order to find +out some issue for absurd situations created by the unreasonable +sentimentality of Lingard’s unpractical impulses. + +“Now if the fellow were dead it would be all right,” said Almayer to the +verandah. + +He stirred a little, and scratching his nose thoughtfully, revelled in +a short flight of fancy, showing him his own image crouching in a big +boat, that floated arrested--say fifty yards off--abreast of Willems’ +landing-place. In the bottom of the boat there was a gun. A loaded +gun. One of the boatmen would shout, and Willems would answer--from the +bushes. The rascal would be suspicious. Of course. Then the man would +wave a piece of paper urging Willems to come to the landing-place and +receive an important message. “From the Rajah Laut” the man would yell +as the boat edged in-shore, and that would fetch Willems out. Wouldn’t +it? Rather! And Almayer saw himself jumping up at the right moment, +taking aim, pulling the trigger--and Willems tumbling over, his head in +the water--the swine! + +He seemed to hear the report of the shot. It made him thrill from +head to foot where he stood. . . . How simple! . . . Unfortunate . . . +Lingard . . . He sighed, shook his head. Pity. Couldn’t be done. And +couldn’t leave him there either! Suppose the Arabs were to get hold of +him again--for instance to lead an expedition up the river! Goodness +only knows what harm would come of it. . . . + +The balance was at rest now and inclining to the side of immediate +action. Almayer walked to the door, walked up very close to it, knocked +loudly, and turned his head away, looking frightened for a moment at +what he had done. After waiting for a while he put his ear against the +panel and listened. Nothing. He composed his features into an agreeable +expression while he stood listening and thinking to himself: I hear her. +Crying. Eh? I believe she has lost the little wits she had and is crying +night and day since I began to prepare her for the news of her husband’s +death--as Lingard told me. I wonder what she thinks. It’s just like +father to make me invent all these stories for nothing at all. Out of +kindness. Kindness! Damn! . . . She isn’t deaf, surely. + +He knocked again, then said in a friendly tone, grinning benevolently at +the closed door-- + +“It’s me, Mrs. Willems. I want to speak to you. I have . . . have . . . +important news. . . .” + +“What is it?” + +“News,” repeated Almayer, distinctly. “News about your husband. Your +husband! . . . Damn him!” he added, under his breath. + +He heard a stumbling rush inside. Things were overturned. Joanna’s +agitated voice cried-- + +“News! What? What? I am coming out.” + +“No,” shouted Almayer. “Put on some clothes, Mrs. Willems, and let me +in. It’s . . . very confidential. You have a candle, haven’t you?” + +She was knocking herself about blindly amongst the furniture in that +room. The candlestick was upset. Matches were struck ineffectually. The +matchbox fell. He heard her drop on her knees and grope over the floor +while she kept on moaning in maddened distraction. + +“Oh, my God! News! Yes . . . yes. . . . Ah! where . . . where . . . +candle. Oh, my God! . . . I can’t find . . . Don’t go away, for the love +of Heaven . . .” + +“I don’t want to go away,” said Almayer, impatiently, through the +keyhole; “but look sharp. It’s coni . . . it’s pressing.” + +He stamped his foot lightly, waiting with his hand on the door-handle. +He thought anxiously: The woman’s a perfect idiot. Why should I go away? +She will be off her head. She will never catch my meaning. She’s too +stupid. + +She was moving now inside the room hurriedly and in silence. He waited. +There was a moment of perfect stillness in there, and then she spoke +in an exhausted voice, in words that were shaped out of an expiring +sigh--out of a sigh light and profound, like words breathed out by a +woman before going off into a dead faint-- + +“Come in.” + +He pushed the door. Ali, coming through the passage with an armful +of pillows and blankets pressed to his breast high up under his chin, +caught sight of his master before the door closed behind him. He was so +astonished that he dropped his bundle and stood staring at the door for +a long time. He heard the voice of his master talking. Talking to that +Sirani woman! Who was she? He had never thought about that really. He +speculated for a while hazily upon things in general. She was a Sirani +woman--and ugly. He made a disdainful grimace, picked up the bedding, +and went about his work, slinging the hammock between two uprights of +the verandah. . . . Those things did not concern him. She was ugly, +and brought here by the Rajah Laut, and his master spoke to her in the +night. Very well. He, Ali, had his work to do. Sling the hammock--go +round and see that the watchmen were awake--take a look at the moorings +of the boats, at the padlock of the big storehouse--then go to sleep. +To sleep! He shivered pleasantly. He leaned with both arms over his +master’s hammock and fell into a light doze. + +A scream, unexpected, piercing--a scream beginning at once in the +highest pitch of a woman’s voice and then cut short, so short that it +suggested the swift work of death--caused Ali to jump on one side +away from the hammock, and the silence that succeeded seemed to him +as startling as the awful shriek. He was thunderstruck with surprise. +Almayer came out of the office, leaving the door ajar, passed close +to his servant without taking any notice, and made straight for the +water-chatty hung on a nail in a draughty place. He took it down and +came back, missing the petrified Ali by an inch. He moved with long +strides, yet, notwithstanding his haste, stopped short before the door, +and, throwing his head back, poured a thin stream of water down his +throat. While he came and went, while he stopped to drink, while he did +all this, there came steadily from the dark room the sound of feeble and +persistent crying, the crying of a sleepy and frightened child. After he +had drunk, Almayer went in, closing the door carefully. + +Ali did not budge. That Sirani woman shrieked! He felt an immense +curiosity very unusual to his stolid disposition. He could not take his +eyes off the door. Was she dead in there? How interesting and funny! He +stood with open mouth till he heard again the rattle of the door-handle. +Master coming out. He pivoted on his heels with great rapidity and made +believe to be absorbed in the contemplation of the night outside. He +heard Almayer moving about behind his back. Chairs were displaced. His +master sat down. + +“Ali,” said Almayer. + +His face was gloomy and thoughtful. He looked at his head man, who +had approached the table, then he pulled out his watch. It was going. +Whenever Lingard was in Sambir Almayer’s watch was going. He would set +it by the cabin clock, telling himself every time that he must really +keep that watch going for the future. And every time, when Lingard +went away, he would let it run down and would measure his weariness +by sunrises and sunsets in an apathetic indifference to mere hours; to +hours only; to hours that had no importance in Sambir life, in the tired +stagnation of empty days; when nothing mattered to him but the quality +of guttah and the size of rattans; where there were no small hopes to +be watched for; where to him there was nothing interesting, nothing +supportable, nothing desirable to expect; nothing bitter but the +slowness of the passing days; nothing sweet but the hope, the distant +and glorious hope--the hope wearying, aching and precious, of getting +away. + +He looked at the watch. Half-past eight. Ali waited stolidly. + +“Go to the settlement,” said Almayer, “and tell Mahmat Banjer to come +and speak to me to-night.” + +Ali went off muttering. He did not like his errand. Banjer and his two +brothers were Bajow vagabonds who had appeared lately in Sambir and had +been allowed to take possession of a tumbledown abandoned hut, on three +posts, belonging to Lingard & Co., and standing just outside their +fence. Ali disapproved of the favour shown to those strangers. Any kind +of dwelling was valuable in Sambir at that time, and if master did not +want that old rotten house he might have given it to him, Ali, who was +his servant, instead of bestowing it upon those bad men. Everybody +knew they were bad. It was well known that they had stolen a boat +from Hinopari, who was very aged and feeble and had no sons; and that +afterwards, by the truculent recklessness of their demeanour, they +had frightened the poor old man into holding his tongue about it. Yet +everybody knew of it. It was one of the tolerated scandals of Sambir, +disapproved and accepted, a manifestation of that base acquiescence in +success, of that inexpressed and cowardly toleration of strength, that +exists, infamous and irremediable, at the bottom of all hearts, in all +societies; whenever men congregate; in bigger and more virtuous places +than Sambir, and in Sambir also, where, as in other places, one man +could steal a boat with impunity while another would have no right to +look at a paddle. + +Almayer, leaning back in his chair, meditated. The more he thought, the +more he felt convinced that Banjer and his brothers were exactly the men +he wanted. Those fellows were sea gipsies, and could disappear without +attracting notice; and if they returned, nobody--and Lingard least of +all--would dream of seeking information from them. Moreover, they had +no personal interest of any kind in Sambir affairs--had taken no +sides--would know nothing anyway. + +He called in a strong voice: “Mrs. Willems!” + +She came out quickly, almost startling him, so much did she appear as +though she had surged up through the floor, on the other side of the +table. The lamp was between them, and Almayer moved it aside, looking up +at her from his chair. She was crying. She was crying gently, silently, +in a ceaseless welling up of tears that did not fall in drops, but +seemed to overflow in a clear sheet from under her eyelids--seemed +to flow at once all over her face, her cheeks, and over her chin that +glistened with moisture in the light. Her breast and her shoulders were +shaken repeatedly by a convulsive and noiseless catching in her breath, +and after every spasmodic sob her sorrowful little head, tied up in +a red kerchief, trembled on her long neck, round which her bony hand +gathered and clasped the disarranged dress. + +“Compose yourself, Mrs. Willems,” said Almayer. + +She emitted an inarticulate sound that seemed to be a faint, a very far +off, a hardly audible cry of mortal distress. Then the tears went on +flowing in profound stillness. + +“You must understand that I have told you all this because I am your +friend--real friend,” said Almayer, after looking at her for some time +with visible dissatisfaction. “You, his wife, ought to know the danger +he is in. Captain Lingard is a terrible man, you know.” + +She blubbered out, sniffing and sobbing together. + +“Do you . . . you . . . speak . . . the . . . the truth now?” + +“Upon my word of honour. On the head of my child,” protested Almayer. “I +had to deceive you till now because of Captain Lingard. But I couldn’t +bear it. Think only what a risk I run in telling you--if ever Lingard +was to know! Why should I do it? Pure friendship. Dear Peter was my +colleague in Macassar for years, you know.” + +“What shall I do . . . what shall I do!” she exclaimed, faintly, looking +around on every side as if she could not make up her mind which way to +rush off. + +“You must help him to clear out, now Lingard is away. He offended +Lingard, and that’s no joke. Lingard said he would kill him. He will do +it, too,” said Almayer, earnestly. + +She wrung her hands. “Oh! the wicked man. The wicked, wicked man!” she +moaned, swaying her body from side to side. + +“Yes. Yes! He is terrible,” assented Almayer. “You must not lose any +time. I say! Do you understand me, Mrs. Willems? Think of your husband. +Of your poor husband. How happy he will be. You will bring him his +life--actually his life. Think of him.” + +She ceased her swaying movement, and now, with her head sunk between +her shoulders, she hugged herself with both her arms; and she stared at +Almayer with wild eyes, while her teeth chattered, rattling violently +and uninterruptedly, with a very loud sound, in the deep peace of the +house. + +“Oh! Mother of God!” she wailed. “I am a miserable woman. Will he +forgive me? The poor, innocent man. Will he forgive me? Oh, Mr. Almayer, +he is so severe. Oh! help me. . . . I dare not. . . . You don’t know +what I’ve done to him. . . . I daren’t! . . . I can’t! . . . God help +me!” + +The last words came in a despairing cry. Had she been flayed alive she +could not have sent to heaven a more terrible, a more heartrending and +anguished plaint. + +“Sh! Sh!” hissed Almayer, jumping up. “You will wake up everybody with +your shouting.” + +She kept on sobbing then without any noise, and Almayer stared at her +in boundless astonishment. The idea that, maybe, he had done wrong by +confiding in her, upset him so much that for a moment he could not find +a connected thought in his head. + +At last he said: “I swear to you that your