CHAPTER XII.
"That is the place," said Dain, indicating with the blade of his
paddle a small islet about a mile ahead of the canoe--"that is
the place where Babalatchi promised that a boat from the prau
would come for me when the sun is overhead. We will wait for
that boat there."
Almayer, who was steering, nodded without speaking, and by a
slight sweep of his paddle laid the head of the canoe in the
required direction.
They were just leaving the southern outlet of the Pantai, which
lay behind them in a straight and long vista of water shining
between two walls of thick verdure that ran downwards and towards
each other, till at last they joined and sank together in the
far-away distance. The sun, rising above the calm waters of the
Straits, marked its own path by a streak of light that glided
upon the sea and darted up the wide reach of the river, a hurried
messenger of light and life to the gloomy forests of the coast;
and in this radiance of the sun's pathway floated the black canoe
heading for the islet which lay bathed in sunshine, the yellow
sands of its encircling beach shining like an inlaid golden disc
on the polished steel of the unwrinkled sea. To the north and
south of it rose other islets, joyous in their brilliant
colouring of green and yellow, and on the main coast the sombre
line of mangrove bushes ended to the southward in the reddish
cliffs of Tanjong Mirrah, advancing into the sea, steep and
shadowless under the clear, light of the early morning.
The bottom of the canoe grated upon the sand as the little craft
ran upon the beach. Ali leaped on shore and held on while Dain
stepped out carrying Nina in his arms, exhausted by the events
and the long travelling during the night. Almayer was the last
to leave the boat, and together with Ali ran it higher up on the
beach. Then Ali, tired out by the long paddling, laid down in
the shade of the canoe, and incontinently fell asleep. Almayer
sat sideways on the gunwale, and with his arms crossed on his
breast, looked to the southward upon the sea.
After carefully laying Nina down in the shade of the bushes
growing in the middle of the islet, Dain threw himself beside her
and watched in silent concern the tears that ran down from under
her closed eyelids, and lost themselves in that fine sand upon
which they both were lying face to face. These tears and this
sorrow were for him a profound and disquieting mystery. Now,
when the danger was past, why should she grieve? He doubted her
love no more than he would have doubted the fact of his own
existence, but as he lay looking ardently in her face, watching
her tears, her parted lips, her very breath, he was uneasily
conscious of something in her he could not understand. Doubtless
she had the wisdom of perfect beings. He sighed. He felt
something invisible that stood between them, something that would
let him approach her so far, but no farther. No desire, no
longing, no effort of will or length of life could destroy this
vague feeling of their difference. With awe but also with great
pride he concluded that it was her own incomparable perfection.
She was his, and yet she was like a woman from another world.
His! His! He exulted in the glorious thought; nevertheless her
tears pained him.
With a wisp of her own hair which he took in his hand with timid
reverence he tried in an access of clumsy tenderness to dry the
tears that trembled on her eyelashes. He had his reward in a
fleeting smile that brightened her face for the short fraction of
a second, but soon the tears fell faster than ever, and he could
bear it no more. He rose and walked towards Almayer, who still
sat absorbed in his contemplation of the sea. It was a very,
very long time since he had seen the sea--that sea that leads
everywhere, brings everything, and takes away so much. He had
almost forgotten why he was there, and dreamily he could see all
his past life on the smooth and boundless surface that glittered
before his eyes.
Dain's hand laid on Almayer's shoulder recalled him with a start
from some country very far away indeed. He turned round, but his
eyes seemed to look rather at the place where Dain stood than at
the man himself. Dain felt uneasy under the unconscious gaze.
"What?" said Almayer.
"She is crying," murmured Dain, softly.
"She is crying! Why?" asked Almayer, indifferently.
"I came to ask you. My Ranee smiles when looking at the man she
loves. It is the white woman that is crying now. You would
know."
Almayer shrugged his shoulders and turned away again towards the
sea.
"Go, Tuan Putih," urged Dain. "Go to her; her tears are more
terrible to me than the anger of gods."
"Are they? You will see them more than once. She told me she
could not live without you," answered Almayer, speaking without
the faintest spark of expression in his face, "so it behoves you
to go to her quick, for fear you may find her dead."
