

                                 Joseph Conrad

                                Almayer's Folly

                          A Story of an Eastern River

                                 Author's Note

I am informed that in criticizing that literature which preys on strange people
and prowls in far-off countries, under the shade of palms, in the unsheltered
glare of sunbeaten beaches, amongst honest cannibals and the more sophisticated
pioneers of our glorious virtues, a lady - distinguished in the world of letters
- summed up her disapproval of it by saying that the tales it produced were
decivilized. And in that sentence not only the tales but, I apprehend, the
strange people and the far-off countries also, are finally condemned in a
verdict of contemptuous dislike.
    A woman's judgment: intuitive, clever, expressed with felicitous charm -
infallible. A judgment that has nothing to do with justice. The critic and the
judge seems to think that in those distant lands all joy is a yell and a war
dance, all pathos is a howl and a ghastly grin of filed teeth, and that the
solution of all problems is found in the barrel of a revolver or on the point of
an assegai. And yet it is not so. But the erring magistrate may plead in excuse
the misleading nature of the evidence.
    The picture of life, there as here, is drawn with the same elaboration of
detail, coloured with the same tints. Only in the cruel serenity of the sky,
under the merciless brilliance of the sun, the dazzled eye misses the delicate
detail, sees only the strong outlines, while the colours, in the steady light,
seem crude and without shadow. Nevertheless it is the same picture.
    And there is a bond between us and that humanity so far away. I am speaking
here of men and women - not of the charming and graceful phantoms that move
about in our mud and smoke and are softly luminous with the radiance of all our
virtues; that are possessed of all refinements, of all sensibilities, of all
wisdom - but, being only phantoms, possess no heart.
    The sympathies of those are (probably) with the immortals: with the angels
above or the devils below. I am content to sympathize with common mortals, no
matter where they live; in houses or in tents, in the streets under a fog, or in
the forests behind the dark line of dismal mangroves that fringe the vast
solitude of the sea. For, their land - like ours - lies under the inscrutable
eyes of the Most High. Their hearts - like ours - must endure the load of the
gifts from Heaven: the curse of facts and the blessing of illusions, the
bitterness of our wisdom and the deceptive consolation of our folly.
                                                                            J.C.
    1895
 
                                        
            Qui de nous n'a eu sa terre promise, son jour d'extase et sa fin en
            exil
                                                                           Amiel
 

                                  Chapter One

»Kaspar! Makan!«
    The well-known shrill voice startled Almayer from his dream of splendid
future into the unpleasant realities of the present hour. An unpleasant voice
too. He had heard it for many years, and with every year he liked it less. No
matter; there would be an end to all this soon.
    He shuffled uneasily, but took no further notice of the call. Leaning with
both his elbows on the balustrade of the verandah, he went on looking fixedly at
the great river that flowed - indifferent and hurried - before his eyes. He
liked to look at it about the time of sunset; perhaps because at that time the
sinking sun would spread a glowing gold tinge on the waters of the Pantai, and
Almayer's thoughts were often busy with gold; gold he had failed to secure; gold
the others had secured - dishonestly, of course - or gold he meant to secure
yet, through his own honest exertions, for himself and Nina. He absorbed himself
in his dream of wealth and power away from this coast where he had dwelt for so
many years, forgetting the bitterness of toil and strife in the vision of a
great and splendid reward. They would live in Europe, he and his daughter. They
would be rich and respected. Nobody would think of her mixed blood in the
presence of her great beauty and of his immense wealth. Witnessing her triumphs
he would grow young again, he would forget the twenty-five years of
heart-breaking struggle on this coast where he felt like a prisoner. All this
was nearly within his reach. Let only Dain return! And return soon he must - in
his own interest, for his own share. He was now more than a week late! Perhaps
he would return to-night.
    Such were Almayer's thoughts as, standing on the verandah of his new but
already decaying house - that last failure of his life - he looked on the broad
river. There was no tinge of gold on it this evening, for it had been swollen by
the rains, and rolled an angry and muddy flood under his inattentive eyes,
carrying small drift-wood and big dead logs, and whole uprooted trees with
branches and foliage, amongst which the water swirled and roared angrily.
    One of those drifting trees grounded on the shelving shore, just by the
house, and Almayer, neglecting his dream, watched it with languid interest. The
tree swung slowly round, amid the hiss and foam of the water, and soon getting
free of the obstruction began to move down stream again, rolling slowly over,
raising upwards a long, denuded branch, like a hand lifted in mute appeal to
heaven against the river's brutal and unnecessary violence. Almayer's interest
in the fate of that tree increased rapidly. He leaned over to see if it would
clear the low point below. It did; then he drew back, thinking that now its
course was free down to the sea, and he envied the lot of that inanimate thing
now growing small and indistinct in the deepening darkness. As he lost sight of
it altogether he began to wonder how far out to sea it would drift. Would the
current carry it north or south? South, probably, till it drifted in sight of
Celebes, as far as Macassar, perhaps!
    Macassar! Almayer's quickened fancy distanced the tree on its imaginary
voyage, but his memory lagging behind some twenty years or more in point of time
saw a young and slim Almayer, clad all in white and modest looking, landing from
the Dutch mail-boat on the dusty jetty of Macassar, coming to woo fortune in the
godowns of old Hudig. It was an important epoch in his life, the beginning of a
new existence for him. His father, a subordinate official employed in the
Botanical Gardens of Buitenzorg, was no doubt delighted to place his son in such
a firm. The young man himself too was nothing loth to leave the poisonous shores
of Java, and the meagre comforts of the parental bungalow, where the father
grumbled all day at the stupidity of native gardeners, and the mother from the
depths of her long easy-chair bewailed the lost glories of Amsterdam, where she
had been brought up, and of her position as the daughter of a cigar dealer
there.
    Almayer had left his home with a light heart and a lighter pocket, speaking
English well, and strong in arithmetic; ready to conquer the world, never
doubting that he would.
    After those twenty years, standing in the close and stifling heat of a
Bornean evening, he recalled with pleasurable regret the image of Hudig's lofty
and cool warehouses with their long and straight avenues of gin cases and bales
of Manchester goods; the big door swinging noiselessly; the dim light of the
place, so delightful after the glare of the streets; the little railed-off
spaces amongst piles of merchandise where the Chinese clerks, neat, cool, and
sad-eyed, wrote rapidly and in silence amidst the din of the working gangs
rolling casks or shifting cases to a muttered song, ending with a desperate
yell. At the upper end, facing the great door, there was a larger space railed
off, well lighted; there the noise was subdued by distance, and above it rose
the soft and continuous clink of silver guilders which other discreet Chinamen
were counting and piling up under the supervision of Mr. Vinck, the cashier, the
genius presiding in the place - the right hand of the Master.
    In that clear space Almayer worked at his table not far from a little green
painted door, by which always stood a Malay in a red sash and turban, and whose
hand, holding a small string dangling from above, moved up and down with the
regularity of a machine. The string worked a punkah on the other side of the
green door, where the so-called private office was, and where old Hudig - the
Master - sat enthroned, holding noisy receptions. Sometimes the little door
would fly open disclosing to the outer world, through the bluish haze of tobacco
smoke, a long table loaded with bottles of various shapes and tall water
pitchers, rattan easy-chairs occupied by noisy men in sprawling attitudes, while
the Master would put his head through and, holding by the handle, would grunt
confidentially to Vinck; perhaps send an order thundering down the warehouse, or
spy a hesitating stranger and greet him with a friendly roar, »Welgome, Gapitan!
ver' you gome vrom? Bali, eh? Got bonies? I vant bonies! Vant all you got; ha!
ha! ha! Gome in!« Then the stranger was dragged in, in a tempest of yells, the
door was shut, and the usual noises refilled the place; the song of the workmen,
the rumble of barrels, the scratch of rapid pens; while above all rose the
musical chink of broad silver pieces streaming ceaselessly through the yellow
fingers of the attentive Chinamen.
    At that time Macassar was teeming with life and commerce. It was the point
in the islands where tended all those bold spirits who, fitting out schooners on
the Australian coast, invaded the Malay Archipelago in search of money and
adventure. Bold, reckless, keen in business, not disinclined for a brush with
the pirates that were to be found on many a coast as yet, making money fast,
they used to have a general rendezvous in the bay for purposes of trade and
dissipation. The Dutch merchants called those men English pedlars; some of them
were undoubtedly gentlemen for whom that kind of life had a charm; most were
seamen; the acknowledged king of them all was Tom Lingard, he whom the Malays,
honest or dishonest, quiet fishermen or desperate cut-throats, recognized as the
Rajah-Laut - the King of the Sea.
    Almayer had heard of him before he had been three days in Macassar, had
heard the stories of his smart business transactions, his loves, and also of his
desperate fights with the Sulu pirates, together with the romantic tale of some
child - a girl - found in a piratical prau by the victorious Lingard, when,
after a long contest, he boarded the craft, driving the crew overboard. This
girl, it was generally known, Lingard had adopted, was having her educated in
some convent in Java, and spoke of her as my daughter. He had sworn a mighty
oath to marry her to a white man before he went home and to leave her all his
money. »And Captain Lingard has lots of money,« would say Mr. Vinck solemnly,
with his head on one side, »lots of money; more than Hudig!« And after a pause -
just to let his hearers recover from their astonishment at such an incredible
assertion - he would add in an explanatory whisper, »You know, he has discovered
a river.«
    That was it! He had discovered a river! That was the fact placing old
Lingard so much above the common crowd of sea-going adventurers who traded with
Hudig in the daytime and drank champagne, gambled, sang noisy songs, and made
love to half-caste girls under the broad verandah of the Sunda Hotel at night.
Into that river, whose entrances himself only knew, Lingard used to take his
assorted cargo of Manchester goods, brass gongs, rifles and gunpowder. His brig
Flash, which he commanded himself, would on those occasions disappear quietly
during the night from the roadstead while his companions were sleeping off the
effects of the midnight carouse, Lingard seeing them drunk under the table
before going on board, himself unaffected by any amount of liquor. Many tried to
follow him and find that land of plenty for gutta-percha and rattans, pearl
shells and birds' nests, wax and gum-dammar, but the little Flash could outsail
every craft in those seas. A few of them came to grief on hidden sandbanks and
coral reefs, losing their all and barely escaping with life from the cruel grip
of this sunny and smiling sea; others got discouraged; and for many years the
green and peaceful-looking islands guarding the entrances to the promised land
kept their secret with all the merciless serenity of tropical nature. And so
Lingard came and went on his secret or open expeditions, becoming a hero in
Almayer's eyes by the boldness and enormous profits of his ventures, seeming to
Almayer a very great man indeed as he saw him marching up the warehouse,
grunting a »how are you?« to Vinck, or greeting Hudig, the Master, with a
boisterous »Hallo, old pirate! Alive yet?« as a preliminary to transacting
business behind the little green door. Often of an evening, in the silence of
the then deserted warehouse, Almayer putting away his papers before driving home
with Mr. Vinck, in whose household he lived, would pause listening to the noise
of a hot discussion in the private office, would hear the deep and monotonous
growl of the Master, and the roared-out interruptions of Lingard - two mastiffs
fighting over a marrowy bone. But to Almayer's ears it sounded like a quarrel of
Titans - a battle of the gods.
    After a year or so Lingard, having been brought often in contact with
Almayer in the course of business, took a sudden and, to the onlookers, a rather
inexplicable fancy to the young man. He sang his praises, late at night, over a
convivial glass to his cronies in the Sunda Hotel, and one fine morning
electrified Vinck by declaring that he must have »that young fellow for a
supercargo. Kind of captain's clerk. Do all my quill-driving for me.« Hudig
consented. Almayer, with youth's natural craving for change, was nothing loth,
and packing his few belongings, started in the Flash on one of those long
cruises when the old seaman was wont to visit almost every island in the
archipelago. Months slipped by, and Lingard's friendship seemed to increase.
Often pacing the deck with Almayer, when the faint night breeze, heavy with
aromatic exhalations of the islands, shoved the brig gently along under the
peaceful and sparkling sky, did the old seaman open his heart to his entranced
listener. He spoke of his past life, of escaped dangers, of big profits in his
trade, of new combinations that were in the future to bring profits bigger
still. Often he had mentioned his daughter, the girl found in the pirate prau,
speaking of her with a strange assumption of fatherly tenderness. »She must be a
big girl now,« he used to say. »It's nigh unto four years since I have seen her!
Damme, Almayer, if I don't think we will run into Sourabaya this trip.« And
after such a declaration he always dived into his cabin muttering to himself,
»Something must be done - must be done.« More than once he would astonish
Almayer by walking up to him rapidly, clearing his throat with a powerful »Hem!«
as if he intended to say something, and then turning abruptly away to lean over
the bulwarks in silence, and watch, motionless, for hours, the gleam and sparkle
of the phosphorescent sea along the ship's side. It was the night before
arriving in Sourabaya when one of those attempts at confidential communication
succeeded. After clearing his throat he spoke. He spoke to some purpose. He
wanted Almayer to marry his adopted daughter. »And don't you kick because you're
white!« he shouted, suddenly, not giving the surprised young man the time to say
a word. »None of that with me! Nobody will see the colour of your wife's skin.
The dollars are too thick for that, I tell you! And mind you, they will be
thicker yet before I die. There will be millions, Kaspar! Millions I say! And
all for her - and for you, if you do what you are told.«
    Startled by the unexpected proposal, Almayer hesitated, and remained silent
for a minute. He was gifted with a strong and active imagination, and in that
short space of time he saw, as in a flash of dazzling light, great piles of
shining guilders, and realized all the possibilities of an opulent existence.
The consideration, the indolent ease of life - for which he felt himself so well
fitted - his ships, his warehouses, his merchandise (old Lingard would not live
for ever), and, crowning all, in the far future gleamed like a fairy palace the
big mansion in Amsterdam, that earthly paradise of his dreams, where made king
amongst men by old Lingard's money, he would pass the evening of his days in
inexpressible splendour. As to the other side of the picture - the companionship
for life of a Malay girl, that legacy of a boatful of pirates - there was only
within him a confused consciousness of shame that he a white man - Still, a
convent education of four years - and then she may mercifully die. He was always
lucky, and money is powerful! Go through it. Why not? He had a vague idea of
shutting her up somewhere, anywhere, out of his gorgeous future. Easy enough to
dispose of a Malay woman, a slave, after all, to his Eastern mind, convent or no
convent, ceremony or no ceremony.
    He lifted his head and confronted the anxious yet irate seaman.
    »I - of course - anything you wish, Captain Lingard.«
    »Call me father, my boy. She does,« said the mollified old adventurer.
»Damme, though, if I didn't think you were going to refuse. Mind you, Kaspar, I
always get my way, so it would have been no use. But you are no fool.«
    He remembered well that time - the look, the accent, the words, the effect
they produced on him, his very surroundings. He remembered the narrow slanting
deck of the brig, the silent sleeping coast, the smooth black surface of the sea
with a great bar of gold laid on it by the rising moon. He remembered it all,
and he remembered his feelings of mad exultation at the thought of that fortune
thrown into his hands. He was no fool then, and he was no fool now.
Circumstances had been against him; the fortune was gone, but hope remained.
    He shivered in the night air, and suddenly became aware of the intense
darkness which, on the sun's departure, had closed in upon the river, blotting
out the outlines of the opposite shore. Only the fire of dry branches lit
outside the stockade of the Rajah's compound called fitfully into view the
ragged trunks of the surrounding trees, putting a stain of glowing red halfway
across the river where the drifting logs were hurrying toward the sea through
the impenetrable gloom. He had a hazy recollection of having been called some
time during the evening by his wife. To his dinner probably. But a man busy
contemplating the wreckage of his past in the dawn of new hopes cannot be hungry
whenever his rice is ready. Time he went home, though; it was getting late.
    He stepped cautiously on the loose planks towards the ladder. A lizard,
disturbed by the noise, emitted a plaintive note and scurried through the long
grass growing on the bank. Almayer descended the ladder carefully, now
thoroughly recalled to the realities of life by the care necessary to prevent a
fall on the uneven ground where the stones, decaying planks, and half-sawn beams
were piled up in inextricable confusion. As he turned towards the house where he
lived - my old house he called it - his ear detected the splash of paddles away
in the darkness of the river. He stood still in the path, attentive and
surprised at anybody being on the river at this late hour during such a heavy
freshet. Now he could hear the paddles distinctly, and even a rapidly exchanged
word in low tones, the heavy breathing of men fighting with the current, and
hugging the bank on which he stood. Quite close, too, but it was too dark to
distinguish anything under the overhanging bushes.
    »Arabs, no doubt,« muttered Almayer to himself, peering into the solid
blackness. »What are they up to now? Some of Abdulla's business; curse him!«
    The boat was very close now.
    »Oh, ya! Man!« hailed Almayer.
    The sound of voices ceased, but the paddles worked as furiously as before.
Then the bush in front of Almayer shook, and the sharp sound of the paddles
falling into the canoe rang in the quiet night. They were holding on to the bush
now; but Almayer could hardly make out an indistinct dark shape of a man's head
and shoulders above the bank.
    »You Abdulla?« said Almayer, doubtfully.
    A grave voice answered -
    »Tuan Almayer is speaking to a friend. There is no Arab here.«
    Almayer's heart gave a great leap.
    »Dain!« he exclaimed. »At last! at last! I have been waiting for you every
day and every night. I had nearly given you up.«
    »Nothing could have stopped me from coming back here,« said the other,
almost violently. »Not even death,« he whispered to himself.
    »This is a friend's talk, and is very good,« said Almayer, heartily. »Drop
down to the jetty and let your men cook their rice in my campong while we talk
in the house.«
    There was no answer to that invitation.
    »What is it?« asked Almayer, uneasily. »There is nothing wrong with the
brig, I hope?«
    »The brig is where no Orang Blanda can lay his hands on her,« said Dain,
with a gloomy tone in his voice, which Almayer, in his elation, failed to
notice.
    »Right,« he said. »But where are all your men? There are only two with you.«
    »Listen, Tuan Almayer,« said Dain. »To-morrow's sun shall see me in your
house, and then we will talk. Now I must go to the Rajah.«
    »To the Rajah! Why? What do you want with Lakamba?«
    »Tuan, to-morrow we talk like friends. I must see Lakamba to-night.«
    »Dain, you are not going to abandon me now, when all is ready?« asked
Almayer, in a pleading voice.
    »Have I not returned? But I must see Lakamba first for your good and mine.«
    The shadowy head disappeared abruptly. The bush, released from the grasp of
the bowman, sprung back with a swish, scattering a shower of muddy water over
Almayer, as he bent forward, trying to see.
    In a little while the canoe shot into the streak of light that streamed on
the river from the big fire on the opposite shore, disclosing the outline of two
men bending to their work, and a third figure in the stern flourishing the
steering paddle, his head covered with an enormous round hat, like a
fantastically exaggerated mushroom.
    Almayer watched the canoe till it passed out of the line of light. Shortly
after the murmur of many voices reached him across the water. He could see the
torches being snatched out of the burning pile, and rendering visible for a
moment the gate in the stockade round which they crowded. Then they went in; the
torches disappeared, and the scattered fire sent out only a dim and fitful
glare.
    Almayer stepped homewards with long strides and mind uneasy. Surely Dain was
not thinking of playing him false. It was absurd. Dain and Lakamba were both too
much interested in the success of his scheme. Trusting to Malays was poor work;
but then even Malays have some sense and understand their own interest. All
would be well - must be well. At this point in his meditation he found himself
at the foot of the steps leading to the verandah of his home. From the low point
of land where he stood he could see both branches of the river. The main stream
of the Pantai was lost in complete darkness, for the fire at the Rajah's had
gone out altogether; but up the Sambir reach his eye could follow the long line
of Malay houses crowding the bank, with here and there a dim light twinkling
through bamboo walls, or a smoky torch burning on the platforms built out over
the river. Further away, where the island ended in a low cliff, rose a dark mass
of buildings towering above the Malay structures. Founded solidly on a firm
ground with plenty of space, starred by many lights burning strong and white,
with a suggestion of paraffin and lamp-glasses, stood the house and the godowns
of Abdulla bin Selim, the great trader of Sambir. To Almayer the sight was very
distasteful, and he shook his fist towards the buildings that in their evident
prosperity looked to him cold and insolent, and contemptuous of his own fallen
fortunes.
    He mounted the steps of his house slowly.
    In the middle of the verandah there was a round table. On it a paraffin lamp
without a globe shed a hard glare on the three inner sides. The fourth side was
open, and faced the river. Between the rough supports of the high-pitched roof
hung torn rattan screens. There was no ceiling, and the harsh brilliance of the
lamp was toned above into a soft half-light that lost itself in the obscurity
amongst the rafters. The front wall was cut in two by the doorway of a central
passage closed by a red curtain. The women's room opened into that passage,
which led to the back courtyard and to the cooking shed. In one of the side
walls there was a doorway. Half obliterated words - »Office: Lingard and Co.« -
were still legible on the dusty door, which looked as if it had not been opened
for a very long time. Close to the other side wall stood a bent-wood rocking
chair, and by the table and about the verandah four wooden armchairs straggled
forlornly, as if ashamed of their shabby surroundings. A heap of common mats lay
in one corner, with an old hammock slung diagonally above. In the other corner,
his head wrapped in a piece of red calico, huddled into a shapeless heap, slept
a Malay, one of Almayer's domestic slaves - my own people, he used to call them.
A numerous and representative assembly of moths were holding high revels round
the lamp to the spirited music of swarming mosquitoes. Under the palm-leaf
thatch lizards raced on the beams calling softly. A monkey, chained to one of
the verandah supports - retired for the night under the eaves - peered and
grinned at Almayer, as it swung to one of the bamboo roof sticks and caused a
shower of dust and bits of dried leaves to settle on the shabby table. The floor
was uneven, with many withered plants and dried earth scattered about. A general
air of squalid neglect pervaded the place. The light breeze from the river
swayed gently the tattered blinds, sending from the woods opposite a faint and
sickly perfume as of decaying flowers.
    Under Almayer's heavy tread the boards of the verandah creaked loudly. The
sleeper in the corner moved uneasily, muttering indistinct words. There was a
slight rustle behind the curtained doorway, and a soft voice asked in Malay, »Is
it you, father?«
    »Yes, Nina. I am hungry. Is everybody asleep in this house?«
    Almayer spoke jovially and dropped with a contented sigh into the armchair
nearest to the table. Nina Almayer came through the curtained doorway followed
by an old Malay woman, who busied herself in setting upon the table a plateful
of rice and fish, a jar of water and a bottle half full of genever. After
carefully placing before her master a cracked glass tumbler and a tin spoon she
went away noiselessly. Nina stood by the table, one hand lightly resting on its
edge, the other hanging listlessly by her side. Her face turned towards the
outer darkness, through which her dreamy eyes seemed to see some entrancing
picture, wore a look of impatient expectancy. She was tall for a half-caste,
with the correct profile of the father, modified and strengthened by the
squareness of the lower part of the face inherited from her maternal ancestors -
the Sulu pirates. Her firm mouth, with the lips slightly parted and disclosing a
gleam of white teeth, put a vague suggestion of ferocity into the impatient
expression of her features. And yet her dark and perfect eyes had all the tender
softness common to Malay women, but with a gleam of superior intelligence; they
looked out gravely, wide open and steady, as if facing something invisible to
all other eyes. She stood there all in white, straight, flexible, graceful,
unconscious of herself, her low but broad forehead crowned with a shining mass
of long black hair that fell in heavy tresses over her shoulders, and made her
pale olive complexion look paler still by the contrast of its coal-black hue.
    Almayer attacked his rice greedily, but after a few mouthfuls he paused,
spoon in hand, and looked at his daughter curiously.
    »Did you hear a boat pass about half an hour ago, Nina?« he asked.
    The girl gave him a quick glance, and moving away from the light stood with
her back to the table.
    »I heard nothing,« she said, slowly.
    »There was a boat. At last! Dain himself; and he went on to Lakamba. I know
it, for he told me so. I spoke to him, but he would not come here to-night.
Promised to come to-morrow.«
    He swallowed another spoonful, then said -
    »I am almost happy to-night, Nina. I can see the end of a long road, and it
leads us away from this miserable swamp. We shall soon get away from here, I and
you, my dear little girl, and then -«
    He rose from the table and stood looking fixedly before him as if
contemplating some enchanting vision.
    »And then,« he went on, »we shall be happy, you and I. Live rich and
respected far from here, and forget this life, and all this struggle, and all
this misery.«
    He approached his daughter and passed his hand caressingly over her hair.
    »It is bad to have to trust a Malay,« he said, »but I must own that this
Dain is a perfect gentleman - a perfect gentleman,« he repeated.
    »Did you ask him to come here, father?« inquired Nina, not looking at him.
    »Well, of course. We shall start on the day after to-morrow,« said Almayer,
joyously. »We must not lose any time. Are you glad, little girl?«
    She was as tall as himself, but he liked to recall the time when she was
little and they were all in all to each other.
    »I am glad,« she said, very low.
    »Of course,« said Almayer, vivaciously, »you cannot imagine what is before
you. I myself have not been to Europe, but I have heard my mother talk so often
that I seem to know all about it. We shall live a - a glorious life. You shall
see.«
    Again he stood silent by his daughter's side looking at that enchanting
vision. After a while he shook his fist towards the sleeping settlement.
    »Ah! my friend Abdulla,« he cried, »we shall see who will have the best of
it after all these years!«
    He looked up the river and remarked calmly:
    »Another thunderstorm. Well! No thunder will keep me awake to-night, I know!
Good-night, little girl,« he whispered tenderly, kissing her cheek. »You do not
seem to be very happy to-night, but to-morrow you will show a brighter face.
Eh?«
    Nina had listened to her father, unmoved, with her half-closed eyes still
gazing into the night now made more intense by a heavy thunder-cloud that had
crept down from the hills blotting out the stars, merging sky, forest, and river
into one mass of almost palpable blackness. The faint breeze had died out, but
the distant rumble of thunder and pale flashes of lightning gave warning of the
approaching storm. With a sigh the girl turned towards the table.
    Almayer was in his hammock now, already half asleep.
    »Take the lamp, Nina,« he muttered, drowsily. »This place is full of
mosquitoes. Go to sleep, daughter.«
    But Nina put the lamp out and turned back again towards the balustrade of
the verandah. She stood with her arm round the wooden support looking eagerly
towards the Pantai reach. And motionless there in the oppressive calm of the
tropical night she could see at each flash of lightning the forest lining both
banks up the river, bending before the furious blast of wind the upper reach of
the river whipped into white foam, and the black clouds torn into fantastic
shapes trailing low over the swaying trees. Round her all was as yet stillness
and peace, but she could hear afar off the driving roar, and hiss of heavy rain,
the wash of the waves on the tormented river. It came nearer and nearer, with
loud thunder-claps and long flashes of vivid lightning, followed by short
periods of appalling blackness. When the storm reached the low point dividing
the river, the whole house shook while the rain pattered loudly on the palm-leaf
roof. The thunder spoke in one prolonged roll, and the incessant lightning
disclosed a turmoil of leaping waters, driving logs, and the big trees bending
before a brutal and merciless force.
    Undisturbed by the nightly event of the rainy monsoon, the father slept
quietly, oblivious alike of his hopes, his misfortunes, his friends, and his
enemies; and the daughter stood motionless, at each flash of lightning eagerly
scanning the broad river with a steady and anxious gaze.
 

                                  Chapter Two

When, in compliance with Lingard's abrupt demand, Almayer consented to wed the
Malay girl, no one knew that on the day when the interesting young convert had
lost all her natural relations and found a white father, she had been fighting
desperately like the rest of them on board the prau, and was only prevented from
leaping overboard, like the few other survivors, by a severe wound in the leg.
There, on the fore-deck of the prau, old Lingard found her under a heap of dead
and dying pirates, and had her carried on the poop of the Flash before the Malay
craft was set on fire and sent adrift. She was conscious, and in the great peace
and stillness of the tropical evening succeeding the turmoil of the battle, she
watched all she held dear on earth after her own savage manner, drift away into
the gloom in a great roar of flame and smoke. She lay there unheeding the
careful hands attending to her wound, silent and absorbed in gazing at the
funeral pile of those brave men she had so much admired and so well helped in
their contest with the redoubtable Rajah-Laut.
    The light night breeze fanned the brig gently to the southwards, and the
great blaze of light got smaller and smaller till it twinkled only on the
horizon like a setting star. It set: the heavy canopy of smoke reflected the
glare of hidden flames for a short time and then disappeared also.
 