husband is in such a position +that he would welcome the devil . . . listen well to me . . . the +devil himself if the devil came to him in a canoe. Unless I am much +mistaken,” he added, under his breath. Then again, loudly: “If you +have any little difference to make up with him, I assure you--I swear to +you--this is your time!” + +The ardently persuasive tone of his words--he thought--would have +carried irresistible conviction to a graven image. He noticed with +satisfaction that Joanna seemed to have got some inkling of his meaning. +He continued, speaking slowly-- + +“Look here, Mrs. Willems. I can’t do anything. Daren’t. But I will tell +you what I will do. There will come here in about ten minutes a Bugis +man--you know the language; you are from Macassar. He has a large canoe; +he can take you there. To the new Rajah’s clearing, tell him. They are +three brothers, ready for anything if you pay them . . . you have some +money. Haven’t you?” + +She stood--perhaps listening--but giving no sign of intelligence, +and stared at the floor in sudden immobility, as if the horror of the +situation, the overwhelming sense of her own wickedness and of her +husband’s great danger, had stunned her brain, her heart, her will--had +left her no faculty but that of breathing and of keeping on her feet. +Almayer swore to himself with much mental profanity that he had never +seen a more useless, a more stupid being. + +“D’ye hear me?” he said, raising his voice. “Do try to understand. Have +you any money? Money. Dollars. Guilders. Money! What’s the matter with +you?” + +Without raising her eyes she said, in a voice that sounded weak and +undecided as if she had been making a desperate effort of memory-- + +“The house has been sold. Mr. Hudig was angry.” + +Almayer gripped the edge of the table with all his strength. He resisted +manfully an almost uncontrollable impulse to fly at her and box her +ears. + +“It was sold for money, I suppose,” he said with studied and incisive +calmness. “Have you got it? Who has got it?” + +She looked up at him, raising her swollen eyelids with a great effort, +in a sorrowful expression of her drooping mouth, of her whole besmudged +and tear-stained face. She whispered resignedly-- + +“Leonard had some. He wanted to get married. And uncle Antonio; he sat +at the door and would not go away. And Aghostina--she is so poor . . . +and so many, many children--little children. And Luiz the engineer. He +never said a word against my husband. Also our cousin Maria. She came +and shouted, and my head was so bad, and my heart was worse. Then cousin +Salvator and old Daniel da Souza, who . . .” + +Almayer had listened to her speechless with rage. He thought: I must +give money now to that idiot. Must! Must get her out of the way now +before Lingard is back. He made two attempts to speak before he managed +to burst out-- + +“I don’t want to know their blasted names! Tell me, did all those +infernal people leave you anything? To you! That’s what I want to know!” + +“I have two hundred and fifteen dollars,” said Joanna, in a frightened +tone. + +Almayer breathed freely. He spoke with great friendliness-- + +“That will do. It isn’t much, but it will do. Now when the man comes I +will be out of the way. You speak to him. Give him some money; only +a little, mind! And promise more. Then when you get there you will be +guided by your husband, of course. And don’t forget to tell him that +Captain Lingard is at the mouth of the river--the northern entrance. You +will remember. Won’t you? The northern branch. Lingard is--death.” + +Joanna shivered. Almayer went on rapidly-- + +“I would have given you money if you had wanted it. ‘Pon my word! Tell +your husband I’ve sent you to him. And tell him not to lose any time. +And also say to him from me that we shall meet--some day. That I could +not die happy unless I met him once more. Only once. I love him, you +know. I prove it. Tremendous risk to me--this business is!” + +Joanna snatched his hand and before he knew what she would be at, +pressed it to her lips. + +“Mrs. Willems! Don’t. What are you . . .” cried the abashed Almayer, +tearing his hand away. + +“Oh, you are good!” she cried, with sudden exaltation, “You are noble +. . . I shall pray every day . . . to all the saints . . . I shall . . .” + +“Never mind . . . never mind!” stammered out Almayer, confusedly, +without knowing very well what he was saying. “Only look out for +Lingard. . . . I am happy to be able . . . in your sad situation . . . +believe me. . . .” + +They stood with the table between them, Joanna looking down, and her +face, in the half-light above the lamp, appeared like a soiled carving +of old ivory--a carving, with accentuated anxious hollows, of old, very +old ivory. Almayer looked at her, mistrustful, hopeful. He was saying +to himself: How frail she is! I could upset her by blowing at her. She +seems to have got some idea of what must be done, but will she have the +strength to carry it through? I must trust to luck now! + +Somewhere far in the back courtyard Ali’s voice rang suddenly in angry +remonstrance-- + +“Why did you shut the gate, O father of all mischief? You a watchman! +You are only a wild man. Did I not tell you I was coming back? You . . .” + +“I am off, Mrs. Willems,” exclaimed Almayer. “That man is here--with my +servant. Be calm. Try to . . .” + +He heard the footsteps of the two men in the passage, and without +finishing his sentence ran rapidly down the steps towards the riverside. + + + +CHAPTER TWO + +For the next half-hour Almayer, who wanted to give Joanna plenty of +time, stumbled amongst the lumber in distant parts of his enclosure, +sneaked along the fences; or held his breath, flattened against grass +walls behind various outhouses: all this to escape Ali’s inconveniently +zealous search for his master. He heard him talk with the head +watchman--sometimes quite close to him in the darkness--then moving off, +coming back, wondering, and, as the time passed, growing uneasy. + +“He did not fall into the river?--say, thou blind watcher!” Ali was +growling in a bullying tone, to the other man. “He told me to fetch +Mahmat, and when I came back swiftly I found him not in the house. There +is that Sirani woman there, so that Mahmat cannot steal anything, but it +is in my mind, the night will be half gone before I rest.” + +He shouted-- + +“Master! O master! O mast . . .” + +“What are you making that noise for?” said Almayer, with severity, +stepping out close to them. + +The two Malays leaped away from each other in their surprise. + +“You may go. I don’t want you any more tonight, Ali,” went on Almayer. +“Is Mahmat there?” + +“Unless the ill-behaved savage got tired of waiting. Those men know +not politeness. They should not be spoken to by white men,” said Ali, +resentfully. + +Almayer went towards the house, leaving his servants to wonder where he +had sprung from so unexpectedly. The watchman hinted obscurely at powers +of invisibility possessed by the master, who often at night . . . Ali +interrupted him with great scorn. Not every white man has the power. +Now, the Rajah Laut could make himself invisible. Also, he could be +in two places at once, as everybody knew; except he--the useless +watchman--who knew no more about white men than a wild pig! Ya-wa! + +And Ali strolled towards his hut, yawning loudly. + +As Almayer ascended the steps he heard the noise of a door flung to, +and when he entered the verandah he saw only Mahmat there, close to the +doorway of the passage. Mahmat seemed to be caught in the very act of +slinking away, and Almayer noticed that with satisfaction. Seeing the +white man, the Malay gave up his attempt and leaned against the wall. He +was a short, thick, broad-shouldered man with very dark skin and a wide, +stained, bright-red mouth that uncovered, when he spoke, a close row +of black and glistening teeth. His eyes were big, prominent, dreamy and +restless. He said sulkily, looking all over the place from under his +eyebrows-- + +“White Tuan, you are great and strong--and I a poor man. Tell me what is +your will, and let me go in the name of God. It is late.” + +Almayer examined the man thoughtfully. How could he find out whether +. . . He had it! Lately he had employed that man and his two brothers as +extra boatmen to carry stores, provisions, and new axes to a camp of +rattan cutters some distance up the river. A three days’ expedition. He +would test him now in that way. He said negligently-- + +“I want you to start at once for the camp, with surat for the Kavitan. +One dollar a day.” + +The man appeared plunged in dull hesitation, but Almayer, who knew his +Malays, felt pretty sure from his aspect that nothing would induce the +fellow to go. He urged-- + +“It is important--and if you are swift I shall give two dollars for the +last day.” + +“No, Tuan. We do not go,” said the man, in a hoarse whisper. + +“Why?” + +“We start on another journey.” + +“Where?” + +“To a place we know of,” said Mahmat, a little louder, in a stubborn +manner, and looking at the floor. + +Almayer experienced a feeling of immense joy. He said, with affected +annoyance-- + +“You men live in my house and it is as if it were your own. I may want +my house soon.” + +Mahmat looked up. + +“We are men of the sea and care not for a roof when we have a canoe that +will hold three, and a paddle apiece. The sea is our house. Peace be +with you, Tuan.” + +He turned and went away rapidly, and Almayer heard him directly +afterwards in the courtyard calling to the watchman to open the gate. +Mahmat passed through the gate in silence, but before the bar had been +put up behind him he had made up his mind that if the white man ever +wanted to eject him from his hut, he would burn it and also as many of +the white man’s other buildings as he could safely get at. And he began +to call his brothers before he was inside the dilapidated dwelling. + +“All’s well!” muttered Almayer to himself, taking some loose Java +tobacco from a drawer in the table. “Now if anything comes out I am +clear. I asked the man to go up the river. I urged him. He will say so +himself. Good.” + +He began to charge the china bowl of his pipe, a pipe with a long cherry +stem and a curved mouthpiece, pressing the tobacco down with his thumb +and thinking: No. I sha’n’t see her again. Don’t want to. I will give +her a good start, then go in chase--and send an express boat after +father. Yes! that’s it. + +He approached the door of the office and said, holding his pipe away +from his lips-- + +“Good luck to you, Mrs. Willems. Don’t lose any time. You may get along +by the bushes; the fence there is out of repair. Don’t lose time. Don’t +forget that it is a matter of . . . life and death. And don’t forget +that I know nothing. I trust you.” + +He heard inside a noise as of a chest-lid falling down. She made a few +steps. Then a sigh, profound and long, and some faint words which he +did not catch. He moved away from the door on tiptoe, kicked off his +slippers in a corner of the verandah, then entered the passage puffing +at his pipe; entered cautiously in a gentle creaking of planks and +turned into a curtained entrance to the left. There was a big room. On +the floor a small binnacle lamp--that had found its way to the house +years ago from the lumber-room of the Flash--did duty for a night-light. +It glimmered very small and dull in the great darkness. Almayer walked +to it, and picking it up revived the flame by pulling the wick with his +fingers, which he shook directly after with a grimace of pain. Sleeping +shapes, covered--head and all--with white sheets, lay about on the mats +on the floor. In the middle of the room a small cot, under a square +white mosquito net, stood--the only piece of furniture between the four +walls--looking like an altar of transparent marble in a gloomy temple. A +woman, half-lying on the floor with her head dropped on her arms, which +were crossed on the foot of the cot, woke up as Almayer strode over +her outstretched legs. She sat up without a word, leaning forward, and, +clasping her knees, stared down with sad eyes, full of sleep. + +Almayer, the smoky light in one hand, his pipe in the other, stood +before the curtained cot looking at his daughter--at his little Nina--at +that part of himself, at that small and unconscious particle of humanity +that seemed to him to contain all his soul. And it was as if he had been +bathed in a bright and warm wave of tenderness, in a tenderness greater +than the world, more precious than life; the only thing real, living, +sweet, tangible, beautiful and safe amongst the elusive, the distorted +and menacing shadows of existence. On his face, lit up indistinctly by +the short yellow flame of the lamp, came a look of rapt attention +while he looked into her future. And he could see things there! Things +charming and splendid passing before him in a magic unrolling of +resplendent pictures; pictures of events brilliant, happy, inexpressibly +glorious, that would make up her life. He would do it! He would do it. +He would! He would--for that child! And as he stood in the still night, +lost in his enchanting and gorgeous dreams, while the ascending, thin +thread of tobacco smoke spread