He burst into a loud and unpleasant laugh which made Dain stare
at him with some apprehension, but got off the gunwale of the
boat and moved slowly towards Nina, glancing up at the sun as he
walked.
"And you go when the sun is overhead?" he said.
"Yes, Tuan. Then we go," answered Dain.
"I have not long to wait," muttered Almayer. "It is most
important for me to see you go. Both of you. Most important,"
he repeated, stopping short and looking at Dain fixedly.
He went on again towards Nina, and Dain remained behind. Almayer
approached his daughter and stood for a time looking down on her.
She did not open her eyes, but hearing footsteps near her,
murmured in a low sob, "Dain."
Almayer hesitated for a minute and then sank on the sand by her
side. She, not hearing a responsive word, not feeling a touch,
opened her eyes--saw her father, and sat up suddenly with a
movement of terror.
"Oh, father!" she murmured faintly, and in that word there was
expressed regret and fear and dawning hope.
"I shall never forgive you, Nina," said Almayer, in a
dispassionate voice. "You have torn my heart from me while I
dreamt of your happiness. You have deceived me. Your eyes that
for me were like truth itself lied to me in every glance--for how
long? You know that best. When you were caressing my cheek you
were counting the minutes to the sunset that was the signal for
your meeting with that man--there!"
He ceased, and they both sat silent side by side, not looking at
each other, but gazing at the vast expanse of the sea. Almayer's
words had dried Nina's tears, and her look grew hard as she
stared before her into the limitless sheet of blue that shone
limpid, unwaving, and steady like heaven itself. He looked at it
also, but his features had lost all expression, and life in his
eyes seemed to have gone out. The face was a blank, without a
sign of emotion, feeling, reason, or even knowledge of itself.
All passion, regret, grief, hope, or anger--all were gone, erased
by the hand of fate, as if after this last stroke everything was
over and there was no need for any record.
Those few who saw Almayer during the short period of his
remaining days were always impressed by the sight of that face
that seemed to know nothing of what went on within: like the
blank wall of a prison enclosing sin, regrets, and pain, and
wasted life, in the cold indifference of mortar and stones.
"What is there to forgive?" asked Nina, not addressing Almayer
directly, but more as if arguing with herself. "Can I not live
my own life as you have lived yours? The path you would have
wished me to follow has been closed to me by no fault of mine."
"You never told me," muttered Almayer.
"You never asked me," she answered, "and I thought you were like
the others and did not care. I bore the memory of my humiliation
alone, and why should I tell you that it came to me because I am
your daughter? I knew you could not avenge me."
"And yet I was thinking of that only," interrupted Almayer, "and
I wanted to give you years of happiness for the short day of your
suffering. I only knew of one way."
"Ah! but it was not my way!" she replied. "Could you give me
happiness without life? Life!" she repeated with sudden energy
that sent the word ringing over the sea. "Life that means power
and love," she added in a low voice.
"That!" said Almayer, pointing his finger at Dain standing close
by and looking at them in curious wonder.
"Yes, that!" she replied, looking her father full in the face and
noticing for the first time with a slight gasp of fear the
unnatural rigidity of his features.
"I would have rather strangled you with my own hands," said
Almayer, in an expressionless voice which was such a contrast to
the desperate bitterness of his feelings that it surprised even
himself. He asked himself who spoke, and, after looking slowly
round as if expecting to see somebody, turned again his eyes
towards the sea.
"You say that because you do not understand the meaning of my
words," she said sadly. "Between you and my mother there never
was any love. When I returned to Sambir I found the place which
I thought would be a peaceful refuge for my heart, filled with
weariness and hatred--and mutual contempt. I have listened to
your voice and to her voice. Then I saw that you could not
understand me; for was I not part of that woman? Of her who was
the regret and shame of your life? I had to choose--I hesitated.
Why were you so blind? Did you not see me struggling before your
eyes? But, when he came, all doubt disappeared, and I saw only
the light of the blue and cloudless heaven--"
"I will tell you the rest," interrupted Almayer: "when that man
came I also saw the blue and the sunshine of the sky. A
thunderbolt has fallen from that sky, and suddenly all is still
and dark around me for ever. I will never forgive you, Nina; and
to-morrow I shall forget you! I shall never forgive you," he
repeated with mechanical obstinacy while she sat, her head bowed
down as if afraid to look at her father.