She realized that with this vanishing gleam her old life departed too.
Thenceforth there was slavery in the far countries, amongst strangers, in
unknown and perhaps terrible surroundings. There was in her the dread of the
unknown; but otherwise she accepted her position calmly, after the manner of her
people, and even considered it quite natural; for was she not a daughter of
warriors, conquered in battle, and did she not belong rightfully to the
victorious Rajah? Even the evident kindness of the terrible old man must spring,
she thought, from admiration for his captive, and the flattered vanity eased for
her the pangs of sorrow after such an awful calamity. Perhaps had she known of
the high walls, the quiet gardens, and the silent nuns of the Samarang convent,
where her destiny was leading her, she would have sought death in her dread and
hate of such a restraint. But in imagination she pictured to herself the usual
life of a Malay girl - the usual succession of heavy work and fierce love, of
intrigues, gold ornaments, of domestic drudgery, and of that great but occult
influence which is one of the few rights of half-savage womankind. But her
destiny in the rough hands of the old sea-dog, acting under unreasoning impulses
of the heart, took a strange and to her a terrible shape. She bore it all - the
restraint and the teaching and the new faith - with calm submission, concealing
her hate and contempt for all that new life. She learned the language very
easily, yet understood but little of the new faith the good sisters taught her,
assimilating quickly only the superstitious elements of the religion. She called
Lingard father, gently and caressingly, at each of his short and noisy visits,
under the clear impression that he was a great and dangerous power it was good
to propitiate. Was he not now her master? And during those long four years she
nourished a hope of finding favour in his eyes and ultimately becoming his wife,
counsellor, and guide.
    Those dreams of the future were dispelled by the Rajah Laut's fiat, which
made Almayer's fortune, as that young man fondly hoped. And dressed in the
hateful finery of Europe, the young convert stood before the altar with an
unknown and sulky-looking white man. For Almayer was uneasy, a little disgusted,
and greatly inclined to run away. A judicious fear of the adopted father-in-law
and a just regard for his own material welfare prevented him from making a
scandal; yet, while swearing fidelity, he was concocting plans for getting rid
of the pretty Malay girl in a more or less distant future. She, however, had
retained enough of conventual teaching to understand well that according to
white men's law she was going to be Almayer's companion and not his slave, and
promised to herself to act accordingly.
    So when the Flash freighted with materials for building a new house left the
harbour of Batavia, taking away the young couple into the unknown Borneo, she
did not carry on her deck so much love and happiness as old Lingard was wont to
boast of before his casual friends in the verandahs of various hotels. The old
seaman himself was perfectly happy. Now he had done his duty by the girl. »You
know I made her an orphan,« he often concluded solemnly, when talking about his
own affairs to a scratch audience of shore loafers - as it was his habit to do.
And the approbative shouts of his half-intoxicated auditors filled his simple
soul with delight and pride. »I carry everything right through,« was another of
his sayings, and in pursuance of that principle he pushed the building of house
and godowns on the Pantai River with feverish haste. The house for the young
couple; the godowns for the big trade Almayer was going to develop while he
(Lingard) would be able to give himself up to some mysterious work which was
only spoken of in hints, but was understood to relate to gold and diamonds in
the interior of the island. Almayer was impatient too. Had he known what was
before him he might not have been so eager and full of hope as he stood watching
the last canoe of the Lingard expedition disappear in the bend up the river.
When, turning round, he beheld the pretty little house, the godowns built neatly
by an army of Chinese carpenters, the new jetty round which were clustered the
trading canoes, he felt a sudden elation in the thought that the world was his.
    But the world had to be conquered first, and its conquest was not so easy as
he thought. He was very soon made to understand that he was not wanted in that
corner of it where old Lingard and his own weak will placed him, in the midst of
unscrupulous intrigues and of a fierce trade competition. The Arabs had found
out the river, had established a trading post in Sambir, and where they traded
they would be masters and suffer no rival. Lingard returned unsuccessful from
his first expedition, and departed again spending all the profits of the
legitimate trade on his mysterious journeys. Almayer struggled with the
difficulties of his position, friendless and unaided, save for the protection
given to him for Lingard's sake by the old Rajah, the predecessor of Lakamba.
Lakamba himself, then living as a private individual on a rice clearing, seven
miles down the river, exercised all his influence towards the help of the white
man's enemies, plotting against the old Rajah and Almayer with a certainty of
combination, pointing clearly to a profound knowledge of their most secret
affairs. Outwardly friendly, his portly form was often to be seen on Almayer's
verandah; his green turban and gold-embroidered jacket shone in the front rank
of the decorous throng of Malays coming to greet Lingard on his returns from the
interior; his salaams were of the lowest, and his hand-shakings of the
heartiest, when welcoming the old trader. But his small eyes took in the signs
of the times, and he departed from those interviews with a satisfied and furtive
smile to hold long consultations with his friend and ally, Syed Abdulla, the
chief of the Arab trading post, a man of great wealth and of great influence in
the islands.
    It was currently believed at that time in the settlement that Lakamba's
visits to Almayer's house were not limited to those official interviews. Often
on moonlight nights the belated fishermen of Sambir saw a small canoe shooting
out from the narrow creek at the back of the white man's house, and the solitary
occupant paddle cautiously down the river in the deep shadows of the bank; and
those events, duly reported, were discussed round the evening fires far into the
night with the cynicism of expression common to Malays. Almayer went on
struggling desperately, but with a feebleness of purpose depriving him of all
chance of success against men so unscrupulous and resolute as his rivals the
Arabs. The trade fell away from the large godowns, and the godowns themselves
rotted piecemeal. The old man's banker, Hudig of Macassar, failed, and with this
went the whole available capital. The profits of past years had been swallowed
up in Lingard's exploring craze. Lingard was in the interior - perhaps dead - at
all events giving no sign of life. Almayer stood alone in the midst of those
adverse circumstances, deriving only a little comfort from the companionship of
his little daughter, born two years after the marriage, and at the time some six
years old. His wife had soon commenced to treat him with a savage contempt
expressed by sulky silence, only occasionally varied by outbursts of savage
invective. He felt she hated him and saw her jealous eyes watching himself and
the child with almost an expression of hate. She was jealous of the little
girl's evident preference for the father, and Almayer felt he was not safe with
that woman in the house. While she was burning the furniture, and tearing down
the pretty curtains in her unreasoning hate of those signs of civilization,
Almayer, cowed by these outbursts of savage nature, meditated in silence on the
best way of getting rid of her. He thought of everything; even planned murder in
an undecided and feeble sort of way, but dared do nothing - expecting every day
the return of Lingard with news of some immense good fortune. Lingard returned
indeed, but aged, ill, a ghost of his former self, with the fire of fever
burning in his sunken eyes, almost the only survivor of the numerous expedition.
But he was successful at last! Untold riches were in his grasp; he wanted more
money - only a little more to realize a dream of fabulous fortune. And Hudig had
failed! Almayer scraped all he could together, but the old man wanted more. If
Almayer could not get it he would go to Singapore - to Europe even, but before
all to Singapore; and he would take the little Nina with him. The child must be
brought up decently. He had good friends in Singapore who would take care of her
and have her taught properly. All would be well, and that girl, upon whom the
old seaman seemed to have transferred all his former affection for the mother,
would be the richest woman in the East - in the world even. So old Lingard
shouted, pacing the verandah with his heavy quarter-deck step, gesticulating
with a smouldering cheroot; ragged, dishevelled, enthusiastic; and Almayer,
sitting huddled up on a pile of mats, thought with dread of the separation with
the only human being he loved - with greater dread still, perhaps, of the scene
with his wife, the savage tigress deprived of her young. She will poison me,
thought the poor wretch, well aware of that easy and final manner of solving the
social, political, or family problems in Malay life.
    To his great surprise she took the news very quietly, giving only him and
Lingard a furtive glance, and saying not a word. This, however, did not prevent
her the next day from jumping into the river and swimming after the boat in
which Lingard was carrying away the nurse with the screaming child. Almayer had
to give chase with his whale-boat and drag her in by the hair in the midst of
cries and curses enough to make heaven fall. Yet after two days spent in
wailing, she returned to her former mode of life, chewing betel-nut, and sitting
all day amongst her women in stupefied idleness. She aged very rapidly after
that, and only roused herself from her apathy to acknowledge by a scathing
remark or an insulting exclamation the accidental presence of her husband. He
had built for her a riverside hut in the compound where she dwelt in perfect
seclusion. Lakamba's visits had ceased when, by a convenient decree of
Providence the old ruler of Sambir departed this life. Lakamba reigned in his
stead now, having been well served by his Arab friends with the Dutch
authorities. Syed Abdulla was the great man and trader of the Pantai. Almayer
lay ruined and helpless under the close-meshed net of their intrigues, owing his
life only to his supposed knowledge of Lingard's valuable secret. Lingard had
disappeared. He wrote once from Singapore saying the child was well, and under
the care of a Mrs. Vinck, and that he himself was going to Europe to raise money
for the great enterprise. He was coming back soon. There would be no
difficulties, he wrote. People would rush in with their money. Evidently they
did not, for there was only one letter more from him saying he was ill, had
found no relation living, but little else besides. Then came a complete silence.
Europe had swallowed up the Rajah Laut apparently, and Almayer looked vainly
westward for a ray of light out of the gloom of his shattered hopes. Years
passed, and the rare letters from Mrs. Vinck, later from the girl herself, were
the only thing to be looked to to make life bearable amongst the triumphant
savagery of the river. Almayer lived now alone, having even ceased to visit his
debtors who would not pay, sure of Lakamba's protection. The faithful Sumatrese
Ali cooked his rice and made his coffee, for he dared not trust any one else,
and least of all his wife. He killed time wandering sadly in the overgrown paths
round the house, visiting the ruined godowns where a few brass guns covered with
verdigris and only a few broken cases of mouldering Manchester goods reminded
him of the good early times when all this was full of life and merchandise, and
he overlooked a busy scene on the river bank, his little daughter by his side.
Now the up-country canoes glided past the little rotten wharf of Lingard and
Co., to paddle up the Pantai branch, and cluster round the new jetty belonging
to Abdulla. Not that they loved Abdulla, but they dared not trade with the man
whose star had set. Had they done so they knew there was no mercy to be expected
from Arab or Rajah; no rice to be got on credit in times of scarcity from
either; and Almayer could not help them, having at times hardly enough for
himself. Almayer, in his isolation and despair, often envied his near neighbour
the Chinaman, Jim-Eng, whom he could see stretched on a pile of cool mats, a
wooden pillow under his head, an opium pipe in his nerveless fingers. He did not
seek, however, consolation in opium - perhaps it was too expensive - perhaps his
white man's pride saved him from that degradation; but most likely it was the
thought of his little daughter in the far-off Straits Settlements. He heard from
her oftener since Abdulla bought a steamer, which ran now between Singapore and
the Pantai settlement every three months or so. Almayer felt himself nearer his
daughter. He longed to see her, and planned a voyage to Singapore, but put off
his departure from year to year, always expecting some favourable turn of
fortune. He did not want to meet her with empty hands and with no words of hope
on his lips. He could not take her back into that savage life to which he was
condemned himself. He was also a little afraid of her. What would she think of
him? He reckoned the years. A grown woman. A civilized woman, young and hopeful;
while he felt old and hopeless, and very much like those savages round him. He
asked himself what was going to be her future. He could not answer that question
yet, and he dared not face her. And yet he longed after her. He hesitated for
years.
    His hesitation was put an end to by Nina's unexpected appearance in Sambir.
She arrived in the steamer under the captain's care. Almayer beheld her with
surprise not unmixed with wonder. During those ten years the child had changed
into a woman, black-haired, olive-skinned, tall, and beautiful, with great sad
eyes, where the startled expression common to Malay womankind was modified by a
thoughtful tinge inherited from her European ancestry. Almayer thought with
dismay of the meeting of his wife and daughter, of what this grave girl in
European clothes would think of her betel-nut chewing mother, squatting in a
dark hut, disorderly, half naked, and sulky. He also feared an outbreak of
temper on the part of that pest of a woman he had hitherto managed to keep
tolerably quiet, thereby saving the remnants of his dilapidated furniture. And
he stood there before the closed door of the hut in the blazing sunshine
listening to the murmur of voices, wondering what went on inside, wherefrom all
the servant-maids had been expelled at the beginning of the interview, and now
stood clustered by the palings with half-covered faces in a chatter of curious
speculation. He forgot himself there trying to catch a stray word through the
bamboo walls, till the captain of the steamer (who had walked up with the girl)
fearing a sunstroke, took him under the arm and led him into the shade of his
own verandah where Nina's trunk stood already, having been landed by the
steamer's men. As soon as Captain Ford had his glass before him and his cheroot
lighted, Almayer asked for the explanation of his daughter's unexpected arrival.
Ford said little beyond generalizing in vague but violent terms upon the
foolishness of women in general, and of Mrs. Vinck in particular.
    »You know, Kaspar,« said he, in conclusion, to the excited Almayer, »it is
deucedly awkward to have a half-caste girl in the house. There's such a lot of
fools about. There was that young fellow from the bank who used to ride to the
Vinck bungalow early and late. That old woman thought it was for that Emma of
hers. When she found out what he wanted exactly, there was a row, I can tell
you. She would not have Nina - not an hour longer - in the house. Fact is, I
heard of this affair and took the girl to my wife. My wife is a pretty good
woman - as women go - and upon my word we would have kept the girl for you, only
she would not stay. Now, then! Don't flare up, Kaspar. Sit still. What can you
do? It is better so. Let her stay with you. She was never happy over there.
Those two Vinck girls are no better than dressed-up monkeys. They slighted her.
You can't make her white. It's no use you swearing at me. You can't. She is a
good girl for all that, but she would not tell my wife anything. If you want to
know, ask her yourself; but if I was you I would leave her alone. You are
welcome to her passage money, old fellow, if you are short now.« And the
skipper, throwing away his cigar, walked off to »wake them up on board,« as he
expressed it.
    Almayer vainly expected to hear of the cause of his daughter's return from
his daughter's lips. Not that day, not on any other day did she ever allude to
her Singapore life. He did not care to ask, awed by the calm impassiveness of
her face, by those solemn eyes looking past him on the great, still forests
sleeping in majestic repose to the murmur of the broad river. He accepted the
situation, happy in the gentle and protecting affection the girl showed him,
fitfully enough, for she had (as he called it) her bad days when she used to
visit her mother and remain long hours in the riverside hut, coming out as
inscrutable as ever, but with a contemptuous look and a short word ready to
answer any of his speeches. He got used even to that, and on those days kept
quiet, although greatly alarmed by his wife's influence upon the girl. Otherwise
Nina adapted herself wonderfully to the circumstances of a half-savage and
miserable life. She accepted without question or apparent disgust the neglect,
the decay, the poverty of the household, the absence of furniture, and the
preponderance of rice diet on the family table. She lived with Almayer in the
little house (now sadly decaying) built originally by Lingard for the young
couple. The Malays discussed eagerly her arrival. There were at the beginning
crowded levées of Malay women with their children, seeking eagerly after Ubat
for all the ills of the flesh from the young Mem Putih. In the cool of the
evening grave Arabs in long white shirts and yellow sleeveless jackets walked
slowly on the dusty path by the riverside towards Almayer's gate, and made
solemn calls upon that Unbeliever under shallow pretences of business, only to
get a glimpse of the young girl in a highly decorous manner. Even Lakamba came
out of his stockade in a great pomp of war canoes and red umbrellas, and landed
on the rotten little jetty of Lingard and Co. He came, he said, to buy a couple
of brass guns as a present to his friend the chief of Sambir Dyaks; and while
Almayer, suspicious but polite, busied himself in unearthing the old popguns in
the godowns, the Rajah sat on an armchair in the verandah, surrounded by his
respectful retinue waiting in vain for Nina's appearance. She was in one of her
bad days, and remained in her mother's hut watching with her the ceremonious
proceedings on the verandah. The Rajah departed, baffled but courteous, and soon
Almayer began to reap the benefit of improved relations with the ruler in the
shape of the recovery of some debts, paid to him with many apologies and many a
low salaam by debtors till then considered hopelessly insolvent. Under these
improving circumstances Almayer brightened up a little. All was not lost
perhaps. Those Arabs and Malays saw at last that he was a man of some ability,
he thought. And he began, after his manner, to plan great things, to dream of
great fortunes for himself and Nina. Especially for Nina! Under these vivifying
impulses he asked Captain Ford to write to his friends in England making
inquiries after Lingard. Was he alive or dead? If dead, had he left any papers,
documents; any indications or hints as to his great enterprise? Meantime he had
found amongst the rubbish in one of the empty rooms a notebook belonging to the
old adventurer. He studied the crabbed handwriting of its pages and often grew
meditative over it. Other things also woke him up from his apathy. The stir made
in the whole of the island by the establishment of the British Borneo Company
affected even the sluggish flow of the Pantai life. Great changes were expected;
annexation was talked of; the Arabs grew civil. Almayer began building his new
house for the use of the future engineers, agents, or settlers of the new
Company. He spent every available guilder on it with a confiding heart. One
thing only disturbed his happiness; his wife came out of her seclusion,
importing her green jacket, scant sarongs, shrill voice, and witch-like
appearance, into his quiet life in the small bungalow. And his daughter seemed
to accept that savage intrusion into their daily existence with wonderful
equanimity. He did not like it, but dared say nothing.
 

                                 Chapter Three

The deliberations conducted in London have a far-reaching importance, and so the
decision issued from the fog-veiled offices of the Borneo Company darkened for
Almayer the brilliant sunshine of the Tropics, and added another drop of
bitterness to the cup of his disenchantments. The claim to that part of the East
Coast was abandoned, leaving the Pantai river under the nominal power of
Holland. In Sambir there was joy and excitement. The slaves were hurried out of
sight into the forest and jungle, and the flags were run up to tall poles in the
Rajah's compound in expectation of a visit from Dutch man-of-war boats.
    The frigate remained anchored outside the mouth of the river, and the boats
came up in tow of the steam launch, threading their way cautiously amongst a
crowd of canoes filled with gaily dressed Malays. The officer in command
listened gravely to the loyal speeches of Lakamba, returned the salaams of
Abdulla, and assured those gentlemen in choice Malay of the great Rajah's - down
in Batavia - friendship and good-will towards the ruler and inhabitants of this
model state of Sambir.
    Almayer from his verandah watched across the river the festive proceedings,
heard the report of brass guns saluting the new flag presented to Lakamba, and
the deep murmur of the crowd of spectators surging round the stockade. The smoke
of the firing rose in white clouds on the green background of the forests, and
he could not help comparing his own fleeting hopes to the rapidly disappearing
vapour. He was by no means patriotically elated by the event, yet he had to
force himself into a gracious behaviour when, the official reception being over,
the naval officers of the Commission crossed the river to pay a visit to the
solitary white man of whom they had heard, no doubt wishing also to catch a
glimpse of his daughter. In that they were disappointed, Nina refusing to show
herself; but they seemed easily consoled by the gin and cheroots set before them
by the hospitable Almayer; and sprawling comfortably on the lame armchairs under
the shade of the verandah, while the blazing sunshine outside seemed to set the
great river simmering in the heat, they filled the little bungalow with the
unusual sounds of European languages, with noise and laughter produced by naval
witticisms at the expense of the fat Lakamba whom they had been complimenting so
much that very morning. The younger men in an access of good fellowship made
their host talk, and Almayer, excited by the sight of European faces, by the
sound of European voices, opened his heart before the sympathizing strangers,
unaware of the amusement the recital of his many misfortunes caused to those
future admirals. They drank his health, wished him many big diamonds and a
mountain of gold, expressed even an envy of the high destinies awaiting him yet.
Encouraged by so much friendliness, the grey-headed and foolish dreamer invited
his guests to visit his new house. They went there through the long grass in a
straggling procession while their boats were got ready for the return down the
river in the cool of the evening. And in the great empty rooms where the tepid
wind entering through the sashless windows whirled gently the dried leaves and
the dust of many days of neglect, Almayer in his white jacket and flowered
sarong, surrounded by a circle of glittering uniforms, stamped his foot to show
the solidity of the neatly-fitting floors and expatiated upon the beauties and
convenience of the building. They listened and assented, amazed by the wonderful
simplicity and the foolish hopefulness of the man, till Almayer, carried away by
his excitement, disclosed his regret at the non-arrival of the English, »who
knew how to develop a rich country,« as he expressed it. There was a general
laugh amongst the Dutch officers at that unsophisticated statement, and a move
was made towards the boats; but when Almayer, stepping cautiously on the rotten
boards of the Lingard jetty, tried to approach the chief of the Commission with
some timid hints anent the protection required by the Dutch subject against the
wily Arabs, that salt water diplomat told him significantly that the Arabs were
better subjects than Hollanders who dealt illegally in gunpowder with the
Malays. The innocent Almayer recognized there at once the oily tongue of Abdulla
and the solemn persuasiveness of Lakamba, but ere he had time to frame an
indignant protest the steam launch and the string of boats moved rapidly down
the river leaving him on the jetty, standing open-mouthed in his surprise and
anger. There are thirty miles of river from Sambir to the gem-like islands of
the estuary where the frigate was awaiting the return of the boats. The moon
rose long before the boats had traversed half that distance, and the black
forest sleeping peacefully under her cold rays woke up that night to the ringing
laughter in the small flotilla provoked by some reminiscence of Almayer's
lamentable narrative. Salt-water jests at the poor man's expense were passed
from boat to boat, the non-appearance of his daughter was commented upon with
severe displeasure, and the half-finished house built for the reception of
Englishmen received on that joyous night the name of Almayer's Folly by the
unanimous vote of the lighthearted seamen.
    For many weeks after this visit life in Sambir resumed its even and
uneventful flow. Each day's sun shooting its morning rays above the tree-tops
lit up the usual scene of daily activity. Nina walking on the path that formed
the only street in the settlement saw the accustomed sight of men lolling on the
shady side of the houses, on the high platforms; of women busily engaged in
husking the daily rice; of naked brown children racing along the shady and
narrow paths leading to the clearings. Jim-Eng, strolling before his house,
greeted her with a friendly nod before climbing up indoors to seek his beloved
opium pipe. The elder children clustered round her, daring from long
acquaintance, pulling the skirts of her white robe with their dark fingers, and
showing their brilliant teeth in expectation of a shower of glass beads. She
greeted them with a quiet smile, but always had a few friendly words for a
Siamese girl, a slave owned by Bulangi, whose numerous wives were said to be of
a violent temper. Well-founded rumour said also that the domestic squabbles of
that industrious cultivator ended generally in a combined assault of all his
wives upon the Siamese slave. The girl herself never complained - perhaps from
dictates of prudence, but more likely through the strange, resigned apathy of
half-savage womankind. From early morning she was to be seen on the paths
amongst the houses - by the riverside or on the jetties, the tray of pastry, it
was her mission to sell, skilfully balanced on her head. During the great heat
of the day she usually sought refuge in Almayer's campong, often finding shelter
in a shady corner of the verandah, where she squatted with her tray before her,
when invited by Nina. For Mem Putih she bad always a smile, but the presence of
Mrs. Almayer, the very sound of her shrill voice, was the signal for a hurried
departure.
    To this girl Nina often spoke; the other inhabitants of Sambir seldom or
never heard the sound of her voice. They got used to the silent figure moving in
their midst calm and white-robed, a being from another world and
incomprehensible to them. Yet Nina's life for all her outward composure, for all
the seeming detachment from the things and people surrounding her, was far from
quiet, in consequence of Mrs. Almayer being much too active for the happiness
and even safety of the household. She had resumed some intercourse with Lakamba,
not personally, it is true (for the dignity of that potentate kept him inside
his stockade), but through the agency of that potentate's prime minister,
harbour master, financial adviser, and general factotum. That gentleman - of
Sulu origin - was certainly endowed with statesmanlike qualities, although he
was totally devoid of personal charms. In truth he was perfectly repulsive,
possessing only one eye and a pock-marked face, with nose and lips horribly
disfigured by the smallpox. This unengaging individual often strolled into
Almayer's garden in unofficial costume, composed of a piece of pink calico round
his waist. There at the back of the house, squatting on his heels on scattered
embers, in close proximity to the great iron boiler, where the family daily rice
was being cooked by the women under Mrs. Almayer's superintendence, did that
astute negotiator carry on long conversations in Sulu language with Almayer's
wife. What the subject of their discourses was might have been guessed from the
subsequent domestic scenes by Almayer's hearthstone.
    Of late Almayer had taken to excursions up the river. In a small canoe with
two paddlers and the faithful Ali for a steersman he would disappear for a few
days at a time. All his movements were no doubt closely watched by Lakamba and
Abdulla, for the man once in the confidence of Rajah Laut was supposed to be in
possession of valuable secrets. The coast population of Borneo believes
implicitly in diamonds of fabulous value, in gold mines of enormous richness in
the interior. And all those imaginings are heightened by the difficulty of
penetrating far inland, especially on the northeast coast, where the Malays and
the river tribes of Dyaks or Head-hunters are eternally quarrelling. It is true
enough that some gold reaches the coast in the hands of those Dyaks when, during
short periods of truce in the desultory warfare, they visit the coast
settlements of Malays. And so the wildest exaggerations are built up and added
to on the slight basis of that fact.
    Almayer in his quality of white man - as Lingard before him - had somewhat
better relations with the up-river tribes. Yet even his excursions were not
without danger, and his returns were eagerly looked for by the impatient
Lakamba. But every time the Rajah was disappointed. Vain were the conferences by
the rice-pot of his factotum Babalatchi with the white man's wife. The white man
himself was impenetrable - impenetrable to persuasion, coaxing, abuse; to soft
words and shrill revilings; to desperate beseechings or murderous threats; for
Mrs. Almayer, in her extreme desire to persuade her husband into an alliance
with Lakamba, played upon the whole gamut of passion. With her soiled robe wound
tightly under the armpits across her lean bosom, her scant greyish hair tumbled
in disorder over her projecting cheek-bones, in suppliant attitude, she depicted
with shrill volubility the advantages of close union with a man so good and so
fair dealing.
    »Why don't you go to the Rajah?« she screamed. »Why do you go back to those
Dyaks in the great forest? They should be killed. You cannot kill them, you
cannot; but our Rajah's men are brave! You tell the Rajah where the old white
man's treasure is. Our Rajah is good! He is our very grandfather. He will kill
those wretched Dyaks, and you shall have half the treasure. Oh, Kaspar, tell
where the treasure is! Tell me! Tell me out of the old man's surat where you
read so often at night.«
    On those occasions Almayer sat with rounded shoulders bending to the blast
of this domestic tempest, accentuating only each pause in the torrent of his
wife's eloquence by an angry growl, »There is no treasure! Go away, woman!«
Exasperated by the sight of his patiently bent back, she would at last walk
round so as to face him across the table, and clasping her robe with one hand
she stretched the other lean arm and claw-like hand to emphasize, in a passion
of anger and contempt, the rapid rush of scathing remarks and bitter cursings
heaped on the head of the man unworthy to associate with brave Malay chiefs. It
ended generally by Almayer rising slowly, his long pipe in hand, his face set
into a look of inward pain, and walking away in silence. He descended the steps
and plunged into the long grass on his way to the solitude of his new house,
dragging his feet in a state of physical collapse from disgust and fear before
that fury. She followed to the head of the steps, and sent the shafts of
indiscriminate abuse after the retreating form. And each of those scenes was
concluded by a piercing shriek, reaching him far away. »You know, Kaspar, I am
your wife! your own Christian wife after your own Blanda law!« For she knew that
this was the bitterest thing of all; the greatest regret of that man's life.
    All these scenes Nina witnessed unmoved. She might have been deaf, dumb,
without any feeling as far as any expression of opinion went. Yet oft when her
father had sought the refuge of the great dusty rooms of Almayer's Folly, and
her mother, exhausted by rhetorical efforts, squatted wearily on her heels with
her back against the leg of the table, Nina would approach her curiously,
guarding her skirts from betel juice besprinkling the floor, and gaze down upon
her as one might look into the quiescent crater of a volcano after a destructive
eruption. Mrs. Almayer's thoughts after these scenes were usually turned into a
channel of childhood reminiscences, and she gave them utterance in a kind of
monotonous recitative - slightly disconnected, but generally describing the
glories of the Sultan of Sulu, his great splendour, his power, his great
prowess, the fear which benumbed the hearts of white men at the sight of his
swift piratical praus. And these muttered statements of her grandfather's might
were mixed up with bits of later recollections, where the great fight with the
White Devil's brig and the convent life in Samarang occupied the principal
place. At that point she usually dropped the thread of her narrative, and
pulling out the little brass cross, always suspended round her neck, she
contemplated it with superstitious awe. That superstitious feeling connected
with some vague talismanic properties of the little bit of metal and the still
more hazy but terrible notion of some bad Djinns and horrible torments invented,
as she thought, for her especial punishment by the good Mother Superior in case
of the loss of the above charm, were Mrs. Almayer's only theological outfit for
the stormy road of life. Mrs. Almayer had at least something tangible to cling
to, but Nina, brought up under the Protestant wing of the proper Mrs. Vinck, had
not even a little piece of brass to remind her of past teaching. And listening
to the recital of those savage glories, those barbarous fights and savage
feasting, to the story of deeds valorous, albeit somewhat bloodthirsty, where
men of her mother's race shone far above the Orang Blanda, she felt herself
irresistibly fascinated, and saw with vague surprise the narrow mantle of
civilized morality, in which good-meaning people had wrapped her young soul,
fall away and leave her shivering and helpless as if on the edge of some deep
and unknown abyss. Strangest of all, this abyss did not frighten her when she
was under the influence of the witch-like being she called her mother. She
seemed to have forgotten in civilized surroundings her life before the time when
Lingard had, so to speak, kidnapped her from Brow. Since then she had had
Christian teaching, social education, and a good glimpse of civilized life.
Unfortunately her teachers did not understand her nature, and the education
ended in a scene of humiliation, in an outburst of contempt from white people
for her mixed blood. And now she had lived on the river for three years with a
savage mother and a father walking about amongst pitfalls, with his head in the
clouds, weak, irresolute, and unhappy. She had lived a life devoid of all the
decencies of civilization, in miserable domestic conditions; she had breathed
the atmosphere of sordid plottings for gain, of the no less disgusting intrigues
and crimes for lust or money; and those things, together with the domestic
quarrels, were the only events of her three years' existence. She did not die
from despair and disgust the first month, as she expected and almost hoped for.
On the contrary, at the end of half a year it had seemed to her that she had
known no other life. Her young mind having been unskilfully permitted to glance
at better things, and then thrown back again into the hopeless quagmire of
barbarism, full of strong and uncontrolled passions, had lost the power to
discriminate. It seemed to Nina that there was no change and no difference
Whether they traded in brick godowns or on the muddy river bank; whether they
reached after much or little; whether they made love under the shadows of the
great trees or in the shadow of the cathedral on the Singapore promenade;
whether they plotted for their own ends under the protection of laws and
according to the rules of Christian conduct, or whether they sought the
gratification of their desires with the savage cunning and the unrestrained
fierceness of natures as innocent of culture as their own immense and gloomy
forests, Nina saw only the same manifestations of love and hate and of sordid
greed chasing the uncertain dollar in all its multifarious and vanishing shapes.
To her resolute nature, however, after all these years, the savage and
uncompromising sincerity of purpose shown by her Malay kinsmen seemed at last
preferable to the sleek hypocrisy, to the polite disguises, to the virtuous
pretences of such white people as she had had the misfortune to come in contact
with. After all it was her life; it was going to be her life, and so thinking
she fell more and more under the influence of her mother. Seeking, in her
ignorance, a better side to that life, she listened with avidity to the old
woman's tales of the departed glories of the Rajahs, from whose race she had
sprung, and she became gradually more indifferent, more contemptuous of the
white side of her descent represented by a feeble and traditionless father.
    Almayer's difficulties were by no means diminished by the girl's presence in
Sambir. The stir caused by her arrival had died out, it is true, and Lakamba had
not renewed his visits; but about a year after the departure of the man-of-war
boats the nephew of Abdulla, Syed Reshid, returned from his pilgrimage to Mecca,
rejoicing in a green jacket and the proud title of Hadji. There was a great
letting off of rockets on board the steamer which brought him in, and a great
beating of drums all night in Abdulla's compound, while the feast of welcome was
prolonged far into the small hours of the morning. Reshid was the favourite
nephew and heir of Abdulla, and that loving uncle, meeting Almayer one day by
the riverside, stopped politely to exchange civilities and to ask solemnly for
an interview. Almayer suspected some attempt at a swindle, or at any rate
something unpleasant, but of course consented with a great show of rejoicing.
Accordingly the next evening, after sunset, Abdulla came, accompanied by several
other grey-beards and by his nephew. That young man - of a very rakish and
dissipated appearance - affected the greatest indifference as to the whole of
the proceedings. When the torch-bearers had grouped themselves below the steps,
the visitors had seated themselves on various lame chairs, Reshid stood apart in
the shadow, examining his aristocratically small hands with great attention.
Almayer, surprised by the great solemnity of his visitors, perched himself on
the corner of the table with a characteristic want of dignity quickly noted by
the Arabs with grave disapproval. But Abdulla spoke now, looking straight past
Almayer at the red curtain hanging in the doorway, where a slight tremor
disclosed the presence of women on the other side. He began by neatly
complimenting Almayer upon the long years they had dwelt together in cordial
neighbourhood, and called upon Allah to give him many more years to gladden the
eyes of his friends by his welcome presence. He made a polite allusion to the
great consideration shown him (Almayer) by the Dutch Commissie, and drew thence
the flattering inference of Almayer's great importance amongst his own people.
He - Abdulla - was also important amongst all the Arabs, and his nephew Reshid
would be heir of that social position and of great riches. Now Reshid was a
Hadji. He was possessor of several Malay women, went on Abdulla, but it was time
he had a favourite wife, the first of the four allowed by the Prophet. And,
speaking with well-bred politeness, he explained further to the dumbfounded
Almayer that, if he would consent to the alliance of his offspring with that
true believer and virtuous man Reshid, she would be mistress of all the
splendours of Reshid's house, the first wife of the first Arab in the Islands,
when he - Abdulla - had been called to the joys of Paradise by Allah the
All-merciful. »You know, Tuan,« he said, in conclusion, »the other women would
be her slaves, and Reshid's house is great. From Bombay he has brought great
divans, and costly carpets, and European furniture. There is also a great
looking-glass in a frame shining like gold. What could a girl want more?« And
while Almayer looked upon him in silent dismay Abdulla spoke in a more
confidential tone, waving his attendants away, and finished his speech by
pointing out the material advantages of such an alliance, and offering to settle
upon Almayer three thousand dollars as a sign of his sincere friendship and the
price of the girl.
    Poor Almayer was nearly having a fit. Burning with the desire of taking
Abdulla by the throat, he had but to think of his helpless position in the midst
of lawless men to comprehend the necessity of diplomatic conciliation. He
mastered his impulses, and spoke politely and coldly, saying the girl was young
and was the apple of his eye. Tuan Reshid, a Faithful and a Hadji, would not
want an infidel woman in his harem; and, seeing Abdulla smile sceptically at
that last objection, he remained silent, not trusting himself to speak more, not
daring to refuse point-blank, nor yet to say anything compromising. Abdulla
understood the meaning of that silence, and rose to take leave with a grave
salaam. He wished his friend Almayer »a thousand years,« and moved down the
steps, helped dutifully by Reshid. The torch-bearers shook their torches,
scattering a shower of sparks into the river, and the cortege moved off, leaving
Almayer agitated but greatly relieved by their departure. He dropped into a
chair and watched the glimmer of the lights amongst the tree trunks till they
disappeared and complete silence succeeded the tramp of feet and the murmur of
voices. He did not move till the curtain rustled and Nina came out on the
verandah and sat in the rocking-chair, where she used to spend many hours every
day. She gave a slight rocking motion to her seat, leaning back with half-closed
eyes, her long hair shading her face from the smoky light of the lamp on the
table. Almayer looked at her furtively, but the face was as impassible as ever.
She turned her head slightly towards her father, and, speaking, to his great
surprise, in English, asked -
    »Was that Abdulla here?«
    »Yes,« said Almayer - »just gone.«
    »And what did he want, father?«
    »He wanted to buy you for Reshid,« answered Almayer, brutally, his anger
getting the better of him, and looking at the girl as if in expectation of some
outbreak of feeling. But Nina remained apparently unmoved, gazing dreamily into
the black night outside.
    »Be careful, Nina,« said Almayer, after a short silence and rising from his
chair, »when you go paddling alone into the creeks in your canoe. That Reshid is
a violent scoundrel, and there is no saying what he may do. Do you hear me?«
    She was standing now, ready to go in, one hand grasping the curtain in the
doorway. She turned round, throwing her heavy tresses back by a sudden gesture.
    »Do you think he would dare?« she asked, quickly, and then turned again to
go in, adding in a lower tone, »He would not dare. Arabs are all cowards.«
    Almayer looked after her, astonished. He did not seek the repose of his
hammock. He walked the floor absently, sometimes stopping by the balustrade to
think. The lamp went out. The first streak of dawn broke over the forest;
Almayer shivered in the damp air. »I give it up,« he muttered to himself, lying
down wearily. »Damn those women! Well! If the girl did not look as if she wanted
to be kidnapped!«
    And he felt a nameless fear creep into his heart, making him shiver again.
 