into a faint bluish cloud above his head, +he appeared strangely impressive and ecstatic: like a devout and mystic +worshipper, adoring, transported and mute; burning incense before a +shrine, a diaphanous shrine of a child-idol with closed eyes; before a +pure and vaporous shrine of a small god--fragile, powerless, unconscious +and sleeping. + +When Ali, roused by loud and repeated shouting of his name, stumbled +outside the door of his hut, he saw a narrow streak of trembling gold +above the forests and a pale sky with faded stars overhead: signs of the +coming day. His master stood before the door waving a piece of paper in +his hand and shouting excitedly--“Quick, Ali! Quick!” When he saw his +servant he rushed forward, and pressing the paper on him objurgated him, +in tones which induced Ali to think that something awful had happened, +to hurry up and get the whale-boat ready to go immediately--at once, +at once--after Captain Lingard. Ali remonstrated, agitated also, having +caught the infection of distracted haste. + +“If must go quick, better canoe. Whale-boat no can catch, same as small +canoe.” + +“No, no! Whale-boat! whale-boat! You dolt! you wretch!” howled Almayer, +with all the appearance of having gone mad. “Call the men! Get along +with it. Fly!” + +And Ali rushed about the courtyard kicking the doors of huts open to put +his head in and yell frightfully inside; and as he dashed from hovel +to hovel, men shivering and sleepy were coming out, looking after him +stupidly, while they scratched their ribs with bewildered apathy. It was +hard work to put them in motion. They wanted time to stretch themselves +and to shiver a little. Some wanted food. One said he was sick. Nobody +knew where the rudder was. Ali darted here and there, ordering, abusing, +pushing one, then another, and stopping in his exertions at times to +wring his hands hastily and groan, because the whale-boat was much +slower than the worst canoe and his master would not listen to his +protestations. + +Almayer saw the boat go off at last, pulled anyhow by men that were +cold, hungry, and sulky; and he remained on the jetty watching it down +the reach. It was broad day then, and the sky was perfectly cloudless. +Almayer went up to the house for a moment. His household was all astir +and wondering at the strange disappearance of the Sirani woman, who had +taken her child and had left her luggage. Almayer spoke to no one, got +his revolver, and went down to the river again. He jumped into a +small canoe and paddled himself towards the schooner. He worked very +leisurely, but as soon as he was nearly alongside he began to hail +the silent craft with the tone and appearance of a man in a tremendous +hurry. + +“Schooner ahoy! schooner ahoy!” he shouted. + +A row of blank faces popped up above the bulwark. After a while a man +with a woolly head of hair said-- + +“Sir!” + +“The mate! the mate! Call him, steward!” said Almayer, excitedly, making +a frantic grab at a rope thrown down to him by somebody. + +In less than a minute the mate put his head over. He asked, surprised-- + +“What can I do for you, Mr. Almayer?” + +“Let me have the gig at once, Mr. Swan--at once. I ask in Captain +Lingard’s name. I must have it. Matter of life and death.” + +The mate was impressed by Almayer’s agitation + +“You shall have it, sir. . . . Man the gig there! Bear a hand, serang! +. . . It’s hanging astern, Mr. Almayer,” he said, looking down again. +“Get into it, sir. The men are coming down by the painter.” + +By the time Almayer had clambered over into the stern sheets, four +calashes were in the boat and the oars were being passed over the +taffrail. The mate was looking on. Suddenly he said-- + +“Is it dangerous work? Do you want any help? I would come . . .” + +“Yes, yes!” cried Almayer. “Come along. Don’t lose a moment. Go and get +your revolver. Hurry up! hurry up!” + +Yet, notwithstanding his feverish anxiety to be off, he lolled back +very quiet and unconcerned till the mate got in and, passing over the +thwarts, sat down by his side. Then he seemed to wake up, and called +out-- + +“Let go--let go the painter!” + +“Let go the painter--the painter!” yelled the bowman, jerking at it. + +People on board also shouted “Let go!” to one another, till it occurred +at last to somebody to cast off the rope; and the boat drifted rapidly +away from the schooner in the sudden silencing of all voices. + +Almayer steered. The mate sat by his side, pushing the cartridges into +the chambers of his revolver. When the weapon was loaded he asked-- + +“What is it? Are you after somebody?” + +“Yes,” said Almayer, curtly, with his eyes fixed ahead on the river. “We +must catch a dangerous man.” + +“I like a bit of a chase myself,” declared the mate, and then, +discouraged by Almayer’s aspect of severe thoughtfulness, said nothing +more. + +Nearly an hour passed. The calashes stretched forward head first and lay +back with their faces to the sky, alternately, in a regular swing +that sent the boat flying through the water; and the two sitters, very +upright in the stern sheets, swayed rhythmically a little at every +stroke of the long oars plied vigorously. + +The mate observed: “The tide is with us.” + +“The current always runs down in this river,” said Almayer. + +“Yes--I know,” retorted the other; “but it runs faster on the ebb. Look +by the land at the way we get over the ground! A five-knot current here, +I should say.” + +“H’m!” growled Almayer. Then suddenly: “There is a passage between two +islands that will save us four miles. But at low water the two islands, +in the dry season, are like one with only a mud ditch between them. +Still, it’s worth trying.” + +“Ticklish job that, on a falling tide,” said the mate, coolly. “You know +best whether there’s time to get through.” + +“I will try,” said Almayer, watching the shore intently. “Look out now!” + +He tugged hard at the starboard yoke-line. + +“Lay in your oars!” shouted the mate. + +The boat swept round and shot through the narrow opening of a creek that +broadened out before the craft had time to lose its way. + +“Out oars! . . . Just room enough,” muttered the mate. + +It was a sombre creek of black water speckled with the gold of scattered +sunlight falling through the boughs that met overhead in a soaring, +restless arc full of gentle whispers passing, tremulous, aloft amongst +the thick leaves. The creepers climbed up the trunks of serried trees +that leaned over, looking insecure and undermined by floods which had +eaten away the earth from under their roots. And the pungent, acrid +smell of rotting leaves, of flowers, of blossoms and plants dying in +that poisonous and cruel gloom, where they pined for sunshine in vain, +seemed to lay heavy, to press upon the shiny and stagnant water in its +tortuous windings amongst the everlasting and invincible shadows. + +Almayer looked anxious. He steered badly. Several times the blades of +the oars got foul of the bushes on one side or the other, checking the +way of the gig. During one of those occurrences, while they were getting +clear, one of the calashes said something to the others in a rapid +whisper. They looked down at the water. So did the mate. + +“Hallo!” he exclaimed. “Eh, Mr. Almayer! Look! The water is running out. +See there! We will be caught.” + +“Back! back! We must go back!” cried Almayer. + +“Perhaps better go on.” + +“No; back! back!” + +He pulled at the steering line, and ran the nose of the boat into the +bank. Time was lost again in getting clear. + +“Give way, men! give way!” urged the mate, anxiously. + +The men pulled with set lips and dilated nostrils, breathing hard. + +“Too late,” said the mate, suddenly. “The oars touch the bottom already. +We are done.” + +The boat stuck. The men laid in the oars, and sat, panting, with crossed +arms. + +“Yes, we are caught,” said Almayer, composedly. “That is unlucky!” + +The water was falling round the boat. The mate watched the patches of +mud coming to the surface. Then in a moment he laughed, and pointing his +finger at the creek-- + +“Look!” he said; “the blamed river is running away from us. Here’s the +last drop of water clearing out round that bend.” + +Almayer lifted his head. The water was gone, and he looked only at a +curved track of mud--of mud soft and black, hiding fever, rottenness, +and evil under its level and glazed surface. + +“We are in for it till the evening,” he said, with cheerful resignation. +“I did my best. Couldn’t help it.” + +“We must sleep the day away,” said the mate. “There’s nothing to eat,” + he added, gloomily. + +Almayer stretched himself in the stern sheets. The Malays curled down +between thwarts. + +“Well, I’m jiggered!” said the mate, starting up after a long pause. +“I was in a devil of a hurry to go and pass the day stuck in the mud. +Here’s a holiday for you! Well! well!” + +They slept or sat unmoving and patient. As the sun mounted higher the +breeze died out, and perfect stillness reigned in the empty creek. A +troop of long-nosed monkeys appeared, and crowding on the outer boughs, +contemplated the boat and the motionless men in it with grave and +sorrowful intensity, disturbed now and then by irrational outbreaks of +mad gesticulation. A little bird with sapphire breast balanced a slender +twig across a slanting beam of light, and flashed in it to and fro like +a gem dropped from the sky. His minute round eye stared at the strange +and tranquil creatures in the boat. After a while he sent out a thin +twitter that sounded impertinent and funny in the solemn silence of the +great wilderness; in the great silence full of struggle and death. + + + +CHAPTER THREE + +On Lingard’s departure solitude and silence closed round Willems; the +cruel solitude of one abandoned by men; the reproachful silence which +surrounds an outcast ejected by his kind, the silence unbroken by the +slightest whisper of hope; an immense and impenetrable silence that +swallows up without echo the murmur of regret and the cry of revolt. +The bitter peace of the abandoned clearings entered his heart, in which +nothing could live now but the memory and hate of his past. Not remorse. +In the breast of a man possessed by the masterful consciousness of +his individuality with its desires and its rights; by the immovable +conviction of his own importance, of an importance so indisputable and +final that it clothes all his wishes, endeavours, and mistakes with the +dignity of unavoidable fate, there could be no place for such a feeling +as that of remorse. + +The days passed. They passed unnoticed, unseen, in the rapid blaze of +glaring sunrises, in the short glow of tender sunsets, in the crushing +oppression of high noons without a cloud. How many days? Two--three--or +more? He did not know. To him, since Lingard had gone, the time seemed +to roll on in profound darkness. All was night within him. All was gone +from his sight. He walked about blindly in the deserted courtyards, +amongst the empty houses that, perched high on their posts, looked down +inimically on him, a white stranger, a man from other lands; seemed +to look hostile and mute out of all the memories of native life that +lingered between their decaying walls. His wandering feet stumbled +against the blackened brands of extinct fires, kicking up a light black +dust of cold ashes that flew in drifting clouds and settled to leeward +on the fresh grass sprouting from the hard ground, between the shade +trees. He moved on, and on; ceaseless, unresting, in widening circles, +in zigzagging paths that led to no issue; he struggled on wearily with +a set, distressed face behind which, in his tired brain, seethed his +thoughts: restless, sombre, tangled, chilling, horrible and venomous, +like a nestful of snakes. + +From afar, the bleared eyes of the old serving woman, the sombre gaze +of Aissa followed the gaunt and tottering figure in its unceasing prowl +along the fences, between the houses, amongst the wild luxuriance of +riverside thickets. Those three human beings abandoned by all were +like shipwrecked people left on an insecure and slippery ledge by the +retiring tide of an angry sea--listening to its distant roar, living +anguished between the menace of its return and the hopeless horror of +their solitude--in the midst of a tempest of passion, of regret, of +disgust, of despair. The breath of the storm had cast two of them there, +robbed of everything--even of resignation. The third, the decrepit +witness of their struggle and their torture, accepted her own dull +conception of facts; of strength and youth gone; of her useless old +age; of her last servitude; of being thrown away by her chief, by her +nearest, to use up the last and worthless remnant of flickering life +between those two incomprehensible and sombre outcasts: a shrivelled, an +unmoved, a passive companion of their disaster. + +To the river Willems turned his eyes like a captive that looks fixedly +at the door of his cell. If there was any hope in the world it would +come from the river, by the river. For hours together he would stand in +sunlight while the sea breeze sweeping over the lonely reach fluttered +his ragged garments; the keen salt breeze that made him shiver now +and then under the flood of