CHAPTER FOUR
Willems moved languidly towards the river, then retraced his
steps to the tree and let himself fall on the seat under its
shade. On the other side of the immense trunk he could hear the
old woman moving about, sighing loudly, muttering to herself,
snapping dry sticks, blowing up the fire. After a while a whiff
of smoke drifted round to where he sat. It made him feel hungry,
and that feeling was like a new indignity added to an intolerable
load of humiliations. He felt inclined to cry. He felt very
weak. He held up his arm before his eyes and watched for a
little while the trembling of the lean limb. Skin and bone, by
God! How thin he was! . . . He had suffered from fever a good
deal, and now he thought with tearful dismay that Lingard,
although he had sent him food--and what food, great Lord: a
little rice and dried fish; quite unfit for a white man--had not
sent him any medicine. Did the old savage think that he was like
the wild beasts that are never ill? He wanted quinine.
He leaned the back of his head against the tree and closed his
eyes. He thought feebly that if he could get hold of Lingard he
would like to flay him alive; but it was only a blurred, a short
and a passing thought. His imagination, exhausted by the repeated
delineations of his own fate, had not enough strength left to
grip the idea of revenge. He was not indignant and rebellious.
He was cowed. He was cowed by the immense cataclysm of his
disaster. Like most men, he had carried solemnly within his
breast the whole universe, and the approaching end of all things
in the destruction of his own personality filled him with
paralyzing awe. Everything was toppling over. He blinked his
eyes quickly, and it seemed to him that the very sunshine of the
morning disclosed in its brightness a suggestion of some hidden
and sinister meaning. In his unreasoning fear he tried to hide
within himself. He drew his feet up, his head sank between his
shoulders, his arms hugged his sides. Under the high and
enormous tree soaring superbly out of the mist in a vigorous
spread of lofty boughs, with a restless and eager flutter of its
innumerable leaves in the clear sunshine, he remained motionless,
huddled up on his seat: terrified and still.
Willems' gaze roamed over the ground, and then he watched with
idiotic fixity half a dozen black ants entering courageously a
tuft of long grass which, to them, must have appeared a dark and
a dangerous jungle. Suddenly he thought: There must be something
dead in there. Some dead insect. Death everywhere! He closed
his eyes again in an access of trembling pain. Death
everywhere--wherever one looks. He did not want to see the ants.
He did not want to see anybody or anything. He sat in the
darkness of his own making, reflecting bitterly that there was no
peace for him. He heard voices now. . . . Illusion! Misery!
Torment! Who would come? Who would speak to him? What business
had he to hear voices? . . . yet he heard them faintly, from the
river. Faintly, as if shouted far off over there, came the words
"We come back soon." . . . Delirium and mockery! Who would come
back? Nobody ever comes back! Fever comes back. He had it on
him this morning. That was it. . . . He heard unexpectedly the
old woman muttering something near by. She had come round to his
side of the tree. He opened his eyes and saw her bent back
before him. She stood, with her hand shading her eyes, looking
towards the landing-place. Then she glided away. She had
seen--and now she was going back to her cooking; a woman
incurious; expecting nothing; without fear and without hope.
She had gone back behind the tree, and now Willems could see a
human figure on the path to the landing-place. It appeared to
him to be a woman, in a red gown, holding some heavy bundle in
her arms; it was an apparition unexpected, familiar and odd. He
cursed through his teeth . . . It had wanted only this! See
things like that in broad daylight! He was very bad--very bad. .
. . He was horribly scared at this awful symptom of the
desperate state of his health.
This scare lasted for the space of a flash of lightning, and in
the next moment it was revealed to him that the woman was real;
that she was coming towards him; that she was his wife! He put
his feet down to the ground quickly, but made no other movement.
His eyes opened wide. He was so amazed that for a time he
absolutely forgot his own existence. The only idea in his head
was: Why on earth did she come here?
Joanna was coming up the courtyard with eager, hurried steps.
She carried in her arms the child, wrapped up in one of Almayer's
white blankets that she had snatched off the bed at the last
moment, before leaving the house. She seemed to be dazed by the
sun in her eyes; bewildered by her strange surroundings. She
moved on, looking quickly right and left in impatient expectation
of seeing her husband at any moment. Then, approaching the tree,
she perceived suddenly a kind of a dried-up, yellow corpse,
sitting very stiff on a bench in the shade and looking at her
with big eyes that were alive. That was her husband.
She stopped dead short. They stared at one another in profound
stillness, with astounded eyes, with eyes maddened by the
memories of things far off that seemed lost in the lapse of time.
Their looks crossed, passed each other, and appeared to dart at
them through fantastic distances, to come straight from the
incredible.
Looking at him steadily she came nearer, and deposited the
blanket with the child in it on the bench. Little Louis, after
howling with terror in the darkness of the river most of the
night, now slept soundly and did not wake. Willems' eyes
followed his wife, his head turning slowly after her. He
accepted her presence there with a tired acquiescence in its
fabulous improbability. Anything might happen. What did she
come for? She was part of the general scheme of his misfortune.