To him it seemed of the utmost importance that he should assure
her of his intention of never forgiving. He was convinced that
his faith in her had been the foundation of his hopes, the motive
of his courage, of his determination to live and struggle, and to
be victorious for her sake. And now his faith was gone,
destroyed by her own hands; destroyed cruelly, treacherously, in
the dark; in the very moment of success. In the utter wreck of
his affections and of all his feelings, in the chaotic disorder
of his thoughts, above the confused sensation of physical pain
that wrapped him up in a sting as of a whiplash curling round him
from his shoulders down to his feet, only one idea remained clear
and definite--not to forgive her; only one vivid desire--to
forget her. And this must be made clear to her--and to
himself--by frequent repetition. That was his idea of his duty
to himself--to his race--to his respectable connections; to the
whole universe unsettled and shaken by this frightful catastrophe
of his life. He saw it clearly and believed he was a strong man.
He had always prided himself upon his unflinching firmness. And
yet he was afraid. She had been all in all to him. What if he
should let the memory of his love for her weaken the sense of his
dignity? She was a remarkable woman; he could see that; all the
latent greatness of his nature--in which he honestly
believed--had been transfused into that slight, girlish figure.
Great things could be done! What if he should suddenly take her
to his heart, forget his shame, and pain, and anger, and--follow
her! What if he changed his heart if not his skin and made her
life easier between the two loves that would guard her from any
mischance! His heart yearned for her. What if he should say
that his love for her was greater than . . .
"I will never forgive you, Nina!" he shouted, leaping up madly in
the sudden fear of his dream.
This was the last time in his life that he was heard to raise his
voice. Henceforth he spoke always in a monotonous whisper like
an instrument of which all the strings but one are broken in a
last ringing clamour under a heavy blow.
She rose to her feet and looked at him. The very violence of his
cry soothed her in an intuitive conviction of his love, and she
hugged to her breast the lamentable remnants of that affection
with the unscrupulous greediness of women who cling desperately
to the very scraps and rags of love, any kind of love, as a thing
that of right belongs to them and is the very breath of their
life. She put both her hands on Almayer's shoulders, and looking
at him half tenderly, half playfully, she said--
"You speak so because you love me."
Almayer shook his head.
"Yes, you do," she insisted softly; then after a short pause she
added, "and you will never forget me."
Almayer shivered slightly. She could not have said a more cruel
thing.
"Here is the boat coming now," said Dain, his arm outstretched
towards a black speck on the water between the coast and the
islet.
They all looked at it and remained standing in silence till the
little canoe came gently on the beach and a man landed and walked
towards them. He stopped some distance off and hesitated.
"What news?" asked Dain.
"We have had orders secretly and in the night to take off from
this islet a man and a woman. I see the woman. Which of you is
the man?"
"Come, delight of my eyes," said Dain to Nina. "Now we go, and
your voice shall be for my ears only. You have spoken your last
words to the Tuan Putih, your father. Come."
She hesitated for a while, looking at Almayer, who kept his eyes
steadily on the sea, then she touched his forehead in a lingering
kiss, and a tear--one of her tears--fell on his cheek and ran
down his immovable face.
"Goodbye," she whispered, and remained irresolute till he pushed
her suddenly into Dain's arms.
"If you have any pity for me," murmured Almayer, as if repeating
some sentence learned by heart, "take that woman away."
He stood very straight, his shoulders thrown back, his head held
high, and looked at them as they went down the beach to the
canoe, walking enlaced in each other's arms. He looked at the
line of their footsteps marked in the sand. He followed their
figures moving in the crude blaze of the vertical sun, in that
light violent and vibrating, like a triumphal flourish of brazen
trumpets. He looked at the man's brown shoulders, at the red
sarong round his waist; at the tall, slender, dazzling white
figure he supported. He looked at the white dress, at the
falling masses of the long black hair. He looked at them
embarking, and at the canoe growing smaller in the distance, with
rage, despair, and regret in his heart, and on his face a peace
as that of a carved image of oblivion. Inwardly he felt himself
torn to pieces, but Ali--who now aroused--stood close to his
master, saw on his features the blank expression of those who
live in that hopeless calm which sightless eyes only can give.