intense heat. He looked at the brown and +sparkling solitude of the flowing water, of the water flowing ceaseless +and free in a soft, cool murmur of ripples at his feet. The world seemed +to end there. The forests of the other bank appeared unattainable, +enigmatical, for ever beyond reach like the stars of heaven--and as +indifferent. Above and below, the forests on his side of the river came +down to the water in a serried multitude of tall, immense trees towering +in a great spread of twisted boughs above the thick undergrowth; great, +solid trees, looking sombre, severe, and malevolently stolid, like a +giant crowd of pitiless enemies pressing round silently to witness +his slow agony. He was alone, small, crushed. He thought of escape--of +something to be done. What? A raft! He imagined himself working at it, +feverishly, desperately; cutting down trees, fastening the logs together +and then drifting down with the current, down to the sea into the +straits. There were ships there--ships, help, white men. Men like +himself. Good men who would rescue him, take him away, take him far away +where there was trade, and houses, and other men that could understand +him exactly, appreciate his capabilities; where there was proper food, +and money; where there were beds, knives, forks, carriages, brass bands, +cool drinks, churches with well-dressed people praying in them. He would +pray also. The superior land of refined delights where he could sit on +a chair, eat his tiffin off a white tablecloth, nod to fellows--good +fellows; he would be popular; always was--where he could be virtuous, +correct, do business, draw a salary, smoke cigars, buy things in +shops--have boots . . . be happy, free, become rich. O God! What was +wanted? Cut down a few trees. No! One would do. They used to make canoes +by burning out a tree trunk, he had heard. Yes! One would do. One tree +to cut down . . . He rushed forward, and suddenly stood still as if +rooted in the ground. He had a pocket-knife. + +And he would throw himself down on the ground by the riverside. He +was tired, exhausted; as if that raft had been made, the voyage +accomplished, the fortune attained. A glaze came over his staring eyes, +over his eyes that gazed hopelessly at the rising river where big logs +and uprooted trees drifted in the shine of mid-stream: a long procession +of black and ragged specks. He could swim out and drift away on one of +these trees. Anything to escape! Anything! Any risk! He could fasten +himself up between the dead branches. He was torn by desire, by fear; +his heart was wrung by the faltering of his courage. He turned over, +face downwards, his head on his arms. He had a terrible vision of +shadowless horizons where the blue sky and the blue sea met; or a +circular and blazing emptiness where a dead tree and a dead man drifted +together, endlessly, up and down, upon the brilliant undulations of the +straits. No ships there. Only death. And the river led to it. + +He sat up with a profound groan. + +Yes, death. Why should he die? No! Better solitude, better hopeless +waiting, alone. Alone. No! he was not alone, he saw death looking at him +from everywhere; from the bushes, from the clouds--he heard her speaking +to him in the murmur of the river, filling the space, touching his +heart, his brain with a cold hand. He could see and think of nothing +else. He saw it--the sure death--everywhere. He saw it so close that +he was always on the point of throwing out his arms to keep it off. It +poisoned all he saw, all he did; the miserable food he ate, the muddy +water he drank; it gave a frightful aspect to sunrises and sunsets, to +the brightness of hot noon, to the cooling shadows of the evenings. He +saw the horrible form among the big trees, in the network of creepers +in the fantastic outlines of leaves, of the great indented leaves that +seemed to be so many enormous hands with big broad palms, with stiff +fingers outspread to lay hold of him; hands gently stirring, or hands +arrested in a frightful immobility, with a stillness attentive and +watching for the opportunity to take him, to enlace him, to strangle +him, to hold him till he died; hands that would hold him dead, that +would never let go, that would cling to his body for ever till it +perished--disappeared in their frantic and tenacious grasp. + +And yet the world was full of life. All the things, all the men he knew, +existed, moved, breathed; and he saw them in a long perspective, far +off, diminished, distinct, desirable, unattainable, precious . . . lost +for ever. Round him, ceaselessly, there went on without a sound the mad +turmoil of tropical life. After he had died all this would remain! He +wanted to clasp, to embrace solid things; he had an immense craving for +sensations; for touching, pressing, seeing, handling, holding on, to +all these things. All this would remain--remain for years, for ages, for +ever. After he had miserably died there, all this would remain, would +live, would exist in joyous sunlight, would breathe in the coolness of +serene nights. What for, then? He would be dead. He would be stretched +upon the warm moisture of the ground, feeling nothing, seeing nothing, +knowing nothing; he would lie stiff, passive, rotting slowly; while over +him, under him, through him--unopposed, busy, hurried--the endless and +minute throngs of insects, little shining monsters of repulsive shapes, +with horns, with claws, with pincers, would swarm in streams, in rushes, +in eager struggle for his body; would swarm countless, persistent, +ferocious and greedy--till there would remain nothing but the white +gleam of bleaching bones in the long grass; in the long grass that would +shoot its feathery heads between the bare and polished ribs. There would +be that only left of him; nobody would miss him; no one would remember +him. + +Nonsense! It could not be. There were ways out of this. Somebody would +turn up. Some human beings would come. He would speak, entreat--use +force to extort help from them. He felt strong; he was very strong. He +would . . . The discouragement, the conviction of the futility of his +hopes would return in an acute sensation of pain in his heart. He would +begin again his aimless wanderings. He tramped till he was ready to +drop, without being able to calm by bodily fatigue the trouble of his +soul. There was no rest, no peace within the cleared grounds of his +prison. There was no relief but in the black release of sleep, of sleep +without memory and without dreams; in the sleep coming brutal and heavy, +like the lead that kills. To forget in annihilating sleep; to tumble +headlong, as if stunned, out of daylight into the night of oblivion, was +for him the only, the rare respite from this existence which he lacked +the courage to endure--or to end. + +He lived, he struggled with the inarticulate delirium of his thoughts +under the eyes of the silent Aissa. She shared his torment in the +poignant wonder, in the acute longing, in the despairing inability to +understand the cause of his anger and of his repulsion; the hate of +his looks; the mystery of his silence; the menace of his rare words--of +those words in the speech of white people that were thrown at her with +rage, with contempt, with the evident desire to hurt her; to hurt her +who had given herself, her life--all she had to give--to that white man; +to hurt her who had wanted to show him the way to true greatness, who +had tried to help him, in her woman’s dream of everlasting, enduring, +unchangeable affection. From the short contact with the whites in the +crashing collapse of her old life, there remained with her the imposing +idea of irresistible power and of ruthless strength. She had found a man +of their race--and with all their qualities. All whites are alike. But +this man’s heart was full of anger against his own people, full of anger +existing there by the side of his desire of her. And to her it had been +an intoxication of hope for great things born in the proud and tender +consciousness of her influence. She had heard the passing whisper of +wonder and fear in the presence of his hesitation, of his resistance, +of his compromises; and yet with a woman’s belief in the durable +steadfastness of hearts, in the irresistible charm of her own +personality, she had pushed him forward, trusting the future, blindly, +hopefully; sure to attain by his side the ardent desire of her life, if +she could only push him far beyond the possibility of retreat. She did +not know, and could not conceive, anything of his--so exalted--ideals. +She thought the man a warrior and a chief, ready for battle, violence, +and treachery to his own people--for her. What more natural? Was he not +a great, strong man? Those two, surrounded each by the impenetrable +wall of their aspirations, were hopelessly alone, out of sight, out +of earshot of each other; each the centre of dissimilar and distant +horizons; standing each on a different earth, under a different sky. +She remembered his words, his eyes, his trembling lips, his outstretched +hands; she remembered the great, the immeasurable sweetness of her +surrender, that beginning of her power which was to last until death. He +remembered the quaysides and the warehouses; the excitement of a life in +a whirl of silver coins; the glorious uncertainty of a money hunt; his +numerous successes, the lost possibilities of wealth and consequent +glory. She, a woman, was the victim of her heart, of her woman’s belief +that there is nothing in the world but love--the everlasting thing. +He was the victim of his strange principles, of his continence, of his +blind belief in himself, of his solemn veneration for the voice of his +boundless ignorance. + +In a moment of his idleness, of suspense, of discouragement, she had +come--that creature--and by the touch of her hand had destroyed his +future, his dignity of a clever and civilized man; had awakened in his +breast the infamous thing which had driven him to what he had done, and +to end miserably in the wilderness and be forgotten, or else remembered +with hate or contempt. He dared not look at her, because now whenever +he looked at her his thought seemed to touch crime, like an outstretched +hand. She could only look at him--and at nothing else. What else was +there? She followed him with a timorous gaze, with a gaze for ever +expecting, patient, and entreating. And in her eyes there was the wonder +and desolation of an animal that knows only suffering, of the incomplete +soul that knows pain but knows not hope; that can find no refuge from +the facts of life in the illusory conviction of its dignity, of an +exalted destiny beyond; in the heavenly consolation of a belief in the +momentous origin of its hate. + +For the first three days after Lingard went away he would not even +speak to her. She preferred his silence to the sound of hated and +incomprehensible words he had been lately addressing to her with a wild +violence of manner, passing at once into complete apathy. And during +these three days he hardly ever left the river, as if on that muddy bank +he had felt himself nearer to his freedom. He would stay late; he would +stay till sunset; he would look at the glow of gold passing away amongst +sombre clouds in a bright red flush, like a splash of warm blood. It +seemed to him ominous and ghastly with a foreboding of violent death +that beckoned him from everywhere--even from the sky. + +One evening he remained by the riverside long after sunset, regardless +of the night mist that had closed round him, had wrapped him up and +clung to him like a wet winding-sheet. A slight shiver recalled him to +his senses, and he walked up the courtyard towards his house. Aissa rose +from before the fire, that glimmered red through its own smoke, which +hung thickening under the boughs of the big tree. She approached him +from the side as he neared the plankway of the house. He saw her stop to +let him begin his ascent. In the darkness her figure was like the shadow +of a woman with clasped hands put out beseechingly. He stopped--could +not help glancing at her. In all the sombre gracefulness of the straight +figure, her limbs, features--all was indistinct and vague but the gleam +of her eyes in the faint starlight. He turned his head away and moved +on. He could feel her footsteps behind him on the bending planks, but he +walked up without turning his head. He knew what she wanted. She wanted +to come in there. He shuddered at the thought of what might happen in +the impenetrable darkness of that house if they were to find themselves +alone--even for a moment. He stopped in the doorway, and heard her say-- + +“Let me come in. Why this anger? Why this silence? . . . Let me watch +. . . by your side. . . . Have I not watched faithfully? Did harm ever +come to you when you closed your eyes while I was by? . . . I have +waited . .. I have waited for your smile, for your words . . . I can +wait no more.. . . Look at me . . . speak to me. Is there a bad spirit +in you? A bad spirit that has eaten up your courage and your love? Let +me touch you. Forget all . . . All. Forget the wicked hearts, the angry +faces . . . and remember only the day I came to you . . . to you! O