                                  Chapter Four

That year, towards the breaking up of the southwest monsoon, disquieting rumours
reached Sambir. Captain Ford, coming up to Almayer's house for an evening's
chat, brought late numbers of the Straits Times giving the news of Acheen war
and of the unsuccessful Dutch expedition. The Nakhodas of the rare trading praus
ascending the river paid visits to Lakamba, discussing with that potentate the
unsettled state of affairs, and wagged their heads gravely over the recital of
Orang Blanda exaction, severity, and general tyranny, as exemplified in the
total stoppage of gunpowder trade and the rigorous visiting of all suspicious
craft trading in the straits of Macassar. Even the loyal soul of Lakamba was
stirred into a state of inward discontent by the withdrawal of his license for
powder and by the abrupt confiscation of one hundred and fifty barrels of that
commodity by the gunboat Princess Amelia, when, after a hazardous voyage, it had
almost reached the mouth of the river. The unpleasant news was given him by
Reshid, who, after the unsuccessful issue of his matrimonial projects, had made
a long voyage amongst the islands for trading purposes; had bought the powder
for his friend, and was overhauled and deprived of it on his return when
actually congratulating himself on his acuteness in avoiding detection. Reshid's
wrath was principally directed against Almayer, whom he suspected of having
notified the Dutch authorities of the desultory warfare carried on by the Arabs
and the Rajah with the up-river Dyak tribes.
    To Reshid's great surprise the Rajah received his complaints very coldly,
and showed no signs of vengeful disposition towards the white man. In truth,
Lakamba knew very well that Almayer was perfectly innocent of any meddling in
state affairs; and besides, his attitude towards that much persecuted individual
was wholly changed in consequence of a reconciliation effected between him and
his old enemy by Almayer's newly-found friend, Dain Maroola.
    Almayer had now a friend. Shortly after Reshid's departure on his commercial
journey, Nina, drifting slowly with the tide in the canoe on her return home
after one of her solitary excursions, heard in one of the small creeks a
splashing of heavy ropes dropping in the water and the prolonged song of Malay
seamen when some heavy pulling is to be done. Through the thick fringe of bushes
hiding the mouth of the creek she saw the tall spars of some European-rigged
sailing vessel overtopping the summits of the Nipa palms. A brig was being
hauled out of the small creek into the main stream. The sun had set, and during
the short moments of twilight Nina saw the brig, aided by the evening breeze and
the flowing tide, head towards Sambir under her set foresail. The girl turned
her canoe out of the main river into one of the many narrow channels amongst the
wooded islets, and paddled vigorously over the black and sleepy backwaters
towards Sambir. Her canoe brushed the water-palms, skirted the short spaces of
muddy bank where sedate alligators looked at her with lazy unconcern, and, just
as darkness was setting in, shot out into the broad junction of the two main
branches of the river, where the brig was already at anchor with sails furled,
yards squared, and decks seemingly untenanted by any human being. Nina had to
cross the river and pass pretty close to the brig in order to reach home on the
low promontory between the two branches of the Pantai. Up both branches, in the
houses built on the banks and over the water, the lights twinkled already,
reflected in the still waters below. The hum of voices, the occasional cry of a
child, the rapid and abruptly interrupted roll of a wooden drum, together with
some distant hailing in the darkness by the returning fishermen, reached her
over the broad expanse of the river. She hesitated a little before crossing, the
sight of such an unusual object as an European-rigged vessel causing her some
uneasiness, but the river in its wide expansion was dark enough to render a
small canoe invisible. She urged her small craft with swift strokes of her
paddle, kneeling in the bottom and bending forward to catch any suspicious sound
while she steered towards the little jetty of Lingard and Co., to which the
strong light of the paraffin lamp shining on the whitewashed verandah of
Almayer's bungalow served as a convenient guide. The jetty itself, under the
shadow of the bank overgrown by drooping bushes, was hidden in darkness. Before
even she could see it she heard the hollow bumping of a large boat against its
rotten posts, and heard also the murmur of whispered conversation in that boat
whose white paint and great dimensions, faintly visible on nearer approach, made
her rightly guess that it belonged to the brig just anchored. Stopping her
course by a rapid motion of her paddle, with another swift stroke she sent it
whirling away from the wharf and steered for a little rivulet which gave access
to the back courtyard of the house. She landed at the muddy head of the creek
and made her way towards the house over the trodden grass of the courtyard. To
the left, from the cooking shed, shone a red glare through the banana plantation
she skirted, and the noise of feminine laughter reached her from there in the
silent evening. She rightly judged her mother was not near, laughter and Mrs.
Almayer not being close neighbours. She must be in the house, thought Nina, as
she ran lightly up the inclined plane of shaky planks leading to the back door
of the narrow passage dividing the house in two. Outside the doorway, in the
black shadow, stood the faithful Ali.
    »Who is there?« asked Nina.
    »A great Malay man has come,« answered Ali, in a tone of suppressed
excitement. »He is a rich man. There are six men with lances. Real Soldat, you
understand. And his dress is very brave. I have seen his dress. It shines! What
jewels! Don't go there, Mem Nina. Tuan said not; but the old Mem is gone. Tuan
will be angry. Merciful Allah! what jewels that man has got!«
    Nina slipped past the outstretched hand of the slave into the dark passage
where, in the crimson glow of the hanging curtain, close by its other end, she
could see a small dark form crouching near the wall. Her mother was feasting her
eyes and ears with what was taking place on the front verandah, and Nina
approached to take her share in the rare pleasure of some novelty. She was met
by her mother's extended arm and by a low murmured warning not to make a noise.
    »Have you seen them, mother?« asked Nina, in a breathless whisper.
    Mrs. Almayer turned her face towards the girl, and her sunken eyes shone
strangely in the red half-light of the passage.
    »I saw him,« she said, in an almost inaudible tone, pressing her daughter's
hand with her bony fingers. »A great Rajah has come to Sambir - a Son of
Heaven,« muttered the old woman to herself. »Go away, girl!«
    The two women stood close to the curtain, Nina wishing to approach the rent
in the stuff, and her mother defending the position with angry obstinacy. On the
other side there was a lull in the conversation, but the occasional light
tinkling of some ornaments, the clink of metal scabbards, or of brass
siri-vessels passed from hand to hand, was audible during the short pause. The
women struggled silently, when there was a shuffling noise and the shadow of
Almayer's burly form fell on the curtain.
    The women ceased struggling and remained motionless. Almayer had stood up to
answer his guest, turning his back to the doorway, unaware of what was going on
on the other side. He spoke in a tone of regretful irritation.
    »You have come to the wrong house, Tuan Maroola, if you want to trade as you
say. I was a trader once, not now, whatever you may have heard about me in
Macassar. And if you want anything, you will not find it here; I have nothing to
give, and want nothing myself. You should go to the Rajah here; you can see in
the daytime his houses across the river, there, where those fires are burning on
the shore. He will help you and trade with you. Or, better still, go to the
Arabs over there,« he went on bitterly, pointing with his hand towards the
houses of Sambir. »Abdulla is the man you want. There is nothing he would not
buy, and there is nothing he would not sell; believe me, I know him well.«
    He waited for an answer a short time, then added -
    »All that I have said is true, and there is nothing more.«
    Nina, held back by her mother, heard a soft voice reply with a calm evenness
of intonation peculiar to the better class Malays -
    »Who would doubt a white Tuan's words? A man seeks his friends where his
heart tells him. Is this not true also? I have come, although so late, for I
have something to say which you may be glad to hear. Tomorrow I shall go to the
Sultan; a trader wants the friendship of great men. Then I shall return here to
speak serious words, if Tuan permits. I shall not go to the Arabs; their lies
are very great! What are they? Chelakka!«
    Almayer's voice sounded a little more pleasantly in reply.
    »Well, as you like. I can hear you to-morrow at any time if you have
anything to say. Bah! After you have seen the Sultan Lakamba you will not want
to return here, Inchi Dain. You will see. Only mind, I will have nothing to do
with Lakamba. You may tell him so. What is your business with me, after all?«
    »To-morrow we talk, Tuan, now I know you,« answered the Malay. »I speak
English a little, so we can talk and nobody will understand, and then -«
    He interrupted himself suddenly, asking surprised, »What's that noise,
Tuan?«
    Almayer had also heard the increasing noise of the scuffle recommenced on
the women's side of the curtain. Evidently Nina's strong curiosity was on the
point of overcoming Mrs. Almayer's exalted sense of social proprieties. Hard
breathing was distinctly audible, and the curtain shook during the contest,
which was mainly physical, although Mrs. Almayer's voice was heard in angry
remonstrance with its usual want of strictly logical reasoning, but with the
well-known richness of invective.
    »You shameless woman! Are you a slave?« shouted shrilly the irate matron.
»Veil your face, abandoned wretch! You white snake, I will not let you!«
    Almayer's face expressed annoyance and also doubt as to the advisability of
interfering between mother and daughter. He glanced at his Malay visitor, who
was waiting silently for the end of the uproar in an attitude of amused
expectation, and waving his hand contemptuously he murmured -
    »It is nothing. Some women.«
    The Malay nodded his head gravely, and his face assumed an expression of
serene indifference, as etiquette demanded after such an explanation. The
contest was ended behind the curtain, and evidently the younger will had its
way, for the rapid shuffle and click of Mrs. Almayer's high-heeled sandals died
away in the distance. The tranquillized master of the house was going to resume
the conversation when, struck by an unexpected change in the expression of his
guest's countenance, he turned his head and saw Nina standing in the doorway.
    After Mrs. Almayer's retreat from the field of battle, Nina, with a
contemptuous exclamation, »It's only a trader,« had lifted the conquered curtain
and now stood in full light, framed in the dark background of the passage, her
lips slightly parted, her hair in disorder after the exertion, the angry gleam
not yet faded out of her glorious and sparkling eyes. She took in at a glance
the group of white-clad lancemen standing motionless in the shadow of the
far-off end of the verandah, and her gaze rested curiously on the chief of that
imposing cortege. He stood, almost facing her, a little on one side, and struck
by the beauty of the unexpected apparition had bent low, elevating his joint
hands above his head in a sign of respect accorded by Malays only to the great
of this earth. The crude light of the lamp shone on the gold embroidery of his
black silk jacket, broke in a thousand sparkling rays on the jewelled hilt of
his kriss protruding from under the many folds of the red sarong gathered into a
sash round his waist, and played on the precious stones of the many rings on his
dark fingers. He straightened himself up quickly after the low bow, putting his
hand with a graceful ease on the hilt of his heavy short sword ornamented with
brilliantly dyed fringes of horsehair. Nina, hesitating on the threshold, saw an
erect lithe figure of medium height with a breadth of shoulder suggesting great
power. Under the folds of a blue turban, whose fringed ends hung gracefully over
the left shoulder, was a face full of determination and expressing a reckless
good-humour, not devoid, however, of some dignity. The squareness of lower jaw,
the full red lips, the mobile nostrils, and the proud carriage of the head gave
the impression of a being half-savage, untamed, perhaps cruel, and corrected the
liquid softness of the almost feminine eye, that general characteristic of the
race. Now, the first surprise over, Nina saw those eyes fixed upon her with such
an uncontrolled expression of admiration and desire that she felt a hitherto
unknown feeling of shyness, mixed with alarm and some delight, enter and
penetrate her whole being. Confused by those unusual sensations she stopped in
the doorway and instinctively drew the lower part of the curtain across her
face, leaving only half a rounded cheek, a stray tress, and one eye exposed,
wherewith to contemplate the gorgeous and bold being so unlike in appearance to
the rare specimens of traders she had seen before on that same verandah.
    Dain Maroola, dazzled by the unexpected vision, forgot the confused Almayer,
forgot his brig, his escort staring in open-mouthed admiration, the object of
his visit and all things else, in his overpowering desire to prolong the
contemplation of so much loveliness met so suddenly in such an unlikely place -
as he thought.
    »It is my daughter,« said Almayer, in an embarrassed manner. »It is of no
consequence. White women have their customs, as you know Tuan, having travelled
much, as you say. However, it is late; we will finish our talk to-morrow.«
    Dain bent low trying to convey in a last glance towards the girl the bold
expression of his overwhelming admiration. The next minute he was shaking
Almayer's hand with grave courtesy, his face wearing a look of stolid unconcern
as to any feminine presence. His men filed off, and he followed them quickly,
closely attended by a thick-set, savage-looking Sumatrese he had introduced
before as the commander of his brig. Nina walked to the balustrade of the
verandah and saw the sheen of moonlight on the steel spear-heads and heard the
rhythmic jingle of brass anklets as the men moved in single file towards the
jetty. The boat shoved off after a little while, looming large in the full light
of the moon, a black shapeless mass in the slight haze hanging over the water.
Nina fancied she could distinguish the graceful figure of the trader standing
erect in the stern sheets, but in a little while all the outlines got blurred,
confused, and soon disappeared in the folds of white vapour shrouding the middle
of the river.
    Almayer had approached his daughter, and leaning with both arms over the
rail, was looking moodily down on the heap of rubbish at the foot of the
verandah.
    »What was all that noise just now?« he growled peevishly, without looking
up. »Confound you and your mother! What did she want? What did you come out
for?«
    »She did not want to let me come out,« said Nina. »She is angry. She says
the man just gone is some Rajah. I think she is right now.«
    »I believe all you women are crazy,« snarled Almayer. »What's that to you,
to her, to anybody? The man wants to collect trepang and birds' nests on the
islands. He told me so, that Rajah of yours. He will come to-morrow. I want you
both to keep away from the house, and let me attend to my business in peace.«
    Dain Maroola came the next day and had a long conversation with Almayer.
This was the beginning of a close and friendly intercourse which, at first, was
much remarked in Sambir, till the population got used to the frequent sight of
many fires burning in Almayer's campong, where Maroola's men were warming
themselves during the cold nights of the northeast monsoon, while their master
had long conferences with the Tuan Putih - as they styled Almayer amongst
themselves. Great was the curiosity in Sambir on the subject of the new trader.
Had he seen the Sultan? What did the Sultan say? Had he given any presents? What
would he sell? What would he buy? Those were the questions broached eagerly by
the inhabitants of bamboo houses built over the river. Even in more substantial
buildings, in Abdulla's house, in the residences of principal traders, Arab,
Chinese, and Bugis, the excitement ran high, and lasted many days. With inborn
suspicion they would not believe the simple account of himself the young trader
was always ready to give. Yet it had all the appearance of truth. He said he was
a trader, and sold rice. He did not want to buy gutta-percha or beeswax, because
he intended to employ his numerous crew in collecting trepang on the coral reefs
outside the river, and also in seeking for birds' nests on the mainland. Those
two articles he professed himself ready to buy if there were any to be obtained
in that way. He said he was from Bali, and a Brahmin, which last statement he
made good by refusing all food during his often repeated visits to Lakamba's and
Almayer's houses. To Lakamba he went generally at night and had long audiences.
Babalatchi, who was always a third party at those meetings of potentate and
trader, knew how to resist all attempts on the part of the curious to ascertain
the subject of so many long talks. When questioned with languid courtesy by the
grave Abdulla he sought refuge in a vacant stare of his one eye, and in the
affectation of extreme simplicity.
    »I am only my master's slave,« murmured Babalatchi, in a hesitating manner.
Then as if making up his mind suddenly for a reckless confidence he would inform
Abdulla of some transaction in rice, repeating the words, »A hundred big bags
the Sultan bought; a hundred, Tuan!« in a tone of mysterious solemnity. Abdulla,
firmly persuaded of the existence of some more important dealings, received,
however, the information with all the signs of respectful astonishment. And the
two would separate, the Arab cursing inwardly the wily dog, while Babalatchi
went on his way walking on the dusty path, his body swaying, his chin with its
few grey hairs pushed forward, resembling an inquisitive goat bent on some
unlawful expedition. Attentive eyes watched his movements. Jim-Eng, descrying
Babalatchi far away, would shake off the stupor of an habitual opium smoker and,
tottering on to the middle of the road, would await the approach of that
important person, ready with hospitable invitation. But Babalatchi's discretion
was proof even against the combined assaults of good fellowship and of strong
gin generously administered by the open-hearted Chinaman. Jim-Eng, owning
himself beaten, was left uninformed with the empty bottle, and gazed sadly after
the departing form of the statesman of Sambir pursuing his devious and unsteady
way, which, as usual, led him to Almayer's compound. Ever since a reconciliation
had been effected by Dain Maroola between his white friend and the Rajah, the
one-eyed diplomatist had again become a frequent guest in the Dutchman's house.
To Almayer's great disgust he was to be seen there at all times, strolling about
in an abstracted kind of way on the verandah, skulking in the passages, or else
popping round unexpected corners, always willing to engage Mrs. Almayer in
confidential conversation. He was very shy of the master himself, as if
suspicious that the pent-up feelings of the white man towards his person might
find vent in a sudden kick. But the cooking shed was his favourite place, and he
became an habitual guest there, squatting for hours amongst the busy women, with
his chin resting on his knees, his lean arms clasped round his legs, and his one
eye roving uneasily - the very picture of watchful ugliness. Almayer wanted more
than once to complain to Lakamba of his Prime Minister's intrusion, but Dain
dissuaded him. »We cannot say a word here that he does not hear,« growled
Almayer.
    »Then come and talk on board the brig,« retorted Dain, with a quiet smile.
»It is good to let the man come here. Lakamba thinks he knows much. Perhaps the
Sultan thinks I want to run away. Better let the one-eyed crocodile sun himself
in your campong, Tuan.«
    And Almayer assented unwillingly muttering vague threats of personal
violence, while he eyed malevolently the aged statesman sitting with quiet
obstinacy by his domestic rice-pot.
 

                                  Chapter Five

At last the excitement had died out in Sambir. The inhabitants got used to the
sight of comings and goings between Almayer's house and the vessel, now moored
to the opposite bank, and speculation as to the feverish activity displayed by
Almayer's boatmen in repairing old canoes ceased to interfere with the due
discharge of domestic duties by the women of the Settlement. Even the baffled
Jim-Eng left off troubling his muddled brain with secrets of trade, and relapsed
by the aid of his opium pipe into a state of stupefied bliss, letting Babalatchi
pursue his way past his house uninvited and seemingly unnoticed.
    So on that warm afternoon, when the deserted river sparkled under the
vertical sun, the statesman of Sambir could, without any hindrance from friendly
inquirers, shove off his little canoe from under the bushes, where it was
usually hidden during his visits to Almayer's compound. Slowly and languidly
Babalatchi paddled, crouching low in the boat, making himself small under his
enormous sun hat to escape the scorching heat reflected from the water. He was
not in a hurry; his master, Lakamba, was surely reposing at this time of the
day. He would have ample time to cross over and greet him on his waking with
important news. Will he be displeased? Will he strike his ebony wood staff
angrily on the floor, frightening him by the incoherent violence of his
exclamations; or will he squat down with a good-humoured smile, and, rubbing his
hands gently over his stomach with a familiar gesture, expectorate copiously
into the brass siri-vessel, giving vent to a low, approbative murmur? Such were
Babalatchi's thoughts as he skilfully handled his paddle, crossing the river on
his way to the Rajah's campong, whose stockades showed from behind the dense
foliage of the bank just opposite to Almayer's bungalow.
    Indeed, he had a report to make. Something certain at last to confirm the
daily tale of suspicions, the daily hints of familiarity, of stolen glances he
had seen, of short and burning words he had overheard exchanged between Dain
Maroola and Almayer's daughter. Lakamba had, till then, listened to it all,
calmly and with evident distrust; now he was going to be convinced, for
Babalatchi had the proof; had it this very morning, when fishing at break of day
in the creek over which stood Bulangi's house. There from his skiff he saw
Nina's long canoe drift past, the girl sitting in the stern bending over Dain,
who was stretched in the bottom with his head resting on the girl's knees. He
saw it. He followed them, but in a short time they took to the paddles and got
away from under his observant eye. A few minutes afterwards he saw Bulangi's
slave-girl paddling in a small dug-out to the town with her cakes for sale. She
also had seen them in the grey dawn. And Babalatchi grinned confidentially to
himself at the recollection of the slave-girl's discomposed face, of the hard
look in her eyes, of the tremble in her voice, when answering his questions.
That little Taminah evidently admired Dain Maroola. That was good! And
Babalatchi laughed aloud at the notion; then becoming suddenly serious, he began
by some strange association of ideas to speculate upon the price for which
Bulangi would, possibly, sell the girl. He shook his head sadly at the thought
that Bulangi was a hard man, and had refused one hundred dollars for that same
Taminah only a few weeks ago; then he became suddenly aware that the canoe had
drifted too far down during his meditation. He shook off the despondency caused
by the certitude of Bulangi's mercenary disposition, and, taking up his paddle,
in a few strokes sheered alongside the water-gate of the Rajah's house.
    That afternoon Almayer, as was his wont lately, moved about on the
water-side, overlooking the repairs to his boats. He had decided at last. Guided
by the scraps of information contained in old Lingard's pocket-book, he was
going to seek for the rich gold-mine, for that place where he had only to stoop
to gather up an immense fortune and realize the dream of his young days. To
obtain the necessary help he had shared his knowledge with Dain Maroola, he had
consented to be reconciled with Lakamba, who gave his support to the enterprise
on condition of sharing the profits; he had sacrificed his pride, his honour,
and his loyalty in the face of the enormous risk of his undertaking, dazzled by
the greatness of the results to be achieved by this alliance so distasteful yet
so necessary. The dangers were great, but Maroola was brave; his men seemed as
reckless as their chief, and with Lakamba's aid success seemed assured.
    For the last fortnight Almayer was absorbed in the preparations, walking
amongst his workmen and slaves in a kind of waking trance, where practical
details as to the fitting out of the boats were mixed up with vivid dreams of
untold wealth, where the present misery of burning sun, of the muddy and
malodorous river bank disappeared in a gorgeous vision of a splendid future
existence for himself and Nina. He hardly saw Nina during these last days,
although the beloved daughter was ever present in his thoughts. He hardly took
notice of Dain, whose constant presence in his house had become a matter of
course to him now they were connected by a community of interests. When meeting
the young chief he gave him an absent greeting and passed on, seemingly wishing
to avoid him, bent upon forgetting the hated reality of the present by absorbing
himself in his work, or else by letting his imagination soar far above the
tree-tops into the great white clouds away to the westward, where the paradise
of Europe was awaiting the future Eastern millionaire. And Maroola, now the
bargain was struck and there was no more business to be talked over, evidently
did not care for the white man's company. Yet Dain was always about the house,
but he seldom stayed long by the riverside. On his daily visits to the white man
the Malay chief preferred to make his way quietly through the central passage of
the house, and would come out into the garden at the back, where the fire was
burning in the cooking shed, with the rice kettle swinging over it, under the
watchful supervision of Mrs. Almayer. Avoiding that shed, with its black smoke
and the warbling of soft, feminine voices, Dain would turn to the left. There,
on the edge of a banana plantation, a clump of palms and mango trees formed a
shady spot, a few scattered bushes giving it a certain seclusion into which only
the serving women's chatter or an occasional burst of laughter could penetrate.
Once in, he was invisible; and hidden there, leaning against the smooth trunk of
a tall palm, he waited with gleaming eyes and an assured smile to hear the faint
rustle of dried grass under the light footsteps of Nina.
    From the very first moment when his eyes beheld this - to him - perfection
of loveliness he felt in his inmost heart the conviction that she would be his;
he felt the subtle breath of mutual understanding passing between their two
savage natures, and he did not want Mrs. Almayer's encouraging smiles to take
every opportunity of approaching the girl; and every time he spoke to her, every
time he looked into her eyes, Nina, although averting her face, felt as if this
bold-looking being who spoke burning words into her willing ear was the
embodiment of her fate, the creature of her dreams - reckless, ferocious, ready
with flashing kriss for his enemies, and with passionate embrace for his beloved
- the ideal Malay chief of her mother's tradition.
    She recognized with a thrill of delicious fear the mysterious consciousness
of her identity with that being. Listening to his words, it seemed to her she
was born only then to a knowledge of a new existence, that her life was complete
only when near him, and she abandoned herself to a feeling of dreamy happiness,
while with half-veiled face and in silence - as became a Malay girl - she
listened to Dain's words giving up to her the whole treasure of love and passion
his nature was capable of with all the unrestrained enthusiasm of a man totally
untrammelled by any influence of civilized self-discipline.
    And they used to pass many a delicious and fast fleeting hour under the
mango trees behind the friendly curtain of bushes till Mrs. Almayer's shrill
voice gave the signal of unwilling separation. Mrs. Almayer had undertaken the
easy task of watching her husband lest he should interrupt the smooth course of
her daughter's love affair, in which she took a great and benignant interest.
She was happy and proud to see Dain's infatuation, believing him to be a great
and powerful chief, and she found also a gratification of her mercenary
instincts in Dain's open-handed generosity.
    On the eve of the day when Babalatchi's suspicions were confirmed by ocular
demonstration, Dain and Nina had remained longer than usual in their shady
retreat. Only Almayer's heavy step on the verandah and his querulous clamour for
food decided Mrs. Almayer to lift a warning cry. Maroola leaped lightly over the
low bamboo fence, and made his way through the banana plantation down to the
muddy shore of the back creek, while Nina walked slowly towards the house to
minister to her father's wants, as was her wont every evening. Almayer felt
happy enough that evening; the preparations were nearly completed; to-morrow he
would launch his boats. In his mind's eye he saw the rich prize in his grasp;
and, with tin spoon in his hand, he was forgetting the plateful of rice before
him in the fanciful arrangement of some splendid banquet to take place on his
arrival in Amsterdam. Nina, reclining in the long chair, listened absently to
the few disconnected words escaping from her father's lips. Expedition! Gold!
What did she care for all that? But at the name of Maroola mentioned by her
father she was all attention. Dain was going down the river with his brig
to-morrow to remain away for a few days, said Almayer. It was very annoying,
this delay. As soon as Dain returned they would have to start without loss of
time, for the river was rising. He would not be surprised if a great flood was
coming. And he pushed away his plate with an impatient gesture on rising from
the table. But now Nina heard him not. Dain going away! That's why he had
ordered her, with that quiet masterfulness it was her delight to obey, to meet
him at break of day in Bulangi's creek. Was there a paddle in her canoe? she
thought. Was it ready? She would have to start early - at four in the morning,
in a very few hours.
    She rose from her chair, thinking she would require rest before the long
pull in the early morning. The lamp was burning dimly, and her father, tired
with the day's labour, was already in his hammock. Nina put the lamp out and
passed into a large room she shared with her mother on the left of the central
passage. Entering, she saw that Mrs. Almayer had deserted the pile of mats
serving her as bed in one corner of the room, and was now bending over the
opened lid of her large wooden chest. Half a shell of cocoanut filled with oil,
where a cotton rag floated for a wick, stood on the floor, surrounding her with
a ruddy halo of light shining through the black and odorous smoke. Mrs.
Almayer's back was bent, and her head and shoulders hidden in the deep box. Her
hands rummaged in the interior, where a soft clink as of silver money could be
heard. She did not notice at first her daughter's approach, and Nina, standing
silently by her, looked down on many little canvas bags ranged in the bottom of
the chest, wherefrom her mother extracted handfuls of shining guilders and
Mexican dollars, letting them stream slowly back again through her claw-like
fingers. The music of tinkling silver seemed to delight her, and her eyes
sparkled with the reflected gleam of freshly-minted coins. She was muttering to
herself: »And this, and this, and yet this! Soon he will give more - as much
more as I ask. He is a great Rajah - a Son of Heaven! And she will be a Ranee -
he gave all this for her! Who ever gave anything for me? I am a slave! Am I? I
am the mother of a great Ranee!« She became aware suddenly of her daughter's
presence, and ceased her droning, shutting the lid down violently; then, without
rising from her crouching position, she looked up at the girl standing by with a
vague smile on her dreamy face.
    »You have seen. Have you?« she shouted, shrilly. »That is all mine, and for
you. It is not enough! He will have to give more before he takes you away to the
southern island where his father is king. You hear me? You are worth more,
granddaughter of Rajahs! More! More!«
    The sleepy voice of Almayer was heard on the verandah recommending silence.
Mrs. Almayer extinguished the light and crept into her corner of the room. Nina
laid down on her back on a pile of soft mats, her hands entwined under her head,
gazing through the shutterless hole, serving as a window at the stars twinkling
on the black sky; she was awaiting the time of start for her appointed
meeting-place. With quiet happiness she thought of that meeting in the great
forest, far from all human eyes and sounds. Her soul, lapsing again into the
savage mood, which the genius of civilization working by the hand of Mrs. Vinck
could never destroy, experienced a feeling of pride and of some slight trouble
at the high value her worldly-wise mother had put upon her person; but she
remembered the expressive glances and words of Dain, and, tranquillized, she
closed her eyes in a shiver of pleasant anticipation.
    There are some situations where the barbarian and the, so-called, civilized
man meet upon the same ground. It may be supposed that Dain Maroola was not
exceptionally delighted with his prospective mother-in-law, nor that he actually
approved of that worthy woman's appetite for shining dollars. Yet on that foggy
morning when Babalatchi, laying aside the cares of state, went to visit his
fish-baskets in the Bulangi creek, Maroola had no misgivings, experienced no
feelings but those of impatience and longing, when paddling to the east side of
the island forming the backwater in question. He hid his canoe in the bushes and
strode rapidly across the islet, pushing with impatience through the twigs of
heavy undergrowth intercrossed over his path. From motives of prudence he would
not take his canoe to the meeting-place, as Nina had done. He had left it in the
main stream till his return from the other side of the island. The heavy warm
fog was closing rapidly round him, but he managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of
a light away to the left, proceeding from Bulangi's house. Then he could see
nothing in the thickening vapour, and kept to the path only by a sort of
instinct, which also led him to the very point on the opposite shore he wished
to reach. A great log had stranded there, at right angles to the bank, forming a
kind of jetty against which the swiftly flowing stream broke with a loud ripple.
He stepped on it with a quick but steady motion, and in two strides found
himself at the outer end, with the rush and swirl of the foaming water at his
feet.
    Standing there alone, as if separated from the world; the heavens, earth;
the very water roaring under him swallowed up in the thick veil of the morning
fog, he breathed out the name of Nina before him into the apparently limitless
space, sure of being heard, instinctively sure of the nearness of the delightful
creature; certain of her being aware of his near presence as he was aware of
hers.
    The bow of Nina's canoe loomed up close to the log, canted high out of the
water by the weight of the sitter in the stern. Maroola laid his hand on the
stem and leaped lightly in, giving it a vigorous shove off. The light craft,
obeying the new impulse, cleared the log by a hair's breadth, and the river,
with obedient complicity, swung it broadside to the current, and bore it off
silently and rapidly between the invisible banks. And once more Dain, at the
feet of Nina, forgot the world, felt himself carried away helpless by a great
wave of supreme emotion, by a rush of joy, pride, and desire; understood once
more with overpowering certitude that there was no life possible without that
being he held clasped in his arms with passionate strength in a prolonged
embrace.
    Nina disengaged herself gently with a low laugh.
    »You will overturn the boat, Dain,« she whispered.
    He looked into her eyes eagerly for a minute and let her go with a sigh,
then lying down in the canoe he put his head on her knees, gazing upwards and
stretching his arms backwards till his hands met round the girl's waist. She
bent over him, and, shaking her head, framed both their faces in the falling
locks of her long black hair.
    And so they drifted on, he speaking with all the rude eloquence of a savage
nature giving itself up without restraint to an overmastering passion, she
bending low to catch the murmur of words sweeter to her than life itself. To
those two nothing existed then outside the gunwales of the narrow and fragile
craft. It was their world, filled with their intense and all-absorbing love.
They took no heed of thickening mist, or of the breeze dying away before
sunrise; they forgot the existence of the great forests surrounding them, of all
the tropical nature awaiting the advent of the sun in a solemn and impressive
silence.
    Over the low river-mist hiding the boat with its freight of young passionate
life and all-forgetful happiness, the stars paled, and a silvery-grey tint crept
over the sky from the eastward. There was not a breath of wind, not a rustle of
stirring leaf, not a splash of leaping fish to disturb the serene repose of all
living things on the banks of the great river. Earth, river, and sky were
wrapped up in a deep sleep from which it seemed there would be no waking. All
the seething life and movement of tropical nature seemed concentrated in the
ardent eyes, in the tumultuously beating hearts of the two beings drifting in
the canoe, under the white canopy of mist, over the smooth surface of the river.
    Suddenly a great sheaf of yellow rays shot upwards from behind the black
curtain of trees lining the banks of the Pantai. The stars went out; the little
black clouds at the zenith glowed for a moment with crimson tints, and the thick
mist, stirred by the gentle breeze, the sigh of waking nature, whirled round and
broke into fantastically torn pieces, disclosing the wrinkled surface of the
river sparkling in the broad light of day. Great flocks of white birds wheeled
screaming above the swaying tree-tops. The sun had risen on the east coast.
    Dain was the first to return to the cares of everyday life. He rose and
glanced rapidly up and down the river. His eye detected Babalatchi's boat
astern, and another small black speck on the glittering water, which was
Taminah's canoe. He moved cautiously forward, and, kneeling, took up a paddle;
Nina at the stern took hers. They bent their bodies to the work, throwing up the
water at every stroke, and the small craft went swiftly ahead, leaving a narrow
wake fringed with a lacelike border of white and gleaming foam. Without turning
his head, Dain spoke.
    »Somebody behind us, Nina. We must not let him gain. I think he is too far
to recognize us.«
    »Somebody before us also,« panted out Nina, without ceasing to paddle.
    »I think I know,« rejoined Dain. »The sun shines over there, but I fancy it
is the girl Taminah. She comes down every morning to my brig to sell cakes -
stays often all day. It does not matter; steer more into the bank; we must get
under the bushes. My canoe is hidden not far from here.«
    As he spoke his eyes watched the broad-leaved nipas which they were brushing
in their swift and silent course.
    »Look out, Nina,« he said at last; »there, where the water palms end and the
twigs hang down under the leaning tree. Steer for the big green branch.«
    He stood up attentive, and the boat drifted slowly in shore, Nina guiding it
by a gentle and skilful movement of her paddle. When near enough Dain laid hold
of the big branch, and leaning back shot the canoe under a low green archway of
thickly matted creepers giving access to a miniature bay formed by the caving in
of the bank during the last great flood. His own boat was there anchored by a
stone, and he stepped into it, keeping his hand on the gunwale of Nina's canoe.
In a moment the two little nutshells with their occupants floated quietly side
by side, reflected by the black water in the dim light struggling through a high
canopy of dense foliage; while above, away up in the broad day, flamed immense
red blossoms sending down on their heads a shower of great dew-sparkling petals
that descended rotating slowly in a continuous and perfumed stream; and over
them, under them, in the sleeping water; all around them in a ring of luxuriant
vegetation bathed in the warm air charged with strong and harsh perfumes, the
intense work of tropical nature went on: plants shooting upward, entwined,
interlaced in inextricable confusion, climbing madly and brutally over each
other in the terrible silence of a desperate struggle towards the life-giving
sunshine above - as if struck with sudden horror at the seething mass of
corruption below, at the death and decay from which they sprang.
    »We must part now,« said Dain, after a long silence. »You must return at
once, Nina. I will wait till the brig drifts down here, and shall get on board
then.«
    »And will you be long away, Dain?« asked Nina, in a low voice.
    »Long!« exclaimed Dain. »Would a man willingly remain long in a dark place?
When I am not near you, Nina, I am like a man that is blind. What is life to me
without light?«
    Nina leaned over, and with a proud and happy smile took Dain's face between
her hands, looking into his eyes with a fond yet questioning gaze. Apparently
she found there the confirmation of the words just said, for a feeling of
grateful security lightened for her the weight of sorrow at the hour of parting.
She believed that he, the descendant of many great Rajahs, the son of a great
chief, the master of life and death, knew the sunshine of life only in her
presence. An immense wave of gratitude and love welled forth out of her heart
towards him. How could she make an outward and visible sign of all she felt for
the man who had filled her heart with so much joy and so much pride? And in the
great tumult of passion, like a flash of lightning came to her the reminiscence
of that despised and almost forgotten civilization she had only glanced at in
her days of restraint, of sorrow, and of anger. In the cold ashes of that
hateful and miserable past she would find the sign of love, the fitting
expression of the boundless felicity of the present, the pledge of a bright and
splendid future. She threw her arms around Dain's neck and pressed her lips to
his in a long and burning kiss. He closed his eyes, surprised and frightened at
the storm raised in his breast by the strange and to him hitherto unknown
contact, and long after Nina had pushed her canoe into the river he remained
motionless, without daring to open his eyes, afraid to lose the sensation of
intoxicating delight he had tasted for the first time.
    Now he wanted but immortality, he thought, to be the equal of gods, and the
creature that could open so the gates of paradise must be his - soon would be
his for ever!
    He opened his eyes in time to see through the archway of creepers the bows
of his brig come slowly into view, as the vessel drifted past on its way down
the river. He must go on board now, he thought; yet he was loth to leave the
place where he had learned to know what happiness meant. »Time yet. Let them
go,« he muttered to himself; and he closed his eyes again under the red shower
of scented petals, trying to recall the scene with all its delight and all its
fear.
    He must have been able to join his brig in time, after all, and found much
occupation outside, for it was in vain that Almayer looked for his friend's
speedy return. The lower reach of the river where he so often and so impatiently
directed his eyes remained deserted, save for the rapid flitting of some fishing
canoe; but down the upper reaches came black clouds and heavy showers heralding
the final setting in of the rainy season with its thunderstorms and great floods
making the river almost impossible of ascent for native canoes.
    Almayer, strolling along the muddy beach between his houses, watched
uneasily the river rising inch by inch, creeping slowly nearer to the boats, now
ready and hauled up in a row under the cover of dripping Kajang-mats. Fortune
seemed to elude his grasp, and in his weary tramp backwards and forwards under
the steady rain falling from the lowering sky, a sort of despairing indifference
took possession of him. What did it matter? It was just his luck! Those two
infernal savages, Lakamba and Dain, induced him, with their promises of help, to
spend his last dollar in the fitting out of boats, and now one of them was gone
somewhere, and the other shut up in his stockade would give no sign of life. No,
not even the scoundrelly Babalatchi, thought Almayer, would show his face near
him, now they had sold him all the rice, brass gongs, and cloth necessary for
his expedition. They had his very last coin, and did not care whether he went or
stayed. And with a gesture of abandoned discouragement Almayer would climb up
slowly to the verandah of his new house to get out of the rain, and leaning on
the front rail with his head sunk between his shoulders he would abandon himself
to the current of bitter thoughts, oblivious of the flight of time and the pangs
of hunger, deaf to the shrill cries of his wife calling him to the evening meal.
When, roused from his sad meditations by the first roll of the evening
thunderstorm, he stumbled slowly towards the glimmering light of his old house,
his half-dead hope made his ears preternaturally acute to any sound on the
river. Several nights in succession he had heard the splash of paddles and had
seen the indistinct form of a boat, but when hailing the shadowy apparition, his
heart bounding with sudden hope of hearing Dain's voice, he was disappointed
each time by the sulky answer conveying to him the intelligence that the Arabs
were on the river, bound on a visit to the home-staying Lakamba. This caused him
many sleepless nights, spent in speculating upon the kind of villainy those
estimable personages were hatching now. At last, when all hope seemed dead, he
was overjoyed on hearing Dain's voice; but Dain also appeared very anxious to
see Lakamba, and Almayer felt uneasy owing to a deep and ineradicable distrust
as to that ruler's disposition towards himself. Still, Dain had returned at
last. Evidently he meant to keep to his bargain. Hope revived, and that night
Almayer slept soundly, while Nina watched the angry river under the lash of the
thunderstorm sweeping onward towards the sea.
 