He half expected that she would rush at him, pull his hair, and
scratch his face. Why not? Anything might happen! In an
exaggerated sense of his great bodily weakness he felt somewhat
apprehensive of possible assault. At any rate, she would scream
at him. He knew her of old. She could screech. He had thought
that he was rid of her for ever. She came now probably to see
the end. . . .
Suddenly she turned, and embracing him slid gently to the ground.
This startled him. With her forehead on his knees she sobbed
noiselessly. He looked down dismally at the top of her head.
What was she up to? He had not the strength to move--to get
away. He heard her whispering something, and bent over to
listen. He caught the word "Forgive."
That was what she came for! All that way. Women are queer.
Forgive. Not he! . . . All at once this thought darted through
his brain: How did she come? In a boat. Boat! boat!
He shouted "Boat!" and jumped up, knocking her over. Before she
had time to pick herself up he pounced upon her and was dragging
her up by the shoulders. No sooner had she regained her feet
than she clasped him tightly round the neck, covering his face,
his eyes, his mouth, his nose with desperate kisses. He dodged
his head about, shaking her arms, trying to keep her off, to
speak, to ask her. . . . She came in a boat, boat, boat! . . .
They struggled and swung round, tramping in a semicircle. He
blurted out, "Leave off. Listen," while he tore at her hands.
This meeting of lawful love and sincere joy resembled fight.
Louis Willems slept peacefully under his blanket.
At last Willems managed to free himself, and held her off,
pressing her arms down. He looked at her. He had half a
suspicion that he was dreaming. Her lips trembled; her eyes
wandered unsteadily, always coming back to his face. He saw her
the same as ever, in his presence. She appeared startled,
tremulous, ready to cry. She did not inspire him with
confidence. He shouted--
"How did you come?"
She answered in hurried words, looking at him intently--
"In a big canoe with three men. I know everything. Lingard's
away. I come to save you. I know. . . . Almayer told me."
"Canoe!--Almayer--Lies. Told you--You!" stammered Willems in a
distracted manner. "Why you?--Told what?"
Words failed him. He stared at his wife, thinking with fear that
she--stupid woman--had been made a tool in some plan of treachery
. . . in some deadly plot.
She began to cry--
"Don't look at me like that, Peter. What have I done? I come to
beg--to beg--forgiveness. . . . Save--Lingard--danger."
He trembled with impatience, with hope, with fear. She looked at
him and sobbed out in a fresh outburst of grief--
"Oh! Peter. What's the matter?--Are you ill? . . . Oh! you look
so ill . . ."
He shook her violently into a terrified and wondering silence.
"How dare you!--I am well--perfectly well. . . . Where's that
boat? Will you tell me where that boat is--at last? The boat, I
say . . . You! . . ."
"You hurt me," she moaned.
He let her go, and, mastering her terror, she stood quivering and
looking at him with strange intensity. Then she made a movement
forward, but he lifted his finger, and she restrained herself
with a long sigh. He calmed down suddenly and surveyed her with
cold criticism, with the same appearance as when, in the old
days, he used to find fault with the household expenses. She
found a kind of fearful delight in this abrupt return into the
past, into her old subjection.
He stood outwardly collected now, and listened to her
disconnected story. Her words seemed to fall round him with the
distracting clatter of stunning hail. He caught the meaning here
and there, and straightway would lose himself in a tremendous
effort to shape out some intelligible theory of events. There
was a boat. A boat. A big boat that could take him to sea if
necessary. That much was clear. She brought it. Why did
Almayer lie to her so? Was it a plan to decoy him into some
ambush? Better that than hopeless solitude. She had money. The
men were ready to go anywhere . . . she said.
He interrupted her--
"Where are they now?"
"They are coming directly," she answered, tearfully. "Directly.
There are some fishing stakes near here--they said. They are
coming directly."
Again she was talking and sobbing together. She wanted to be
forgiven. Forgiven? What for? Ah! the scene in Macassar. As
if he had time to think of that! What did he care what she had
done months ago? He seemed to struggle in the toils of
complicated dreams where everything was impossible, yet a matter
of course, where the past took the aspects of the future and the
present lay heavy on his heart--seemed to take him by the throat
like the hand of an enemy. And while she begged, entreated,
kissed his hands, wept on his shoulder, adjured him in the name
of God, to forgive, to forget, to speak the word for which she
longed, to look at his boy, to believe in her sorrow and in her
devotion--his eyes, in the fascinated immobility of shining
pupils, looked far away, far beyond her, beyond the river, beyond
this land, through days, weeks, months; looked into liberty, into
the future, into his triumph . . . into the great possibility of
a startling revenge.
He felt a sudden desire to dance and shout. He shouted--
"After all, we shall meet again, Captain Lingard."
"Oh, no! No!" she cried, joining her hands.