my +heart! O my life!” + +The pleading sadness of her appeal filled the space with the tremor of +her low tones, that carried tenderness and tears into the great peace +of the sleeping world. All around them the forests, the clearings, the +river, covered by the silent veil of night, seemed to wake up and listen +to her words in attentive stillness. After the sound of her voice had +died out in a stifled sigh they appeared to listen yet; and nothing +stirred among the shapeless shadows but the innumerable fireflies +that twinkled in changing clusters, in gliding pairs, in wandering and +solitary points--like the glimmering drift of scattered star-dust. + +Willems turned round slowly, reluctantly, as if compelled by main force. +Her face was hidden in her hands, and he looked above her bent head, +into the sombre brilliance of the night. It was one of those nights that +give the impression of extreme vastness, when the sky seems higher, when +the passing puffs of tepid breeze seem to bring with them faint whispers +from beyond the stars. The air was full of sweet scent, of the scent +charming, penetrating and violent like the impulse of love. He looked +into that great dark place odorous with the breath of life, with the +mystery of existence, renewed, fecund, indestructible; and he felt +afraid of his solitude, of the solitude of his body, of the loneliness +of his soul in the presence of this unconscious and ardent struggle, +of this lofty indifference, of this merciless and mysterious purpose, +perpetuating strife and death through the march of ages. For the second +time in his life he felt, in a sudden sense of his significance, the +need to send a cry for help into the wilderness, and for the second time +he realized the hopelessness of its unconcern. He could shout for help +on every side--and nobody would answer. He could stretch out his hands, +he could call for aid, for support, for sympathy, for relief--and nobody +would come. Nobody. There was no one there--but that woman. + +His heart was moved, softened with pity at his own abandonment. His +anger against her, against her who was the cause of all his misfortunes, +vanished before his extreme need for some kind of consolation. +Perhaps--if he must resign himself to his fate--she might help him to +forget. To forget! For a moment, in an access of despair so profound +that it seemed like the beginning of peace, he planned the deliberate +descent from his pedestal, the throwing away of his superiority, of +all his hopes, of old ambitions, of the ungrateful civilization. For +a moment, forgetfulness in her arms seemed possible; and lured by that +possibility the semblance of renewed desire possessed his breast in a +burst of reckless contempt for everything outside himself--in a savage +disdain of Earth and of Heaven. He said to himself that he would not +repent. The punishment for his only sin was too heavy. There was no +mercy under Heaven. He did not want any. He thought, desperately, that +if he could find with her again the madness of the past, the strange +delirium that had changed him, that had worked his undoing, he would be +ready to pay for it with an eternity of perdition. He was intoxicated by +the subtle perfumes of the night; he was carried away by the suggestive +stir of the warm breeze; he was possessed by the exaltation of the +solitude, of the silence, of his memories, in the presence of that +figure offering herself in a submissive and patient devotion; coming to +him in the name of the past, in the name of those days when he could see +nothing, think of nothing, desire nothing--but her embrace. + +He took her suddenly in his arms, and she clasped her hands round his +neck with a low cry of joy and surprise. He took her in his arms and +waited for the transport, for the madness, for the sensations remembered +and lost; and while she sobbed gently on his breast he held her and felt +cold, sick, tired, exasperated with his failure--and ended by cursing +himself. She clung to him trembling with the intensity of her +happiness and her love. He heard her whispering--her face hidden on his +shoulder--of past sorrow, of coming joy that would last for ever; of her +unshaken belief in his love. She had always believed. Always! Even while +his face was turned away from her in the dark days while his mind was +wandering in his own land, amongst his own people. But it would never +wander away from her any more, now it had come back. He would forget the +cold faces and the hard hearts of the cruel people. What was there to +remember? Nothing? Was it not so? . . . + +He listened hopelessly to the faint murmur. He stood still and rigid, +pressing her mechanically to his breast while he thought that there was +nothing for him in the world. He was robbed of everything; robbed of +his passion, of his liberty, of forgetfulness, of consolation. She, wild +with delight, whispered on rapidly, of love, of light, of peace, of +long years. . . . He looked drearily above her head down into the deeper +gloom of the courtyard. And, all at once, it seemed to him that he was +peering into a sombre hollow, into a deep black hole full of decay +and of whitened bones; into an immense and inevitable grave full of +corruption where sooner or later he must, unavoidably, fall. + +In the morning he came out early, and stood for a time in the doorway, +listening to the light breathing behind him--in the house. She slept. He +had not closed his eyes through all that night. He stood swaying--then +leaned against the lintel of the door. He was exhausted, done up; +fancied himself hardly alive. He had a disgusted horror of himself that, +as he looked at the level sea of mist at his feet, faded quickly into +dull indifference. It was like a sudden and final decrepitude of his +senses, of his body, of his thoughts. Standing on the high platform, he +looked over the expanse of low night fog above which, here and there, +stood out the feathery heads of tall bamboo clumps and the round tops +of single trees, resembling small islets emerging black and solid from a +ghostly and impalpable sea. Upon the faintly luminous background of the +eastern sky, the sombre line of the great forests bounded that smooth +sea of white vapours with an appearance of a fantastic and unattainable +shore. + +He looked without seeing anything--thinking of himself. Before his eyes +the light of the rising sun burst above the forest with the suddenness +of an explosion. He saw nothing. Then, after a time, he murmured +with conviction--speaking half aloud to himself in the shock of the +penetrating thought: + +“I am a lost man.” + +He shook his hand above his head in a gesture careless and tragic, then +walked down into the mist that closed above him in shining undulations +under the first breath of the morning breeze. + + + +CHAPTER FOUR + +Willems moved languidly towards the river, then retraced his steps to +the tree and let himself fall on the seat under its shade. On the other +side of the immense trunk he could hear the old woman moving about, +sighing loudly, muttering to herself, snapping dry sticks, blowing up +the fire. After a while a whiff of smoke drifted round to where he sat. +It made him feel hungry, and that feeling was like a new indignity added +to an intolerable load of humiliations. He felt inclined to cry. He felt +very weak. He held up his arm before his eyes and watched for a little +while the trembling of the lean limb. Skin and bone, by God! How thin +he was! . . . He had suffered from fever a good deal, and now he thought +with tearful dismay that Lingard, although he had sent him food--and +what food, great Lord: a little rice and dried fish; quite unfit for a +white man--had not sent him any medicine. Did the old savage think that +he was like the wild beasts that are never ill? He wanted quinine. + +He leaned the back of his head against the tree and closed his eyes. +He thought feebly that if he could get hold of Lingard he would like +to flay him alive; but it was only a blurred, a short and a passing +thought. His imagination, exhausted by the repeated delineations of his +own fate, had not enough strength left to grip the idea of revenge. +He was not indignant and rebellious. He was cowed. He was cowed by +the immense cataclysm of his disaster. Like most men, he had carried +solemnly within his breast the whole universe, and the approaching end +of all things in the destruction of his own personality filled him +with paralyzing awe. Everything was toppling over. He blinked his eyes +quickly, and it seemed to him that the very sunshine of the morning +disclosed in its brightness a suggestion of some hidden and sinister +meaning. In his unreasoning fear he tried to hide within himself. He +drew his feet up, his head sank between his shoulders, his arms hugged +his sides. Under the high and enormous tree soaring superbly out of the +mist in a vigorous spread of lofty boughs, with a restless and eager +flutter of its innumerable leaves in the clear sunshine, he remained +motionless, huddled up on his seat: terrified and still. + +Willems’ gaze roamed over the ground, and then he watched with idiotic +fixity half a dozen black ants entering courageously a tuft of long +grass which, to them, must have appeared a dark and a dangerous jungle. +Suddenly he thought: There must be something dead in there. Some dead +insect. Death everywhere! He closed his eyes again in an access of +trembling pain. Death everywhere--wherever one looks. He did not want to +see the ants. He did not want to see anybody or anything. He sat in the +darkness of his own making, reflecting bitterly that there was no peace +for him. He heard voices now. . . . Illusion! Misery! Torment! Who would +come? Who would speak to him? What business had he to hear voices? . . . +yet he heard them faintly, from the river. Faintly, as if shouted far +off over there, came the words “We come back soon.” . . . Delirium and +mockery! Who would come back? Nobody ever comes back! Fever comes back. +He had it on him this morning. That was it. . . . He heard unexpectedly +the old woman muttering something near by. She had come round to his +side of the tree. He opened his eyes and saw her bent back before +him. She stood, with her hand shading her eyes, looking towards the +landing-place. Then she glided away. She had seen--and now she was going +back to her cooking; a woman incurious; expecting nothing; without fear +and without hope. + +She had gone back behind the tree, and now Willems could see a human +figure on the path to the landing-place. It appeared to him to be a +woman, in a red gown, holding some heavy bundle in her arms; it was an +apparition unexpected, familiar and odd. He cursed through his teeth +. . . It had wanted only this! See things like that in broad daylight! +He was very bad--very bad. . . . He was horribly scared at this awful +symptom of the desperate state of his health. + +This scare lasted for the space of a flash of lightning, and in the +next moment it was revealed to him that the woman was real; that she was +coming towards him; that she was his wife! He put his feet down to the +ground quickly, but made no other movement. His eyes opened wide. He was +so amazed that for a time he absolutely forgot his own existence. The +only idea in his head was: Why on earth did she come here? + +Joanna was coming up the courtyard with eager, hurried steps. She +carried in her arms the child, wrapped up in one of Almayer’s white +blankets that she had snatched off the bed at the last moment, before +leaving the house. She seemed to be dazed by the sun in her eyes; +bewildered by her strange surroundings. She moved on, looking quickly +right and left in impatient expectation of seeing her husband at any +moment. Then, approaching the tree, she perceived suddenly a kind of a +dried-up, yellow corpse, sitting very stiff on a bench in the shade and +looking at her with big eyes that were alive. That was her husband. + +She stopped dead short. They stared at one another in profound +stillness, with astounded eyes, with eyes maddened by the memories +of things far off that seemed lost in the lapse of time. Their looks +crossed, passed each other, and appeared to dart at them through +fantastic distances, to come straight from the incredible. + +Looking at him steadily she came nearer, and deposited the blanket with +the child in it on the bench. Little Louis, after howling with terror in +the darkness of the river most of the night, now slept soundly and did +not wake. Willems’ eyes followed his wife, his head turning slowly after +her. He accepted her presence there with a tired acquiescence in its +fabulous improbability. Anything might happen. What did she come for? +She was part of the general scheme of his misfortune. He half expected +that she would rush at him, pull his hair, and scratch his face. Why +not? Anything might happen! In an exaggerated sense of his great bodily +weakness he felt somewhat apprehensive of possible assault. At any rate, +she would scream at him. He knew her of old. She could screech. He had +thought that he was rid of her for ever. She came now probably to see +the end. . . . + +Suddenly she turned, and embracing him slid gently to the ground. + +This startled him. With her forehead on his knees she sobbed +noiselessly. He looked down dismally at the top of her head. What was +she up to? He had not the strength to move--to get away. He heard +her whispering something, and bent over to listen. He caught the word +“Forgive.” + +That was what she came for! All that way. Women are queer. Forgive. Not +he! . . . All at once this thought darted through his brain: How did she +come? In a boat. Boat! boat! + +He shouted “Boat!” and jumped up, knocking her over. Before she had time +to pick herself up he pounced upon her and was dragging her up by the +shoulders. No sooner had she regained her feet than she clasped him +tightly round the neck, covering his face, his eyes, his mouth, his +nose with desperate kisses. He dodged his head about, shaking her arms, +trying to keep her off, to speak, to ask her. . . . She came in a +boat, boat, boat! . . . They struggled and swung round, tramping in a +semicircle. He blurted out, “Leave off. Listen,” while he tore at her +hands. This meeting of lawful love and sincere joy resembled fight. +Louis Willems slept peacefully under his blanket. + +At last Willems managed to free himself, and held her off, pressing +her arms down. He looked at her. He had half a suspicion that he was +dreaming. Her lips trembled; her eyes wandered unsteadily, always coming +back to his face. He saw her the same as ever, in his presence. She +appeared startled, tremulous, ready to cry. She did not inspire him with +confidence. He shouted-- + +“How did you come?” + +She answered in hurried words, looking at him intently-- + +“In a big canoe with three men. I know everything. Lingard’s away. I +come to save you. I know. . . . Almayer told me.” + +“Canoe!