                                  Chapter Six

Dain was not long in crossing the river after leaving Almayer. He landed at the
water-gate of the stockade enclosing the group of houses which composed the
residence of the Rajah of Sambir. Evidently somebody was expected there, for the
gate was open, and men with torches were ready to precede the visitor up the
inclined plane of planks leading to the largest house where Lakamba actually
resided, and where all the business of state was invariably transacted. The
other buildings within the enclosure served only to accommodate the numerous
household and the wives of the ruler.
    Lakamba's own house was a strong structure of solid planks, raised on high
piles, with a verandah of split bamboos surrounding it on all sides; the whole
was covered in by an immensely high-pitched roof of palm-leaves, resting on
beams blackened by the smoke of many torches.
    The building stood parallel to the river, one of its long sides facing the
water-gate of the stockade. There was a door in the short side looking up the
river, and the inclined plank-way led straight from the gate to that door. By
the uncertain light of smoky torches, Dain noticed the vague outlines of a group
of armed men in the dark shadows to his right. From that group Babalatchi
stepped forward to open the door, and Dain entered the audience chamber of the
Rajah's residence. About one-third of the house was curtained off, by heavy
stuff of European manufacture, for that purpose; close to the curtain there was
a big arm-chair of some black wood, much carved, and before it a rough deal
table. Otherwise the room was only furnished with mats in great profusion. To
the left of the entrance stood a rude arm-rack, with three rifles with fixed
bayonets in it. By the wall, in the shadow, the bodyguard of Lakamba - all
friends or relations - slept in a confused heap of brown arms, legs, and
multi-coloured garments, from whence issued an occasional snore or a subdued
groan of some uneasy sleeper. An European lamp with a green shade standing on
the table made all this indistinctly visible to Dain.
    »You are welcome to your rest here,« said Babalatchi, looking at Dain
interrogatively.
    »I must speak to the Rajah at once,« answered Dain.
    Babalatchi made a gesture of assent, and, turning to the brass gong
suspended under the arm-rack, struck two sharp blows.
    The ear-splitting din woke up the guard. The snores ceased; outstretched
legs were drawn in; the whole heap moved, and slowly resolved itself into
individual forms with much yawning and rubbing of sleepy eyes; behind the
curtains there was a burst of feminine chatter; then the bass voice of Lakamba
was heard.
    »Is that the Arab trader?«
    »No, Tuan,« answered Babalatchi; »Dain has returned at last. He is here for
an important talk, bitcharra - if you mercifully consent.«
    Evidently Lakamba's mercy went so far - for in a short while he came out
from behind the curtain - but it did not go to the length of inducing him to
make an extensive toilet. A short red sarong tightened hastily round his hips
was his only garment. The merciful ruler of Sambir looked sleepy and rather
sulky. He sat in the arm-chair, his knees well apart, his elbows on the
arm-rests, his chin on his breast, breathing heavily and waiting malevolently
for Dain to open the important talk.
    But Dain did not seem anxious to begin. He directed his gaze towards
Babalatchi, squatting comfortably at the feet of his master, and remained silent
with a slightly bent head as if in attentive expectation of coming words of
wisdom.
    Babalatchi coughed discreetly, and, leaning forward, pushed over a few mats
for Dain to sit upon, then lifting up his squeaky voice he assured him with
eager volubility of everybody's delight at this long-looked-for return. His
heart had hungered for the sight of Dain's face, and his ears were withering for
the want of the refreshing sound of his voice. Everybody's hearts and ears were
in the same sad predicament, according to Babalatchi, as he indicated with a
sweeping gesture the other bank of the river where the settlement slumbered
peacefully, unconscious of the great joy awaiting it on the morrow when Dain's
presence amongst them would be disclosed. »For« - went on Babalatchi - »what is
the joy of a poor man if not the open hand of a generous trader or of a great -«
    Here he checked himself abruptly with a calculated embarrassment of manner,
and his roving eye sought the floor, while an apologetic smile dwelt for a
moment on his misshapen lips. Once or twice during this opening speech an amused
expression flitted across Dain's face, soon to give way, however, to an
appearance of grave concern. On Lakamba's brow a heavy frown had settled, and
his lips moved angrily as he listened to his Prime Minister's oratory. In the
silence that fell upon the room when Babalatchi ceased speaking arose a chorus
of varied snores from the corner where the body-guard had resumed their
interrupted slumbers, but the distant rumble of thunder filling then Nina's
heart with apprehension for the safety of her lover passed unheeded by those
three men intent each on their own purposes, for life or death.
    After a short silence, Babalatchi, discarding now the flowers of polite
eloquence, spoke again, but in short and hurried sentences and in a low voice.
They had been very uneasy. Why did Dain remain so long absent? The men dwelling
on the lower reaches of the river heard the reports of big guns and saw a
fire-ship of the Dutch amongst the islands of the estuary. So they were anxious.
Rumours of a disaster had reached Abdulla a few days ago, and since then they
had been waiting for Dain's return under the apprehension of some misfortune.
For days they had closed their eyes in fear, and woke up alarmed, and walked
abroad trembling, like men before an enemy. And all on account of Dain. Would he
not allay their fears for his safety, not for themselves? They were quiet and
faithful, and devoted to the great Rajah in Batavia - may his fate lead him ever
to victory for the joy and profit of his servants! »And here,« went on
Babalatchi, »Lakamba my master was getting thin in his anxiety for the trader he
had taken under his protection; and so was Abdulla, for what would wicked men
not say if perchance -«
    »Be silent, fool!« growled Lakamba, angrily.
    Babalatchi subsided into silence with a satisfied smile, while Dain, who had
been watching him as if fascinated, turned with a sigh of relief towards the
ruler of Sambir. Lakamba did not move, and, without raising his head, looked at
Dain from under his eyebrows, breathing audibly, with pouted lips, in an air of
general discontent.
    »Speak! O Dain!« he said at last. »We have heard many rumours. Many nights
in succession has my friend Reshid come here with bad tidings. News travels fast
along the coast. But they may be untrue; there are more lies in men's mouths in
these days than when I was young, but I am not easier to deceive now.«
    »All my words are true,« said Dain, carelessly. »If you want to know what
befell my brig, then learn that it is in the hands of the Dutch. Believe me,
Rajah,« he went on, with sudden energy, »the Orang Blanda have good friends in
Sambir, or else how did they know I was coming thence?«
    Lakamba gave Dain a short and hostile glance. Babalatchi rose quietly, and,
going to the arm-rack, struck the gong violently.
    Outside the door there was a shuffle of bare feet; inside, the guard woke up
and sat staring in sleepy surprise.
    »Yes, you faithful friend of the white Rajah,« went on Dain, scornfully,
turning to Babalatchi, who had returned to his place, »I have escaped, and I am
here to gladden your heart. When I saw the Dutch ship I ran the brig inside the
reefs and put her ashore. They did not dare to follow with the ship, so they
sent the boats. We took to ours and tried to get away, but the ship dropped
fireballs at us, and killed many of my men. But I am left, O Babalatchi! The
Dutch are coming here. They are seeking for me. They're coming to ask their
faithful friend Lakamba and his slave Babalatchi. Rejoice!«
    But neither of his hearers appeared to be in a joyful mood. Lakamba had put
one leg over his knee and went on gently scratching it with a meditative air,
while Babalatchi, sitting cross-legged, seemed suddenly to become smaller and
very limp, staring straight before him vacantly. The guard evinced some interest
in the proceedings, stretching themselves full length on the mats to be nearer
the speaker. One of them got up and now stood leaning against the arm-rack,
playing absently with the fringes of his sword-hilt.
    Dain waited till the crash of thunder had died away in distant mutterings
before he spoke again.
    »Are you dumb, O ruler of Sambir, or is the son of a great Rajah unworthy of
your notice? I am come here to seek refuge and to warn you, and want to know
what you intend doing.«
    »You came here because of the white man's daughter,« retorted Lakamba,
quickly. »Your refuge was with your father, the Rajah of Bali, the Son of
Heaven, the Anak Agong himself. What am I to protect great princes? Only
yesterday I planted rice in a burnt clearing; to-day you say I hold your life in
my hand.«
    Babalatchi glanced at his master. »No man can escape his fate,« he murmured
piously. »When love enters a man's heart he is like a child - without any
understanding. Be merciful, Lakamba,« he added, twitching the corner of the
Rajah's sarong warningly.
    Lakamba snatched away the skirt of the sarong angrily. Under the dawning
comprehension of intolerable embarrassments caused by Dain's return to Sambir he
began to lose such composure as he had been, till then, able to maintain; and
now he raised his voice loudly above the whistling of the wind and the patter of
rain on the roof in the hard squall passing over the house.
    »You came here first as a trader with sweet words and great promises, asking
me to look the other way while you worked your will on the white man there. And
I did. What do you want now? When I was young I fought. Now I am old, and want
peace. It is easier for me to have you killed than to fight the Dutch. It is
better for me.«
    The squall had now passed, and, in the short stillness of the lull in the
storm, Lakamba repeated softly, as if to himself, »Much easier. Much better.«
    Dain did not seem greatly discomposed by the Rajah's threatening words.
While Lakamba was speaking he had glanced once rapidly over his shoulder, just
to make sure that there was nobody behind him, and, tranquillized in that
respect, he had extracted a siri-box out of the folds of his waist-cloth, and
was wrapping carefully the little bit of betel-nut and a small pinch of lime in
the green leaf tendered him politely by the watchful Babalatchi. He accepted
this as a peace-offering from the silent statesman - a kind of mute protest
against his master's undiplomatic violence, and as an omen of a possible
understanding to be arrived at yet. Otherwise Dain was not uneasy. Although
recognizing the justice of Lakamba's surmise that he had come back to Sambir
only for the sake of the white man's daughter, yet he was not conscious of any
childish lack of understanding, as suggested by Babalatchi. In fact, Dain knew
very well that Lakamba was too deeply implicated in the gunpowder smuggling to
care for an investigation by the Dutch authorities into that matter. When sent
off by his father, the independent Rajah of Bali, at the time when the
hostilities between Dutch and Malays threatened to spread from Sumatra over the
whole archipelago, Dain had found all the big traders deaf to his guarded
proposals, and above the temptation of the great prices he was ready to give for
gunpowder. He went to Sambir as a last and almost hopeless resort, having heard
in Macassar of the white man there, and of the regular steamer trading from
Singapore - allured also by the fact that there was no Dutch resident on the
river, which would make things easier, no doubt. His hopes got nearly wrecked
against the stubborn loyalty of Lakamba arising from well-understood
self-interest; but at last the young man's generosity, his persuasive
enthusiasm, the prestige of his father's great name, overpowered the prudent
hesitation of the ruler of Sambir. Lakamba would have nothing to do himself with
any illegal traffic. He also objected to the Arabs being made use of in that
matter; but he suggested Almayer, saying that he was a weak man easily
persuaded, and that his friend, the English captain of the steamer, could be
made very useful - very likely even would join in the business, smuggling the
powder in the steamer without Abdulla's knowledge. There again Dain met in
Almayer an unexpected resistance; Lakamba had to send Babalatchi over with the
solemn promise that his eyes would be shut in friendship for the white man, Dain
paying for the promise and the friendship in good silver guilders of the hated
Orang Blanda. Almayer, at last consenting, said the powder would be obtained,
but Dain must trust him with dollars to send to Singapore in payment for it. He
would induce Ford to buy and smuggle it in the steamer on board the brig. He did
not want any money for himself out of the transaction, but Dain must help him in
his great enterprise after sending off the brig. Almayer had explained to Dain
that he could not trust Lakamba alone in that matter; he would be afraid of
losing his treasure and his life through the cupidity of the Rajah; yet the
Rajah had to be told, and insisted on taking a share in that operation, or else
his eyes would remain shut no longer. To this Almayer had to submit. Had Dain
not seen Nina he would have probably refused to engage himself and his men in
the projected expedition to Gunong Mas - the mountain of gold. As it was he
intended to return with half of his men as soon as the brig was clear of the
reefs, but the persistent chase given him by the Dutch frigate had forced him to
run south and ultimately to wreck and destroy his vessel in order to preserve
his liberty or perhaps even his life. Yes, he had come back to Sambir for Nina,
although aware that the Dutch would look for him there, but he had also
calculated his chances of safety in Lakamba's hands. For all his ferocious talk,
the merciful ruler would not kill him, for he had long ago been impressed with
the notion that Dain possessed the secret of the white man's treasure; neither
would he give him up to the Dutch, for fear of some fatal disclosure of
complicity in the treasonable trade. So Dain felt tolerably secure as he sat
meditating quietly his answer to the Rajah's bloodthirsty speech. Yes, he would
point out to him the aspect of his position should he - Dain - fall into the
hands of the Dutch and should he speak the truth. He would have nothing more to
lose then, and he would speak the truth. And if he did return to Sambir,
disturbing thereby Lakamba's peace of mind, what then? He came to look after his
property. Did he not pour a stream of silver into Mrs. Almayer's greedy lap? He
had paid, for the girl, a price worthy of a great prince, although unworthy of
that delightfully maddening creature for whom his untamed soul longed in an
intensity of desire far more tormenting than the sharpest pain. He wanted his
happiness. He had the right to be in Sambir.
    He rose, and, approaching the table, leaned both his elbows on it; Lakamba
responsively edged his seat a little closer, while Babalatchi scrambled to his
feet and thrust his inquisitive head between his master's and Dain's. They
interchanged their ideas rapidly, speaking in whispers into each other's faces,
very close now, Dain suggesting, Lakamba contradicting, Babalatchi conciliating
and anxious in his vivid apprehension of coming difficulties. He spoke most,
whispering earnestly, turning his head slowly from side to side so as to bring
his solitary eye to bear upon each of his interlocutors in turn. Why should
there be strife? said he. Let Tuan Dain, whom he loved only less than his
master, go trustfully into hiding. There were many places for that. Bulangi's
house away in the clearing was best. Bulangi was a safe man. In the network of
crooked channels no white man could find his way. White men were strong, but
very foolish. It was undesirable to fight them, but deception was easy. They
were like silly women - they did not know the use of reason, and he was a match
for any of them - went on Babalatchi, with all the confidence of deficient
experience. Probably the Dutch would seek Almayer. Maybe they would take away
their countryman if they were suspicious of him. That would be good. After the
Dutch went away Lakamba and Dain would get the treasure without any trouble, and
there would be one person less to share it. Did he not speak wisdom? Will Tuan
Dain go to Bulangi's house till the danger is over, go at once?
    Dain accepted this suggestion of going into hiding with a certain sense of
conferring a favour upon Lakamba and the anxious statesman, but he met the
proposal of going at once with a decided no, looking Babalatchi meaningly in the
eye. The statesman sighed as a man accepting the inevitable would do, and
pointed silently towards the other bank of the river. Dain bent his head slowly.
    »Yes, I am going there,« he said.
    »Before the day comes?« asked Babalatchi.
    »I am going there now,« answered Dain, decisively. »The Orang Blanda will
not be here before to-morrow night, perhaps, and I must tell Almayer of our
arrangements.«
    »No, Tuan. No; say nothing,« protested Babalatchi. »I will go over myself at
sunrise and let him know.«
    »I will see,« said Dain, preparing to go.
    The thunderstorm was recommencing outside, the heavy clouds hanging low
overhead now. There was a constant rumble of distant thunder punctuated by the
nearer sharp crashes, and in the continuous play of blue lightning the woods and
the river showed fitfully, with all the elusive distinctness of detail
characteristic of such a scene. Outside the door of the Rajah's house Dain and
Babalatchi stood on the shaking verandah as if dazed and stunned by the violence
of the storm. They stood there amongst the cowering forms of the Rajah's slaves
and retainers seeking shelter from the rain, and Dain called aloud to his
boatmen, who responded with an unanimous »Ada! Tuan!« while they looked uneasily
at the river.
    »This is a great flood!« shouted Babalatchi into Dain's ear. »The river is
very angry. Look! Look at the drifting logs! Can you go?«
    Dain glanced doubtfully on the livid expanse of seething water bounded far
away on the other side by the narrow black line of the forests. Suddenly, in a
vivid white flash, the low point of land with the bending trees on it and
Almayer's house, leaped into view, flickered and disappeared. Dain pushed
Babalatchi aside and ran down to the water-gate followed by his shivering
boatmen.
    Babalatchi backed slowly in and closed the door, then turned round and
looked silently upon Lakamba. The Rajah sat still, glaring stonily upon the
table, and Babalatchi gazed curiously at the perplexed mood of the man he had
served so many years through good and evil fortune. No doubt the one-eyed
statesman felt within his savage and much sophisticated breast the unwonted
feelings of sympathy with, and perhaps even pity for, the man he called his
master. From the safe position of a confidential adviser, he could, in the dim
vista of past years, see himself - a casual cut-throat - finding shelter under
that man's roof in the modest rice-clearing of early beginnings. Then came a
long period of unbroken success, of wise counsels, and deep plottings resolutely
carried out by the fearless Lakamba, till the whole east coast from Poulo Laut
to Tanjong Batu listened to Babalatchi's wisdom speaking through the mouth of
the ruler of Sambir. In those long years how many dangers escaped, how many
enemies bravely faced, how many white men successfully circumvented! And now he
looked upon the result of so many years of patient toil: the fearless Lakamba
cowed by the shadow of an impending trouble. The ruler was growing old, and
Babalatchi, aware of an uneasy feeling at the pit of his stomach, put both his
hands there with a suddenly vivid and sad perception of the fact that he himself
was growing old too; that the time of reckless daring was past for both of them,
and that they had to seek refuge in prudent cunning. They wanted peace; they
were disposed to reform; they were ready even to retrench so as to have the
wherewithal to bribe the evil days away, if bribed away they could be.
Babalatchi sighed for the second time that night as he squatted again at his
master's feet and tendered him his betel-nut box in mute sympathy. And they sat
there in close yet silent communion of betel-nut chewers, moving their jaws
slowly, expectorating decorously into the wide-mouthed brass vessel they passed
to one another, and listening to the awful din of the battling elements outside.
    »There is a very great flood,« remarked Babalatchi, sadly.
    »Yes,« said Lakamba. »Did Dain go?«
    »He went, Tuan. He ran down to the river like a man possessed of the Sheitan
himself.«
    There was another long pause.
    »He may get drowned,« suggested Lakamba at last, with some show of interest.
    »The floating logs are many,« answered Babalatchi, »but he is a good
swimmer,« he added languidly.
    »He ought to live,« said Lakamba; »he knows where the treasure is.«
    Babalatchi assented with an ill-humoured grunt. His want of success in
penetrating the white man's secret as to the locality where the gold was to be
found was a sore point with the statesman of Sambir, as the only conspicuous
failure in an otherwise brilliant career.
    A great peace had now succeeded the turmoil of the storm. Only the little
belated clouds, which hurried past overhead to catch up the main body flashing
silently in the distance, sent down short showers that pattered softly with a
soothing hiss over the palm-leaf roof.
    Lakamba roused himself from his apathy with an appearance of having grasped
the situation at last.
    »Babalatchi,« he called briskly, giving him a slight kick.
    »Ada Tuan! I am listening.«
    »If the Orang Blanda come here, Babalatchi, and take Almayer to Batavia to
punish him for smuggling gunpowder, what will he do, you think?«
    »I do not know, Tuan.«
    »You are a fool,« commented Lakamba, exultingly. »He will tell them where
the treasure is, so as to find mercy. He will.«
    Babalatchi looked up at his master and nodded his head with by no means a
joyful surprise. He had not thought of this; there was a new complication.
    »Almayer must die,« said Lakamba, decisively, »to make our secret safe. He
must die quietly, Babalatchi. You must do it.«
    Babalatchi assented, and rose wearily to his feet. »To-morrow?« he asked.
    »Yes; before the Dutch come. He drinks much coffee,« answered Lakamba, with
seeming irrelevancy.
    Babalatchi stretched himself yawning, but Lakamba, in the flattering
consciousness of a knotty problem solved by his own unaided intellectual
efforts, grew suddenly very wakeful.
    »Babalatchi,« he said to the exhausted statesman, »fetch the box of music
the white captain gave me. I cannot sleep.«
    At this order a deep shade of melancholy settled upon Babalatchi's features.
He went reluctantly behind the curtain and soon reappeared carrying in his arms
a small hand-organ, which he put down on the table with an air of deep
dejection. Lakamba settled himself comfortably in his arm-chair.
    »Turn, Babalatchi, turn,« he murmured, with closed eyes.
    Babalatchi's hand grasped the handle with the energy of despair, and as he
turned, the deep gloom on his countenance changed into an expression of hopeless
resignation. Through the open shutter the notes of Verdi's music floated out on
the great silence over the river and forest. Lakamba listened with closed eyes
and a delighted smile; Babalatchi turned, at times dozing off and swaying over,
then catching himself up in a great fright with a few quick turns of the handle.
Nature slept in an exhausted repose after the fierce turmoil, while under the
unsteady hand of the statesman of Sambir the Trovatore fitfully wept, wailed,
and bade good-bye to his Leonore again and again in a mournful round of tearful
and endless iteration.
 