The canoe disappeared, and Almayer stood motionless with his eyes
fixed on its wake. Ali from under the shade of his hand examined
the coast curiously. As the sun declined, the sea-breeze sprang
up from the northward and shivered with its breath the glassy
surface of the water.
"Dapat!" exclaimed Ali, joyously. "Got him, master! Got prau!
Not there! Look more Tanah Mirrah side. Aha! That way!
Master, see? Now plain. See?"
Almayer followed Ali's forefinger with his eyes for a long time
in vain. At last he sighted a triangular patch of yellow light
on the red background of the cliffs of Tanjong Mirrah. It was
the sail of the prau that had caught the sunlight and stood out,
distinct with its gay tint, on the dark red of the cape. The
yellow triangle crept slowly from cliff to cliff, till it cleared
the last point of land and shone brilliantly for a fleeting
minute on the blue of the open sea. Then the prau bore up to the
southward: the light went out of the sail, and all at once the
vessel itself disappeared, vanishing in the shadow of the steep
headland that looked on, patient and lonely, watching over the
empty sea.
Almayer never moved. Round the little islet the air was full of
the talk of the rippling water. The crested wavelets ran up the
beach audaciously, joyously, with the lightness of young life,
and died quickly, unresistingly, and graciously, in the wide
curves of transparent foam on the yellow sand. Above, the white
clouds sailed rapidly southwards as if intent upon overtaking
something. Ali seemed anxious.
"Master," he said timidly, "time to get house now. Long way off
to pull. All ready, sir."
"Wait," whispered Almayer.
Now she was gone his business was to forget, and he had a strange
notion that it should be done systematically and in order. To
Ali's great dismay he fell on his hands and knees, and, creeping
along the sand, erased carefully with his hand all traces of
Nina's footsteps. He piled up small heaps of sand, leaving
behind him a line of miniature graves right down to the water.
After burying the last slight imprint of Nina's slipper he stood
up, and, turning his face towards the headland where he had last
seen the prau, he made an effort to shout out loud again his firm
resolve to never forgive. Ali watching him uneasily saw only his
lips move, but heard no sound. He brought his foot down with a
stamp. He was a firm man--firm as a rock. Let her go. He never
had a daughter. He would forget. He was forgetting already.
Ali approached him again, insisting on immediate departure, and
this time he consented, and they went together towards their
canoe, Almayer leading. For all his firmness he looked very
dejected and feeble as he dragged his feet slowly through the
sand on the beach; and by his side--invisible to Ali--stalked
that particular fiend whose mission it is to jog the memories of
men, lest they should forget the meaning of life. He whispered
into Almayer's ear a childish prattle of many years ago.
Almayer, his head bent on one side, seemed to listen to his
invisible companion, but his face was like the face of a man that
has died struck from behind--a face from which all feelings and
all expression are suddenly wiped off by the hand of unexpected
death.
They slept on the river that night, mooring their canoe under the
bushes and lying down in the bottom side by side, in the absolute
exhaustion that kills hunger, thirst, all feeling and all thought
in the overpowering desire for that deep sleep which is like the
temporary annihilation of the tired body. Next day they started
again and fought doggedly with the current all the morning, till
about midday they reached the settlement and made fast their
little craft to the jetty of Lingard and Co. Almayer walked
straight to the house, and Ali followed, paddles on shoulder,
thinking that he would like to eat something. As they crossed
the front courtyard they noticed the abandoned look of the place.
Ali looked in at the different servants' houses: all were empty.
In the back courtyard there was the same absence of sound and
life. In the cooking-shed the fire was out and the black embers
were cold. A tall, lean man came stealthily out of the banana
plantation, and went away rapidly across the open space looking
at them with big, frightened eyes over his shoulder. Some
vagabond without a master; there were many such in the
settlement, and they looked upon Almayer as their patron. They
prowled about his premises and picked their living there, sure
that nothing worse could befall them than a shower of curses when
they got in the way of the white man, whom they trusted and
liked, and called a fool amongst themselves. In the house, which
Almayer entered through the back verandah, the only living thing
that met his eyes was his small monkey which, hungry and
unnoticed for the last two days, began to cry and complain in
monkey language as soon as it caught sight of the familiar face.
