CHAPTER THREE
On Lingard's departure solitude and silence closed round Willems;
the cruel solitude of one abandoned by men; the reproachful
silence which surrounds an outcast ejected by his kind, the
silence unbroken by the slightest whisper of hope; an immense and
impenetrable silence that swallows up without echo the murmur of
regret and the cry of revolt. The bitter peace of the abandoned
clearings entered his heart, in which nothing could live now but
the memory and hate of his past. Not remorse. In the breast of
a man possessed by the masterful consciousness of his
individuality with its desires and its rights; by the immovable
conviction of his own importance, of an importance so
indisputable and final that it clothes all his wishes,
endeavours, and mistakes with the dignity of unavoidable fate,
there could be no place for such a feeling as that of remorse.
The days passed. They passed unnoticed, unseen, in the rapid
blaze of glaring sunrises, in the short glow of tender sunsets,
in the crushing oppression of high noons without a cloud. How
many days? Two--three--or more? He did not know. To him, since
Lingard had gone, the time seemed to roll on in profound
darkness. All was night within him. All was gone from his
sight. He walked about blindly in the deserted courtyards,
amongst the empty houses that, perched high on their posts,
looked down inimically on him, a white stranger, a man from other
lands; seemed to look hostile and mute out of all the memories of
native life that lingered between their decaying walls. His
wandering feet stumbled against the blackened brands of extinct
fires, kicking up a light black dust of cold ashes that flew in
drifting clouds and settled to leeward on the fresh grass
sprouting from the hard ground, between the shade trees. He
moved on, and on; ceaseless, unresting, in widening circles, in
zigzagging paths that led to no issue; he struggled on wearily
with a set, distressed face behind which, in his tired brain,
seethed his thoughts: restless, sombre, tangled, chilling,
horrible and venomous, like a nestful of snakes.
From afar, the bleared eyes of the old serving woman, the sombre
gaze of Aissa followed the gaunt and tottering figure in its
unceasing prowl along the fences, between the houses, amongst the
wild luxuriance of riverside thickets. Those three human beings
abandoned by all were like shipwrecked people left on an insecure
and slippery ledge by the retiring tide of an angry
sea--listening to its distant roar, living anguished between the
menace of its return and the hopeless horror of their
solitude--in the midst of a tempest of passion, of regret, of
disgust, of despair. The breath of the storm had cast two of
them there, robbed of everything--even of resignation. The
third, the decrepit witness of their struggle and their torture,
accepted her own dull conception of facts; of strength and youth
gone; of her useless old age; of her last servitude; of being
thrown away by her chief, by her nearest, to use up the last and
worthless remnant of flickering life between those two
incomprehensible and sombre outcasts: a shrivelled, an unmoved, a
passive companion of their disaster.
To the river Willems turned his eyes like a captive that looks
fixedly at the door of his cell. If there was any hope in the
world it would come from the river, by the river. For hours
together he would stand in sunlight while the sea breeze sweeping
over the lonely reach fluttered his ragged garments; the keen
salt breeze that made him shiver now and then under the flood of
intense heat. He looked at the brown and sparkling solitude of
the flowing water, of the water flowing ceaseless and free in a
soft, cool murmur of ripples at his feet. The world seemed to
end there. The forests of the other bank appeared unattainable,
enigmatical, for ever beyond reach like the stars of heaven--and
as indifferent. Above and below, the forests on his side of the
river came down to the water in a serried multitude of tall,
immense trees towering in a great spread of twisted boughs above
the thick undergrowth; great, solid trees, looking sombre,
severe, and malevolently stolid, like a giant crowd of pitiless
enemies pressing round silently to witness his slow agony. He
was alone, small, crushed. He thought of escape--of something to
be done. What? A raft! He imagined himself working at it,
feverishly, desperately; cutting down trees, fastening the logs
together and then drifting down with the current, down to the sea
into the straits. There were ships there--ships, help, white
men. Men like himself. Good men who would rescue him, take him
away, take him far away where there was trade, and houses, and
other men that could understand him exactly, appreciate his
capabilities; where there was proper food, and money; where there
were beds, knives, forks, carriages, brass bands, cool drinks,
churches with well-dressed people praying in them. He would pray
also. The superior land of refined delights where he could sit
on a chair, eat his tiffin off a white tablecloth, nod to
fellows--good fellows; he would be popular; always was--where he
could be virtuous, correct, do business, draw a salary, smoke
cigars, buy things in shops--have boots . . . be happy, free,
become rich. O God! What was wanted? Cut down a few trees.