--Almayer--Lies. Told you--You!” stammered Willems in a +distracted manner. “Why you?--Told what?” + +Words failed him. He stared at his wife, thinking with fear that +she--stupid woman--had been made a tool in some plan of treachery . . . +in some deadly plot. + +She began to cry-- + +“Don’t look at me like that, Peter. What have I done? I come to beg--to +beg--forgiveness. . . . Save--Lingard--danger.” + +He trembled with impatience, with hope, with fear. She looked at him and +sobbed out in a fresh outburst of grief-- + +“Oh! Peter. What’s the matter?--Are you ill? . . . Oh! you look so +ill . . .” + +He shook her violently into a terrified and wondering silence. + +“How dare you!--I am well--perfectly well. . . . Where’s that boat? Will +you tell me where that boat is--at last? The boat, I say . . . +You! . . .” + +“You hurt me,” she moaned. + +He let her go, and, mastering her terror, she stood quivering and +looking at him with strange intensity. Then she made a movement forward, +but he lifted his finger, and she restrained herself with a long sigh. +He calmed down suddenly and surveyed her with cold criticism, with the +same appearance as when, in the old days, he used to find fault with the +household expenses. She found a kind of fearful delight in this abrupt +return into the past, into her old subjection. + +He stood outwardly collected now, and listened to her disconnected +story. Her words seemed to fall round him with the distracting clatter +of stunning hail. He caught the meaning here and there, and straightway +would lose himself in a tremendous effort to shape out some intelligible +theory of events. There was a boat. A boat. A big boat that could take +him to sea if necessary. That much was clear. She brought it. Why did +Almayer lie to her so? Was it a plan to decoy him into some ambush? +Better that than hopeless solitude. She had money. The men were ready to +go anywhere . . . she said. + +He interrupted her-- + +“Where are they now?” + +“They are coming directly,” she answered, tearfully. “Directly. There +are some fishing stakes near here--they said. They are coming directly.” + +Again she was talking and sobbing together. She wanted to be forgiven. +Forgiven? What for? Ah! the scene in Macassar. As if he had time to +think of that! What did he care what she had done months ago? He seemed +to struggle in the toils of complicated dreams where everything was +impossible, yet a matter of course, where the past took the aspects of +the future and the present lay heavy on his heart--seemed to take him by +the throat like the hand of an enemy. And while she begged, entreated, +kissed his hands, wept on his shoulder, adjured him in the name of God, +to forgive, to forget, to speak the word for which she longed, to look +at his boy, to believe in her sorrow and in her devotion--his eyes, in +the fascinated immobility of shining pupils, looked far away, far beyond +her, beyond the river, beyond this land, through days, weeks, months; +looked into liberty, into the future, into his triumph . . . into the +great possibility of a startling revenge. + +He felt a sudden desire to dance and shout. He shouted-- + +“After all, we shall meet again, Captain Lingard.” + +“Oh, no! No!” she cried, joining her hands. + +He looked at her with surprise. He had forgotten she was there till the +break of her cry in the monotonous tones of her prayer recalled him +into that courtyard from the glorious turmoil of his dreams. It was very +strange to see her there--near him. He felt almost affectionate towards +her. After all, she came just in time. Then he thought: That other one. +I must get away without a scene. Who knows; she may be dangerous! . . . +And all at once he felt he hated Aissa with an immense hatred that +seemed to choke him. He said to his wife-- + +“Wait a moment.” + +She, obedient, seemed to gulp down some words which wanted to come out. +He muttered: “Stay here,” and disappeared round the tree. + +The water in the iron pan on the cooking fire boiled furiously, belching +out volumes of white steam that mixed with the thin black thread of +smoke. The old woman appeared to him through this as if in a fog, +squatting on her heels, impassive and weird. + +Willems came up near and asked, “Where is she?” + +The woman did not even lift her head, but answered at once, readily, as +though she had expected the question for a long time. + +“While you were asleep under the tree, before the strange canoe came, +she went out of the house. I saw her look at you and pass on with a +great light in her eyes. A great light. And she went towards the place +where our master Lakamba had his fruit trees. When we were many here. +Many, many. Men with arms by their side. Many . . . men. And talk . . . +and songs . . .” + +She went on like that, raving gently to herself for a long time after +Willems had left her. + +Willems went back to his wife. He came up close to her and found he had +nothing to say. Now all his faculties were concentrated upon his wish to +avoid Aissa. She might stay all the morning in that grove. Why did those +rascally boatmen go? He had a physical repugnance to set eyes on her. +And somewhere, at the very bottom of his heart, there was a fear of her. +Why? What could she do? Nothing on earth could stop him now. He felt +strong, reckless, pitiless, and superior to everything. He wanted to +preserve before his wife the lofty purity of his character. He thought: +She does not know. Almayer held his tongue about Aissa. But if she finds +out, I am lost. If it hadn’t been for the boy I would . . . free of both +of them. . . . The idea darted through his head. Not he! Married. . . . +Swore solemnly. No . . . sacred tie. . . . Looking on his wife, he felt +for the first time in his life something approaching remorse. Remorse, +arising from his conception of the awful nature of an oath before the +altar. . . . She mustn’t find out. . . . Oh, for that boat! He must run +in and get his revolver. Couldn’t think of trusting himself unarmed with +those Bajow fellows. Get it now while she is away. Oh, for that boat! +. . . He dared not go to the river and hail. He thought: She might hear +me. . . . I’ll go and get . . . cartridges . . . then will be all ready +. . . nothing else. No. + +And while he stood meditating profoundly before he could make up his +mind to run to the house, Joanna pleaded, holding to his arm--pleaded +despairingly, broken-hearted, hopeless whenever she glanced up at his +face, which to her seemed to wear the aspect of unforgiving +rectitude, of virtuous severity, of merciless justice. And she pleaded +humbly--abashed before him, before the unmoved appearance of the man she +had wronged in defiance of human and divine laws. He heard not a word of +what she said till she raised her voice in a final appeal-- + +“. . . Don’t you see I loved you always? They told me horrible things +about you. . . . My own mother! They told me--you have been--you have +been unfaithful to me, and I . . .” + +“It’s a damned lie!” shouted Willems, waking up for a moment into +righteous indignation. + +“I know! I know--Be generous.--Think of my misery since you went +away--Oh! I could have torn my tongue out. . . . I will never believe +anybody--Look at the boy--Be merciful--I could never rest till I found +you. . . . Say--a word--one word. . .” + +“What the devil do you want?” exclaimed Willems, looking towards the +river. “Where’s that damned boat? Why did you let them go away? You +stupid!” + +“Oh, Peter!--I know that in your heart you have forgiven me--You are so +generous--I want to hear you say so. . . . Tell me--do you?” + +“Yes! yes!” said Willems, impatiently. “I forgive you. Don’t be a fool.” + +“Don’t go away. Don’t leave me alone here. Where is the danger? I am so +frightened. . . . Are you alone here? Sure? . . . Let us go away!” + +“That’s sense,” said Willems, still looking anxiously towards the river. + +She sobbed gently, leaning on his arm. + +“Let me go,” he said. + +He had seen above the steep bank the heads of three men glide along +smoothly. Then, where the shore shelved down to the landing-place, +appeared a big canoe which came slowly to land. + +“Here they are,” he went on, briskly. “I must get my revolver.” + +He made a few hurried paces towards the house, but seemed to catch sight +of something, turned short round and came back to his wife. She stared +at him, alarmed by the sudden change in his face. He appeared much +discomposed. He stammered a little as he began to speak. + +“Take the child. Walk down to the boat and tell them to drop it out of +sight, quick, behind the bushes. Do you hear? Quick! I will come to you +there directly. Hurry up!” + +“Peter! What is it? I won’t leave you. There is some danger in this +horrible place.” + +“Will you do what I tell you?” said Willems, in an irritable whisper. + +“No! no! no! I won’t leave you. I will not lose you again. Tell me, what +is it?” + +From beyond the house came a faint voice singing. Willems shook his wife +by the shoulder. + +“Do what I tell you! Run at once!” + +She gripped his arm and clung to him desperately. He looked up to heaven +as if taking it to witness of that woman’s infernal folly. + +The song grew louder, then ceased suddenly, and Aissa appeared in sight, +walking slowly, her hands full of flowers. + +She had turned the corner of the house, coming out into the full +sunshine, and the light seemed to leap upon her in a stream brilliant, +tender, and caressing, as if attracted by the radiant happiness of her +face. She had dressed herself for a festive day, for the memorable day +of his return to her, of his return to an affection that would last for +ever. The rays of the morning sun were caught by the oval clasp of the +embroidered belt that held the silk sarong round her waist. The dazzling +white stuff of her body jacket was crossed by a bar of yellow and silver +of her scarf, and in the black hair twisted high on her small head +shone the round balls of gold pins amongst crimson blossoms and white +star-shaped flowers, with which she had crowned herself to charm his +eyes; those eyes that were henceforth to see nothing in the world but +her own resplendent image. And she moved slowly, bending her face over +the mass of pure white champakas and jasmine pressed to her breast, in a +dreamy intoxication of sweet scents and of sweeter hopes. + +She did not seem to see anything, stopped for a moment at the foot of +the plankway leading to the house, then, leaving her high-heeled wooden +sandals there, ascended the planks in a light run; straight, graceful, +flexible, and noiseless, as if she had soared up to the door on +invisible wings. Willems pushed his wife roughly behind the tree, and +made up his mind quickly for a rush to the house, to grab his revolver +and . . . Thoughts, doubts, expedients seemed to boil in his brain. He +had a flashing vision of delivering a stunning blow, of tying up that +flower bedecked woman in the dark house--a vision of things done swiftly +with enraged haste--to save his prestige, his superiority--something of +immense importance. . . . He had not made two steps when Joanna bounded +after him, caught the back of his ragged jacket, tore out a big piece, +and instantly hooked herself with both hands to the collar, nearly +dragging him down on his back. Although taken by surprise, he managed to +keep his feet. From behind she panted into his ear-- + +“That woman! Who’s that woman? Ah! that’s what those boatmen were +talking about. I heard them . . . heard them . . . heard . . . in the +night. They spoke about some woman. I dared not understand. I would not +ask . . . listen . . . believe! How could I? Then it’s true. No. Say no. +. . . Who’s that woman?” + +He swayed, tugging forward. She jerked at him till the button gave way, +and then he slipped half out of his jacket and, turning round, remained +strangely motionless. His heart seemed to beat in his throat. He +choked--tried to speak--could not find any words. He thought with fury: +I will kill both of them. + +For a second nothing moved about the courtyard in the great vivid +clearness of the day. Only down by the landing-place a waringan-tree, +all in a blaze of clustering red berries, seemed alive with the stir of +little birds that filled with the feverish flutter of their feathers +the tangle of overloaded branches. Suddenly the variegated flock rose +spinning in a soft whirr and dispersed, slashing the sunlit haze with +the sharp outlines of stiffened wings. Mahmat and one of his brothers +appeared coming up from the landing-place, their lances in their hands, +to look for their passengers. + +Aissa coming now empty-handed out of the house, caught sight of the two +armed men. In her surprise she emitted a faint cry, vanished back and in +a flash reappeared in the doorway with Willems’ revolver in her hand. +To her the presence of any man there could only have an ominous meaning. +There was nothing in the outer world but enemies. She and the man she +loved were alone, with nothing round them but menacing dangers. She did +not mind that, for if death came, no matter from what hand, they would +die together. + +Her resolute eyes took in the courtyard in a circular glance. She +noticed that the two strangers had ceased to advance and now were +standing close together leaning on the polished shafts of their weapons. +The next moment she saw Willems, with his back towards her, apparently +struggling under the tree with some one. She saw nothing distinctly, +and, unhesitating, flew down the plankway calling out: “I come!” + +He heard her cry, and with an unexpected rush drove his wife backwards +to the seat. She fell on it; he jerked himself altogether out of his +jacket, and she covered her face with the soiled rags. He put his lips +close to her, asking-- + +“For the last time, will you take the child and go?” + +She groaned behind the unclean ruins of his upper garment. She mumbled +something. He bent lower to hear. She was saying-- + +“I won’t. Order that woman away. I can’t look at her!” + +“You fool!” + +He seemed to spit the words at her, then, making up his mind, spun round +to face Aissa. She was coming towards them slowly now, with a look of +unbounded amazement on her face. Then she stopped and stared at him--who +stood there, stripped to the waist, bare-headed and sombre. + +Some way off, Mahmat and his brother exchanged rapid words in calm +undertones. . . . This was the strong daughter of the holy man who had +died. The white man is very tall. There would be three women and the +child to take in the boat, besides that white man who had the money +. . . . The brother went away back to the boat, and Mahmat remained +looking on. He stood like a sentinel, the leaf-shaped blade of his +lance glinting above his head. + +Willems spoke suddenly. + +“Give me this,” he said, stretching his hand towards the revolver. + +Aissa stepped back. Her lips trembled. She said very low: “Your people?” + +He nodded slightly. She shook her head thoughtfully, and a few delicate +petals of the flowers dying in her hair fell like big drops of crimson +and white at her feet. + +“Did you know?” she whispered. + +“No!” said Willems. “They sent for me.” + +“Tell them to depart. They are accursed. What is there between them and +you--and you who carry my life in your heart!” + +Willems said nothing. He stood before her looking down on the ground and +repeating to himself: I must get that revolver away from her, at +once, at once. I can’t think of trusting myself with those men without +firearms. I must have it. + +She asked, after gazing in silence at Joanna, who was sobbing gently-- + +“Who is she?” + +“My wife,” answered Willems, without looking up. “My wife according to +our white law, which comes from God!” + +“Your law! Your God!” murmured Aissa, contemptuously. + +“Give me this revolver,” said Willems, in a peremptory tone. He felt an +unwillingness to close with her, to get it by force. + +She took no notice and went on-- + +“Your law . . . or your lies? What am I to believe? I came--I ran to +defend you when I saw the strange men. You lied to me with your lips, +with your eyes. You crooked heart! . . . Ah!” she added, after an abrupt +pause. “She is the first! Am I then to be a slave?” + +“You may be what you like,” said Willems, brutally. “I am going.” + +Her gaze was fastened on the blanket under which she had detected a +slight movement. She made a long stride towards it. Willems turned half +round. His legs seemed to him to be made of lead. He felt faint and so +weak that, for a moment, the fear of dying there where he stood, before +he could escape from sin and disaster, passed through his mind in a wave +of despair. + +She lifted up one corner of the blanket, and when she saw the sleeping +child a sudden quick shudder shook her as though she had seen something +inexpressibly horrible. She looked at Louis Willems with eyes fixed in +an unbelieving and terrified stare. Then her fingers opened slowly, and +a shadow seemed to settle on her face as if something obscure and fatal +had come between her and the sunshine. She stood looking down, absorbed, +as though she had watched at the bottom of a gloomy abyss the mournful +procession of her thoughts. + +Willems did not move. All his faculties were concentrated upon the idea +of his release. And it was only then that the assurance of it came to +him with such force that he seemed to hear a loud voice shouting in the +heavens that all was over, that in another five, ten minutes, he would +step into another existence; that all this, the woman, the madness, the +sin, the regrets, all would go, rush into the past, disappear, become as +dust, as smoke, as drifting clouds--as nothing! Yes! All would vanish in +the unappeasable past which would swallow up all--even the very memory +of his temptation and of his downfall. Nothing mattered. He cared for +nothing. He had forgotten Aissa, his wife, Lingard, Hudig--everybody, in +the rapid vision of his hopeful future. + +After a while he heard Aissa saying-- + +“A child! A child! What have I done to be made to devour this sorrow and +this grief? And while your man-child and the mother lived you told me +there was nothing for you to remember in the land from which you came! +And I thought you could be mine. I thought that I would . . .” + +Her voice ceased in a broken murmur, and with it, in her heart, seemed +to die the greater and most precious hope of her new life. + +She had hoped that in the future the frail arms of a child would bind +their two lives together in a bond which nothing on earth could break, +a bond of affection, of gratitude, of tender respect. She the first--the +only one! But in the instant she saw the son of that other woman she +felt herself removed into the cold, the darkness, the silence of +a solitude impenetrable and immense--very far from him, beyond the +possibility of any hope, into an infinity of wrongs without any redress. + +She strode nearer to Joanna. She felt towards that woman anger, envy, +jealousy. Before her she felt humiliated and enraged. She seized the +hanging sleeve of the jacket in which Joanna was hiding her face and +tore it out of her hands, exclaiming loudly-- + +“Let me see the face of her before whom I am only a servant and a slave. +Ya-wa! I see you!” + +Her unexpected shout seemed to fill the sunlit space of cleared grounds, +rise high and run on far into the land over the unstirring tree-tops +of the forests. She stood in sudden stillness, looking at Joanna with +surprised contempt. + +“A Sirani woman!” she said, slowly, in a tone of wonder. + +Joanna rushed at Willems--clung to him, shrieking: “Defend me, Peter! +Defend me from that woman!” + +“Be quiet. There is no danger,” muttered Willems, thickly. + +Aissa looked at them with scorn. “God is great! I sit in the dust at +your feet,” she exclaimed jeeringly, joining her hands above her head in +a gesture of mock humility. “Before you I am as nothing.” She turned to +Willems fiercely, opening her arms wide. “What have you made of me?” she +cried, “you lying child of an accursed mother! What have you made of me? +The slave of a slave. Don’t speak! Your words are worse than the poison +of snakes. A Sirani woman. A woman of a people despised by all.” + +She pointed her finger at Joanna, stepped back, and began to laugh. + +“Make her stop, Peter!” screamed Joanna. “That heathen woman. Heathen! +Heathen! Beat her, Peter.” + +Willems caught sight of the revolver which Aissa had laid on the seat +near the child. He spoke in Dutch to his wife, without moving his head. + +“Snatch the boy--and my revolver there. See. Run to the boat. I will +keep her back. Now’s the time.” + +Aissa came nearer. She stared at Joanna, while between the short gusts +of broken laughter she raved, fumbling distractedly at the buckle of her +belt. + +“To her! To her--the mother of him who will speak of your wisdom, of +your courage. All to her. I have nothing. Nothing. Take, take.” + +She tore the belt off and threw it at Joanna’s feet. She flung down +with haste the armlets, the gold pins, the flowers; and the long hair, +released, fell scattered over her shoulders, framing in its blackness +the wild exaltation of her face. + +“Drive her off, Peter. Drive off the heathen savage,” persisted Joanna. +She seemed to have lost her head altogether. She stamped, clinging to +Willems’ arm with both her hands. + +“Look,” cried Aissa. “Look at the mother of your son! She is afraid. Why +does she not go from before my face? Look at her. She is ugly.” + +Joanna seemed to understand the scornful tone of the words. As Aissa +stepped back again nearer to the tree she let go her husband’s arm, +rushed at her madly, slapped her face, then, swerving round, darted at +the child who, unnoticed, had been wailing for some time, and, snatching +him up, flew down to the waterside, sending shriek after shriek in an +access of insane terror. + +Willems made for the revolver. Aissa passed swiftly, giving him an +unexpected push that sent him staggering away from the tree. She caught +up the weapon, put it behind her back, and cried-- + +“You shall not have it. Go after her. Go to meet danger. . . . Go to +meet death. . . . Go unarmed. . . . Go with empty hands and sweet words +. . . as you came to me. . . . Go helpless and lie to the forests, to +the sea . . . to the death that waits for you. . . .” + +She ceased as if strangled. She saw in the horror of the passing +seconds the half-naked, wild-looking man before her; she heard the faint +shrillness of Joanna’s insane shrieks for help somewhere down by the +riverside. The sunlight streamed on her, on him, on the mute land, on +the murmuring river--the gentle brilliance of a serene morning that, +to her, seemed traversed by ghastly flashes of uncertain darkness. Hate +filled the world, filled the space between them--the hate of race, the +hate of hopeless diversity, the hate of blood; the hate against the man +born in the land of lies and of evil from which nothing but misfortune +comes to those who are not white. And as she stood, maddened, she heard +a whisper near her, the whisper of the dead Omar’s voice saying in her +ear: “Kill! Kill!” + +She cried, seeing him move-- + +“Do not come near me . . . or you die now! Go while I remember yet . . . +remember. . . .” + +Willems pulled himself together for a struggle. He dared not go unarmed. +He made a long stride, and saw her raise the revolver. He noticed that +she had not cocked it, and said to himself that, even if she did fire, +she would surely miss. Go too high; it was a stiff trigger. He made a +step nearer--saw the long barrel moving unsteadily at the end of her +extended arm. He thought: This is my time . . . He bent his knees +slightly, throwing his body forward, and took off with a long bound for +a tearing rush. + +He saw a burst of red flame before his eyes, and was deafened by a +report that seemed to him louder than a clap of thunder. Something +stopped him short, and he stood aspiring in his nostrils the acrid smell +of the blue smoke that drifted from before his eyes like an immense +cloud. . . . Missed, by Heaven! . . . Thought so! . . . And he saw her +very far off, throwing her arms up, while the revolver, very small, lay +on the ground between them. . . . Missed! . . . He would go and pick it +up now. Never before did he understand, as in that second, the joy, +the triumphant delight of sunshine and of life. His mouth was full of +something salt and warm. He tried to cough; spat out. . . . Who +shrieks: In the name of God, he dies!--he dies!--Who dies?--Must pick +up--Night!