Almayer soothed it with a few words and ordered Ali to bring in
some bananas, then while Ali was gone to get them he stood in the
doorway of the front verandah looking at the chaos of overturned
furniture. Finally he picked up the table and sat on it while
the monkey let itself down from the roof-stick by its chain and
perched on his shoulder. When the bananas came they had their
breakfast together; both hungry, both eating greedily and
showering the skins round them recklessly, in the trusting
silence of perfect friendship. Ali went away, grumbling, to cook
some rice himself, for all the women about the house had
disappeared; he did not know where. Almayer did not seem to
care, and, after he finished eating, he sat on the table swinging
his legs and staring at the river as if lost in thought.
After some time he got up and went to the door of a room on the
right of the verandah. That was the office. The office of
Lingard and Co. He very seldom went in there. There was no
business now, and he did not want an office. The door was
locked, and he stood biting his lower lip, trying to think of the
place where the key could be. Suddenly he remembered: in the
women's room hung upon a nail. He went over to the doorway where
the red curtain hung down in motionless folds, and hesitated for
a moment before pushing it aside with his shoulder as if breaking
down some solid obstacle. A great square of sunshine entering
through the window lay on the floor. On the left he saw Mrs.
Almayer's big wooden chest, the lid thrown back, empty; near it
the brass nails of Nina's European trunk shone in the large
initials N. A. on the cover. A few of Nina's dresses hung on
wooden pegs, stiffened in a look of offended dignity at their
abandonment. He remembered making the pegs himself and noticed
that they were very good pegs. Where was the key? He looked
round and saw it near the door where he stood. It was red with
rust. He felt very much annoyed at that, and directly afterwards
wondered at his own feeling. What did it matter? There soon
would be no key--no door--nothing! He paused, key in hand, and
asked himself whether he knew well what he was about. He went
out again on the verandah and stood by the table thinking. The
monkey jumped down, and, snatching a banana skin, absorbed itself
in picking it to shreds industriously.
"Forget!" muttered Almayer, and that word started before him a
sequence of events, a detailed programme of things to do. He
knew perfectly well what was to be done now. First this, then
that, and then forgetfulness would come easy. Very easy. He had
a fixed idea that if he should not forget before he died he would
have to remember to all eternity. Certain things had to be taken
out of his life, stamped out of sight, destroyed, forgotten. For
a long time he stood in deep thought, lost in the alarming
possibilities of unconquerable memory, with the fear of death and
eternity before him. "Eternity!" he said aloud, and the sound of
that word recalled him out of his reverie. The monkey started,
dropped the skin, and grinned up at him amicably.
He went towards the office door and with some difficulty managed
to open it. He entered in a cloud of dust that rose under his
feet.
Books open with torn pages bestrewed the floor; other books lay
about grimy and black, looking as if they had never been opened.
Account books. In those books he had intended to keep day by day
a record of his rising fortunes. Long time ago. A very long
time. For many years there has been no record to keep on the
blue and red ruled pages! In the middle of the room the big
office desk, with one of its legs broken, careened over like the
hull of a stranded ship; most of the drawers had fallen out,
disclosing heaps of paper yellow with age and dirt. The
revolving office chair stood in its place, but he found the pivot
set fast when he tried to turn it. No matter. He desisted, and
his eyes wandered slowly from object to object. All those things
had cost a lot of money at the time. The desk, the paper, the
torn books, and the broken shelves, all under a thick coat of
dust. The very dust and bones of a dead and gone business. He
looked at all these things, all that was left after so many years
of work, of strife, of weariness, of discouragement, conquered so
many times. And all for what? He stood thinking mournfully of
his past life till he heard distinctly the clear voice of a child
speaking amongst all this wreck, ruin, and waste. He started
with a great fear in his heart, and feverishly began to rake in
the papers scattered on the floor, broke the chair into bits,
splintered the drawers by banging them against the desk, and made
a big heap of all that rubbish in one corner of the room.