                                 Chapter Seven

The bright sunshine of the clear mistless morning, after the stormy night,
flooded the main path of the settlement leading from the low shore of the Pantai
branch of the river to the gate of Abdulla's compound. The path was deserted
this morning; it stretched its dark yellow surface, hard beaten by the tramp of
many bare feet, between the clusters of palm trees, whose tall trunks barred it
with strong black lines at irregular intervals, while the newly risen sun threw
the shadows of their leafy heads far away over the roofs of the buildings lining
the river, even over the river itself as it flowed swiftly and silently past the
deserted houses. For the houses were deserted too. On the narrow strip of
trodden grass intervening between their open doors and the road, the morning
fires smouldered untended, sending thin fluted columns of smoke into the cool
air, and spreading the thinnest veil of mysterious blue haze over the sunlit
solitude of the settlement. Almayer, just out of his hammock, gazed sleepily at
the unwonted appearance of Sambir, wondering vaguely at the absence of life. His
own house was very quiet; he could not hear his wife's voice, nor the sound of
Nina's footsteps in the big room, opening on the verandah, which he called his
sitting-room, whenever, in the company of white men, he wished to assert his
claims to the commonplace decencies of civilization. Nobody ever sat there;
there was nothing there to sit upon, for Mrs. Almayer in her savage moods, when
excited by the reminiscences of the piratical period of her life, had torn off
the curtains to make sarongs for the slave-girls, and had burnt the showy
furniture piecemeal to cook the family rice. But Almayer was not thinking of his
furniture now. He was thinking of Dain's return, of Dain's nocturnal interview
with Lakamba, of its possible influence on his long-matured plans, now nearing
the period of their execution. He was also uneasy at the non-appearance of Dain
who had promised him an early visit. »The fellow had plenty of time to cross the
river,« he mused, »and there was so much to be done to-day. The settling of
details for the early start on the morrow; the launching of the boats; the
thousand and one finishing touches. For the expedition must start complete,
nothing should be forgotten, nothing should -«
    The sense of the unwonted solitude grew upon him suddenly, and in the
unusual silence he caught himself longing even for the usually unwelcome sound
of his wife's voice to break the oppressive stillness which seemed, to his
frightened fancy, to portend the advent of some new misfortune. »What has
happened?« he muttered half aloud, as he shuffled in his imperfectly adjusted
slippers towards the balustrade of the verandah. »Is everybody asleep or dead?«
    The settlement was alive and very much awake. It was awake ever since the
early break of day, when Mahmat Banjer, in a fit of unheard-of energy, arose
and, taking up his hatchet, stepped over the sleeping forms of his two wives and
walked shivering to the water's edge to make sure that the new house he was
building had not floated away during the night.
    The house was being built by the enterprising Mahmat on a large raft, and he
had securely moored it just inside the muddy point of land at the junction of
the two branches of the Pantai so as to be out of the way of drifting logs that
would no doubt strand on the point during the freshet. Mahmat walked through the
wet grass saying bourrouh, and cursing softly to himself the hard necessities of
active life that drove him from his warm couch into the cold of the morning. A
glance showed him that his house was still there, and he congratulated himself
on his foresight in hauling it, out of harm's way, for the increasing light
showed him a confused wrack of drift-logs, half-stranded on the muddy flat,
interlocked into a shapeless raft by their branches, tossing to and fro and
grinding together in the eddy caused by the meeting currents of the two branches
of the river. Mahmat walked down to the water's edge to examine the rattan
moorings of his house just as the sun cleared the trees of the forest on the
opposite shore. As he bent over the fastenings he glanced again carelessly at
the unquiet jumble of logs and saw there something that caused him to drop his
hatchet and stand up, shading his eyes with his hand from the rays of the rising
sun. It was something red, and the logs rolled over it, at times closing round
it, sometimes hiding it. It looked to him at first like a strip of red cloth.
The next moment Mahmat had made it out and raised a great shout.
    »Ah ya! There!« yelled Mahmat. »There's a man amongst the logs.« He put the
palms of his hand to his lips and shouted, enunciating distinctly, his face
turned towards the settlement: »There's a body of a man in the river! Come and
see! A dead - stranger!«
    The women of the nearest house were already outside kindling the fires and
husking the morning rice. They took up the cry shrilly, and it travelled so from
house to house, dying away in the distance. The men rushed out excited but
silent, and ran towards the muddy point where the unconscious logs tossed and
ground and bumped and rolled over the dead stranger with the stupid persistency
of inanimate things. The women followed, neglecting their domestic duties and
disregarding the possibilities of domestic discontent, while groups of children
brought up the rear, warbling joyously, in the delight of unexpected excitement.
    Almayer called aloud for his wife and daughter, but receiving no response,
stood listening intently. The murmur of the crowd reached him faintly, bringing
with it the assurance of some unusual event. He glanced at the river just as he
was going to leave the verandah and checked himself at the sight of a small
canoe crossing over from the Rajah's landing-place. The solitary occupant (in
whom Almayer soon recognized Babalatchi) effected the crossing a little below
the house and paddled up to the Lingard jetty in the dead water under the bank.
Babalatchi clambered out slowly and went on fastening his canoe with fastidious
care, as if not in a hurry to meet Almayer, whom he saw looking at him from the
verandah. This delay gave Almayer time to notice and greatly wonder at
Babalatchi's official get-up. The statesman of Sambir was clad in a costume
befitting his high rank. A loudly checkered sarong encircled his waist and from
its many folds peeped out the silver hilt of the kriss that saw the light only
on great festivals or during official receptions. Over the left shoulder and
across the otherwise unclad breast of the aged diplomatist glistened a patent
leather belt bearing a brass plate with the arms of Netherlands under the
inscription, Sultan of Sambir. Babalatchi's head was covered by a red turban,
whose fringed ends falling over the left cheek and shoulder gave to his aged
face a ludicrous expression of joyous recklessness. When the canoe was at last
fastened to his satisfaction he straightened himself up, shaking down the folds
of his sarong, and moved with long strides towards Almayer's house, swinging
regularly his long ebony staff, whose gold head ornamented with precious stones
flashed in the morning sun. Almayer waved his hand to the right towards the
point of land, to him invisible, but in full view from the jetty.
    »Oh, Babalatchi! oh!« he called out; »what is the matter there? can you
see?«
    Babalatchi stopped and gazed intently at the crowd on the river bank, and
after a little while the astonished Almayer saw him leave the path, gather up
his sarong in one hand, and break into a trot through the grass towards the
muddy point. Almayer, now greatly interested, ran down the steps of the
verandah. The murmur of men's voices and the shrill cries of women reached him
quite distinctly now, and as soon as he turned the corner of his house he could
see the crowd on the low promontory swaying and pushing round some object of
interest. He could indistinctly hear Babalatchi's voice, then the crowd opened
before the aged statesman and closed after him with an excited hum, ending in a
loud shout.
    As Almayer approached the throng a man ran out and rushed past him towards
the settlement, unheeding his call to stop and explain the cause of this
excitement. On the very outskirts of the crowd Almayer found himself arrested by
an unyielding mass of humanity, regardless of his entreaties for a passage,
insensible to his gentle pushes as he tried to work his way through it towards
the riverside.
    In the midst of his gentle and slow progress he fancied suddenly he had
heard his wife's voice in the thickest of the throng. He could not mistake very
well Mrs. Almayer's high-pitched tones, yet the words were too indistinct for
him to understand their purport. He paused in his endeavours to make a passage
for himself, intending to get some intelligence from those around him, when a
long and piercing shriek rent the air, silencing the murmurs of the crowd and
the voices of his informants. For a moment Almayer remained as if turned into
stone with astonishment and horror, for he was certain now that he had heard his
wife wailing for the dead. He remembered Nina's unusual absence, and maddened by
his apprehensions as to her safety, he pushed blindly and violently forward, the
crowd falling back with cries of surprise and pain before his frantic advance.
    On the point of land in a little clear space lay the body of the stranger
just hauled out from amongst the logs. On one side stood Babalatchi, his chin
resting on the head of his staff and his one eye gazing steadily at the
shapeless mass of broken limbs, torn flesh, and bloodstained rags. As Almayer
burst through the ring of horrified spectators, Mrs. Almayer threw her own
head-veil over the upturned face of the drowned man, and, squatting by it, with
another mournful howl, sent a shiver through the now silent crowd. Mahmat,
dripping wet, turned to Almayer, eager to tell his tale.
    In the first moment of reaction from the anguish of his fear the sunshine
seemed to waver before Almayer's eyes, and he listened to words spoken around
him without comprehending their meaning. When, by a strong effort of will, he
regained the possession of his senses, Mahmat was saying -
    »That is the way, Tuan. His sarong was caught in the broken branch, and he
hung with his head under water. When I saw what it was I did not want it here. I
wanted it to get clear and drift away. Why should we bury a stranger in the
midst of our houses for his ghost to frighten our women and children? Have we
not enough ghosts about this place?«
    A murmur of approval interrupted him here. Mahmat looked reproachfully at
Babalatchi.
    »But the Tuan Babalatchi ordered me to drag the body ashore« - he went on
looking round at his audience, but addressing himself only to Almayer - »and I
dragged him by the feet; in through the mud I have dragged him, although my
heart longed to see him float down the river to strand perchance on Bulangi's
clearing - may his father's grave be defiled!«
    There was subdued laughter at this, for the enmity of Mahmat and Bulangi was
a matter of common notoriety and of undying interest to the inhabitants of
Sambir. In the midst of that mirth Mrs. Almayer wailed suddenly again.
    »Allah! What ails the woman!« exclaimed Mahmat, angrily. »Here, I have
touched this carcass which came from nobody knows where, and have most likely
defiled myself before eating rice. By orders of Tuan Babalatchi I did this thing
to please the white man. Are you pleased, O Tuan Almayer? And what will be my
recompense? Tuan Babalatchi said a recompense there will be, and from you. Now
consider. I have been defiled and if not defiled I may be under the spell. Look
at his anklets! Who ever heard of a corpse appearing during the night amongst
the logs with gold anklets on its legs? There is witchcraft there. However,«
added Mahmat, after a reflective pause, »I will have the anklet if there is
permission, for I have a charm against the ghosts and am not afraid. God is
great!«
    A fresh outburst of noisy grief from Mrs. Almayer checked the flow of
Mahmat's eloquence. Almayer, bewildered, looked in turn at his wife, at Mahmat,
at Babalatchi, and at last arrested his fascinated gaze on the body lying on the
mud with covered face in a grotesquely unnatural contortion of mangled and
broken limbs, one twisted and lacerated arm, with white bones protruding in many
places through the torn flesh, stretched out; the hand with outspread fingers
nearly touching his foot.
    »Do you know who this is?« he asked of Babalatchi, in a low voice.
    Babalatchi, staring straight before him, hardly moved his lips, while Mrs.
Almayer's persistent lamentations drowned the whisper of his murmured reply
intended only for Almayer's ear.
    »It was fate. Look at your feet, white man. I can see a ring on those torn
fingers which I know well.«
    Saying this, Babalatchi stepped carelessly forward, putting his foot as if
accidentally on the hand of the corpse and pressing it into the soft mud. He
swung his staff menacingly towards the crowd, which fell back a little.
    »Go away,« he said sternly, »and send your women to their cooking fires,
which they ought not to have left to run after a dead stranger. This is men's
work here. I take him now in the name of the Rajah. Let no man remain here but
Tuan Almayer's slaves. Now go!«
    The crowd reluctantly began to disperse. The women went first, dragging away
the children that hung back with all their weight on the maternal hand. The men
strolled slowly after them in ever forming and changing groups that gradually
dissolved as they neared the settlement and every man regained his own house
with steps quickened by the hungry anticipation of the morning rice. Only on the
slight elevation where the land sloped down towards the muddy point a few men,
either friends or enemies of Mahmat, remained gazing curiously for some time
longer at the small group standing around the body on the river bank.
    »I do not understand what you mean, Babalatchi,« said Almayer. »What is the
ring you are talking about? Whoever he is, you have trodden the poor fellow's
hand right into the mud. Uncover his face,« he went on, addressing Mrs. Almayer,
who, squatting by the head of the corpse, rocked herself to and fro, shaking
from time to time her dishevelled grey locks, and muttering mournfully.
    »Hai!« exclaimed Mahmat, who had lingered close by. »Look, Tuan; the logs
came together so,« and here he pressed the palms of his hands together, »and his
head must have been between them, and now there is no face for you to look at.
There are his flesh and his bones, the nose, and the lips, and maybe his eyes,
but nobody could tell the one from the other. It was written the day he was born
that no man could look at him in death and be able to say, This is my friend's
face.«
    »Silence, Mahmat; enough!« said Babalatchi, »and take thy eyes off his
anklet, thou eater of pigs flesh. Tuan Almayer,« he went on, lowering his voice,
»have you seen Dain this morning?«
    Almayer opened his eyes wide and looked alarmed. »No,« he said quickly;
»haven't you seen him? Is he not with the Rajah? I am waiting; why does he not
come?«
    Babalatchi nodded his head sadly.
    »He is come, Tuan. He left last night when the storm was great and the river
spoke angrily. The night was very black, but he had within him a light that
showed the way to your house as smooth as a narrow backwater, and the many logs
no bigger than wisps of dried grass. Therefore he went; and now he lies here.«
And Babalatchi nodded his head towards the body.
    »How can you tell?« said Almayer, excitedly, pushing his wife aside. He
snatched the cover off and looked at the formless mass of flesh, hair, and
drying mud, where the face of the drowned man should have been. »Nobody can
tell,« he added, turning away with a shudder.
    Babalatchi was on his knees wiping the mud from the stiffened fingers of the
outstretched hand. He rose to his feet and flashed before Almayer's eyes a gold
ring set with a large green stone.
    »You know this well,« he said. »This never left Dain's hand. I had to tear
the flesh now to get it off. Do you believe now?«
    Almayer raised his hands to his head and let them fall listlessly by his
side in the utter abandonment of despair. Babalatchi, looking at him curiously,
was astonished to see him smile. A strange fancy had take possession of
Almayer's brain, distracted by this new misfortune. It seemed to him that for
many years he had been falling into a deep precipice. Day after day, month after
month, year after year, he had been falling, falling, falling; it was a smooth,
round, black thing, and the black walls had been rushing upwards with wearisome
rapidity. A great rush, the noise of which he fancied he could hear yet; and
now, with an awful shock, he had reached the bottom, and behold! he was alive
and whole, and Dain was dead with all his bones broken. It struck him as funny.
A dead Malay; he had seen many dead Malays without any emotion; and now he felt
inclined to weep, but it was over the fate of a white man he knew; a man that
fell over a deep precipice and did not die. He seemed somehow to himself to be
standing on one side, a little way off, looking at a certain Almayer who was in
great trouble. Poor, poor fellow! Why doesn't't he cut his throat? He wished to
encourage him; he was very anxious to see him lying dead over that other corpse.
Why does he not die and end this suffering? He groaned aloud unconsciously and
started with affright at the sound of his own voice. Was he going mad? Terrified
by the thought he turned away and ran towards his house repeating to himself, »I
am not going mad; of course not, no, no, no!« He tried to keep a firm hold of
the idea. Not mad, not mad. He stumbled as he ran blindly up the steps repeating
fast and ever faster those words wherein seemed to lie his salvation. He saw
Nina standing there, and wished to say something to her, but could not remember
what, in his extreme anxiety not to forget that he was not going mad, which he
still kept repeating mentally as he ran round the table, till he stumbled
against one of the arm-chairs and dropped into it exhausted. He sat staring
wildly at Nina, still assuring himself mentally of his own sanity and wondering
why the girl shrank from him in open-eyed alarm. What was the matter with her?
This was foolish. He struck the table violently with his clenched fist and
shouted hoarsely, »Give me some gin! Run!« Then, while Nina ran off, he remained
in the chair, very still and quiet, astonished at the noise he had made.
    Nina returned with a tumbler half filled with gin, and found her father
staring absently before him. Almayer felt very tired now, as if he had come from
a long journey. He felt as if he had walked miles and miles that morning and now
wanted to rest very much. He took the tumbler with a shaking hand, and as he
drank his teeth chattered against the glass which he drained and set down
heavily on the table. He turned his eyes slowly towards Nina standing beside
him, and said steadily -
    »Now all is over, Nina. He is dead, and I may as well burn all my boats.«
    He felt very proud of being able to speak so calmly. Decidedly he was not
going mad. This certitude was very comforting, and he went on talking about the
finding of the body, listening to his own voice complacently. Nina stood
quietly, her hand resting lightly on her father's shoulder, her face unmoved,
but every line of her features, the attitude of her whole body expressing the
most keen and anxious attention.
    »And so Dain is dead,« she said coldly, when her father ceased speaking.
    Almayer's elaborately calm demeanour gave way in a moment to an outburst of
violent indignation.
    »You stand there as if you were only half alive, and talk to me,« he
exclaimed angrily, »as if it was a matter of no importance. Yes, he is dead! Do
you understand? Dead! What do you care? You never cared; you saw me struggle,
and work, and strive, unmoved; and my suffering you could never see. No, never.
You have no heart, and you have no mind, or you would have understood that it
was for you, for your happiness I was working. I wanted to be rich; I wanted to
get away from here. I wanted to see white men bowing low before the power of
your beauty and your wealth. Old as I am I wished to seek a strange land, a
civilization to which I am a stranger, so as to find a new life in the
contemplation of your high fortunes, of your triumphs, of your happiness. For
that I bore patiently the burden of work, of disappointment, of humiliation
amongst these savages here, and I had it all nearly in my grasp.«
    He looked at his daughter's attentive face and jumped to his feet upsetting
the chair.
    »Do you hear? I had it all there; so; within reach of my hand.«
    He paused, trying to keep down his rising anger, and failed.
    »Have you no feeling?« he went on. »Have you lived without hope?« Nina's
silence exasperated him; his voice rose, although he tried to master his
feelings.
    »Are you content to live in this misery and die in this wretched hole? Say
something, Nina; have you no sympathy? Have you no word of comfort for me? I
that loved you so.«
    He waited for a while for an answer, and receiving none shook his fist in
his daughter's face.
    »I believe you are an idiot!« he yelled.
    He looked round for the chair, picked it up and sat down stiffly. His anger
was dead within him, and he felt ashamed of his outburst, yet relieved to think
that now he had laid clear before his daughter the inner meaning of his life. He
thought so in perfect good faith, deceived by the emotional estimate of his
motives, unable to see the crookedness of his ways, the unreality of his aims,
the futility of his regrets. And now his heart was filled only with a great
tenderness and love for his daughter. He wanted to see her miserable, and to
share with her his despair; but he wanted it only as all weak natures long for a
companionship in misfortune with beings innocent of its cause. If she suffered
herself she would understand and pity him; but now she would not, or could not,
find one word of comfort or love for him in his dire extremity. The sense of his
absolute loneliness came home to his heart with a force that made him shudder.
He swayed and fell forward with his face on the table, his arms stretched
straight out, extended and rigid. Nina made a quick movement towards her father
and stood looking at the grey head, on the broad shoulders shaken convulsively
by the violence of feelings that found relief at last in sobs and tears.
    Nina sighed deeply and moved away from the table. Her features lost the
appearance of stony indifference that had exasperated her father into his
outburst of anger and sorrow. The expression of her face, now unseen by her
father, underwent a rapid change. She had listened to Almayer's appeal for
sympathy, for one word of comfort, apparently indifferent, yet with her breast
torn by conflicting impulses raised unexpectedly by events she had not foreseen,
or at least did not expect to happen so soon. With her heart deeply moved by the
sight of Almayer's misery, knowing it in her power to end it with a word,
longing to bring peace to that troubled heart, she heard with terror the voice
of her overpowering love commanding her to be silent. And she submitted after a
short and fierce struggle of her old self against the new principle of her life.
She wrapped herself up in absolute silence, the only safeguard against some
fatal admission. She could not trust herself to make a sign, to murmur a word
for fear of saying too much; and the very violence of the feelings that stirred
the innermost recesses of her soul seemed to turn her person into a stone. The
dilated nostrils and the flashing eyes were the only signs of the storm raging
within, and those signs of his daughter's emotion Almayer did not see, for his
sight was dimmed by self-pity, by anger, and by despair.
    Had Almayer looked at his daughter as she leant over the front rail of the
verandah he could have seen the expression of indifference give way to a look of
pain and that again pass away, leaving the glorious beauty of her face marred by
deep-drawn lines of watchful anxiety. The long grass in the neglected courtyard
stood very straight before her eyes in the noonday heat. From the river-bank
there were voices and a shuffle of bare feet approaching the house; Babalatchi
could be heard giving directions to Almayer's men, and Mrs. Almayer's subdued
wailing became audible as the small procession bearing the body of the drowned
man and headed by that sorrowful matron turned the corner of the house.
Babalatchi had taken the broken anklet off the man's leg, and now held it in his
hand as he moved by the side of the bearers, while Mahmat lingered behind
timidly, in the hopes of the promised reward.
    »Lay him there,« said Babalatchi to Almayer's men, pointing to a pile of
drying planks in front of the verandah. »Lay him there. He was a Kaffir and the
son of a dog, and he was the white man's friend. He drank the white man's strong
water,« he added, with affected horror. »That I have seen myself.«
    The men stretched out the broken limbs on two planks they had laid level,
while Mrs. Almayer covered the body with a piece of white cotton cloth, and
after whispering for some time with Babalatchi departed to her domestic duties.
Almayer's men, after laying down their burden, dispersed themselves in quest of
shady spots wherein to idle the day away. Babalatchi was left alone by the
corpse that laid rigid under the white cloth in the bright sunshine.
    Nina came down the steps and joined Babalatchi, who put his hand to his
forehead, and squatted down with great deference.
    »You have a bangle there,« said Nina, looking down on Babalatchi's upturned
face and into his solitary eye.
    »I have, Mem Putih,« returned the polite statesman. Then turning towards
Mahmat he beckoned him closer, calling out, »Come here!«
    Mahmat approached with some hesitation. He avoided looking at Nina, but
fixed his eyes on Babalatchi.
    »Now, listen,« said Babalatchi, sharply. »The ring and the anklet you have
seen, and you know they belonged to Dain the trader, and to no other. Dain
returned last night in a canoe. He spoke with the Rajah, and in the middle of
the night left to cross over to the white man's house. There was a great flood,
and this morning you found him in the river.«
    »By his feet I dragged him out,« muttered Mahmat under his breath. »Tuan
Babalatchi, there will be a recompense!« he exclaimed aloud.
    Babalatchi held up the gold bangle before Mahmat's eyes. »What I have told
you, Mahmat, is for all ears. What I give you now is for your eyes only. Take.«
    Mahmat took the bangle eagerly and hid it in the folds of his waist-cloth.
»Am I a fool to show this thing in a house with three women in it?« he growled.
»But I shall tell them about Dain the trader, and there will be talk enough.«
    He turned and went away, increasing his pace as soon as he was outside
Almayer's compound.
    Babalatchi looked after him till he disappeared behind the bushes. »Have I
done well, Mem Putih?« he asked, humbly addressing Nina.
    »You have,« answered Nina. »The ring you may keep yourself.«
    Babalatchi touched his lips and forehead, and scrambled to his feet. He
looked at Nina, as if expecting her to say something more, but Nina turned
towards the house and went up the steps, motioning him away with her hand.
    Babalatchi picked up his staff and prepared to go. It was very warm, and he
did not care for the long pull to the Rajah's house. Yet he must go and tell the
Rajah - tell of the event; of the change in his plans; of all his suspicions. He
walked to the jetty and began casting off the rattan painter of his canoe.
    The broad expanse of the lower reach, with its shimmering surface dotted by
the black specks of the fishing canoes, lay before his eyes. The fishermen
seemed to be racing. Babalatchi paused in his work, and looked on with sudden
interest. The man in the foremost canoe, now within hail of the first houses of
Sambir, laid in his paddle and stood up shouting -
    »The boats! the boats! The man-of-war's boats are coming! They are here!«
    In a moment the settlement was again alive with people rushing to the
riverside. The men began to unfasten their boats, the women stood in groups
looking towards the bend down the river. Above the trees lining the reach a
slight puff of smoke appeared like a black stain on the brilliant blue of the
cloudless sky.
    Babalatchi stood perplexed, the painter in his hand. He looked down the
reach, then up towards Almayer's house, and back again at the river as if
undecided what to do. At last he made the canoe fast again hastily, and ran
towards the house and up the steps of the verandah.
    »Tuan! Tuan!« he called, eagerly. »The boats are coming. The man-of-war's
boats. You had better get ready. The officers will come here, I know.«
    Almayer lifted his head slowly from the table, and looked at him stupidly.
    »Mem Putih!« exclaimed Babalatchi to Nina, »look at him. He does not hear.
You must take care,« he added meaningly.
    Nina nodded to him with an uncertain smile, and was going to speak, when a
sharp report from the gun mounted in the bow of the steam launch that was just
then coming into view arrested the words on her parted lips. The smile died out,
and was replaced by the old look of anxious attention. From the hills far away
the echo came back like a long-drawn and mournful sigh, as if the land had sent
it in answer to the voice of its masters.
 