He looked at her with surprise. He had forgotten she was there
till the break of her cry in the monotonous tones of her prayer
recalled him into that courtyard from the glorious turmoil of his
dreams. It was very strange to see her there--near him. He felt
almost affectionate towards her. After all, she came just in
time. Then he thought: That other one. I must get away without
a scene. Who knows; she may be dangerous! . . . And all at once
he felt he hated Aissa with an immense hatred that seemed to
choke him. He said to his wife--
"Wait a moment."
She, obedient, seemed to gulp down some words which wanted to
come out. He muttered: "Stay here," and disappeared round the
tree.
The water in the iron pan on the cooking fire boiled furiously,
belching out volumes of white steam that mixed with the thin
black thread of smoke. The old woman appeared to him through
this as if in a fog, squatting on her heels, impassive and weird.
Willems came up near and asked, "Where is she?"
The woman did not even lift her head, but answered at once,
readily, as though she had expected the question for a long time.
"While you were asleep under the tree, before the strange canoe
came, she went out of the house. I saw her look at you and pass
on with a great light in her eyes. A great light. And she went
towards the place where our master Lakamba had his fruit trees.
When we were many here. Many, many. Men with arms by their
side. Many . . . men. And talk . . . and songs . . . "
She went on like that, raving gently to herself for a long time
after Willems had left her.
Willems went back to his wife. He came up close to her and found
he had nothing to say. Now all his faculties were concentrated
upon his wish to avoid Aissa. She might stay all the morning in
that grove. Why did those rascally boatmen go? He had a
physical repugnance to set eyes on her. And somewhere, at the
very bottom of his heart, there was a fear of her. Why? What
could she do? Nothing on earth could stop him now. He felt
strong, reckless, pitiless, and superior to everything. He
wanted to preserve before his wife the lofty purity of his
character. He thought: She does not know. Almayer held his
tongue about Aissa. But if she finds out, I am lost. If it
hadn't been for the boy I would . . . free of both of them. . . .
The idea darted through his head. Not he! Married. . . . Swore
solemnly. No . . . sacred tie. . . . Looking on his wife, he
felt for the first time in his life something approaching
remorse. Remorse, arising from his conception of the awful
nature of an oath before the altar. . . . She mustn't find out.
. . . Oh, for that boat! He must run in and get his revolver.
Couldn't think of trusting himself unarmed with those Bajow
fellows. Get it now while she is away. Oh, for that boat! . . .
He dared not go to the river and hail. He thought: She might
hear me. . . . I'll go and get . . . cartridges . . . then will
be all ready . . . nothing else. No.
And while he stood meditating profoundly before he could make up
his mind to run to the house, Joanna pleaded, holding to his
arm--pleaded despairingly, broken-hearted, hopeless whenever she
glanced up at his face, which to her seemed to wear the aspect of
unforgiving rectitude, of virtuous severity, of merciless
justice. And she pleaded humbly--abashed before him, before the
unmoved appearance of the man she had wronged in defiance of
human and divine laws. He heard not a word of what she said till
she raised her voice in a final appeal--
". . . Don't you see I loved you always? They told me horrible
things about you. . . . My own mother! They told me--you have
been--you have been unfaithful to me, and I . . ."
"It's a damned lie!" shouted Willems, waking up for a moment into
righteous indignation.
"I know! I know--Be generous.--Think of my misery since you went
away--Oh! I could have torn my tongue out. . . . I will never
believe anybody--Look at the boy--Be merciful--I could never rest
till I found you. . . . Say--a word--one word. . ."
"What the devil do you want?" exclaimed Willems, looking towards
the river. "Where's that damned boat? Why did you let them go
away? You stupid!"
"Oh, Peter!--I know that in your heart you have forgiven me--You
are so generous--I want to hear you say so. . . . Tell me--do
you?"
"Yes! yes!" said Willems, impatiently. "I forgive you. Don't be
a fool."
"Don't go away. Don't leave me alone here. Where is the danger?
I am so frightened. . . . Are you alone here? Sure? . . . Let
us go away!"
"That's sense," said Willems, still looking anxiously towards the
river.
She sobbed gently, leaning on his arm.
"Let me go," he said.
He had seen above the steep bank the heads of three men glide
along smoothly. Then, where the shore shelved down to the
landing-place, appeared a big canoe which came slowly to land.
"Here they are," he went on, briskly. "I must get my revolver."
He made a few hurried paces towards the house, but seemed to
catch sight of something, turned short round and came back to his
wife. She stared at him, alarmed by the sudden change in his
face. He appeared much discomposed. He stammered a little as he
began to speak.
"Take the child. Walk down to the boat and tell them to drop it
out of sight, quick, behind the bushes. Do you hear? Quick! I
will come to you there directly. Hurry up!"
"Peter! What is it? I won't leave you. There is some danger in
this horrible place."
"Will you do what I tell you?" said Willems, in an irritable
whisper.
"No! no! no! I won't leave you. I will not lose you again.
Tell me, what is it?"
From beyond the house came a faint voice singing. Willems shook
his wife by the shoulder.
"Do what I tell you! Run at once!"