--What? . . . Night already. . . . + +* * * * * * + + +Many years afterwards Almayer was telling the story of the great +revolution in Sambir to a chance visitor from Europe. He was a +Roumanian, half naturalist, half orchid-hunter for commercial purposes, +who used to declare to everybody, in the first five minutes of +acquaintance, his intention of writing a scientific book about tropical +countries. On his way to the interior he had quartered himself upon +Almayer. He was a man of some education, but he drank his gin neat, or +only, at most, would squeeze the juice of half a small lime into the +raw spirit. He said it was good for his health, and, with that medicine +before him, he would describe to the surprised Almayer the wonders of +European capitals; while Almayer, in exchange, bored him by expounding, +with gusto, his unfavourable opinions of Sambir’s social and political +life. They talked far into the night, across the deal table on the +verandah, while, between them, clear-winged, small, and flabby insects, +dissatisfied with moonlight, streamed in and perished in thousands round +the smoky light of the evil-smelling lamp. + +Almayer, his face flushed, was saying-- + +“Of course, I did not see that. I told you I was stuck in the creek on +account of father’s--Captain Lingard’s--susceptible temper. I am sure I +did it all for the best in trying to facilitate the fellow’s escape; but +Captain Lingard was that kind of man--you know--one couldn’t argue with. +Just before sunset the water was high enough, and we got out of the +creek. We got to Lakamba’s clearing about dark. All very quiet; I +thought they were gone, of course, and felt very glad. We walked up the +courtyard--saw a big heap of something lying in the middle. Out of +that she rose and rushed at us. By God. . . . You know those stories of +faithful dogs watching their masters’ corpses . . . don’t let anybody +approach . . . got to beat them off--and all that. . . . Well, ‘pon my +word we had to beat her off. Had to! She was like a fury. Wouldn’t let +us touch him. Dead--of course. Should think so. Shot through the lung, +on the left side, rather high up, and at pretty close quarters too, for +the two holes were small. Bullet came out through the shoulder-blade. +After we had overpowered her--you can’t imagine how strong that woman +was; it took three of us--we got the body into the boat and shoved off. +We thought she had fainted then, but she got up and rushed into the +water after us. Well, I let her clamber in. What could I do? The river’s +full of alligators. I will never forget that pull up-stream in the night +as long as I live. She sat in the bottom of the boat, holding his head +in her lap, and now and again wiping his face with her hair. There was +a lot of blood dried about his mouth and chin. And for all the six hours +of that journey she kept on whispering tenderly to that corpse! . . . +I had the mate of the schooner with me. The man said afterwards that +he wouldn’t go through it again--not for a handful of diamonds. And I +believed him--I did. It makes me shiver. Do you think he heard? No! I +mean somebody--something--heard? . . .” + +“I am a materialist,” declared the man of science, tilting the bottle +shakily over the emptied glass. + +Almayer shook his head and went on-- + +“Nobody saw how it really happened but that man Mahmat. He always said +that he was no further off from them than two lengths of his lance. It +appears the two women rowed each other while that Willems stood between +them. Then Mahmat says that when Joanna struck her and ran off, the +other two seemed to become suddenly mad together. They rushed here +and there. Mahmat says--those were his very words: ‘I saw her standing +holding the pistol that fires many times and pointing it all over the +campong. I was afraid--lest she might shoot me, and jumped on one side. +Then I saw the white man coming at her swiftly. He came like our master +the tiger when he rushes out of the jungle at the spears held by men. +She did not take aim. The barrel of her weapon went like this--from side +to side, but in her eyes I could see suddenly a great fear. There was +only one shot. She shrieked while the white man stood blinking his eyes +and very straight, till you could count slowly one, two, three; then +he coughed and fell on his face. The daughter of Omar shrieked without +drawing breath, till he fell. I went away then and left silence behind +me. These things did not concern me, and in my boat there was that other +woman who had promised me money. We left directly, paying no attention +to her cries. We are only poor men--and had but a small reward for our +trouble!’ That’s what Mahmat said. Never varied. You ask him yourself. +He’s the man you hired the boats from, for your journey up the river.” + +“The most rapacious thief I ever met!” exclaimed the traveller, thickly. + +“Ah! He is a respectable man. His two brothers got themselves +speared--served them right. They went in for robbing Dyak graves. Gold +ornaments in them you know. Serve them right. But he kept respectable +and got on. Aye! Everybody got on--but I. And all through that scoundrel +who brought the Arabs here.” + +“De mortuis nil ni . . . num,” muttered Almayer’s guest. + +“I wish you would speak English instead of jabbering in your own +language, which no one can understand,” said Almayer, sulkily. + +“Don’t be angry,” hiccoughed the other. “It’s Latin, and it’s wisdom. It +means: Don’t waste your breath in abusing shadows. No offence there. I +like you. You have a quarrel with Providence--so have I. I was meant to +be a professor, while--look.” + +His head nodded. He sat grasping the glass. Almayer walked up and down, +then stopped suddenly. + +“Yes, they all got on but I. Why? I am better than any of them. Lakamba +calls himself a Sultan, and when I go to see him on business sends that +one-eyed fiend of his--Babalatchi--to tell me that the ruler is +asleep; and shall sleep for a long time. And that Babalatchi! He is the +Shahbandar of the State--if you please. Oh Lord! Shahbandar! The pig! A +vagabond I wouldn’t let come up these steps when he first came here. +. . . Look at Abdulla now. He lives here because--he says--here he is +away from white men. But he has hundreds of thousands. Has a house in +Penang. Ships. What did he not have when he stole my trade from me! +He knocked everything here into a cocked hat, drove father to +gold-hunting--then to Europe, where he disappeared. Fancy a man like +Captain Lingard disappearing as though he had been a common coolie. +Friends of mine wrote to London asking about him. Nobody ever heard of +him there! Fancy! Never heard of Captain Lingard!” + +The learned gatherer of orchids lifted his head. + +“He was a sen--sentimen--tal old buc--buccaneer,” he stammered out, “I +like him. I’m sent--tal myself.” + +He winked slowly at Almayer, who laughed. + +“Yes! I told you about that gravestone. Yes! Another hundred and twenty +dollars thrown away. Wish I had them now. He would do it. And the +inscription. Ha! ha! ha! ‘Peter Willems, Delivered by the Mercy of God +from his Enemy.’ What enemy--unless Captain Lingard himself? And then it +has no sense. He was a great man--father was--but strange in many ways. +. . . You haven’t seen the grave? On the top of that hill, there, on the +other side of the river. I must show you. We will go there.” + +“Not I!” said the other. “No interest--in the sun--too tiring. . . . +Unless you carry me there.” + +As a matter of fact he was carried there a few months afterwards, and +his was the second white man’s grave in Sambir; but at present he was +alive if rather drunk. He asked abruptly-- + +“And the woman?” + +“Oh! Lingard, of course, kept her and her ugly brat in Macassar. Sinful +waste of money--that! Devil only knows what became of them since father +went home. I had my daughter to look after. I shall give you a word to +Mrs. Vinck in Singapore when you go back. You shall see my Nina there. +Lucky man. She is beautiful, and I hear so accomplished, so . . .” + +“I have heard already twenty . . . a hundred times about your daughter. +What ab--about--that--that other one, Ai--ssa?” + +“She! Oh! we kept her here. She was mad for a long time in a quiet sort +of way. Father thought a lot of her. He gave her a house to live in, +in my campong. She wandered about, speaking to nobody unless she caught +sight of Abdulla, when she would have a fit of fury, and shriek and +curse like anything. Very often she would disappear--and then we all had +to turn out and hunt for her, because father would worry till she was +brought back. Found her in all kinds of places. Once in the abandoned +campong of Lakamba. Sometimes simply wandering in the bush. She had one +favourite spot we always made for at first. It was ten to one on finding +her there--a kind of a grassy glade on the banks of a small brook. Why +she preferred that place, I can’t imagine! And such a job to get her +away from there. Had to drag her away by main force. Then, as the time +passed, she became quieter and more settled, like. Still, all my people +feared her greatly. It was my Nina that tamed her. You see the child was +naturally fearless and used to have her own way, so she would go to +her and pull at her sarong, and order her about, as she did everybody. +Finally she, I verily believe, came to love the child. Nothing could +resist that little one--you know. She made a capital nurse. Once when +the little devil ran away from me and fell into the river off the end +of the jetty, she jumped in and pulled her out in no time. I very nearly +died of fright. Now of course she lives with my serving girls, but does +what she likes. As long as I have a handful of rice or a piece of cotton +in the store she sha’n’t want for anything. You have seen her. She +brought in the dinner with Ali.” + +“What! That doubled-up crone?” + +“Ah!” said Almayer. “They age quickly here. And long foggy nights spent +in the bush will soon break the strongest backs--as you will find out +yourself soon.” + +“Dis . . . disgusting,” growled the traveller. + +He dozed off. Almayer stood by the balustrade looking out at the bluish +sheen of the moonlit night. The forests, unchanged and sombre, seemed +to hang over the water, listening to the unceasing whisper of the great +river; and above their dark wall the hill on which Lingard had buried +the body of his late prisoner rose in a black, rounded mass, upon +the silver paleness of the sky. Almayer looked for a long time at +the clean-cut outline of the summit, as if trying to make out through +darkness and distance the shape of that expensive tombstone. When he +turned round at last he saw his guest sleeping, his arms on the table, +his head on his arms. + +“Now, look here!” he shouted, slapping the table with the palm of his +hand. + +The naturalist woke up, and sat all in a heap, staring owlishly. + +“Here!” went on Almayer, speaking very loud and thumping the table, “I +want to know. You, who say you have read all the books, just tell me +. . . why such infernal things are ever allowed. Here I am! Done harm to +nobody, lived an honest life . . . and a scoundrel like that is born in +Rotterdam or some such place at the other end of the world somewhere, +travels out here, robs his employer, runs away from his wife, and ruins +me and my Nina--he ruined me, I tell you--and gets himself shot at last +by a poor miserable savage, that knows nothing at all about him really. +Where’s the sense of all this? Where’s your Providence? Where’s the good +for anybody in all this? The world’s a swindle! A swindle! Why should I +suffer? What have I done to be treated so?” + +He howled out his string of questions, and suddenly became silent. +The man who ought to have been a professor made a tremendous effort to +articulate distinctly-- + +“My dear fellow, don’t--don’t you see that the ba-bare fac--the fact of +your existence is off--offensive. . . . I--I like you--like . . .” + +He fell forward on the table, and ended his remarks by an unexpected and +prolonged snore. + +Almayer shrugged his shoulders and walked back to the balustrade. + +He drank his own trade gin very seldom, but when he did, a ridiculously +small quantity of the stuff could induce him to assume a rebellious +attitude towards the scheme of the universe. And now, throwing his body +over the rail, he shouted impudently into the night, turning his face +towards that far-off and invisible slab of imported granite upon which +Lingard had thought fit to record God’s mercy and Willems’ escape. + +“Father was wrong--wrong!” he yelled. “I want you to smart for it. You +must smart for it! Where are you, Willems? Hey? . . . Hey? . . . Where +there is no mercy for you--I hope!” + +“Hope,” repeated in a whispering echo the startled forests, the river +and the hills; and Almayer, who stood waiting, with a smile of tipsy +attention on his lips, heard no other answer. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s An Outcast of the Islands, by Joseph Conrad + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS *** + +***** This file should be named 638-0.txt or 638-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/638/ + +Produced by Judith Boss and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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