                                 Chapter Eight

The news as to the identity of the body lying now in Almayer's compound spread
rapidly over the settlement. During the forenoon most of the inhabitants
remained in the long street discussing the mysterious return and the unexpected
death of the man who had become known to them as the trader. His arrival during
the northeast monsoon, his long sojourn in their midst, his sudden departure
with his brig, and, above all, the mysterious appearance of the body, said to be
his, amongst the logs, were subjects to wonder at and to talk over and over
again with undiminished interest. Mahmat moved from house to house and from
group to group, always ready to repeat his tale: how he saw the body caught by
the sarong in a forked log; how Mrs. Almayer coming, one of the first, at his
cries, recognized it, even before he had it hauled on shore; how Babalatchi
ordered him to bring it out of the water. »By the feet I dragged him in, and
there was no head,« exclaimed Mahmat, »and how could the white man's wife know
who it was? She was a witch, it was well known. And did you see how the white
man himself ran away at the sight of the body? Like a deer he ran!« And here
Mahmat imitated Almayer's long strides, to the great joy of the beholders. And
for all his trouble he had nothing. The ring with the green stone Tuan
Babalatchi kept. »Nothing! Nothing!« He spat down at his feet in sign of
disgust, and left that group to seek further on a fresh audience.
    The news spreading to the furthermost parts of the settlement found out
Abdulla in the cool recess of his godown, where he sat overlooking his Arab
clerks and the men loading and unloading the up-country canoes. Reshid, who was
busy on the jetty, was summoned into his uncle's presence and found him, as
usual, very calm and even cheerful, but very much surprised. The rumour of the
capture or destruction of Dain's brig had reached the Arab's ears three days
before from the sea-fishermen and through the dwellers on the lower reaches of
the river. It had been passed upstream from neighbour to neighbour till Bulangi,
whose clearing was nearest to the settlement, had brought that news himself to
Abdulla whose favour he courted. But rumour also spoke of a fight and of Dain's
death on board his own vessel. And now all the settlement talked of Dain's visit
to the Rajah and of his death when crossing the river in the dark to see
Almayer. They could not understand this. Reshid thought that it was very
strange. He felt uneasy and doubtful. But Abdulla, after the first shock of
surprise, with the old age's dislike for solving riddles, showed a becoming
resignation. He remarked that the man was dead now at all events, and
consequently no more dangerous. Where was the use to wonder at the decrees of
Fate, especially if they were propitious to the True Believers? And with a pious
ejaculation to Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate, Abdulla seemed to regard
the incident as closed for the present.
    Not so Reshid. He lingered by his uncle, pulling thoughtfully his neatly
trimmed beard.
    »There are many lies,« he murmured. »He has been dead once before, and came
to life to die again now. The Dutch will be here before many days and clamour
for the man. Shall I not believe my eyes sooner than the tongues of women and
idle men?«
    »They say that the body is being taken to Almayer's compound,« said Abdulla.
»If you want to go there you must go before the Dutch arrive here. Go late. It
should not be said that we have been seen inside that man's enclosure lately.«
    Reshid assented to the truth of this last remark and left his uncle's side.
He leaned against the lintel of the big doorway and looked idly across the
courtyard through the open gate on to the main road of the settlement. It lay
empty, straight, and yellow under the flood of light. In the hot noontide the
smooth trunks of palm trees, the outlines of the houses, and away there at the
other end of the road the roof of Almayer's house visible over the bushes on the
dark background of forest, seemed to quiver in the heat radiating from the
steaming earth. Swarms of yellow butterflies rose, and settled to rise again in
short flights before Reshid's half-closed eyes. From under his feet arose the
dull hum of insects in the long grass of the courtyard. He looked on sleepily.
    From one of the side paths amongst the houses a woman stepped out on the
road, a slight girlish figure walking under the shade of a large tray balanced
on its head. The consciousness of something moving stirred Reshid's
half-sleeping senses into a comparative wakefulness. He recognized Taminah,
Bulangi's slave-girl, with her tray of cakes for sale - an apparition of daily
recurrence and of no importance whatever. She was going towards Almayer's house.
She could be made useful. He roused himself up and ran towards the gate calling
out, »Taminah O!« The girl stopped, hesitated, and came back slowly. Reshid
waited, signing to her impatiently to come nearer.
    When near Reshid Taminah stood with downcast eyes. Reshid looked at her a
while before he asked -
    »Are you going to Almayer's house? They say in the settlement that Dain the
trader, he that was found drowned this morning, is lying in the white man's
campong.«
    »I have heard this talk,« whispered Taminah; »and this morning by the
riverside I saw the body. Where it is now I do not know.«
    »So you have seen it?« asked Reshid, eagerly. »Is it Dain? You have seen him
many times. You would know him.«
    The girl's lips quivered and she remained silent for a while breathing
quickly.
    »I have seen him, not a long time ago,« she said at last. »The talk is true;
he is dead. What do you want from me, Tuan? I must go.«
    Just then the report of the gun fired on board the steam launch was heard,
interrupting Reshid's reply. Leaving the girl he ran to the house, and met in
the courtyard Abdulla coming towards the gate.
    »The Orang Blanda are come,« said Reshid, »and now we shall have our
reward.«
    Abdulla shook his head doubtfully. »The white men's rewards are long in
coming,« he said. »White men are quick in anger and slow in gratitude. We shall
see.«
    He stood at the gate stroking his grey beard and listening to the distant
cries of greeting at the other end of the settlement. As Taminah was turning to
go he called her back.
    »Listen, girl,« he said: »there will be many white men in Almayer's house.
You shall be there selling your cakes to the men of the sea. What you see and
what you hear you may tell me. Come here before the sun sets and I will give you
a blue handkerchief with red spots. Now go, and forget not to return.«
    He gave her a push with the end of his long staff as she was going away and
made her stumble.
    »This slave is very slow,« he remarked to his nephew, looking after the girl
with great disfavour.
    Taminah walked on, her tray on the head, her eyes fixed on the ground. From
the open doors of the houses were heard, as she passed, friendly calls inviting
her within for business purposes, but she never heeded them, neglecting her
sales in the preoccupation of intense thinking. Since the very early morning she
had heard much, she had also seen much that filled her heart with a joy mingled
with great suffering and fear. Before the dawn, before she left Bulangi's house
to paddle up to Sambir she had heard voices outside the house when all in it,
but herself were asleep. And now, with her knowledge of the words spoken in the
darkness, she held in her hand a life and carried in her breast a great sorrow.
Yet from her springy step, erect figure, and face veiled over by the every-day
look of apathetic indifference, nobody could have guessed of the double load she
carried under the visible burden of the tray piled up high with cakes
manufactured by the thrifty hands of Bulangi's wives. In that supple figure
straight as an arrow, so graceful and free in its walk, behind those soft eyes
that spoke of nothing but of unconscious resignation, there slept all feelings
and all passions, all hopes and all fears, the curse of life and the consolation
of death. And she knew nothing of it all. She lived like the tall palms amongst
whom she was passing now, seeking the light, desiring the sunshine, fearing the
storm, unconscious of either. The slave had no hope, and knew of no change. She
knew of no other sky, no other water, no other forest, no other world, no other
life. She had no wish, no hope, no love, no fear except of a blow, and no vivid
feeling but that of occasional hunger, which was seldom, for Bulangi was rich
and rice was plentiful in the solitary house in his clearing. The absence of
pain and hunger was her happiness, and when she felt unhappy she was simply
tired, more than usual, after the day's labour. Then in the hot nights of the
southwest monsoon she slept dreamlessly under the bright stars on the platform
built outside the house and over the river. Inside they slept too: Bulangi by
the door; his wives further in; the children with their mothers. She could hear
their breathing; Bulangi's sleepy voice; the sharp cry of a child soon hushed
with tender words. And she closed her eyes to the murmur of the water below her,
to the whisper of the warm wind above, ignorant of the never-ceasing life of
that tropical nature that spoke to her in vain with the thousand faint voices of
the near forest, with the breath of tepid wind; in the heavy scents that
lingered around her head; in the white wraiths of morning mist that hung over
her in the solemn hush of all creation before the dawn.
    Such had been her existence before the coming of the brig with the
strangers. She remembered well that time; the uproar in the settlement, the
never-ending wonder, the days and nights of talk and excitement. She remembered
her own timidity with the strange men, till the brig moored to the bank became
in a manner part of the settlement, and the fear wore off in the familiarity of
constant intercourse. The call on board then became part of her daily round. She
walked hesitatingly up the slanting planks of the gangway amidst the encouraging
shouts and more or less decent jokes of the men idling over the bulwarks. There
she sold her wares to those men that spoke so loud and carried themselves so
free. There was a throng, a constant coming and going; calls interchanged,
orders given and executed with shouts; the rattle of blocks, the flinging about
of coils of rope. She sat out of the way under the shade of the awning, with her
tray before her, the veil drawn well over her face, feeling shy amongst so many
men. She smiled at all buyers, but spoke to none, letting their jests pass with
stolid unconcern. She heard many tales told around her of far-off countries, of
strange customs, of events stranger still. Those men were brave; but the most
fearless of them spoke of their chief with fear. Often the man they called their
master passed before her, walking erect and indifferent, in the pride of youth,
in the flash of rich dress, with a tinkle of gold ornaments, while everybody
stood aside watching anxiously for a movement of his lips, ready to do his
bidding. Then all her life seemed to rush into her eyes, and from under her veil
she gazed at him, charmed yet fearful to attract attention. One day he noticed
her and asked, »Who is that girl?« »A slave, Tuan! A girl that sells cakes,« a
dozen voices replied together. She rose in terror to run on shore, when he
called her back; and as she stood trembling with head hung down before him, he
spoke kind words, lifting her chin with his hand and looking into her eyes with
a smile. »Do not be afraid,« he said. He never spoke to her any more. Somebody
called out from the river-bank; he turned away and forgot her existence. Taminah
saw Almayer standing on the shore with Nina on his arm. She heard Nina's voice
calling out gaily, and saw Dain's face brighten with joy as he leaped on shore.
She hated the sound of that voice ever since.
    After that day she left off visiting Almayer's compound, and passed the noon
hours under the shade of the brig awning. She watched for his coming with heart
beating quicker and quicker, as he approached, into a wild tumult of
newly-aroused feelings of joy and hope and fear that died away with Dain's
retreating figure, leaving her tired out, as if after a struggle, sitting still
for a long time in dreamy languor. Then she paddled home slowly in the
afternoon, often letting her canoe float with the lazy stream in the quiet
backwater of the river. The paddle hung idle in the water as she sat in the
stern, one hand supporting her chin, her eyes wide open, listening intently to
the whispering of her heart that seemed to swell at last into a song of extreme
sweetness. Listening to that song she husked the rice at home; it dulled her
ears to the shrill bickerings of Bulangi's wives, to the sound of angry
reproaches addressed to herself. And when the sun was near its setting she
walked to the bathing-place and heard it as she stood on the tender grass of the
low bank, her robe at her feet, and looked at the reflection of her figure on
the glass-like surface of the creek. Listening to it she walked slowly back, her
wet hair hanging over her shoulders; laying down to rest under the bright stars,
she closed her eyes to the murmur of the water below, of the warm wind above; to
the voice of nature speaking through the faint noises of the great forest, and
to the song of her own heart.
    She heard, but did not understand, and drank in the dreamy joy of her new
existence without troubling about its meaning or its end, till the full
consciousness of life came to her through pain and anger. And she suffered
horribly the first time she saw Nina's long canoe drift silently past the
sleeping house of Bulangi, bearing the two lovers into the white mist of the
great river. Her jealousy and rage culminated into a paroxysm of physical pain
that left her lying panting on the riverbank, in the dumb agony of a wounded
animal. But she went on moving patiently in the enchanted circle of slavery,
going through her task day after day with all the pathos of the grief she could
not express, even to herself, locked within her breast. She shrank from Nina as
she would have shrunk from the sharp blade of a knife cutting into her flesh,
but she kept on visiting the brig to feed her dumb, ignorant soul on her own
despair. She saw Dain many times. He never spoke, he never looked. Could his
eyes see only one woman's image? Could his ears hear only one woman's voice? He
never noticed her; not once.
    And then he went away. She saw him and Nina for the last time on that
morning when Babalatchi, while visiting his fish baskets, had his suspicions of
the white man's daughter's love affair with Dain confirmed beyond the shadow of
doubt. Dain disappeared, and Taminah's heart, where lay useless and barren the
seeds of all love and of all hate, the possibilities of all passions and of all
sacrifices, forgot its joys and its sufferings when deprived of the help of the
senses. Her half-formed, savage mind, the slave of her body - as her body was
the slave of another's will - forgot the faint and vague image of the ideal that
had found its beginning in the physical promptings of her savage nature. She
dropped back into the torpor of her former life and found consolation - even a
certain kind of happiness - in the thought that now Nina and Dain were
separated, probably for ever. He would forget. This thought soothed the last
pangs of dying jealousy that had nothing now to feed upon, and Taminah found
peace. It was like the dreary tranquillity of a desert, where there is peace
only because there is no life.
    And now he had returned. She had recognized his voice calling aloud in the
night for Bulangi. She had crept out after her master to listen closer to the
intoxicating sound. Dain was there, in a boat, talking to Bulangi. Taminah,
listening with arrested breath, heard another voice. The maddening joy, that
only a second before she thought herself incapable of containing within her
fast-beating heart, died out, and left her shivering in the old anguish of
physical pain that she had suffered once before at the sight of Dain and Nina.
Nina spoke now, ordering and entreating in turns, and Bulangi was refusing,
expostulating, at last consenting. He went in to take a paddle from the heap
lying behind the door. Outside the murmur of two voices went on, and she caught
a word here and there. She understood that he was fleeing from white men, that
he was seeking a hiding-place, that he was in some danger. But she heard also
words which woke the rage of jealousy that had been asleep for so many days in
her bosom. Crouching low on the mud in the black darkness amongst the piles, she
heard the whisper in the boat that made light of toil, of privation, of danger,
of life itself, if in exchange there could be but a short moment of close
embrace, a look from the eyes, the feel of light breath, the touch of soft lips.
So spoke Dain as he sat in the canoe holding Nina's hands while waiting for
Bulangi's return; and Taminah, supporting herself by the slimy pile, felt as if
a heavy weight was crushing her down, down into the black oily water at her
feet. She wanted to cry out; to rush at them and tear their vague shadows apart;
to throw Nina into the smooth water, cling to her close, hold her to the bottom
where that man could not find her. She could not cry, she could not move. Then
footsteps were heard on the bamboo platform above her head; she saw Bulangi get
into his smallest canoe and take the lead, the other boat following, paddled by
Dain and Nina. With a slight splash of the paddles dipped stealthily into the
water, their indistinct forms passed before her aching eyes and vanished in the
darkness of the creek.
    She remained there in the cold and wet, powerless to move, breathing
painfully under the crushing weight that the mysterious hand of Fate had laid so
suddenly upon her slender shoulders, and shivering, she felt within a burning
fire, that seemed to feed upon her very life. When the breaking day had spread a
pale golden ribbon over the black outline of the forests, she took up her tray
and departed towards the settlement, going about her task purely from the force
of habit. As she approached Sambir she could see the excitement and she heard
with momentary surprise of the finding of Dain's body. It was not true, of
course. She knew it well. She regretted that he was not dead. She should have
liked Dain to be dead, so as to be parted from that woman - from all women. She
felt a strong desire to see Nina, but without any clear object. She hated her,
and feared her, and she felt an irresistible impulse pushing her towards
Almayer's house to see the white woman's face, to look close at those eyes, to
hear again that voice, for the sound of which Dain was ready to risk his
liberty, his life even. She had seen her many times; she had heard her voice
daily for many months past. What was there in her? What was there in that being
to make a man speak as Dain had spoken, to make him blind to all other faces,
deaf to all other voices?
    She left the crowd by the riverside, and wandered aimlessly among the empty
houses, resisting the impulse that pushed her towards Almayer's campong to seek
there in Nina's eyes the secret of her own misery. The sun mounting higher,
shortened the shadows and poured down upon her a flood of light and of stifling
heat as she passed on from shadow to light, from light to shadow amongst the
houses, the bushes, the tall trees, in her unconscious flight from the pain in
her own heart. In the extremity of her distress she could find no words to pray
for relief, she knew of no heaven to send her prayer to, and she wandered on
with tired feet in the dumb surprise and terror at the injustice of the
suffering inflicted upon her without cause and without redress.
    The short talk with Reshid, the proposal of Abdulla steadied her a little
and turned her thoughts into another channel. Dain was in some danger. He was
hiding from white men. So much she had overheard last night. They all thought
him dead. She knew he was alive, and she knew of his hiding-place. What did the
Arabs want to know about the white men? The white men want with Dain? Did they
wish to kill him? She could tell them all - no, she would say nothing, and in
the night she would go to him and sell him his life for a word, for a smile, for
a gesture even, and be his slave in far-off countries, away from Nina. But there
were dangers. The one-eyed Babalatchi who knew everything; the white man's wife!
- she was a witch. Perhaps they would tell. And then there was Nina. She must
hurry on and see.
    In her impatience she left the path and ran towards Almayer's dwelling
through the undergrowth between the palm trees. She came out at the back of the
house, where a narrow ditch, full of stagnant water that overflowed from the
river, separated Almayer's campong from the rest of the settlement. The thick
bushes growing on the bank were hiding from her sight the large courtyard with
its cooking shed. Above them rose several thin columns of smoke, and from behind
the sound of strange voices informed Taminah that the Men of the Sea belonging
to the warship had already landed and were camped between the ditch and the
house. To the left one of Almayer's slave-girls came down to the ditch and bent
over the shiny water, washing a kettle. To the right the tops of the banana
plantation, visible above the bushes, swayed and shook under the touch of
invisible hands gathering the fruit. On the calm water several canoes moored to
a heavy stake were crowded together, nearly bridging the ditch just at the place
where Taminah stood. The voices in the courtyard rose at times into an outburst
of calls, replies, and laughter, and then died away into a silence that soon was
broken again by a fresh clamour. Now and again the thin blue smoke rushed out
thicker and blacker, and drove in odorous masses over the creek, wrapping her
for a moment in a suffocating veil; then, as the fresh wood caught well alight,
the smoke vanished in the bright sunlight, and only the scent of aromatic wood
drifted afar, to leeward of the crackling fires.
    Taminah rested her tray on a stump of a tree, and remained standing with her
eyes turned towards Almayer's house, whose roof and part of a whitewashed wall
were visible over the bushes. The slave-girl finished her work, and after
looking for a while curiously at Taminah, pushed her way through the dense
thicket back to the courtyard. Round Taminah there was now a complete solitude.
She threw herself down on the ground, and hid her face in her hands. Now when so
close she had no courage to see Nina. At every burst of louder voices from the
courtyard she shivered in the fear of hearing Nina's voice. She came to the
resolution of waiting where she was till dark, and then going straight to Dain's
hiding-place. From where she was she could watch the movements of white men, of
Nina, of all Dain's friends, and of all his enemies. Both were hateful alike to
her, for both would take him away beyond her reach. She hid herself in the long
grass to wait anxiously for the sunset that seemed so slow to come.
    On the other side of the ditch, behind the bush, by the clear fires, the
seamen of the frigate had encamped on the hospitable invitation of Almayer.
Almayer, roused out of his apathy by the prayers and importunity of Nina, had
managed to get down in time to the jetty so as to receive the officers at their
landing. The lieutenant in command accepted his invitation to his house with the
remark that in any case their business was with Almayer - and perhaps not very
pleasant, he added. Almayer hardly heard him. He shook hands with them absently
and led the way towards the house. He was scarcely conscious of the polite words
of welcome he greeted the strangers with, and afterwards repeated several times
over again in his efforts to appear at ease. The agitation of their host did not
escape the officer's eyes, and the chief confided to his subordinate, in a low
voice, his doubts as to Almayer's sobriety. The young sub-lieutenant laughed and
expressed in a whisper the hope that the white man was not intoxicated enough to
neglect the offer of some refreshments. »He does not seem very dangerous,« he
added, as they followed Almayer up the steps of the verandah.
    »No, he seems more of a fool than a knave; I have heard of him,« returned
the senior.
    They sat around the table. Almayer with shaking hands made gin cocktails,
offered them all round, and drank himself, with every gulp feeling stronger,
steadier, and better able to face all the difficulties of his position. Ignorant
of the fate of the brig he did not suspect the real object of the officer's
visit. He had a general notion that something must have leaked out about the
gunpowder trade, but apprehended nothing beyond some temporary inconvenience.
After emptying his glass he began to chat easily, lying back in his chair with
one of his legs thrown negligently over the arm. The lieutenant astride on his
chair, a glowing cheroot in the corner of his mouth, listened with a sly smile
from behind the thick volumes of smoke that escaped from his compressed lips.
The young sub-lieutenant, leaning with both elbows on the table, his head
between his hands, looked on sleepily in the torpor induced by fatigue and the
gin. Almayer talked on -
    »It is a great pleasure to see white faces here. I have lived here many
years in great solitude. The Malays, you understand, are not company for a white
man; moreover they are not friendly; they do not understand our ways. Great
rascals they are. I believe I am the only white man on the east coast that is a
settled resident. We get visitors from Macassar or Singapore sometimes -
traders, agents, or explorers, but they are rare. There was a scientific
explorer here a year or more ago. He lived in my house: drank from morning to
night. He lived joyously for a few months, and when the liquor he brought with
him was gone he returned to Batavia with a report on the mineral wealth of the
interior. Ha, ha, ha! Good, is it not?«
    He ceased abruptly and looked at his guests with a meaningless stare. While
they laughed he was reciting to himself the old story: »Dain dead, all my plans
destroyed. This is the end of all hope and of all things.« His heart sank within
him. He felt a kind of deadly sickness.
    »Very good. Capital!« exclaimed both officers.
    Almayer came out of his despondency with another burst of talk.
    »Eh! what about the dinner? You have got a cook with you. That's all right.
There is a cooking shed in the other courtyard. I can give you a goose. Look at
my geese - the only geese on the east coast - perhaps on the whole island. Is
that your cook? Very good. Here, Ali, show this Chinaman the cooking place and
tell Mem Almayer to let him have room there. My wife, gentlemen, does not come
out; my daughter may. Meantime have some more drink. It is a hot day.«
    The lieutenant took the cigar out of his mouth, looked at the ash
critically, shook it off and turned towards Almayer.
    »We have a rather unpleasant business with you,« he said.
    »I am sorry,« returned Almayer. »It can be nothing very serious, surely.«
    »If you think an attempt to blow up forty men at least, not a serious matter
you will not find many people of your opinion,« retorted the officer sharply.
    »Blow up! What? I know nothing about it,« exclaimed Almayer. »Who did that,
or tried to do it?«
    »A man with whom you had some dealings,« answered the lieutenant. »He passed
here under the name of Dain Maroola. You sold him the gunpowder he had in that
brig we captured.«
    »How did you hear about the brig?« asked Almayer. »I know nothing about the
powder he may have had.«
    »An Arab trader of this place has sent the information about your goings on
here to Batavia, a couple of months ago,« said the officer. »We were waiting for
the brig outside, but he slipped past us at the mouth of the river, and we had
to chase the fellow to the southward. When he sighted us he ran inside the reefs
and put the brig ashore. The crew escaped in boats before we could take
possession. As our boats neared the craft it blew up with a tremendous
explosion; one of the boats being too near got swamped. Two men drowned - that
is the result of your speculation, Mr. Almayer. Now we want this Dain. We have
good grounds to suppose he is hiding in Sambir. Do you know where he is? You had
better put yourself right with the authorities as much as possible by being
perfectly frank with me. Where is this Dain?«
    Almayer got up and walked towards the balustrade of the verandah. He seemed
not to be thinking of the officer's question. He looked at the body laying
straight and rigid under its white cover on which the sun, declining amongst the
clouds to the westward, threw a pale tinge of red. The lieutenant waited for the
answer, taking quick pulls at his half-extinguished cigar. Behind them Ali moved
noiselessly laying the table, ranging solemnly the ill-assorted and shabby
crockery, the tin spoons, the forks with broken prongs, and the knives with
saw-like blades and loose handles. He had almost forgotten how to prepare the
table for white men. He felt aggrieved; Mem Nina would not help him. He stepped
back to look at his work admiringly, feeling very proud. This must be right; and
if the master afterwards is angry and swears, then so much the worse for Mem
Nina. Why did she not help? He left the verandah to fetch the dinner.
    »Well, Mr. Almayer, will you answer my question as frankly as it is put to
you?« asked the lieutenant, after a long silence.
    Almayer turned round and looked at his interlocutor steadily. »If you catch
this Dain what will you do with him?« he asked.
    The officer's face flushed. »This is not an answer,« he said, annoyed.
    »And what will you do with me?« went on Almayer, not heeding the
interruption.
    »Are you inclined to bargain?« growled the other. »It would be bad policy, I
assure you. At present I have no orders about your person, but we expected your
assistance in catching this Malay.«
    »Ah!« interrupted Almayer, »just so: you can do nothing without me, and I,
knowing the man welt, am to help you in finding him.«
    »This is exactly what we expect,« assented the officer. »You have broken the
law, Mr. Almayer, and you ought to make amends.«
    »And save myself?«
    »Well, in a sense yes. Your head is not in any danger,« said the lieutenant,
with a short laugh.
    »Very well,« said Almayer, with decision, »I shall deliver the man up to
you.«
    Both officers rose to their feet quickly, and looked for their side-arms
which they had unbuckled. Almayer laughed harshly.
    »Steady, gentlemen!« he exclaimed. »In my own time and in my own way. After
dinner, gentlemen, you shall have him.«
    »This is preposterous,« urged the lieutenant. »Mr. Almayer, this is no
joking matter. The man is a criminal. He deserves to hang. While we dine he may
escape; the rumour of our arrival -«
    Almayer walked towards the table. »I give you my word of honour, gentlemen,
that he shall not escape; I have him safe enough.«
    »The arrest should be effected before dark,« remarked the young sub.
    »I shall hold you responsible for any failure. We are ready, but can do
nothing just now without you,« added the senior, with evident annoyance.
    Almayer made a gesture of assent. »On my word of honour,« he repeated
vaguely. »And now let us dine,« he added briskly.
    Nina came through the doorway and stood for a moment holding the curtain
aside for Ali and the old Malay woman bearing the dishes; then she moved towards
the three men by the table.
    »Allow me,« said Almayer, pompously. »This is my daughter. Nina, these
gentlemen, officers of the frigate outside, have done me the honour to accept my
hospitality.«
    Nina answered the low bows of the two officers by a slow inclination of the
head and took her place at the table opposite her father. All sat down. The
coxswain of the steam launch came up carrying some bottles of wine.
    »You will allow me to have this put upon the table?« said the lieutenant to
Almayer.
    »What! Wine! You are very kind. Certainly. I have none myself. Times are
very hard.«
    The last words of his reply were spoken by Almayer in a faltering voice. The
thought that Dain was dead recurred to him vividly again, and he felt as if an
invisible hand was gripping his throat. He reached for the gin bottle while they
were uncorking the wine and swallowed a big gulp. The lieutenant, who was
speaking to Nina, gave him a quick glance. The young sub began to recover from
the astonishment and confusion caused by Nina's unexpected appearance and great
beauty. »She was very beautiful and imposing,« he reflected, »but after all a
half-caste girl.« This thought caused him to pluck up heart and look at Nina
sideways. Nina, with composed face, was answering in a low, even voice the elder
officer's polite questions as to the country and her mode of life. Almayer
pushed his plate away and drank his guest's wine in gloomy silence.
 