He came out quickly, slammed the door after him, turned the key,
and, taking it out, ran to the front rail of the verandah, and,
with a great swing of his arm, sent the key whizzing into the
river. This done he went back slowly to the table, called the
monkey down, unhooked its chain, and induced it to remain quiet
in the breast of his jacket. Then he sat again on the table and
looked fixedly at the door of the room he had just left. He
listened also intently. He heard a dry sound of rustling; sharp
cracks as of dry wood snapping; a whirr like of a bird's wings
when it rises suddenly, and then he saw a thin stream of smoke
come through the keyhole. The monkey struggled under his coat.
Ali appeared with his eyes starting out of his head.
"Master! House burn!" he shouted.
Almayer stood up holding by the table. He could hear the yells
of alarm and surprise in the settlement. Ali wrung his hands,
lamenting aloud.
"Stop this noise, fool!" said Almayer, quietly. "Pick up my
hammock and blankets and take them to the other house. Quick,
now!"
The smoke burst through the crevices of the door, and Ali, with
the hammock in his arms, cleared in one bound the steps of the
verandah.
"It has caught well," muttered Almayer to himself. "Be quiet,
Jack," he added, as the monkey made a frantic effort to escape
from its confinement.
The door split from top to bottom, and a rush of flame and smoke
drove Almayer away from the table to the front rail of the
verandah. He held on there till a great roar overhead assured
him that the roof was ablaze. Then he ran down the steps of the
verandah, coughing, half choked with the smoke that pursued him
in bluish wreaths curling about his head.
On the other side of the ditch, separating Almayer's courtyard
from the settlement, a crowd of the inhabitants of Sambir looked
at the burning house of the white man. In the calm air the
flames rushed up on high, coloured pale brick-red, with violet
gleams in the strong sunshine. The thin column of smoke ascended
straight and unwavering till it lost itself in the clear blue of
the sky, and, in the great empty space between the two houses the
interested spectators could see the tall figure of the Tuan
Putih, with bowed head and dragging feet, walking slowly away
from the fire towards the shelter of "Almayer's Folly."
In that manner did Almayer move into his new house. He took
possession of the new ruin, and in the undying folly of his heart
set himself to wait in anxiety and pain for that forgetfulness
which was so slow to come. He had done all he could. Every
vestige of Nina's existence had been destroyed; and now with
every sunrise he asked himself whether the longed-for oblivion
would come before sunset, whether it would come before he died?
He wanted to live only long enough to be able to forget, and the
tenacity of his memory filled him with dread and horror of death;
for should it come before he could accomplish the purpose of his
life he would have to remember for ever! He also longed for
loneliness. He wanted to be alone. But he was not. In the dim
light of the rooms with their closed shutters, in the bright
sunshine of the verandah, wherever he went, whichever way he
turned, he saw the small figure of a little maiden with pretty
olive face, with long black hair, her little pink robe slipping
off her shoulders, her big eyes looking up at him in the tender
trustfulness of a petted child. Ali did not see anything, but he
also was aware of the presence of a child in the house. In his
long talks by the evening fires of the settlement he used to tell
his intimate friends of Almayer's strange doings. His master had
turned sorcerer in his old age. Ali said that often when Tuan
Putih had retired for the night he could hear him talking to
something in his room. Ali thought that it was a spirit in the
shape of a child. He knew his master spoke to a child from
certain expressions and words his master used. His master spoke
in Malay a little, but mostly in English, which he, Ali, could
understand. Master spoke to the child at times tenderly, then he
would weep over it, laugh at it, scold it, beg of it to go away;
curse it. It was a bad and stubborn spirit. Ali thought his
master had imprudently called it up, and now could not get rid of
it. His master was very brave; he was not afraid to curse this
spirit in the very Presence; and once he fought with it. Ali had
heard a great noise as of running about inside the room and
groans. His master groaned. Spirits do not groan. His master
was brave, but foolish. You cannot hurt a spirit. Ali expected
to find his master dead next morning, but he came out very early,
looking much older than the day before, and had no food all day.