She gripped his arm and clung to him desperately. He looked up to
heaven as if taking it to witness of that woman's infernal folly.
The song grew louder, then ceased suddenly, and Aissa appeared in
sight, walking slowly, her hands full of flowers.
She had turned the corner of the house, coming out into the full
sunshine, and the light seemed to leap upon her in a stream
brilliant, tender, and caressing, as if attracted by the radiant
happiness of her face. She had dressed herself for a festive
day, for the memorable day of his return to her, of his return to
an affection that would last for ever. The rays of the morning
sun were caught by the oval clasp of the embroidered belt that
held the silk sarong round her waist. The dazzling white stuff
of her body jacket was crossed by a bar of yellow and silver of
her scarf, and in the black hair twisted high on her small head
shone the round balls of gold pins amongst crimson blossoms and
white star-shaped flowers, with which she had crowned herself to
charm his eyes; those eyes that were henceforth to see nothing in
the world but her own resplendent image. And she moved slowly,
bending her face over the mass of pure white champakas and
jasmine pressed to her breast, in a dreamy intoxication of sweet
scents and of sweeter hopes.
She did not seem to see anything, stopped for a moment at the
foot of the plankway leading to the house, then, leaving her
high-heeled wooden sandals there, ascended the planks in a light
run; straight, graceful, flexible, and noiseless, as if she had
soared up to the door on invisible wings. Willems pushed his
wife roughly behind the tree, and made up his mind quickly for a
rush to the house, to grab his revolver and . . . Thoughts,
doubts, expedients seemed to boil in his brain. He had a
flashing vision of delivering a stunning blow, of tying up that
flower bedecked woman in the dark house--a vision of things done
swiftly with enraged haste--to save his prestige, his
superiority--something of immense importance. . . . He had not
made two steps when Joanna bounded after him, caught the back of
his ragged jacket, tore out a big piece, and instantly hooked
herself with both hands to the collar, nearly dragging him down
on his back. Although taken by surprise, he managed to keep his
feet. From behind she panted into his ear--
"That woman! Who's that woman? Ah! that's what those boatmen
were talking about. I heard them . . . heard them . . . heard .
. . in the night. They spoke about some woman. I dared not
understand. I would not ask . . . listen . . . believe! How
could I? Then it's true. No. Say no. . . . Who's that woman?"
He swayed, tugging forward. She jerked at him till the button
gave way, and then he slipped half out of his jacket and, turning
round, remained strangely motionless. His heart seemed to beat
in his throat. He choked--tried to speak--could not find any
words. He thought with fury: I will kill both of them.
For a second nothing moved about the courtyard in the great vivid
clearness of the day. Only down by the landing-place a
waringan-tree, all in a blaze of clustering red berries, seemed
alive with the stir of little birds that filled with the feverish
flutter of their feathers the tangle of overloaded branches.
Suddenly the variegated flock rose spinning in a soft whirr and
dispersed, slashing the sunlit haze with the sharp outlines of
stiffened wings. Mahmat and one of his brothers appeared coming
up from the landing-place, their lances in their hands, to look
for their passengers.
Aissa coming now empty-handed out of the house, caught sight of
the two armed men. In her surprise she emitted a faint cry,
vanished back and in a flash reappeared in the doorway with
Willems' revolver in her hand. To her the presence of any man
there could only have an ominous meaning. There was nothing in
the outer world but enemies. She and the man she loved were
alone, with nothing round them but menacing dangers. She did not
mind that, for if death came, no matter from what hand, they
would die together.
Her resolute eyes took in the courtyard in a circular glance.
She noticed that the two strangers had ceased to advance and now
were standing close together leaning on the polished shafts of
their weapons. The next moment she saw Willems, with his back
towards her, apparently struggling under the tree with some one.
She saw nothing distinctly, and, unhesitating, flew down the
plankway calling out: "I come!"
He heard her cry, and with an unexpected rush drove his wife
backwards to the seat. She fell on it; he jerked himself
altogether out of his jacket, and she covered her face with the
soiled rags. He put his lips close to her, asking--
"For the last time, will you take the child and go?"
She groaned behind the unclean ruins of his upper garment. She
mumbled something. He bent lower to hear. She was saying--
"I won't. Order that woman away. I can't look at her!"
"You fool!"
He seemed to spit the words at her, then, making up his mind,
spun round to face Aissa. She was coming towards them slowly
now, with a look of unbounded amazement on her face. Then she
stopped and stared at him--who stood there, stripped to the
waist, bare-headed and sombre.
Some way off, Mahmat and his brother exchanged rapid words in
calm undertones. . . . This was the strong daughter of the holy
man who had died. The white man is very tall. There would be
three women and the child to take in the boat, besides that white
man who had the money. . . . The brother went away back to the
boat, and Mahmat remained looking on. He stood like a sentinel,
the leaf-shaped blade of his lance glinting above his head.
Willems spoke suddenly.
"Give me this," he said, stretching his hand towards the
revolver.
