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."
