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. vAnybody 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.c 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.