No! One would do. They used to make canoes by burning out a
tree trunk, he had heard. Yes! One would do. One tree to cut
down . . . He rushed forward, and suddenly stood still as if
rooted in the ground. He had a pocket-knife.
And he would throw himself down on the ground by the riverside.
He was tired, exhausted; as if that raft had been made, the
voyage accomplished, the fortune attained. A glaze came over his
staring eyes, over his eyes that gazed hopelessly at the rising
river where big logs and uprooted trees drifted in the shine of
mid-stream: a long procession of black and ragged specks. He
could swim out and drift away on one of these trees. Anything to
escape! Anything! Any risk! He could fasten himself up between
the dead branches. He was torn by desire, by fear; his heart was
wrung by the faltering of his courage. He turned over, face
downwards, his head on his arms. He had a terrible vision of
shadowless horizons where the blue sky and the blue sea met; or a
circular and blazing emptiness where a dead tree and a dead man
drifted together, endlessly, up and down, upon the brilliant
undulations of the straits. No ships there. Only death. And
the river led to it.
He sat up with a profound groan.
Yes, death. Why should he die? No! Better solitude, better
hopeless waiting, alone. Alone. No! he was not alone, he saw
death looking at him from everywhere; from the bushes, from the
clouds--he heard her speaking to him in the murmur of the river,
filling the space, touching his heart, his brain with a cold
hand. He could see and think of nothing else. He saw it--the
sure death--everywhere. He saw it so close that he was always on
the point of throwing out his arms to keep it off. It poisoned
all he saw, all he did; the miserable food he ate, the muddy
water he drank; it gave a frightful aspect to sunrises and
sunsets, to the brightness of hot noon, to the cooling shadows of
the evenings. He saw the horrible form among the big trees, in
the network of creepers in the fantastic outlines of leaves, of
the great indented leaves that seemed to be so many enormous
hands with big broad palms, with stiff fingers outspread to lay
hold of him; hands gently stirring, or hands arrested in a
frightful immobility, with a stillness attentive and watching for
the opportunity to take him, to enlace him, to strangle him, to
hold him till he died; hands that would hold him dead, that would
never let go, that would cling to his body for ever till it
perished--disappeared in their frantic and tenacious grasp.
And yet the world was full of life. All the things, all the men
he knew, existed, moved, breathed; and he saw them in a long
perspective, far off, diminished, distinct, desirable,
unattainable, precious . . . lost for ever. Round him,
ceaselessly, there went on without a sound the mad turmoil of
tropical life. After he had died all this would remain! He
wanted to clasp, to embrace solid things; he had an immense
craving for sensations; for touching, pressing, seeing, handling,
holding on, to all these things. All this would remain--remain
for years, for ages, for ever. After he had miserably died
there, all this would remain, would live, would exist in joyous
sunlight, would breathe in the coolness of serene nights. What
for, then? He would be dead. He would be stretched upon the
warm moisture of the ground, feeling nothing, seeing nothing,
knowing nothing; he would lie stiff, passive, rotting slowly;
while over him, under him, through him--unopposed, busy,
hurried--the endless and minute throngs of insects, little
shining monsters of repulsive shapes, with horns, with claws,
with pincers, would swarm in streams, in rushes, in eager
struggle for his body; would swarm countless, persistent,
ferocious and greedy--till there would remain nothing but the
white gleam of bleaching bones in the long grass; in the long
grass that would shoot its feathery heads between the bare and
polished ribs. There would be that only left of him; nobody
would miss him; no one would remember him.
