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.