So far Ali to the settlement. To Captain Ford he was much more
communicative, for the good reason that Captain Ford had the
purse and gave orders. On each of Ford's monthly visits to
Sambir Ali had to go on board with a report about the inhabitant
of "Almayer's Folly." On his first visit to Sambir, after Nina's
departure, Ford had taken charge of Almayer's affairs. They were
not cumbersome. The shed for the storage of goods was empty, the
boats had disappeared, appropriated--generally in night-time--by
various citizens of Sambir in need of means of transport. During
a great flood the jetty of Lingard and Co. left the bank and
floated down the river, probably in search of more cheerful
surroundings; even the flock of geese--"the only geese on the
east coast"--departed somewhere, preferring the unknown dangers
of the bush to the desolation of their old home. As time went on
the grass grew over the black patch of ground where the old house
used to stand, and nothing remained to mark the place of the
dwelling that had sheltered Almayer's young hopes, his foolish
dream of splendid future, his awakening, and his despair.
Ford did not often visit Almayer, for visiting Almayer was not a
pleasant task. At first he used to respond listlessly to the old
seaman's boisterous inquiries about his health; he even made
efforts to talk, asking for news in a voice that made it
perfectly clear that no news from this world had any interest for
him. Then gradually he became more silent--not sulkily--but as
if he was forgetting how to speak. He used also to hide in the
darkest rooms of the house, where Ford had to seek him out guided
by the patter of the monkey galloping before him. The monkey was
always there to receive and introduce Ford. The little animal
seemed to have taken complete charge of its master, and whenever
it wished for his presence on the verandah it would tug
perseveringly at his jacket, till Almayer obediently came out
into the sunshine, which he seemed to dislike so much.
One morning Ford found him sitting on the floor of the verandah,
his back against the wall, his legs stretched stiffly out, his
arms hanging by his side. His expressionless face, his eyes open
wide with immobile pupils, and the rigidity of his pose, made him
look like an immense man-doll broken and flung there out of the
way. As Ford came up the steps he turned his head slowly.
"Ford," he murmured from the floor, "I cannot forget."
"Can't you?" said Ford, innocently, with an attempt at joviality:
"I wish I was like you. I am losing my memory--age, I suppose;
only the other day my mate--"
He stopped, for Almayer had got up, stumbled, and steadied
himself on his friend's arm.
"Hallo! You are better to-day. Soon be all right," said Ford,
cheerfully, but feeling rather scared.
Almayer let go his arm and stood very straight with his head up
and shoulders thrown back, looking stonily at the multitude of
suns shining in ripples of the river. His jacket and his loose
trousers flapped in the breeze on his thin limbs.
"Let her go!" he whispered in a grating voice. "Let her go. To-
morrow I shall forget. I am a firm man, . . . firm as a . . .
rock, . . . firm . . ."
Ford looked at his face--and fled. The skipper was a tolerably
firm man himself--as those who had sailed with him could testify-
-but Almayer's firmness was altogether too much for his
fortitude.
Next time the steamer called in Sambir Ali came on board early
with a grievance. He complained to Ford that Jim-Eng the
Chinaman had invaded Almayer's house, and actually had lived
there for the last month.
"And they both smoke," added Ali.
"Phew! Opium, you mean?"
Ali nodded, and Ford remained thoughtful; then he muttered to
himself, "Poor devil! The sooner the better now." In the
afternoon he walked up to the house.
"What are you doing here?" he asked of Jim-Eng, whom he found
strolling about on the verandah.
Jim-Eng explained in bad Malay, and speaking in that monotonous,
uninterested voice of an opium smoker pretty far gone, that his
house was old, the roof leaked, and the floor was rotten. So,
being an old friend for many, many years, he took his money, his
opium, and two pipes, and came to live in this big house.
"There is plenty of room. He smokes, and I live here. He will
not smoke long," he concluded.
"Where is he now?" asked Ford.
"Inside. He sleeps," answered Jim-Eng, wearily. Ford glanced in
through the doorway. In the dim light of the room he could see
Almayer lying on his back on the floor, his head on a wooden
pillow, the long white beard scattered over his breast, the
yellow skin of the face, the half-closed eyelids showing the
whites of the eye only. . . .
He shuddered and turned away. As he was leaving he noticed a
long strip of faded red silk, with some Chinese letters on it,
which Jim-Eng had just fastened to one of the pillars.
"What's that?" he asked.
"That," said Jim-Eng, in his colourless voice, "that is the name
of the house. All the same like my house. Very good name."