Nonsense! It could not be. There were ways out of this.
Somebody would turn up. Some human beings would come. He would
speak, entreat--use force to extort help from them. He felt
strong; he was very strong. He would . . . The discouragement,
the conviction of the futility of his hopes would return in an
acute sensation of pain in his heart. He would begin again his
aimless wanderings. He tramped till he was ready to drop,
without being able to calm by bodily fatigue the trouble of his
soul. There was no rest, no peace within the cleared grounds of
his prison. There was no relief but in the black release of
sleep, of sleep without memory and without dreams; in the sleep
coming brutal and heavy, like the lead that kills. To forget in
annihilating sleep; to tumble headlong, as if stunned, out of
daylight into the night of oblivion, was for him the only, the
rare respite from this existence which he lacked the courage to
endure--or to end.
He lived, he struggled with the inarticulate delirium of his
thoughts under the eyes of the silent Aissa. She shared his
torment in the poignant wonder, in the acute longing, in the
despairing inability to understand the cause of his anger and of
his repulsion; the hate of his looks; the mystery of his silence;
the menace of his rare words--of those words in the speech of
white people that were thrown at her with rage, with contempt,
with the evident desire to hurt her; to hurt her who had given
herself, her life--all she had to give--to that white man; to
hurt her who had wanted to show him the way to true greatness,
who had tried to help him, in her woman's dream of everlasting,
enduring, unchangeable affection. From the short contact with
the whites in the crashing collapse of her old life, there
remained with her the imposing idea of irresistible power and of
ruthless strength. She had found a man of their race--and with
all their qualities. All whites are alike. But this man's heart
was full of anger against his own people, full of anger existing
there by the side of his desire of her. And to her it had been
an intoxication of hope for great things born in the proud and
tender consciousness of her influence. She had heard the passing
whisper of wonder and fear in the presence of his hesitation, of
his resistance, of his compromises; and yet with a woman's belief
in the durable steadfastness of hearts, in the irresistible charm
of her own personality, she had pushed him forward, trusting the
future, blindly, hopefully; sure to attain by his side the ardent
desire of her life, if she could only push him far beyond the
possibility of retreat. She did not know, and could not
conceive, anything of his--so exalted--ideals. She thought the
man a warrior and a chief, ready for battle, violence, and
treachery to his own people--for her. What more natural? Was he
not a great, strong man? Those two, surrounded each by the
impenetrable wall of their aspirations, were hopelessly alone,
out of sight, out of earshot of each other; each the centre of
dissimilar and distant horizons; standing each on a different
earth, under a different sky. She remembered his words, his
eyes, his trembling lips, his outstretched hands; she remembered
the great, the immeasurable sweetness of her surrender, that
beginning of her power which was to last until death. He
remembered the quaysides and the warehouses; the excitement of a
life in a whirl of silver coins; the glorious uncertainty of a
money hunt; his numerous successes, the lost possibilities of
wealth and consequent glory. She, a woman, was the victim of her
heart, of her woman's belief that there is nothing in the world
but love--the everlasting thing. He was the victim of his
strange principles, of his continence, of his blind belief in
himself, of his solemn veneration for the voice of his boundless
ignorance.
In a moment of his idleness, of suspense, of discouragement, she
had come--that creature--and by the touch of her hand had
destroyed his future, his dignity of a clever and civilized man;
had awakened in his breast the infamous thing which had driven
him to what he had done, and to end miserably in the wilderness
and be forgotten, or else remembered with hate or contempt. He
dared not look at her, because now whenever he looked at her his
thought seemed to touch crime, like an outstretched hand. She
could only look at him--and at nothing else. What else was
there? She followed him with a timorous gaze, with a gaze for
ever expecting, patient, and entreating. And in her eyes there
was the wonder and desolation of an animal that knows only
suffering, of the incomplete soul that knows pain but knows not
hope; that can find no refuge from the facts of life in the
illusory conviction of its dignity, of an exalted destiny beyond;
in the heavenly consolation of a belief in the momentous origin
of its hate.