Aissa stepped back. Her lips trembled. She said very low:
"Your people?"
He nodded slightly. She shook her head thoughtfully, and a few
delicate petals of the flowers dying in her hair fell like big
drops of crimson and white at her feet.
"Did you know?" she whispered.
"No!" said Willems. "They sent for me."
"Tell them to depart. They are accursed. What is there between
them and you--and you who carry my life in your heart!"
Willems said nothing. He stood before her looking down on the
ground and repeating to himself: I must get that revolver away
from her, at once, at once. I can't think of trusting myself with
those men without firearms. I must have it.
She asked, after gazing in silence at Joanna, who was sobbing
gently--
"Who is she?"
"My wife," answered Willems, without looking up. "My wife
according to our white law, which comes from God!"
"Your law! Your God!" murmured Aissa, contemptuously.
"Give me this revolver," said Willems, in a peremptory tone. He
felt an unwillingness to close with her, to get it by force.
She took no notice and went on--
"Your law . . . or your lies? What am I to believe? I came--I
ran to defend you when I saw the strange men. You lied to me
with your lips, with your eyes. You crooked heart! . . . Ah!"
she added, after an abrupt pause. "She is the first! Am I then
to be a slave?"
"You may be what you like," said Willems, brutally. "I am
going."
Her gaze was fastened on the blanket under which she had detected
a slight movement. She made a long stride towards it. Willems
turned half round. His legs seemed to him to be made of lead.
He felt faint and so weak that, for a moment, the fear of dying
there where he stood, before he could escape from sin and
disaster, passed through his mind in a wave of despair.
She lifted up one corner of the blanket, and when she saw the
sleeping child a sudden quick shudder shook her as though she had
seen something inexpressibly horrible. She looked at Louis
Willems with eyes fixed in an unbelieving and terrified stare.
Then her fingers opened slowly, and a shadow seemed to settle on
her face as if something obscure and fatal had come between her
and the sunshine. She stood looking down, absorbed, as though
she had watched at the bottom of a gloomy abyss the mournful
procession of her thoughts.
Willems did not move. All his faculties were concentrated upon
the idea of his release. And it was only then that the assurance
of it came to him with such force that he seemed to hear a loud
voice shouting in the heavens that all was over, that in another
five, ten minutes, he would step into another existence; that all
this, the woman, the madness, the sin, the regrets, all would go,
rush into the past, disappear, become as dust, as smoke, as
drifting clouds--as nothing! Yes! All would vanish in the
unappeasable past which would swallow up all--even the very
memory of his temptation and of his downfall. Nothing mattered.
He cared for nothing. He had forgotten Aissa, his wife, Lingard,
Hudig--everybody, in the rapid vision of his hopeful future.
After a while he heard Aissa saying--
"A child! A child! What have I done to be made to devour this
sorrow and this grief? And while your man-child and the mother
lived you told me there was nothing for you to remember in the
land from which you came! And I thought you could be mine. I
thought that I would . . ."
Her voice ceased in a broken murmur, and with it, in her heart,
seemed to die the greater and most precious hope of her new life.
She had hoped that in the future the frail arms of a child would
bind their two lives together in a bond which nothing on earth
could break, a bond of affection, of gratitude, of tender
respect. She the first--the only one! But in the instant she
saw the son of that other woman she felt herself removed into the
cold, the darkness, the silence of a solitude impenetrable and
immense--very far from him, beyond the possibility of any hope,
into an infinity of wrongs without any redress.
She strode nearer to Joanna. She felt towards that woman anger,
envy, jealousy. Before her she felt humiliated and enraged. She
seized the hanging sleeve of the jacket in which Joanna was
hiding her face and tore it out of her hands, exclaiming loudly--
"Let me see the face of her before whom I am only a servant and a
slave. Ya-wa! I see you!"
Her unexpected shout seemed to fill the sunlit space of cleared
grounds, rise high and run on far into the land over the
unstirring tree-tops of the forests. She stood in sudden
stillness, looking at Joanna with surprised contempt.
"A Sirani woman!" she said, slowly, in a tone of wonder.
Joanna rushed at Willems--clung to him, shrieking: "Defend me,
Peter! Defend me from that woman!"
"Be quiet. There is no danger," muttered Willems, thickly.
Aissa looked at them with scorn. "God is great! I sit in the
dust at your feet," she exclaimed jeeringly, joining her hands
above her head in a gesture of mock humility. "Before you I am
as nothing." She turned to Willems fiercely, opening her arms
wide. "What have you made of me?" she cried, "you lying child of
an accursed mother! What have you made of me? The slave of a
slave. Don't speak! Your words are worse than the poison of
snakes. A Sirani woman. A woman of a people despised by all."
She pointed her finger at Joanna, stepped back, and began to
laugh.
"Make her stop, Peter!" screamed Joanna. "That heathen woman.
Heathen! Heathen! Beat her, Peter."
Willems caught sight of the revolver which Aissa had laid on the
seat near the child. He spoke in Dutch to his wife, without
moving his head.