                                  Chapter Nine

»Can I believe what you tell me? It is like a tale for men that listen only half
awake by the camp fire, and it seems to have run off a woman's tongue.«
    »Who is there here for me to deceive, O Rajah?« answered Babalatchi.
»Without you I am nothing. All I have told you I believe to be true. I have been
safe for many years in the hollow of your hand. This is no time to harbour
suspicions. The danger is very great. We should advise and act at once, before
the sun sets.«
    »Right. Right,« muttered Lakamba, pensively.
    They had been sitting for the last hour together in the audience chamber of
the Rajah's house, for Babalatchi, as soon as he had witnessed the landing of
the Dutch officers, had crossed the river to report to his master the events of
the morning, and to confer with him upon the line of conduct to pursue in the
face of altered circumstances. They were both puzzled and frightened by the
unexpected turn the events had taken. The Rajah, sitting cross-legged on his
chair, looked fixedly at the floor; Babalatchi was squatting close by in an
attitude of deep dejection.
    »And where did you say he is hiding now?« asked Lakamba, breaking at last
the silence full of gloomy forebodings in which they both had been lost for a
long while.
    »In Bulangi's clearing - the furthest one, away from the house. They went
there that very night. The white man's daughter took him there. She told me so
herself, speaking to me openly, for she is half white and has no decency. She
said she was waiting for him while he was here; then, after a long time, he came
out of the darkness and fell at her feet exhausted. He lay like one dead, but
she brought him back to life in her arms, and made him breathe again with her
own breath. That is what she said, speaking to my face, as I am speaking now to
you, Rajah. She is like a white woman and knows no shame.«
    He paused, deeply shocked. Lakamba nodded his head. »Well, and then?« he
asked.
    »They called the old woman,« went on Babalatchi, »and he told them all -
about the brig, and how he tried to kill many men. He knew the Orang Blanda were
very near, although he had said nothing to us about that; he knew his great
danger. He thought he had killed many, but there were only two dead, as I have
heard from the men of the sea that came in the warship's boats.«
    »And the other man, he that was found in the river?« interrupted Lakamba.
    »That was one of his boatmen. When his canoe was overturned by the logs
those two swam together, but the other man must have been hurt. Dain swam,
holding him up. He left him in the bushes when he went up to the house. When
they all came down his heart had ceased to beat; then the old woman spoke; Dain
thought it was good. He took off his anklet and broke it, twisting it round the
man's foot. His ring he put on that slave's hand. He took off his sarong and
clothed that thing that wanted no clothes, the two women holding it up
meanwhile, their intent being to deceive all eyes and to mislead the minds in
the settlement, so that they could swear to the thing that was not, and that
there could be no treachery when the white men came. Then Dain and the white
woman departed to call up Bulangi and find a hiding-place. The old woman
remained by the body.«
    »Hai!« exclaimed Lakamba. »She has wisdom.«
    »Yes, she has a Devil of her own to whisper counsel in her ear,« assented
Babalatchi. »She dragged the body with great toil to the point where many logs
were stranded. All these things were done in the darkness after the storm had
passed away. Then she waited. At the first sign of daylight she battered the
face of the dead with a heavy stone, and she pushed him amongst the logs. She
remained near, watching. At sunrise Mahmat Banjer came and found him. They all
believed; I myself was deceived, but not for long. The white man believed, and,
grieving, fled to his house. When we were alone, I, having doubts, spoke to the
woman, and she, fearing my anger and your might, told me all, asking for help in
saving Dain.«
    »He must not fall into the hands of the Orang Blanda,« said Lakamba; »but
let him die, if the thing can be done quietly.«
    »It cannot, Tuan! Remember there is that woman who, being half white, is
ungovernable, and would raise a great outcry. Also the officers are here. They
are angry enough already. Dain must escape; he must go. We must help him now for
our own safety.«
    »Are the officers very angry?« inquired Lakamba, with interest.
    »They are. The principal chief used strong words when speaking to me - to me
when I salaamed in your name. I do not think,« added Babalatchi, after a short
pause and looking very worried - »I do not think I saw a white chief so angry
before. He said we were careless or even worse. He told me he would speak to the
Rajah, and that I was of no account.«
    »Speak to the Rajah!« repeated Lakamba, thoughtfully. »Listen, Babalatchi: I
am sick, and shall withdraw; you cross over and tell the white men.«
    »Yes,« said Babalatchi, »I am going over at once; and as to Dain?«
    »You get him away as you can best. This is a great trouble in my heart,«
sighed Lakamba.
    Babalatchi got up, and, going close to his master, spoke earnestly.
    »There is one of our praus at the southern mouth of the river. The Dutch
warship is to the northward watching the main entrance. I shall send Dain off
to-night in a canoe, by the hidden channels, on board the prau. His father is a
great prince, and shall hear of our generosity. Let the prau take him to
Ampanam. Your glory shall be great, and your reward in powerful friendship.
Almayer will no doubt deliver the dead body as Dain's to the officers, and the
foolish white men shall say, This is very good; let there be peace. And the
trouble shall be removed from your heart, Rajah.«
    »True! true!« said Lakamba.
    »And, this being accomplished by me who am your slave, you shall reward with
a generous hand. That I know! The white man is grieving for the lost treasure,
in the manner of white men who thirst after dollars. Now, when all other things
are in order, we shall perhaps obtain the treasure from the white man. Dain must
escape, and Almayer must live.«
    »Now go, Babalatchi, go!« said Lakamba, getting off his chair. »I am very
sick, and want medicine. Tell the white chief so.«
    But Babalatchi was not to be got rid of in this summary manner. He knew that
his master, after the manner of the great, liked to shift the burden of toil and
danger on to his servants' shoulders, but in the difficult straits in which they
were now the Rajah must play his part. He may be very sick for the white men,
for all the world if he liked, as long as he would take upon himself the
execution of part at least of Babalatchi's carefully thought-of plan. Babalatchi
wanted a big canoe manned by twelve men to be sent out after dark towards
Bulangi's clearing. Dain may have to be overpowered. A man in love cannot be
expected to see clearly the path of safety if it leads him away from the object
of his affections, argued Babalatchi, and in that case they would have to use
force in order to make him go. Would the Rajah see that trusty men manned the
canoe? The thing must be done secretly. Perhaps the Rajah would come himself, so
as to bring all the weight of his authority to bear upon Dain if he should prove
obstinate and refuse to leave his hiding-place. The Rajah would not commit
himself to a definite promise, and anxiously pressed Babalatchi to go, being
afraid of the white men paying him an unexpected visit. The aged statesman
reluctantly took his leave and went into the courtyard.
    Before going down to his boat Babalatchi stopped for a while in the big open
space where the thick- trees put black patches of shadow which seemed to float
on a flood of smooth, intense light that rolled up to the houses and down to the
stockade and over the river, where it broke and sparkled in thousands of
glittering wavelets, like a band woven of azure and gold edged with the
brilliant green of the forests guarding both banks of the Pantai. In the perfect
calm before the coming of the afternoon breeze the irregularly jagged line of
tree-tops stood unchanging, as if traced by an unsteady hand on the clear blue
of the hot sky. In the space sheltered by the high palisades there lingered the
smell of decaying blossoms from the surrounding forest, a taint of drying fish;
with now and then a whiff of acrid smoke from the cooking fires when it eddied
down from under the leafy boughs and clung lazily about the burnt-up grass.
    As Babalatchi looked up at the flagstaff overtopping a group of low trees in
the middle of the courtyard the tricolour flag of the Netherlands stirred
slightly for the first time since it had been hoisted that morning on the
arrival of the man-of-war boats. With a faint rustle of trees the breeze came
down in light puffs, playing capriciously for a time with this emblem of
Lakamba's power, that was also the mark of his servitude; then the breeze
freshened in a sharp gust of wind, and the flag flew out straight and steady
above the trees. A dark shadow ran along the river, rolling over and covering up
the sparkle of declining sunlight. A big white cloud sailed slowly across the
darkening sky, and hung to the westward as if waiting for the sun to join it
there. Men and things shook off the torpor of the hot afternoon and stirred into
life under the first breath of the sea breeze.
    Babalatchi hurried down to the water-gate; yet before he passed through it
he paused to look round the courtyard, with its light and shade, with its cheery
fires, with the groups of Lakamba's soldiers and retainers scattered about. His
own house stood amongst the other buildings in that enclosure, and the statesman
of Sambir asked himself with a sinking heart when and how would it be given him
to return to that house. He had to deal with a man more dangerous than any wild
beast of his experience: a proud man, a man wilful after the manner of princes,
a man in love. And he was going forth to speak to that man words of cold and
worldly wisdom. Could anything be more appalling? What if that man should take
umbrage at some fancied slight to his honour or disregard of his affections and
suddenly amok? The wise adviser would be the first victim, no doubt, and death
would be his reward. And underlying the horror of this situation there was the
danger of those meddlesome fools, the white men. A vision of comfortless exile
in far-off Madura rose up before Babalatchi. Wouldn't that be worse than death
itself? And there was that half-white woman with threatening eyes. How could he
tell what an incomprehensible creature of that sort would or would not do? She
knew so much that she made the killing of Dain an impossibility. That much was
certain. And yet the sharp, rough-edged kriss is a good and discreet friend,
thought Babalatchi, as he examined his own lovingly, and put it back in the
sheath, with a sigh of regret, before unfastening his canoe. As he cast off the
painter, pushed out into the stream, and took up his paddle, he realized vividly
how unsatisfactory it was to have women mixed up in state affairs. Young women,
of course. For Mrs. Almayer's mature wisdom, and for the easy aptitude in
intrigue that comes with years to the feminine mind, he felt the most sincere
respect.
    He paddled leisurely, letting the canoe drift down as he crossed towards the
point. The sun was high yet, and nothing pressed. His work would commence only
with the coming of darkness. Avoiding the Lingard jetty, he rounded the point,
and paddled up the creek at the back of Almayer's house. There were many canoes
lying there, their noses all drawn together, fastened all to the same stake.
Babalatchi pushed his little craft in amongst them and stepped on shore. On the
other side of the ditch something moved in the grass.
    »Who's that hiding?« hailed Babalatchi. »Come out and speak to me.«
    Nobody answered. Babalatchi crossed over, passing from boat to boat, and
poked his staff viciously in the suspicious place. Taminah jumped up with a cry.
    »What are you doing here?« he asked, surprised. »I have nearly stepped on
your tray. Am I a Dyak that you should hide at my sight?«
    »I was weary, and - I slept,« whispered Taminah, confusedly.
    »You slept! You have not sold anything to-day, and you will be beaten when
you return home,« said Babalatchi.
    Taminah stood before him abashed and silent. Babalatchi looked her over
carefully with great satisfaction. Decidedly he would offer fifty dollars more
to that thief Bulangi. The girl pleased him.
    »Now you go home. It is late,« he said sharply. »Tell Bulangi that I shall
be near his house before the night is half over, and that I want him to make all
things ready for a long journey. You understand? A long journey to the
southward. Tell him that before sunset, and do not forget my words.«
    Taminah made a gesture of assent, and watched Babalatchi recross the ditch
and disappear through the bushes bordering Almayer's compound. She moved a
little further off the creek and sank in the grass again, lying down on her
face, shivering in dry-eyed misery.
    Babalatchi walked straight towards the cooking-shed looking for Mrs.
Almayer. The courtyard was in a great uproar. A strange Chinaman had possession
of the kitchen fire and was noisily demanding another saucepan. He hurled
objurgations, in the Canton dialect and bad Malay, against the group of
slave-girls standing a little way off, half frightened, half amused, at his
violence. From the camping fires round which the seamen of the frigate were
sitting came words of encouragement, mingled with laughter and jeering. In the
midst of this noise and confusion Babalatchi met Ali, an empty dish in his hand.
    »Where are the white men?« asked Babalatchi.
    »They are eating in the front verandah,« answered Ali. »Do not stop me,
Tuan. I am giving the white men their food and am busy.«
    »Where's Mem Almayer?«
    »Inside the passage. She is listening to the talk.«
    Ali grinned and passed on; Babalatchi ascended the plankway to the rear
verandah, and beckoning out Mrs. Almayer, engaged her in earnest conversation.
Through the long passage, closed at the further end by the red curtain, they
could hear from time to time Almayer's voice mingling in conversation with an
abrupt loudness that made Mrs. Almayer look significantly at Babalatchi.
    »Listen,« she said. »He has drunk much.«
    »He has,« whispered Babalatchi. »He will sleep heavily to-night.«
    Mrs. Almayer looked doubtful.
    »Sometimes the devil of strong gin makes him keep awake, and he walks up and
down the verandah all night, cursing; then we stand afar off,« explained Mrs.
Almayer, with the fuller knowledge born of twenty odd years of married life.
    »But then he does not hear, nor understand, and his hand, of course, has no
strength. We do not want him to hear to-night.«
    »No,« assented Mrs. Almayer, energetically, but in a cautiously subdued
voice. »If he hears he will kill.«
    Babalatchi looked incredulous.
    »Hai Tuan, you may believe me. Have I not lived many years with that man?
Have I not seen death in that man's eyes more than once when I was younger and
he guessed at many things. Had he been a man of my own people I would not have
seen such a look twice; but he -«
    With a contemptuous gesture she seemed to fling unutterable scorn on
Almayer's weak-minded aversion to sudden bloodshed.
    »If he has the wish but not the strength, then what do we fear?« asked
Babalatchi, after a short silence during which they both listened to Almayer's
loud talk till it subsided into the murmur of general conversation. »What do we
fear?« repeated Babalatchi again.
    »To keep the daughter whom he loves he would strike into your heart and mine
without hesitation,« said Mrs. Almayer. »When the girl is gone he will be like
the devil unchained. Then you and I had better beware.«
    »I am an old man and fear not death,« answered Babalatchi, with a mendacious
assumption of indifference. »But what will you do?«
    »I am an old woman, and wish to live,« retorted Mrs. Almayer. »She is my
daughter also. I shall seek safety at the feet of our Rajah, speaking in the
name of the past when we both were young, and he -«
    Babalatchi raised his hand.
    »Enough. You shall be protected,« he said soothingly.
    Again the sound of Almayer's voice was heard, and again interrupting their
talk, they listened to the confused but loud utterance coming in bursts of
unequal strength, with unexpected pauses and noisy repetitions that made some
words and sentences fall clear and distinct on their ears out of the meaningless
jumble of excited shoutings emphasized by the thumping of Almayer's fist upon
the table. On the short intervals of silence, the high complaining note of
tumblers, standing close together and vibrating to the shock, lingered, growing
fainter, till it leapt up again into tumultuous ringing, when a new idea started
a new rush of words and brought down the heavy hand again. At last the
quarrelsome shouting ceased, and the thin plaint of disturbed glass died away
into reluctant quietude.
    Babalatchi and Mrs. Almayer had listened curiously, their bodies bent and
their ears turned towards the passage. At every louder shout they nodded at each
other with a ridiculous affectation of scandalized propriety, and they remained
in the same attitude for some time after the noise had ceased.
    »This is the devil of gin,« whispered Mrs. Almayer. »Yes; he talks like that
sometimes when there is nobody to hear him.«
    »What does he say?« inquired Babalatchi, eagerly. »You ought to understand.«
    »I have forgotten their talk. A little I understood. He spoke without any
respect of the white ruler in Batavia, and of protection, and said he had been
wronged; he said that several times. More I did not understand. Listen! Again he
speaks!«
    »Tse! tse! tse!« clicked Babalatchi, trying to appear shocked, but with a
joyous twinkle of his solitary eye. »There will be great trouble between those
white men. I will go round now and see. You tell your daughter that there is a
sudden and a long journey before her, with much glory and splendour at the end.
And tell her that Dain must go, or he must die, and that he will not go alone.«
    »No, he will not go alone,« slowly repeated Mrs. Almayer, with a thoughtful
air, as she crept into the passage after seeing Babalatchi disappear round the
corner of the house.
    The statesman of Sambir, under the impulse of vivid curiosity, made his way
quickly to the front of the house, but once there he moved slowly and cautiously
as he crept step by step up the stairs of the verandah. On the highest step he
sat down quietly, his feet on the steps below, ready for flight should his
presence prove unwelcome. He felt pretty safe so. The table stood nearly endways
to him, and he saw Almayer's back; at Nina he looked full face, and had a side
view of both officers; but of the four persons sitting at the table only Nina
and the younger officer noticed his noiseless arrival. The momentary dropping of
Nina's eyelids acknowledged Babalatchi's presence; she then spoke at once to the
young sub, who turned towards her with attentive alacrity, but her gaze was
fastened steadily on her father's face while Almayer was speaking uproariously.
    » ...disloyalty and unscrupulousness! What have you ever done to make me
loyal? You have no grip on this country. I had to take care of myself, and when
I asked for protection I was met with threats and contempt, and had Arab slander
thrown in my face. I! a white man!«
    »Don't be violent, Almayer,« remonstrated the lieutenant; »I have heard all
this already.«
    »Then why do you talk to me about scruples? I wanted money, and I gave
powder in exchange. How could I know that some of your wretched men were going
to be blown up? Scruples! Pah!«
    He groped unsteadily amongst the bottles, trying one after another,
grumbling to himself the while. »No more wine,« he muttered discontentedly.
    »You have had enough, Almayer,« said the lieutenant, as he lighted a cigar.
»Is it not time to deliver to us your prisoner? I take it you have that Dain
Maroola stowed away safely somewhere. Still we had better get that business
over, and then we shall have more drink. Come! don't look at me like this.«
    Almayer was staring with stony eyes, his trembling fingers fumbling about
his throat.
    »Gold,« he said with difficulty. »Hem! A hand on the windpipe, you know.
Sure you will excuse. I wanted to say - a little gold for a little powder.
What's that?«
    »I know, I know,« said the lieutenant soothingly.
    »No! You don't know. Not one of you knows!« shouted Almayer. »The government
is a fool, I tell you. Heaps of gold. I am the man that knows; I and another
one. But he won't speak. He is -«
    He checked himself with a feeble smile, and, making an unsuccessful attempt
to pat the officer on the shoulder, knocked over a couple of empty bottles.
    »Personally you are a fine fellow,« he said very distinctly, in a
patronizing manner. His head nodded drowsily as he sat muttering to himself.
    The two officers looked at each other helplessly.
    »This won't do,« said the lieutenant, addressing his junior. »Have the men
mustered in the compound here. I must get some sense out of him. Hi! Almayer!
Wake up, man. Redeem your word. You gave your word. You gave your word of
honour, you know.«
    Almayer shook off the officer's hand with impatience, but his ill-humour
vanished at once, and he looked up, putting his forefinger to the side of his
nose.
    »You are very young; there is time for all things,« he said, with an air of
great sagacity.
    The lieutenant turned towards Nina, who, leaning back in her chair, watched
her father steadily.
    »Really I am very much distressed by all this for your sake,« he exclaimed.
»I do not know,« he went on, speaking with some embarrassment, »whether I have
any right to ask you anything, unless, perhaps, to withdraw from this painful
scene, but I feel that I must - for your father's good - suggest that you should
- I mean if you have any influence over him you ought to exert it now to make
him keep the promise he gave me before he - before he got into this state.«
    He observed with discouragement that she seemed not to take any notice of
what he said, sitting still with half-closed eyes.
    »I trust -« he began again.
    »What is the promise you speak of?« abruptly asked Nina, leaving her seat
and moving towards her father.
    »Nothing that is not just and proper. He promised to deliver to us a man who
in time of profound peace took the lives of innocent men to escape the
punishment he deserved for breaking the law. He planned his mischief on a large
scale. It is not his fault if it failed, partially. Of course you have heard of
Dain Maroola. Your father secured him, I understand. We know he escaped up this
river. Perhaps you -«
    »And he killed white men!« interrupted Nina.
    »I regret to say they were white. Yes, two white men lost their lives
through that scoundrel's freak.«
    »Two only!« exclaimed Nina.
    The officer looked at her in amazement.
    »Why! why! You -« he stammered, confused.
    »There might have been more,« interrupted Nina. »And when you get this -
this scoundrel, will you go?«
    The lieutenant, still speechless, bowed his assent.
    »Then I would get him for you if I had to seek him in a burning fire,« she
burst out with intense energy. »I hate the sight of your white faces. I hate the
sound of your gentle voices. That is the way you speak to women, dropping sweet
words before any pretty face I have heard your voices before. I hoped to live
here without seeing any other white face but this,« she added in a gentler tone,
touching lightly her father's cheek.
    Almayer ceased his mumbling and opened his eyes. He caught hold of his
daughter's hand and pressed it to his face, while Nina with the other hand
smoothed his rumpled grey hair, looking defiantly over her father's head at the
officer, who had now regained his composure and returned her look with a cool,
steady stare. Below, in front of the verandah, they could hear the tramp of
seamen mustering there according to orders. The sub-lieutenant came up the
steps, while Babalatchi stood up uneasily and, with finger on lip, tried to
catch Nina's eye.
    »You are a good girl,« whispered Almayer, absently, dropping his daughter's
hand.
    »Father! father!« she cried, bending over him with passionate entreaty. »See
those two men looking at us. Send them away. I cannot bear it any more. Send
them away. Do what they want and let them go.«
    She caught sight of Babalatchi and ceased speaking suddenly, but her foot
tapped the floor with rapid beats in a paroxysm of nervous restlessness. The two
officers stood close together looking on curiously.
    »What has happened? What is the matter?« whispered the younger man.
    »Don't know,« answered the other, under his breath. »One is furious, and the
other is drunk. Not so drunk, either. Queer this. Look!«
    Almayer had risen, holding on to his daughter's arm. He hesitated a moment,
then he let go his hold and lurched half-way across the verandah. There he
pulled himself together, and stood very straight, breathing hard and glaring
round angrily.
    »Are the men ready?« asked the lieutenant.
    »All ready, sir.«
    »Now, Mr. Almayer, lead the way,« said the lieutenant.
    Almayer rested his eyes on him as if he saw him for the first time.
    »Two men,« he said thickly. The effort of speaking seemed to interfere with
his equilibrium. He took a quick step to save himself from a fall, and remained
swaying backwards and forwards. »Two men,« he began again, speaking with
difficulty. »Two white men - men in uniform - honourable men. I want to say -
men of honour. Are you?«
    »Come! None of that,« said the officer impatiently. »Let us have that friend
of yours.«
    »What do you think I am?« asked Almayer, fiercely.
    »You are drunk, but not so drunk as not to know what you are doing. Enough
of this tomfoolery,« said the officer sternly, »or I will have you put under
arrest in your own house.«
    »Arrest!« laughed Almayer, discordantly. »Ha! ha! ha! Arrest! Why, I have
been trying to get out of this infernal place for twenty years, and I can't. You
hear, man! I can't, and never shall! Never!«
    He ended his words with a sob, and walked unsteadily down the stairs. When
in the courtyard the lieutenant approached him, and took him by the arm. The
sub-lieutenant and Babalatchi followed close.
    »That's better, Almayer,« said the officer encouragingly. »Where are you
going to? There are only planks there. Here,« he went on, shaking him slightly,
»do we want the boats?«
    »No,« answered Almayer, viciously. »You want a grave.«
    »What? Wild again! Try to talk sense.«
    »Grave!« roared Almayer, struggling to get himself free. »A hole in the
ground. Don't you understand? You must be drunk. Let me go! Let go, I tell you!«
    He tore away from the officer's grasp, and reeled towards the planks where
the body lay under its white cover; then he turned round quickly, and faced the
semicircle of interested faces. The sun was sinking rapidly, throwing long
shadows of house and trees over the courtyard, but the light lingered yet on the
river, where the logs went drifting past in midstream, looking very distinct and
black in the pale red glow. The trunks of the trees in the forest on the east
bank were lost in gloom while their highest branches swayed gently in the
departing sunlight. The air felt heavy and cold in the breeze, expiring in
slight puffs that came over the water.
    Almayer shivered as he made an effort to speak, and again with an uncertain
gesture he seemed to free his throat from the grip of an invisible hand. His
blood-shot eyes wandered aimlessly from face to face.
    »There!« he said at last. »Are you all there? He is a dangerous man.«
    He dragged at the cover with hasty violence, and the body rolled stiffly off
the planks and fell at his feet in rigid helplessness.
    »Cold, perfectly cold,« said Almayer, looking round with a mirthless smile.
»Sorry can do no better. And you can't hang him, either. As you observe,
gentlemen,« he added gravely, »there is no head, and hardly any neck.«
    The last ray of light was snatched away from the tree-tops, the river grew
suddenly dark, and in the great stillness the murmur of the flowing water seemed
to fill the vast expanse of grey shadow that descended upon the land.
    »This is Dain,« went on Almayer to the silent group that surrounded him.
»And I have kept my word. First one hope, then another, and this is my last.
Nothing is left now. You think there is one dead man here? Mistake, I 'sure you.
I am much more dead. Why don't you hang me?« he suggested suddenly, in a
friendly tone, addressing the lieutenant. »I assure, assure you it would be a
mat- matter of form altog- altogether.«
    These last words he muttered to himself, and walked zigzagging towards his
house. »Get out!« he thundered at Ali, who was approaching timidly with offers
of assistance. From afar, scared groups of men and women watched his devious
progress. He dragged himself up the stairs by the banister, and managed to reach
a chair into which he fell heavily. He sat for a while panting with exertion and
anger, and looking round vaguely for Nina; then making a threatening gesture
towards the compound, where he had heard Babalatchi's voice, he overturned the
table with his foot in a great crash of smashed crockery. He muttered yet
menacingly to himself, then his head fell on his breast, his eyes closed, and
with a deep sigh he fell asleep.
    That night - for the first time in its history - the peaceful and
flourishing settlement of Sambir saw the lights shining about Almayer's Folly.
These were the lanterns of the boats hung up by the seamen under the verandah
where the two officers were holding a court of inquiry into the truth of the
story related to them by Babalatchi. Babalatchi had regained all his importance.
He was eloquent and persuasive, calling Heaven and Earth to witness the truth of
his statements. There were also other witnesses. Mahmat Banjer and a good many
others underwent a close examination that dragged its weary length far into the
evening. A messenger was sent for Abdulla, who excused himself from coming on
the score of his venerable age, but sent Reshid. Mahmat had to produce the
bangle, and saw with rage and mortification the lieutenant put it in his pocket
as one of the proofs of Dain's death, to be sent in with the official report of
the mission. Babalatchi's ring was also impounded for the same purpose, but the
experienced statesman was resigned to that loss from the very beginning. He did
not mind as long as he was sure that the white men believed. He put that
question to himself earnestly as he left, one of the last, when the proceedings
came to a close. He was not certain. Still, if they believed only for a night,
he would put Dain beyond their reach and feel safe himself. He walked away fast,
looking from time to time over his shoulder in the fear of being followed, but
he saw and heard nothing.
    »Ten o'clock,« said the lieutenant, looking at his watch and yawning. »I
shall hear some of the captain's complimentary remarks when we get back.
Miserable business, this.«
    »Do you think all this is true?« asked the younger man.
    »True! It is just possible. But if it isn't true what can we do? If we had a
dozen boats we could patrol the creeks; and that wouldn't be much good. That
drunken madman was right; we haven't enough hold on this coast. They do what
they like. Are our hammocks slung?«
    »Yes, I told the coxswain. Strange couple over there,« said the sub, with a
wave of his hand towards Almayer's house.
    »Hem! Queer, certainly. What have you been telling her? I was attending to
the father most of the time.«
    »I assure you I have been perfectly civil,« protested the other warmly.
    »All right. Don't get excited. She objects to civility, then, from what I
understand. I thought you might have been tender. You know we are on service.«
    »Well, of course. Never forget that. Coldly civil. That's all.«
    They both laughed a little, and not feeling sleepy began to pace the
verandah side by side. The moon rose stealthily above the trees, and suddenly
changed the river into a stream of scintillating silver. The forest came out of
the black void and stood sombre and pensive over the sparkling water. The breeze
died away into a breathless calm.
    Seamanlike, the two officers tramped measuredly up and down without
exchanging a word. The loose planks rattled rhythmically under their steps with
obtrusive dry sound in the perfect silence of the night. As they were wheeling
round again the younger man stood attentive.
    »Did you hear that?« he asked.
    »No!« said the other. »Hear what?«
    »I thought I heard a cry. Ever so faint. Seemed a woman's voice. In that
other house. Ah! Again! Hear it?«
    »No,« said the lieutenant, after listening awhile. »You young fellows always
hear women's voices. If you are going to dream you had better get into your
hammock. Good-night.«
    The moon mounted higher, and the warm shadows grew smaller and crept away as
if hiding before the cold and cruel light.
 

                                  Chapter Ten

»It has set at last,« said Nina to her mother pointing towards the hills behind
which the sun had sunk. »Listen, mother, I am going now to Bulangi's creek, and
if I should never return -«
    She interrupted herself, and something like doubt dimmed for a moment the
fire of suppressed exaltation that had glowed in her eyes and had illuminated
the serene impassiveness of her features with a ray of eager life during all
that long day of excitement - the day of joy and anxiety, of hope and terror, of
vague grief and indistinct delight. While the sun shone with that dazzling light
in which her love was born and grew till it possessed her whole being, she was
kept firm in her unwavering resolve by the mysterious whisperings of desire
which filled her heart with impatient longing for the darkness that would mean
the end of danger and strife, the beginning of happiness, the fulfilling of
love, the completeness of life. It had set at last! The short tropical twilight
went out before she could draw the long breath of relief; and now the sudden
darkness seemed to be full of menacing voices calling upon her to rush headlong
into the unknown; to be true to her own impulses to give herself up to the
passion she had evoked and shared. He was waiting! In the solitude of the
secluded clearing, in the vast silence of the forest he was waiting alone, a
fugitive in fear of his life. Indifferent to his danger he was waiting for her.
It was for her only that he had come; and now as the time approached when he
should have his reward, she asked herself with dismay what meant that chilling
doubt of her own will and of her own desire? With an effort she shook off the
fear of the passing weakness. He should have his reward. Her woman's love and
her woman's honour overcame the faltering distrust of that unknown future
waiting for her in the darkness of the river.
    »No, you will not return,« muttered Mrs. Almayer, prophetically. »Without
you he will not go, and if he remains here -« She waved her hand towards the
lights of Almayer's Folly, and the unfinished sentence died out in a threatening
murmur.
    The two women had met behind the house, and now were walking slowly together
towards the creek where all the canoes were moored. Arrived at the fringe of
bushes they stopped by a common impulse, and Mrs. Almayer, laying her hand on
her daughter's arm, tried in vain to look close into the girl's averted face.
When she attempted to speak her first words were lost in a stifled sob that
sounded strangely coming from that woman who, of all human passions, seemed to
know only those of anger and hate.
    »You are going away to be a great Ranee,« she said at last, in a voice that
was steady enough now, »and if you be wise you shall have much power that will
endure many days, and even last into your old age. What have I been? A slave all
my life, and I have cooked rice for a man who had no courage and no wisdom. Hai!
I! even I, was given in gift by a chief and a warrior to a man that was neither.
Hai! Hai!«
    She wailed to herself softly, lamenting the lost possibilities of murder and
mischief that could have fallen to her lot had she been mated with a congenial
spirit. Nina bent down over Mrs. Almayer's slight form and scanned attentively,
under the stars that had rushed out on the black sky and now hung breathless
over that strange parting, her mother's shrivelled features, and looked close
into the sunken eyes that could see into her own dark future by the light of a
long and a painful experience. Again she felt herself fascinated, as of old, by
her mother's exalted mood and by the oracular certainty of expression which,
together with her fits of violence, had contributed not a little to the
reputation for witchcraft she enjoyed in the settlement.
 