For the first three days after Lingard went away he would not
even speak to her. She preferred his silence to the sound of
hated and incomprehensible words he had been lately addressing to
her with a wild violence of manner, passing at once into complete
apathy. And during these three days he hardly ever left the
river, as if on that muddy bank he had felt himself nearer to his
freedom. He would stay late; he would stay till sunset; he would
look at the glow of gold passing away amongst sombre clouds in a
bright red flush, like a splash of warm blood. It seemed to him
ominous and ghastly with a foreboding of violent death that
beckoned him from everywhere--even from the sky.
One evening he remained by the riverside long after sunset,
regardless of the night mist that had closed round him, had
wrapped him up and clung to him like a wet winding-sheet. A
slight shiver recalled him to his senses, and he walked up the
courtyard towards his house. Aissa rose from before the fire,
that glimmered red through its own smoke, which hung thickening
under the boughs of the big tree. She approached him from the
side as he neared the plankway of the house. He saw her stop to
let him begin his ascent. In the darkness her figure was like
the shadow of a woman with clasped hands put out beseechingly. He
stopped--could not help glancing at her. In all the sombre
gracefulness of the straight figure, her limbs, features--all was
indistinct and vague but the gleam of her eyes in the faint
starlight. He turned his head away and moved on. He could feel
her footsteps behind him on the bending planks, but he walked up
without turning his head. He knew what she wanted. She wanted
to come in there. He shuddered at the thought of what might
happen in the impenetrable darkness of that house if they were to
find themselves alone--even for a moment. He stopped in the
doorway, and heard her say--
"Let me come in. Why this anger? Why this silence? . . . Let
me watch . . by your side. . . . Have I not watched faithfully?
Did harm ever come to you when you closed your eyes while I was
by? . . . I have waited . . . I have waited for your smile, for
your words . . . I can wait no more. . . . Look at me . . .
speak to me. Is there a bad spirit in you? A bad spirit that
has eaten up your courage and your love? Let me touch you.
Forget all . . . All. Forget the wicked hearts, the angry faces
. . . and remember only the day I came to you . . . to you! O my
heart! O my life!"
The pleading sadness of her appeal filled the space with the
tremor of her low tones, that carried tenderness and tears into
the great peace of the sleeping world. All around them the
forests, the clearings, the river, covered by the silent veil of
night, seemed to wake up and listen to her words in attentive
stillness. After the sound of her voice had died out in a
stifled sigh they appeared to listen yet; and nothing stirred
among the shapeless shadows but the innumerable fireflies that
twinkled in changing clusters, in gliding pairs, in wandering and
solitary points--like the glimmering drift of scattered
star-dust.
Willems turned round slowly, reluctantly, as if compelled by main
force. Her face was hidden in her hands, and he looked above her
bent head, into the sombre brilliance of the night. It was one
of those nights that give the impression of extreme vastness,
when the sky seems higher, when the passing puffs of tepid breeze
seem to bring with them faint whispers from beyond the stars.
The air was full of sweet scent, of the scent charming,
penetrating. and violent like the impulse of love. He looked
into that great dark place odorous with the breath of life, with
the mystery of existence, renewed, fecund, indestructible; and he
felt afraid of his solitude, of the solitude of his body, of the
loneliness of his soul in the presence of this unconscious and
ardent struggle, of this lofty indifference, of this merciless
and mysterious purpose, perpetuating strife and death through the
march of ages. For the second time in his life he felt, in a
sudden sense of his significance, the need to send a cry for help
into the wilderness, and for the second time he realized the
hopelessness of its unconcern. He could shout for help on every
side--and nobody would answer. He could stretch out his hands,
he could call for aid, for support, for sympathy, for relief--and
nobody would come. Nobody. There was no one there--but that
woman.