"Snatch the boy--and my revolver there. See. Run to the boat.
I will keep her back. Now's the time."
Aissa came nearer. She stared at Joanna, while between the short
gusts of broken laughter she raved, fumbling distractedly at the
buckle of her belt.
"To her! To her--the mother of him who will speak of your
wisdom, of your courage. All to her. I have nothing. Nothing.
Take, take."
She tore the belt off and threw it at Joanna's feet. She flung
down with haste the armlets, the gold pins, the flowers; and the
long hair, released, fell scattered over her shoulders, framing
in its blackness the wild exaltation of her face.
"Drive her off, Peter. Drive off the heathen savage," persisted
Joanna. She seemed to have lost her head altogether. She
stamped, clinging to Willems' arm with both her hands.
"Look," cried Aissa. "Look at the mother of your son! She is
afraid. Why does she not go from before my face? Look at her.
She is ugly."
Joanna seemed to understand the scornful tone of the words. As
Aissa stepped back again nearer to the tree she let go her
husband's arm, rushed at her madly, slapped her face, then,
swerving round, darted at the child who, unnoticed, had been
wailing for some time, and, snatching him up, flew down to the
waterside, sending shriek after shriek in an access of insane
terror.
Willems made for the revolver. Aissa passed swiftly, giving him
an unexpected push that sent him staggering away from the tree.
She caught up the weapon, put it behind her back, and cried--
"You shall not have it. Go after her. Go to meet danger. . . .
Go to meet death. . . . Go unarmed. . . . Go with empty hands
and sweet words . . . as you came to me. . . . Go helpless and
lie to the forests, to the sea . . . to the death that waits for
you. . . ."
She ceased as if strangled. She saw in the horror of the passing
seconds the half-naked, wild-looking man before her; she heard
the faint shrillness of Joanna's insane shrieks for help
somewhere down by the riverside. The sunlight streamed on her,
on him, on the mute land, on the murmuring river--the gentle
brilliance of a serene morning that, to her, seemed traversed by
ghastly flashes of uncertain darkness. Hate filled the world,
filled the space between them--the hate of race, the hate of
hopeless diversity, the hate of blood; the hate against the man
born in the land of lies and of evil from which nothing but
misfortune comes to those who are not white. And as she stood,
maddened, she heard a whisper near her, the whisper of the dead
Omar's voice saying in her ear: "Kill! Kill!"
She cried, seeing him move--
"Do not come near me . . . or you die now! Go while I remember
yet . . . remember. . . ."
Willems pulled himself together for a struggle. He dared not go
unarmed. He made a long stride, and saw her raise the revolver.
He noticed that she had not cocked it, and said to himself that,
even if she did fire, she would surely miss. Go too high; it was
a stiff trigger. He made a step nearer--saw the long barrel
moving unsteadily at the end of her extended arm. He thought:
This is my time . . . He bent his knees slightly, throwing his
body forward, and took off with a long bound for a tearing rush.
He saw a burst of red flame before his eyes, and was deafened by
a report that seemed to him louder than a clap of thunder.
Something stopped him short, and he stood aspiring in his
nostrils the acrid smell of the blue smoke that drifted from
before his eyes like an immense cloud. . . . Missed, by Heaven!
. . . Thought so! . . . And he saw her very far off, throwing
her arms up, while the revolver, very small, lay on the ground
between them. . . . Missed! . . . He would go and pick it up
now. Never before did he understand, as in that second, the joy,
the triumphant delight of sunshine and of life. His mouth was
full of something salt and warm. He tried to cough; spat out. . .
. Who shrieks: In the name of God, he dies!--he dies!--Who
dies?--Must pick up--Night!--What? . . . Night already. . . .
* * * * * *
Many years afterwards Almayer was telling the story of the great
revolution in Sambir to a chance visitor from Europe. He was a
Roumanian, half naturalist, half orchid-hunter for commercial
purposes, who used to declare to everybody, in the first five
minutes of acquaintance, his intention of writing a scientific
book about tropical countries. On his way to the interior he had
quartered himself upon Almayer. He was a man of some education,
but he drank his gin neat, or only, at most, would squeeze the
juice of half a small lime into the raw spirit. He said it was
good for his health, and, with that medicine before him, he would
describe to the surprised Almayer the wonders of European
capitals; while Almayer, in exchange, bored him by expounding,
with gusto, his unfavourable opinions of Sambir's social and
political life. They talked far into the night, across the deal
table on the verandah, while, between them, clear-winged, small,
and flabby insects, dissatisfied with moonlight, streamed in and
perished in thousands round the smoky light of the evil-smelling
lamp.
Almayer, his face flushed, was saying--
"Of course, I did not see that. I told you I was stuck in the
creek on account of father's--Captain Lingard's--susceptible
temper. I am sure I did it all for the best in trying to
facilitate the fellow's escape; but Captain Lingard was that kind
of man--you know--one couldn't argue with. Just before sunset
the water was high enough, and we got out of the creek. We got
to Lakamba's clearing about dark. All very quiet; I thought they
were gone, of course, and felt very glad. We walked up the
courtyard--saw a big heap of something lying in the middle. Out
of that she rose and rushed at us. By God. . . . You know those
stories of faithful dogs watching their masters' corpses . . .
don't let anybody approach . . . got to beat them off--and all
that. . . . Well, 'pon my word we had to beat her off. Had to!
