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!"