His heart was moved, softened with pity at his own abandonment.
His anger against her, against her who was the cause of all his
misfortunes, vanished before his extreme need for some kind of
consolation. Perhaps--if he must resign himself to his fate--she
might help him to forget. To forget! For a moment, in an access
of despair so profound that it seemed like the beginning of
peace, he planned the deliberate descent from his pedestal, the
throwing away of his superiority, of all his hopes, of old
ambitions, of the ungrateful civilization. For a moment,
forgetfulness in her arms seemed possible; and lured by that
possibility the semblance of renewed desire possessed his breast
in a burst of reckless contempt for everything outside
himself--in a savage disdain of Earth and of Heaven. He said to
himself that he would not repent. The punishment for his only
sin was too heavy. There was no mercy under Heaven. He did not
want any. He thought, desperately, that if he could find with
her again the madness of the past, the strange delirium that had
changed him, that had worked his undoing, he would be ready to
pay for it with an eternity of perdition. He was intoxicated by
the subtle perfumes of the night; he was carried away by the
suggestive stir of the warm breeze; he was possessed by the
exaltation of the solitude, of the silence, of his memories, in
the presence of that figure offering herself in a submissive and
patient devotion; coming to him in the name of the past, in the
name of those days when he could see nothing, think of nothing,
desire nothing--but her embrace.
He took her suddenly in his arms, and she clasped her hands round
his neck with a low cry of joy and surprise. He took her in his
arms and waited for the transport, for the madness, for the
sensations remembered and lost; and while she sobbed gently on
his breast he held her and felt cold, sick, tired, exasperated
with his failure--and ended by cursing himself. She clung to him
trembling with the intensity of her happiness and her love. He
heard her whispering--her face hidden on his shoulder--of past
sorrow, of coming joy that would last for ever; of her unshaken
belief in his love. She had always believed. Always! Even
while his face was turned away from her in the dark days while
his mind was wandering in his own land, amongst his own people.
But it would never wander away from her any more, now it had come
back. He would forget the cold faces and the hard hearts of the
cruel people. What was there to remember? Nothing? Was it not
so? . . .
He listened hopelessly to the faint murmur. He stood still and
rigid, pressing her mechanically to his breast while he thought
that there was nothing for him in the world. He was robbed of
everything; robbed of his passion, of his liberty, of
forgetfulness, of consolation. She, wild with delight, whispered
on rapidly, of love, of light, of peace, of long years. . . . He
looked drearily above her head down into the deeper gloom of the
courtyard. And, all at once, it seemed to him that he was
peering into a sombre hollow, into a deep black hole full of
decay and of whitened bones; into an immense and inevitable grave
full of corruption where sooner or later he must, unavoidably,
fall.
In the morning he came out early, and stood for a time in the
doorway, listening to the light breathing behind him--in the
house. She slept. He had not closed his eyes through all that
night. He stood swaying--then leaned against the lintel of the
door. He was exhausted, done up; fancied himself hardly alive.
He had a disgusted horror of himself that, as he looked at the
level sea of mist at his feet, faded quickly into dull
indifference. It was like a sudden and final decrepitude of his
senses, of his body, of his thoughts. Standing on the high
platform, he looked over the expanse of low night fog above
which, here and there, stood out the feathery heads of tall
bamboo clumps and the round tops of single trees, resembling
small islets emerging black and solid from a ghostly and
impalpable sea. Upon the faintly luminous background of the
eastern sky, the sombre line of the great forests bounded that
smooth sea of white vapours with an appearance of a fantastic and
unattainable shore.
He looked without seeing anything--thinking of himself. Before
his eyes the light of the rising sun burst above the forest with
the suddenness of an explosion. He saw nothing. Then, after a
time, he murmured with conviction--speaking half aloud to himself
in the shock of the penetrating thought:
"I am a lost man."
He shook his hand above his head in a gesture careless and
tragic, then walked down into the mist that closed above him in
shining undulations under the first breath of the morning breeze.