She was like a fury. Wouldn't let us touch him. Dead--of
course. Should think so. Shot through the lung, on the left
side, rather high up, and at pretty close quarters too, for the
two holes were small. Bullet came out through the
shoulder-blade. After we had overpowered her--you can't imagine
how strong that woman was; it took three of us--we got the body
into the boat and shoved off. We thought she had fainted then,
but she got up and rushed into the water after us. Well, I let
her clamber in. What could I do? The river's full of
alligators. I will never forget that pull up-stream in the night
as long as I live. She sat in the bottom of the boat, holding
his head in her lap, and now and again wiping his face with her
hair. There was a lot of blood dried about his mouth and chin.
And for all the six hours of that journey she kept on whispering
tenderly to that corpse! . . . I had the mate of the schooner
with me. The man said afterwards that he wouldn't go through it
again--not for a handful of diamonds. And I believed him--I did.
It makes me shiver. Do you think he heard? No! I mean
somebody--something--heard? . . ."
"I am a materialist," declared the man of science, tilting the
bottle shakily over the emptied glass.
Almayer shook his head and went on--
"Nobody saw how it really happened but that man Mahmat. He
always said that he was no further off from them than two lengths
of his lance. It appears the two women rowed each other while
that Willems stood between them. Then Mahmat says that when
Joanna struck her and ran off, the other two seemed to become
suddenly mad together. They rushed here and there. Mahmat
says--those were his very words: 'I saw her standing holding the
pistol that fires many times and pointing it all over the
campong. I was afraid--lest she might shoot me, and jumped on
one side. Then I saw the white man coming at her swiftly. He
came like our master the tiger when he rushes out of the jungle
at the spears held by men. She did not take aim. The barrel of
her weapon went like this--from side to side, but in her eyes I
could see suddenly a great fear. There was only one shot. She
shrieked while the white man stood blinking his eyes and very
straight, till you could count slowly one, two, three; then he
coughed and fell on his face. The daughter of Omar shrieked
without drawing breath, till he fell. I went away then and left
silence behind me. These things did not concern me, and in my
boat there was that other woman who had promised me money. We
left directly, paying no attention to her cries. We are only
poor men--and had but a small reward for our trouble!' That's
what Mahmat said. Never varied. You ask him yourself. He's the
man you hired the boats from, for your journey up the river."
"The most rapacious thief I ever met!" exclaimed the traveller,
thickly.
"Ah! He is a respectable man. His two brothers got themselves
speared--served them right. They went in for robbing Dyak
graves. Gold ornaments in them you know. Serve them right. But
he kept respectable and got on. Aye! Everybody got on--but I.
And all through that scoundrel who brought the Arabs here."
"De mortuis nil ni . . . num," muttered Almayer's guest.
"I wish you would speak English instead of jabbering in your own
language, which no one can understand," said Almayer, sulkily.
"Don't be angry," hiccoughed the other. "It's Latin, and it's
wisdom. It means: Don't waste your breath in abusing shadows.
No offence there. I like you. You have a quarrel with
Providence--so have I. I was meant to be a professor,
while--look."
His head nodded. He sat grasping the glass. Almayer walked up
and down, then stopped suddenly.
"Yes, they all got on but I. Why? I am better than any of them.
Lakamba calls himself a Sultan, and when I go to see him on
business sends that one-eyed fiend of his--Babalatchi--to tell me
that the ruler is asleep; and shall sleep for a long time. And
that Babalatchi! He is the Shahbandar of the State--if you
please. Oh Lord! Shahbandar! The pig! A vagabond I wouldn't
let come up these steps when he first came here. . . . Look at
Abdulla now. He lives here because--he says--here he is away
from white men. But he has hundreds of thousands. Has a house
in Penang. Ships. What did he not have when he stole my trade
from me! He knocked everything here into a cocked hat, drove
father to gold-hunting--then to Europe, where he disappeared.
Fancy a man like Captain Lingard disappearing as though he had
been a common coolie. Friends of mine wrote to London asking
about him. Nobody ever heard of him there! Fancy! Never heard
of Captain Lingard!"
The learned gatherer of orchids lifted his head.
"He was a sen--sentimen--tal old buc--buccaneer," he stammered
out, "I like him. I'm sent--tal myself."
He winked slowly at Almayer, who laughed.
"Yes! I told you about that gravestone. Yes! Another hundred
and twenty dollars thrown away. Wish I had them now. He would
do it. And the inscription. Ha! ha! ha! 'Peter Willems,
Delivered by the Mercy of God from his Enemy.' What
enemy--unless Captain Lingard himself? And then it has no sense.