Ford looked at him for awhile and went away. He did not know
what the crazy-looking maze of the Chinese inscription on the red
silk meant. Had he asked Jim-Eng, that patient Chinaman would
have informed him with proper pride that its meaning was: "House
of heavenly delight."
In the evening of the same day Babalatchi called on Captain Ford.
The captain's cabin opened on deck, and Babalatchi sat astride on
the high step, while Ford smoked his pipe on the settee inside.
The steamer was leaving next morning, and the old statesman came
as usual for a last chat.
"We had news from Bali last moon," remarked Babalatchi. "A
grandson is born to the old Rajah, and there is great rejoicing."
Ford sat up interested.
"Yes," went on Babalatchi, in answer to Ford's look. "I told
him. That was before he began to smoke."
"Well, and what?" asked Ford.
"I escaped with my life," said Babalatchi, with perfect gravity,
"because the white man is very weak and fell as he rushed upon
me." Then, after a pause, he added, "She is mad with joy."
"Mrs. Almayer, you mean?"
"Yes, she lives in our Rajah's house. She will not die soon.
Such women live a long time," said Babalatchi, with a slight
tinge of regret in his voice. "She has dollars, and she has
buried them, but we know where. We had much trouble with those
people. We had to pay a fine and listen to threats from the
white men, and now we have to be careful." He sighed and
remained silent for a long while. Then with energy:
"There will be fighting. There is a breath of war on the
islands. Shall I live long enough to see? . . . Ah, Tuan!" he
went on, more quietly, "the old times were best. Even I have
sailed with Lanun men, and boarded in the night silent ships with
white sails. That was before an English Rajah ruled in Kuching.
Then we fought amongst ourselves and were happy. Now when we
fight with you we can only die!"
He rose to go. "Tuan," he said, "you remember the girl that man
Bulangi had? Her that caused all the trouble?"
"Yes," said Ford. "What of her?"
"She grew thin and could not work. Then Bulangi, who is a thief
and a pig-eater, gave her to me for fifty dollars. I sent her
amongst my women to grow fat. I wanted to hear the sound of her
laughter, but she must have been bewitched, and . . . she died
two days ago. Nay, Tuan. Why do you speak bad words? I am
old--that is true--but why should I not like the sight of a young
face and the sound of a young voice in my house?" He paused, and
then added with a little mournful laugh, "I am like a white man
talking too much of what is not men's talk when they speak to one
another."
And he went off looking very sad.
The crowd massed in a semicircle before the steps of "Almayer's
Folly," swayed silently backwards and forwards, and opened out
before the group of white-robed and turbaned men advancing
through the grass towards the house. Abdulla walked first,
supported by Reshid and followed by all the Arabs in Sambir. As
they entered the lane made by the respectful throng there was a
subdued murmur of voices, where the word "Mati" was the only one
distinctly audible. Abdulla stopped and looked round slowly.
"Is he dead?" he asked.
"May you live!" answered the crowd in one shout, and then there
succeeded a breathless silence.
Abdulla made a few paces forward and found himself for the last
time face to face with his old enemy. Whatever he might have
been once he was not dangerous now, lying stiff and lifeless in
the tender light of the early day. The only white man on the
east coast was dead, and his soul, delivered from the trammels of
his earthly folly, stood now in the presence of Infinite Wisdom.
On the upturned face there was that serene look which follows the
sudden relief from anguish and pain, and it testified silently
before the cloudless heaven that the man lying there under the
gaze of indifferent eyes had been permitted to forget before he
died.
Abdulla looked down sadly at this Infidel he had fought so long
and had bested so many times. Such was the reward of the
Faithful!
Yet in the Arab's old heart there was a feeling of regret for
that thing gone out of his life. He was leaving fast behind him
friendships, and enmities, successes, and disappointments--all
that makes up a life; and before him was only the end. Prayer
would fill up the remainder of the days allotted to the True
Believer! He took in his hand the beads that hung at his waist.
"I found him here, like this, in the morning," said Ali, in a low
and awed voice.
Abdulla glanced coldly once more at the serene face.
"Let us go," he said, addressing Reshid.
And as they passed through the crowd that fell back before them,
the beads in Abdulla's hand clicked, while in a solemn whisper he
breathed out piously the name of Allah! The Merciful! The Compassionate!