He was a great man--father was--but strange in many ways. . . .
You haven't seen the grave? On the top of that hill, there, on
the other side of the river. I must show you. We will go
there."
"Not I!" said the other. "No interest--in the sun--too tiring. .
. . Unless you carry me there."
As a matter of fact he was carried there a few months afterwards,
and his was the second white man's grave in Sambir; but at
present he was alive if rather drunk. He asked abruptly--
"And the woman?"
"Oh! Lingard, of course, kept her and her ugly brat in Macassar.
Sinful waste of money--that! Devil only knows what became of them
since father went home. I had my daughter to look after. I
shall give you a word to Mrs. Vinck in Singapore when you go
back. You shall see my Nina there. Lucky man. She is beautiful,
and I hear so accomplished, so . . ."
"I have heard already twenty . . . a hundred times about your
daughter. What ab--about--that--that other one, Ai--ssa?"
"She! Oh! we kept her here. She was mad for a long time in a
quiet sort of way. Father thought a lot of her. He gave her a
house to live in, in my campong. She wandered about, speaking to
nobody unless she caught sight of Abdulla, when she would have a
fit of fury, and shriek and curse like anything. Very often she
would disappear--and then we all had to turn out and hunt for
her, because father would worry till she was brought back. Found
her in all kinds of places. Once in the abandoned campong of
Lakamba. Sometimes simply wandering in the bush. She had one
favourite spot we always made for at first. It was ten to one on
finding her there--a kind of a grassy glade on the banks of a
small brook. Why she preferred that place, I can't imagine! And
such a job to get her away from there. Had to drag her away by
main force. Then, as the time passed, she became quieter and
more settled, like. Still, all my people feared her greatly. It
was my Nina that tamed her. You see the child was naturally
fearless and used to have her own way, so she would go to her and
pull at her sarong, and order her about, as she did everybody.
Finally she, I verily believe, came to love the child. Nothing
could resist that little one--you know. She made a capital
nurse. Once when the little devil ran away from me and fell into
the river off the end of the jetty, she jumped in and pulled her
out in no time. I very nearly died of fright. Now of course she
lives with my serving girls, but does what she likes. As long as
I have a handful of rice or a piece of cotton in the store she
sha'n't want for anything. You have seen her. She brought in
the dinner with Ali."
"What! That doubled-up crone?"
"Ah!" said Almayer. "They age quickly here. And long foggy
nights spent in the bush will soon break the strongest backs--as
you will find out yourself soon."
"Dis . . . disgusting," growled the traveller.
He dozed off. Almayer stood by the balustrade looking out at the
bluish sheen of the moonlit night. The forests, unchanged and
sombre, seemed to hang over the water, listening to the unceasing
whisper of the great river; and above their dark wall the hill on
which Lingard had buried the body of his late prisoner rose in a
black, rounded mass, upon the silver paleness of the sky.
Almayer looked for a long time at the clean-cut outline of the
summit, as if trying to make out through darkness and distance
the shape of that expensive tombstone. When he turned round at
last he saw his guest sleeping, his arms on the table, his head
on his arms.
"Now, look here!" he shouted, slapping the table with the palm of
his hand.
The naturalist woke up, and sat all in a heap, staring owlishly.
"Here!" went on Almayer, speaking very loud and thumping the
table, "I want to know. You, who say you have read all the
books, just tell me . . . why such infernal things are ever
allowed. Here I am! Done harm to nobody, lived an honest life .
. . and a scoundrel like that is born in Rotterdam or some such
place at the other end of the world somewhere, travels out here,
robs his employer, runs away from his wife, and ruins me and my
Nina--he ruined me, I tell you--and gets himself shot at last by
a poor miserable savage, that knows nothing at all about him
really. Where's the sense of all this? Where's your Providence?
Where's the good for anybody in all this? The world's a swindle!
A swindle! Why should I suffer? What have I done to be treated
so?"
He howled out his string of questions, and suddenly became
silent. The man who ought to have been a professor made a
tremendous effort to articulate distinctly--
"My dear fellow, don't--don't you see that the ba-bare fac--the
fact of your existence is off--offensive. . . . I--I like
you--like . . ."
He fell forward on the table, and ended his remarks by an
unexpected and prolonged snore.
Almayer shrugged his shoulders and walked back to the balustrade.
He drank his own trade gin very seldom, but when he did, a
ridiculously small quantity of the stuff could induce him to
assume a rebellious attitude towards the scheme of the universe.
And now, throwing his body over the rail, he shouted impudently
into the night, turning his face towards that far-off and
invisible slab of imported granite upon which Lingard had thought
fit to record God's mercy and Willems' escape.
"Father was wrong--wrong!" he yelled. "I want you to smart for
it. You must smart for it! Where are you, Willems? Hey? . . .
Hey? . . . Where there is no mercy for you--I hope!"
"Hope," repeated in a whispering echo the startled forests, the
river and the hills; and Almayer, who stood waiting, with a smile
of tipsy attention on his lips, heard no other answer.