»I was a slave, and you shall be a queen,« went on Mrs. Almayer, looking
straight before her; »but remember men's strength and their weakness. Tremble
before his anger, so that he may see your fear in the light of day; but in your
heart you may laugh, for after sunset he is your slave.«
    »A slave! He! The master of life! You do not know him, mother.«
    Mrs. Almayer condescended to laugh contemptuously.
    »You speak like a fool of a white woman,« she exclaimed. »What do you know
of men's anger and of men's love? Have you watched the sleep of men weary of
dealing death? Have you felt about you the strong arm that could drive a kriss
keep into a beating heart? Yah! you are a white woman, and ought to pray to a
woman god!«
    »Why do you say this? I have listened to your words so long that I have
forgotten my old life. If I was white would I stand here, ready to go? Mother, I
shall return to the house and look once more at my father's face.«
    »No!« said Mrs. Almayer, violently. »No, he sleeps now the sleep of gin; and
if you went back he might awake and see you. No, he shall never see you. When
the terrible old man took you away from me when you were little, you remember -«
    »It was such a long time ago,« murmured Nina.
    »I remember,« went on Mrs. Almayer, fiercely. »I wanted to look at your face
again. He said no! I heard you cry and jumped into the river. You were his
daughter then; you are my daughter now. Never shall you go back to that house;
you shall never cross this courtyard again. No! no!«
    Her voice rose almost to a shout. On the other side of the creek there was a
rustle in the long grass. The two women heard it, and listened for awhile in
startled silence.
    »I shall go,« said Nina, in a cautious but intense whisper. »What is your
hate or your revenge to me?«
    She moved towards the house, Mrs. Almayer clinging to her and trying to pull
her back.
    »Stop, you shall not go!« she gasped.
    Nina pushed away her mother impatiently and gathered up her skirts for a
quick run, but Mrs. Almayer ran forward and turned round, facing her daughter
with outstretched arms.
    »If you move another step,« she exclaimed, breathing quickly, »I shall cry
out. Do you see those lights in the big house? There sit two white men, angry
because they cannot have the blood of the man you love. And in those dark
houses,« she continued, more calmly as she pointed towards the settlement, »my
voice could wake up men that would lead the Orang Blanda soldiers to him who is
waiting - for you.«
    She could not see her daughter's face, but the white figure before her stood
silent and irresolute in the darkness. Mrs. Almayer pursued her advantage.
    »Give up your old life! Forget!« she said in entreating tones. »Forget that
you ever looked at a white face; forget their words; forget their thoughts. They
speak lies. And they think lies because they despise us that are better than
they are, but not so strong. Forget their friendship and their contempt; forget
their many gods. Girl, why do you want to remember the past when there is a
warrior and a chief ready to give many lives - his own life - for one of your
smiles?«
    While she spoke she pushed gently her daughter towards the canoes, hiding
her own fear, anxiety, and doubt under the flood of passionate words that left
Nina no time to think and no opportunity to protest, even if she had wished it.
But she did not wish it now. At the bottom of that passing desire to look again
at her father's face there was no strong affection. She felt no scruples and no
remorse at leaving suddenly that man whose sentiment towards herself she could
not understand, she could not even see. There was only an instinctive clinging
to old life, to old habits, to old faces; that fear of finality which lurks in
every human breast and prevents so many heroisms and so many crimes. For years
she had stood between her mother and her father, the one so strong in her
weakness, the other so weak where he could have been strong. Between those two
beings so dissimilar, so antagonistic, she stood with mute heart wondering and
angry at the fact of her own existence. It seemed so unreasonable, so
humiliating to be flung there in that settlement and to see the days rush by
into the past, without a hope, a desire, or an aim that would justify the life
she had to endure in ever-growing weariness. She had little belief and no
sympathy for her father's dreams; but the savage ravings of her mother chanced
to strike a responsive chord, deep down somewhere in her despairing heart; and
she dreamed dreams of her own with the persistent absorption of a captive
thinking of liberty within the walls of his prison cell. With the coming of Dain
she found the road to freedom by obeying the voice of the new-born impulses, and
with surprised joy she thought she could read in his eyes the answer to all the
questionings of her heart. She understood now the reason and the aim of life;
and in the triumphant unveiling of that mystery she threw away disdainfully her
past with its sad thoughts, its bitter feelings and its faint affections, now
withered and dead in contact with her fierce passion.
    Mrs. Almayer unmoored Nina's own canoe and, straightening herself painfully,
stood, painter in hand, looking at her daughter.
    »Quick,« she said; »get away before the moon rises, while the river is dark.
I am afraid of Abdulla's slaves. The wretches prowl in the night often, and
might see and follow you. There are two paddles in the canoe.«
    Nina approached her mother and touched lightly with her lips the wrinkled
forehead. Mrs. Almayer snorted contemptuously in protest against that tenderness
which she, nevertheless, feared could be contagious.
    »Shall I ever see you again, mother?« murmured Nina.
    »No,« said Mrs. Almayer, after a short silence. »Why should you return here
where it is my fate to die? You will live far away in splendour and might. When
I hear of white men driven from the islands, then I shall know that you are
alive, and that you remember my words.«
    »I shall always remember,« returned Nina, earnestly; »but where is my power,
and what can I do?«
    »Do not let him look too long in your eyes, nor lay his head on your knees
without reminding him that men should fight before they rest. And if he lingers,
give him his kriss yourself and bid him go, as the wife of a mighty prince
should do when the enemies are near. Let him slay the white men that come to us
to trade, with prayers on their lips and loaded guns in their hands. Ah« - she
ended with a sigh - »they are on every sea, and on every shore; and they are
very many!«
    She swung the bow of the canoe towards the river, but did not let go the
gunwale, keeping her hand on it in irresolute thoughtfulness. Nina put the point
of the paddle against the bank, ready to shove off into the stream.
    »What is it, mother?« she asked, in a low voice. »Do you hear anything?«
    »No,« said Mrs. Almayer, absently. »Listen, Nina,« she continued, abruptly,
after a slight pause, »in after years there will be other women -«
    A stifled cry in the boat interrupted her, and the paddle rattled in the
canoe as it slipped from Nina's hands, which she put out in a protesting
gesture. Mrs. Almayer fell on her knees on the bank and leaned over the gunwale
so as to bring her own face close to her daughter's.
    »There will be other women,« she repeated firmly; »I tell you that, because
you are half white, and may forget that he is a great chief, and that such
things must be. Hide your anger, and do not let him see on your face the pain
that will eat your heart. Meet him with joy in your eyes and wisdom on your
lips, for to you he will turn in sadness or in doubt. As long as he looks upon
many women your power will last, but should there be one, one only with whom he
seems to forget you, then -«
    »I could not live,« exclaimed Nina, covering her face with both her hands.
»Do not speak so, mother; it could not be.«
    »Then,« went on Mrs. Almayer, steadily, »to that woman, Nina, show no
mercy.«
    She moved the canoe down towards the stream by the gunwale, and gripped it
with both her hands, the bow pointing into the river.
    »Are you crying?« she asked sternly of her daughter, who sat still with
covered face. »Arise, and take your paddle, for he has waited long enough. And
remember, Nina, no mercy; and if you must strike, strike with a steady hand.«
    She put out all her strength, and swinging her body over the water, shot the
light craft far into the stream. When she recovered herself from the effort she
tried vainly to catch a glimpse of the canoe that seemed to have dissolved
suddenly into the white mist trailing over the heated waters of the Pantai.
After listening for a while intently on her knees, Mrs. Almayer rose with a deep
sigh, while two tears wandered slowly down her withered cheeks. She wiped them
off quickly with a wisp of her grey hair as if ashamed of herself, but could not
stifle another loud sigh, for her heart was heavy and she suffered much, being
unused to tender emotions. This time she fancied she had heard a faint noise,
like the echo of her own sigh, and she stopped, straining her ears to catch the
slightest sound, and peering apprehensively towards the bushes near her.
    »Who is there?« she asked, in an unsteady voice, while her imagination
peopled the solitude of the riverside with ghost-like forms. »Who is there?« she
repeated faintly.
    There was no answer: only the voice of the river murmuring in sad monotone
behind the white veil seemed to swell louder for a moment, to die away again in
a soft whisper of eddies washing against the bank.
    Mrs. Almayer shook her head as if in answer to her own thoughts, and walked
quickly away from the bushes, looking to the right and left watchfully. She went
straight towards the cooking-shed, observing that the embers of the fire there
glowed more brightly than usual, as if somebody had been adding fresh fuel to
the fires during the evening. As she approached, Babalatchi, who had been
squatting in the warm glow, rose and met her in the shadow outside.
    »Is she gone?« asked the anxious statesman, hastily.
    »Yes,« answered Mrs. Almayer. »What are the white men doing? When did you
leave them?«
    »They are sleeping now, I think. May they never wake!« exclaimed Babalatchi,
fervently. »Oh! but they are devils, and made much talk and trouble over that
carcase. The chief threatened me twice with his hand, and said he would have me
tied up to a tree. Tie me up to a tree! Me!« he repeated, striking his breast
violently.
    Mrs. Almayer laughed tauntingly.
    »And you salaamed and asked for mercy. Men with arms by their side acted
otherwise when I was young.«
    »And where are they, the men of your youth? You mad woman!« retorted
Babalatchi, angrily. »Killed by the Dutch. Aha! But I shall live to deceive
them. A man knows when to fight and when to tell peaceful lies. You would know
that if you were not a woman.«
    But Mrs. Almayer did not seem to hear him. With bent body and outstretched
arm she appeared to be listening to some noise behind the shed.
    »There are strange sounds,« she whispered, with evident alarm. »I have heard
in the air the sounds of grief, as of a sigh and weeping. That was by the
riverside. And now again I heard -«
    »Where?« asked Babalatchi, in an altered voice. »What did you hear?«
    »Close here. It was like a breath long drawn. I wish I had burnt the paper
over the body before it was buried.«
    »Yes,« assented Babalatchi. »But the white men had him thrown into a hole at
once. You know he found his death on the river,« he added cheerfully, »and his
ghost may hail the canoes, but would leave the land alone.«
    Mrs. Almayer, who had been craning her neck to look round the corner of the
shed, drew back her head.
    »There is nobody there,« she said, reassured. »Is it not time for the Rajah
war-canoe to go to the clearing?«
    »I have been waiting for it here, for I myself must go,« explained
Babalatchi. »I think I will go over and see what makes them late. When will you
come? The Rajah gives you refuge.«
    »I shall paddle over before the break of day. I cannot leave my dollars
behind,« muttered Mrs. Almayer.
    They separated. Babalatchi crossed the courtyard towards the creek to get
his canoe, and Mrs. Almayer walked slowly to the house, ascended the plankway,
and passing through the back verandah entered the passage leading to the front
of the house; but before going in she turned in the doorway and looked back at
the empty and silent courtyard, now lit up by the rays of the rising moon. No
sooner she had disappeared, however, than a vague shape flitted out from amongst
the stalks of the banana plantation, darted over the moonlit space, and fell in
the darkness at the foot of the verandah. It might have been the shadow of a
driving cloud, so noiseless and rapid was its passage, but for the trail of
disturbed grass, whose feathery heads trembled and swayed for a long time in the
moonlight before they rested motionless and gleaming, like a design of silver
sprays embroidered on a sombre background.
    Mrs. Almayer lighted the cocoanut lamp, and lifting cautiously the red
curtain, gazed upon her husband, shading the light with her hand. Almayer,
huddled up in the chair, one of his arms hanging down, the other thrown across
the lower part of his face as if to ward off an invisible enemy, his legs
stretched straight out, slept heavily, unconscious of the unfriendly eyes that
looked upon him in disparaging criticism. At his feet lay the overturned table,
amongst a wreck of crockery and broken bottles. The appearance as of traces left
by a desperate struggle was accentuated by the chairs, which seemed to have been
scattered violently all over the place, and now lay about the verandah with a
lamentable aspect of inebriety in their helpless attitudes. Only Nina's big
rocking-chair, standing black and motionless on its high runners, towered above
the chaos of demoralized furniture, unflinchingly dignified and patient, waiting
for its burden.
    With a last scornful look towards the sleeper, Mrs. Almayer passed behind
the curtain into her own room. A couple of bats, encouraged by the darkness and
the peaceful state of affairs, resumed their silent and oblique gambols above
Almayer's head, and for a long time the profound quiet of the house was
unbroken, save for the deep breathing of the sleeping man and the faint tinkle
of silver in the hands of the woman preparing for flight. In the increasing
light of the moon that had risen now above the night mist, the objects on the
verandah came out strongly outlined in black splashes of shadow with all the
uncompromising ugliness of their disorder, and a caricature of the sleeping
Almayer appeared on the dirty whitewash of the wall behind him in a grotesquely
exaggerated detail of attitude and feature enlarged to a heroic size. The
discontented bats departed in quest of darker places, and a lizard came out in
short, nervous rushes, and, pleased with the white table-cloth, stopped on it in
breathless immobility that would have suggested sudden death had it not been for
the melodious call he exchanged with a less adventurous friend hiding amongst
the lumber in the courtyard. Then the boards in the passage creaked, the lizard
vanished, and Almayer stirred uneasily with a sigh: slowly, out of the senseless
annihilation of drunken sleep, he was returning, through the land of dreams, to
waking consciousness. Almayer's head rolled from shoulder to shoulder in the
oppression of his dream; the heavens had descended upon him like a heavy mantle,
and trailed in starred folds far under him. Stars above, stars all round him;
and from the stars under his feet rose a whisper full of entreaties and tears,
and sorrowful faces flitted amongst the clusters of light filling the infinite
space below. How escape from the importunity of lamentable cries and from the
look of staring, sad eyes in the faces which pressed round him till he gasped
for breath under the crushing weight of worlds that hung over his aching
shoulders? Get away! But how? If he attempted to move he would step off into
nothing, and perish in the crashing fall of that universe of which he was the
only support. And what were the voices saying? Urging him to move! Why? Move to
destruction! Not likely! The absurdity of the thing filled him with indignation.
He got a firmer foothold and stiffened his muscles in heroic resolve to carry
his burden to all eternity. And ages passed in the superhuman labour, amidst the
rush of circling worlds; in the plaintive murmur of sorrowful voices urging him
to desist before it was too late - till the mysterious power that had laid upon
him the giant task seemed at last to seek his destruction. With terror he felt
an irresistible hand shaking him by the shoulder, while the chorus of voices
swelled louder into an agonized prayer to go, go before it is too late. He felt
himself slipping, losing his balance, as something dragged at his legs, and he
fell. With a faint cry he glided out of the anguish of perishing creation into
an imperfect waking that seemed to be still under the spell of his dream.
    »What? What?« he murmured sleepily, without moving or opening his eyes. His
head still felt heavy, and he had not the courage to raise his eyelids. In his
ears there still lingered the sound of entreating whisper. - »Am I awake? - Why
do I hear the voices?« he argued to himself, hazily. - »I cannot get rid of the
horrible nightmare yet. - I have been very drunk. - What is that shaking me? I
am dreaming yet. - I must open my eyes and be done with it. I am only half
awake, it is evident.«
    He made an effort to shake off his stupor and saw a face close to his,
glaring at him with staring eyeballs. He closed his eyes again in amazed horror
and sat up straight in the chair, trembling in every limb. What was this
apparition? - His own fancy, no doubt. - His nerves had been much tried the day
before - and then the drink! He would not see it again if he had the courage to
look. - He would look directly. - Get a little steadier first. - So. - Now.
    He looked. The figure of a woman standing in the steely light, her hands
stretched forth in a suppliant gesture, confronted him from the far-off end of
the verandah; and in the space between him and the obstinate phantom floated the
murmur of words that fell on his ears in a jumble of torturing sentences, the
meaning of which escaped the utmost efforts of his brain. Who spoke the Malay
words? Who ran away? Why too late - and too late for what? What meant those
words of hate and love mixed so strangely together, the ever-recurring names
falling on his ears again and again - Nina, Dain; Dain, Nina? Dain was dead, and
Nina was sleeping, unaware of the terrible experience through which he was now
passing. Was he going to be tormented for ever, sleeping or waking, and have no
peace either night or day? What was the meaning of this?
    He shouted the last words aloud. The shadowy woman seemed to shrink and
recede a little from him towards the doorway, and there was a shriek.
Exasperated by the incomprehensible nature of his torment, Almayer made a rush
upon the apparition, which eluded his grasp, and he brought up heavily against
the wall. Quick as lightning he turned round and pursued fiercely the mysterious
figure fleeing from him with piercing shrieks that were like fuel to the flames
of his anger. Over the furniture, round the overturned table, and now he had it
cornered behind Nina's chair. To the left, to the right they dodged, the chair
rocking madly between them, she sending out shriek after shriek at every feint,
and he growling meaningless curses through his hard set teeth. »Oh! the fiendish
noise that split his head and seemed to choke his breath. - It would kill him. -
It must be stopped!« An insane desire to crush that yelling thing induced him to
cast himself recklessly over the chair with a desperate grab, and they came down
together in a cloud of dust amongst the splintered wood. The last shriek died
out under him in a faint gurgle, and he had secured the relief of absolute
silence.
    He looked at the woman's face under him. A real woman. He knew her. By all
that is wonderful! Taminah! He jumped up ashamed of his fury and stood
perplexed, wiping his forehead. The girl struggled to a kneeling posture and
embraced his legs in a frenzied prayer for mercy.
    »Don't be afraid,« he said, raising her. »I shall not hurt you. Why do you
come to my house in the night? And if you had to come, why not go behind the
curtain where the women sleep?«
    »The place behind the curtain is empty,« gasped Taminah, catching her breath
between the words. »There are no women in your house any more, Tuan. I saw the
old Mem go away before I tried to wake you. I did not want your women, I wanted
you.«
    »Old Mem!« repeated Almayer. »Do you mean my wife?«
    She nodded her head.
    »But of my daughter you are not afraid?« said Almayer.
    »Have you not heard me?« she exclaimed. »Have I not spoken for a long time
when you lay there with eyes half open? She is gone too.«
    »I was asleep. Can you not tell when a man is sleeping and when awake?«
    »Sometimes,« answered Taminah in a low voice; »sometimes the spirit lingers
close to a sleeping body and may hear. I spoke a long time before I touched you,
and I spoke softly for fear it would depart at a sudden noise and leave you
sleeping for ever. I took you by the shoulder only when you began to mutter
words I could not understand. Have you not heard, then, and do you know
nothing?«
    »Nothing of what you said. What is it? Tell again if you want me to know.«
    He took her by the shoulder and led her unresisting to the front of the
verandah into a stronger light. She wrung her hands with such an appearance of
grief that he began to be alarmed.
    »Speak,« he said. »You made noise enough to wake even dead men. And yet
nobody living came,« he added to himself in an uneasy whisper. »Are you mute?
Speak!« he repeated.
    In a rush of words which broke out after a short struggle from her trembling
lips she told him the tale of Nina's love and her own jealousy. Several times he
looked angrily into her face and told her to be silent; but he could not stop
the sounds that seemed to him to run out in a hot stream, swirl about his feet,
and rise in scalding waves about him, higher, higher, drowning his heart,
touching his lips with a feel of molten lead, blotting out his sight in
scorching vapour, closing over his head, merciless and deadly. When she spoke of
the deception as to Dain's death of which he had been the victim only that day,
he glanced again at her with terrible eyes, and made her falter for a second,
but he turned away directly, and his face suddenly lost all expression in a
stony stare far away over the river. Ah! the river! His old friend and his old
enemy, speaking always with the same voice as he runs from year to year bringing
fortune or disappointment, happiness or pain, upon the same varying but
unchanged surface of glancing currents and swirling eddies. For many years he
had listened to the passionless and soothing murmur that sometimes was the song
of hope, at times the song of triumph, of encouragement; more often the whisper
of consolation that spoke of better days to come. For so many years! So many
years! And now to the accompaniment of that murmur he listened to the slow and
painful beating of his heart. He listened attentively, wondering at the
regularity of its beats. He began to count mechanically. One, two. Why count? At
the next beat it must stop. No heart could suffer so and beat so steadily for
long. Those regular strokes as of a muffled hammer that rang in his ears must
stop soon. Still beating unceasing and cruel. No man can bear this: and is this
the last, or will the next one be the last? - How much longer? O God! how much
longer? His hand weighed heavier unconsciously on the girl's shoulder, and she
spoke the last words of her story crouching at his feet with tears of pain and
shame and anger. Was her revenge to fail her? This white man was like a
senseless stone. Too late! Too late!
    »And you saw her go?« Almayer's voice sounded harshly above her head.
    »Did I not tell you?« she sobbed, trying to wriggle gently out from under
his grip. »Did I not tell you that I saw the witchwoman push the canoe? I lay
hidden in the grass and heard all the words. She that we used to call the white
Mem wanted to return to look at your face, but the witchwoman forbade her, and
-«
    She sank lower yet on her elbow, turning half round under the downward push
of the heavy hand, her face lifted up to him with spiteful eyes.
    »And she obeyed,« she shouted out in a half-laugh, half-cry of pain. »Let me
go, Tuan. Why are you angry with me? Hasten, or you will be too late to show
your anger to the deceitful woman.«
    Almayer dragged her up to her feet and looked close into her face while she
struggled, turning her head away from his wild stare.
    »Who sent you here to torment me?« he asked, violently. »I do not believe
you. You lie.«
    He straightened his arm suddenly and flung her across the verandah towards
the doorway, where she lay immobile and silent, as if she had left her life in
his grasp, a dark heap, without a sound or a stir.
    »Oh! Nina!« whispered Almayer, in a voice in which reproach and love spoke
together in pained tenderness. »Oh! Nina! I do not believe.«
    A light draught from the river ran over the courtyard in a wave of bowing
grass and, entering the verandah, touched Almayer's forehead with its cool
breath, in a caress of infinite pity. The curtain in the women's doorway blew
out and instantly collapsed with startling helplessness. He stared at the
fluttering stuff.
    »Nina!« cried Almayer. »Where are you, Nina?«
    The wind passed out of the empty house in a tremulous sigh, and all was
still.
    Almayer hid his face in his hands as if to shut out a loathsome sight. When,
hearing a slight rustle, he uncovered his eyes, the dark heap by the door was
gone.
 

                                 Chapter Eleven

In the middle of a shadowless square of moonlight, shining on a smooth and level
expanse of young rice-shoots, a little shelter-hut perched on high posts, the
pile of brushwood near by and the glowing embers of a fire with a man stretched
before it, seemed very small and as if lost in the pale green iridescence
reflected from the ground. On three sides of the clearing, appearing very far
away in the deceptive light, the big trees of the forest, lashed together with
manifold bonds by a mass of tangled creepers, looked down at the growing young
life at their feet with the sombre resignation of giants that had lost faith in
their strength. And in the midst of them the merciless creepers clung to the big
trunks in cable-like coils, leaped from tree to tree, hung in thorny festoons
from the lower boughs, and, sending slender tendrils on high to seek out the
smallest branches, carried death to their victims in an exulting riot of silent
destruction.
    On the fourth side, following the curve of the bank of that branch of the
Pantai that formed the only access to the clearing, ran a black line of young
trees, bushes, and thick second growth, unbroken save for a small gap chopped
out in one place. At that gap began the narrow footpath leading from the water's
edge to the grass-built shelter used by the night watchers when the ripening
crop had to be protected from the wild pigs. The pathway ended at the foot of
the piles on which the hut was built, in a circular space covered with ashes and
bits of burnt wood. In the middle of that space, by the dim fire, lay Dain.
    He turned over on his side with an impatient sigh, and, pillowing his head
on his bent arm, lay quietly with his face to the dying fire. The glowing embers
shone redly in a small circle, throwing a gleam into his wide-open eyes. His
body was weary with the exertion of the past few days, his mind more weary still
with the strain of solitary waiting for his fate. Never before had he felt so
helpless. He had heard the report of the gun fired on board the launch, and he
knew that his life was in untrustworthy hands, and that his enemies were very
near.
    During the slow hours of the afternoon he had roamed about on the edge of
the forest, or, hiding in the bushes, watched the creek with unquiet eyes for
some sign of danger. He feared not death, yet he desired ardently to live, for
life to him was Nina. She had promised to come, to follow him, to share his
danger and his splendour. But with her by his side he cared not for danger, and
without her there could be no splendour and no joy in existence. Crouching in
his shady hiding-place, he closed his eyes, trying to evoke the gracious and
charming image of the white figure that for him was the beginning and the end of
life. With eyes shut tight, his teeth hard set, he tried in a great effort of
passionate will to keep his hold on that vision of supreme delight. In vain! His
heart grew heavy as the figure of Nina faded away to be replaced by another
vision this time - a vision of armed men, of angry faces, of glittering arms -
and he seemed to hear the hum of excited and triumphant voices as they
discovered him in his hiding-place. Startled by the vividness of his fancy, he
would open his eyes, and, leaping out into the sunlight, resume his aimless
wanderings around the clearing. As he skirted in his weary march the edge of the
forest he glanced now and then into its dark shade, so enticing in its deceptive
appearance of coolness, so repellent with its unrelieved gloom, where lay,
entombed and rotting, countless generations of trees, and where their successors
stood as if mourning, in dark green foliage, immense and helpless, awaiting
their turn. Only the parasites seemed to live there in a sinuous rush upwards
into the air and sunshine, feeding on the dead and the dying alike, and crowning
their victims with pink and blue flowers that gleamed amongst the boughs,
incongruous and cruel, like a strident and mocking note in the solemn harmony of
the doomed trees.
    A man could hide there, thought Dain, as he approached a place where the
creepers had been torn and hacked into an archway that might have been the
beginning of a path. As he bent down to look through he heard angry grunting,
and a sounder of wild pig crashed away in the undergrowth. An acrid smell of
damp earth and of decaying leaves took him by the throat, and he drew back with
a scared face, as if he had been touched by the breath of Death itself. The very
air seemed dead in there - heavy and stagnating, poisoned with the corruption of
countless ages. He went on, staggering on his way, urged by the nervous
restlessness that made him feel tired yet caused him to loathe the very idea of
immobility and repose. Was he a wild man to hide in the woods and perhaps be
killed there - in the darkness - where there was no room to breathe? He would
wait for his enemies in the sunlight, where he could see the sky and feel the
breeze. He knew how a Malay chief should die. The sombre and desperate fury,
that peculiar inheritance of his race, took possession of him, and he glared
savagely across the clearing towards the gap in the bushes by the riverside.
They would come from there.
    In imagination he saw them now. He saw the bearded faces and the white
jackets of the officers, the light on the levelled barrels of the rifles. What
is the bravery of the greatest warrior before the firearms in the hand of a
slave? He would walk towards them with a smiling face, with his hands held out
in a sign of submission till he was very near them. He would speak friendly
words - come nearer yet - yet nearer - so near that they could touch him with
their hands and stretch them out to make him a captive. That would be the time;
with a shout and a leap he would be in the midst of them, kriss in hand,
killing, killing, killing, and would die with the shouts of his enemies in his
ears, their warm blood spurting before his eyes.
    Carried away by his excitement, he snatched the kriss hidden in his sarong,
and, drawing a long breath, rushed forward, struck at the empty air, and fell on
his face. He lay as if stunned in the sudden reaction from his exaltation,
thinking that, even if he died thus gloriously, it would have to be before he
saw Nina. Better so. If he saw her again he felt that death would be too
terrible. With horror he, the descendant of Rajahs and of conquerors, had to
face the doubt of his own bravery. His desire of life tormented him in a
paroxysm of agonizing remorse. He had not the courage to stir a limb. He had
lost faith in himself, and there was nothing else in him of what makes a man.
The suffering remained, for it is ordered that it should abide in the human body
even to the last breath, and fear remained. Dimly he could look into the depths
of his passionate love, see its strength and its weakness, and felt afraid.
    The sun went down slowly. The shadow of the western forest marched over the
clearing, covered the man's scorched shoulders with its cool mantle, and went on
hurriedly to mingle with the shadows of other forests on the eastern side. The
sun lingered for a while amongst the light tracery of the higher branches, as if
in friendly reluctance to abandon the body stretched in the green paddy-field.
Then Dain, revived by the cool of the evening breeze, sat up and stared round
him. As he did so the sun dipped sharply, as if ashamed of being detected in a
sympathizing attitude, and the clearing, which during the day was all light,
became suddenly all darkness, where the fire gleamed like an eye. Dain walked
slowly towards the creek, and, divesting himself of his torn sarong, his only
garment, entered the water cautiously. He had had nothing to eat that day, and
had not dared show himself in daylight by the water-side to drink. Now, as he
swam silently, he swallowed a few mouthfuls of water that lapped about his lips.
This did him good, and he walked with greater confidence in himself and others
as he returned towards the fire. Had he been betrayed by Lakamba all would have
been over by this. He made up a big blaze, and while it lasted dried himself,
and then lay down by the embers. He could not sleep, but he felt a great
numbness in all his limbs. His restlessness was gone, and he was content to lie
still, measuring the time by watching the stars that rose in endless succession
above the forests, while the slight puffs of wind under the cloudless sky seemed
to fan their twinkle into a greater brightness. Dreamily he assured himself over
and over again that she would come, till the certitude crept into his heart and
filled him with a great peace. Yes, when the next day broke, they would be
together on the great blue sea that was like life - away from the forests that
were like death. He murmured the name of Nina into the silent space with a
tender smile: this seemed to break the spell of stillness, and far away by the
creek a frog croaked loudly as if in answer. A chorus of loud roars and
plaintive calls rose from the mud along the line of bushes. He laughed heartily;
doubtless it was their love-song. He felt affectionate towards the frogs and
listened, pleased with the noisy life near him.
    When the moon peeped above the trees he felt the old impatience and the old
restlessness steal over him. Why was she so late? True, it was a long way to
come with a single paddle. With what skill and what endurance could those small
hands manage a heavy paddle! It was very wonderful - such small hands, such soft
little palms that knew how to touch his cheek with a feel lighter than the
fanning of a butterfly's wing. Wonderful! He lost himself lovingly in the
contemplation of this tremendous mystery, and when he looked at the moon again
it had risen a hand's breadth above the trees. Would she come? He forced himself
to lie still, overcoming the impulse to rise and rush round the clearing again.
He turned this way and that; at last, quivering with the effort, he lay on his
back, and saw her face among the stars looking down on him.
    The croaking of frogs suddenly ceased. With the watchfulness of a hunted man
Dain sat up, listening anxiously, and heard several splashes in the water as the
frogs took rapid headers into the creek. He knew that they had been alarmed by
something, and stood up suspicious and attentive. A slight grating noise, then
the dry sound as of two pieces of wood struck against each other. Somebody was
about to land! He took up an armful of brushwood, and, without taking his eyes
from the path, held it over the embers of his fire. He waited, undecided, and
saw something gleam amongst the bushes; then a white figure came out of the
shadows and seemed to float towards him in the pale light. His heart gave a
great leap and stood still, then went on shaking his frame in furious beats. He
dropped the brushwood upon the glowing coals, and had an impression of shouting
her name - of rushing to meet her; yet he emitted no sound, he stirred not an
inch, but he stood silent and motionless like chiselled bronze under the
moonlight that streamed over his naked shoulders. As he stood still, fighting
with his breath, as if bereft of his senses by the intensity of his delight, she
walked up to him with quick, resolute steps, and, with the appearance of one
about to leap from a dangerous height, threw both her arms round his neck with a
sudden gesture. A small blue gleam crept amongst the dry branches, and the
crackling of reviving fire was the only sound as they faced each other in the
speechless emotion of that meeting; then the dry fuel caught at once, and a
bright hot flame shot upwards in a blaze as high as their heads, and in its
light they saw each other's eyes.
    Neither of them spoke. He was regaining his senses in a slight tremor that
ran upwards along his rigid body and hung about his trembling lips. She drew
back her head and fastened her eyes on his in one of those long looks that are a
woman's most terrible weapon; a look that is more stirring than the closest
touch, and more dangerous than the thrust of a dagger, because it also whips the
soul out of the body, but leaves the body alive and helpless, to be swayed here
and there by the capricious tempests of passion and desire; a look that enwraps
the whole body, and that penetrates into the innermost recesses of the being,
bringing terrible defeat in the delirious uplifting of accomplished conquest. It
has the same meaning for the man of the forests and the sea as for the man
threading the paths of the more dangerous wilderness of houses and streets.
    Men that had felt in their breasts the awful exultation such a look awakens
become mere things of to-day - which is paradise; forget yesterday - which was
suffering; care not for to-morrow - which may be perdition. They wish to live
under that look for ever. It is the look of woman's surrender.
    He understood, and, as if suddenly released from his invisible bonds, fell
at her feet with a shout of joy, and, embracing her knees, hid his head in the
folds of her dress, murmuring disjointed words of gratitude and love. Never
before had he felt so proud as now, when at the feet of that woman that half
belonged to his enemies. Her fingers played with his hair in an absentminded
caress as she stood absorbed in thought. The thing was done. Her mother was
right. The man was her slave. As she glanced down at his kneeling form she felt
a great pitying tenderness for that man she was used to call - even in her
thoughts - the master of life. She lifted her eyes and looked sadly at the
southern heavens under which lay the path of their lives - her own, and that
man's at her feet. Did he not say himself that she was the light of his life?
She would be his light and his wisdom; she would be his greatness and his
strength; yet hidden from the eyes of all men she would be, above all, his only
and lasting weakness. A very woman! In the sublime vanity of her kind she was
thinking already of moulding a god from the clay at her feet. A god for others
to worship. She was content to see him as he was now, and to feel him quiver at
the slightest touch of her light fingers. And while her eyes looked sadly at the
southern stars a faint smile seemed to be playing about her firm lips. Who can
tell in the fitful light of a camp fire? It might have been a smile of triumph,
or of conscious power, or of tender pity, or, perhaps, of love.
    She spoke softly to him, and he rose to his feet, putting his arm round her
in quiet consciousness of his ownership; she laid her head on his shoulder with
a sense of defiance to all the world in the encircling protection of that arm.
He was hers with all his qualities and his faults. His strength and his courage,
his recklessness and his daring, his simple wisdom and his savage cunning - all
were hers. As they passed together out of the red light of the fire into the
silver shower of rays that fell upon the clearing he bent his head over her
face, and she saw in his eyes the dreamy intoxication of boundless felicity from
the close touch of her slight figure clasped to his side. With a rhythmical
swing of their bodies they walked through the light towards the outlying shadows
of the forests that seemed to guard their happiness in solemn immobility. Their
forms melted in the play of light and shadow at the foot of the big trees, but
the murmur of tender words lingered over the empty clearing, grew faint, and
died out. A sigh as of immense sorrow passed over the land in the last effort of
the dying breeze, and in the deep silence which succeeded, the earth and the
heavens were suddenly hushed up in the mournful contemplation of human love and
human blindness.
    They walked slowly back to the fire. He made for her a seat out of the dry
branches, and, throwing himself down at her feet, lay his head in her lap and
gave himself up to the dreamy delight of the passing hour. Their voices rose and
fell, tender or animated as they spoke of their love and of their future. She,
with a few skilful words spoken from time to time, guided his thoughts, and he
let his happiness flow in a stream of talk passionate and tender, grave or
menacing, according to the mood which she evoked. He spoke to her of his own
island, where the gloomy forests and the muddy rivers were unknown. He spoke of
its terraced fields, of the murmuring clear rills of sparkling water that flowed
down the sides of great mountains, bringing life to the land and joy to its
tillers. And he spoke also of the mountain peak that rising lonely above the
belt of trees knew the secrets of the passing clouds, and was the dwelling-place
of the mysterious spirit of his race, of the guardian genius of his house. He
spoke of vast horizons swept by fierce winds that whistled high above the
summits of burning mountains. He spoke of his forefathers that conquered ages
ago the island of which he was to be the future ruler. And then as, in her
interest, she brought her face nearer to his, he, touching lightly the thick
tresses of her long hair, felt a sudden impulse to speak to her of the sea he
loved so well; and he told her of its never-ceasing voice, to which he had
listened as a child, wondering at its hidden meaning that no living man has
penetrated yet; of its enchanting glitter; of its senseless and capricious fury;
how its surface was for ever changing, and yet always enticing, while its depths
were for ever the same, cold and cruel, and full of the wisdom of destroyed
life. He told her how it held men slaves of its charm for a life-time, and then,
regardless of their devotion, swallowed them up, angry at their fear of its
mystery, which it would never disclose, not even to those that loved it most.
While he talked, Nina's head had been gradually sinking lower, and her face
almost touched his now. Her hair was over his eyes, her breath was on his
forehead, her arms were about his body. No two beings could be closer to each
other, yet she guessed rather than understood the meaning of his last words that
came out after a slight hesitation in a faint murmur, dying out imperceptibly
into a profound and significant silence: »The sea, O Nina, is like a woman's
heart.«
    She closed his lips with a sudden kiss, and answered in a steady voice -
    »But to the men that have no fear, O master of my life, the sea is ever
true.«
    Over their heads a film of dark, thread-like clouds, looking like immense
cobwebs drifting under the stars, darkened the sky with the presage of the
coming thunderstorm. From the invisible hills the first distant rumble of
thunder came in a prolonged roll which, after tossing about from hill to hill,
lost itself in the forests of the Pantai. Dain and Nina stood up, and the former
looked at the sky uneasily.
    »It is time for Babalatchi to be here,« he said. »The night is more than
half gone. Our road is long, and a bullet travels quicker than the best canoe.«
    »He will be here before the moon is hidden behind the clouds,« said Nina. »I
heard a splash in the water,« she added. »Did you hear it too?«
    »Alligator,« answered Dain shortly, with a careless glance towards the
creek. »The darker the night,« he continued, »the shorter will be our road, for
then we could keep in the current of the main stream, but if it is light - even
no more than now - we must follow the small channels of sleeping water, with
nothing to help our paddles.«
    »Dain,« interposed Nina, earnestly, »it was no alligator. I heard the bushes
rustling near the landing-place.«
    »Yes,« said Dain, after listening awhile. »It cannot be Babalatchi, who
would come in a big war canoe, and openly. Those that are coming, whoever they
are, do not wish to make much noise. But you have heard, and now I can see,« he
went on quickly. »It is but one man. Stand behind me, Nina. If he is a friend he
is welcome; if he is an enemy you shall see him die.«
    He laid his hand on his kriss, and waited the approach of his unexpected
visitor. The fire was burning very low, and small clouds - precursors of the
storm - crossed the face of the moon in rapid succession, and their flying
shadows darkened the clearing. He could not make out who the man might be, but
he felt uneasy at the steady advance of the tall figure walking on the path with
a heavy tread, and hailed it with a command to stop. The man stopped at some
little distance, and Dain expected him to speak, but all he could hear was his
deep breathing. Through a break in the flying clouds a sudden and fleeting
brightness descended upon the clearing. Before the darkness closed in again Dain
saw a hand holding some glittering object expended towards him, heard Nina's cry
of »Father!« and in an instant the girl was between him and Almayer's revolver.
Nina's loud cry woke up the echoes of the sleeping woods, and the three stood
still as if waiting for the return of silence before they would give expression
to their various feelings. At the appearance of Nina, Almayer's arm fell by his
side, and he made a step forward. Dain pushed the girl gently aside.
    »Am I a wild beast that you should try to kill me suddenly and in the dark,
Tuan Almayer?« said Dain, breaking the strained silence. »Throw some brushwood
on the fire,« he went on, speaking to Nina, »while I watch my white friend, lest
harm should come to you or to me, O delight of my heart!«
    Almayer ground his teeth and raised his arm again. With a quick bound Dain
was at his side: there was a short scuffle, during which one chamber of the
revolver went off harmlessly, then the weapon, wrenched out of Almayer's hand,
whirled through the air and fell in the bushes. The two men stood close
together, breathing hard. The replenished fire threw out an unsteady circle of
light and shone on the terrified face of Nina, who looked at them with
outstretched hands.
    »Dain!« she cried out warningly, »Dain!«
    He waved his hand towards her in a reassuring gesture, and, turning to
Almayer, said with great courtesy -
    »Now we may talk, Tuan. It is easy to send out death, but can your wisdom
recall the life? She might have been harmed,« he continued, indicating Nina.
»Your hand shook much; for myself I was not afraid.«
    »Nina!« exclaimed Almayer, »come to me at once. What is this sudden madness?
What bewitched you? Come to your father, and together we shall try to forget
this horrible nightmare!«
    He opened his arms with the certitude of clasping her to his breast in
another second. She did not move. As it dawned upon him that she did not mean to
obey he felt a deadly cold creep into his heart, and pressing the palms of his
hands to his temples, he looked down on the ground in mute despair. Dain took
Nina by the arm and led her towards her father.
    »Speak to him in the language of his people,« he said. »He is grieving - as
who would not grieve at losing thee, my pearl! Speak to him the last words he
shall hear spoken by that voice, which must be very sweet to him, but is all my
life to me.«
    He released her, and, stepping back a few paces out of the circle of light,
stood in the darkness looking at them with calm interest. The reflection of a
distant flash of lightning lit up the clouds over their heads, and was followed
after a short interval by the faint rumble of thunder, which mingled with
Almayer's voice as he began to speak.
    »Do you know what you are doing? Do you know what is waiting for you if you
follow that man? Have you no pity for yourself? Do you know that you shall be at
first his plaything and then a scorned slave, a drudge, and a servant of some
new fancy of that man?«
    She raised her hand to stop him, and turning her head slightly, asked -
    »You hear this Dain! Is it true?«
    »By all the gods!« came the impassioned answer from the darkness - »by
heaven and earth, by my head and thine I swear: this is a white man's lie. I
have delivered my soul into your hands for ever; I breathe with your breath, I
see with your eyes, I think with your mind, and I take you into my heart for
ever.«
    »You thief!« shouted the exasperated Almayer.
    A deep silence succeeded this outburst, then the voice of Dain was heard
again.
    »Nay, Tuan,« he said in a gentle tone, »that is not true also. The girl came
of her own will. I have done no more but to show her my love like a man; she
heard the cry of my heart, and she came, and the dowry I have given to the woman
you call your wife.«
    Almayer groaned in his extremity of rage and shame. Nina laid her hand
lightly on his shoulder, and the contact, light as the touch of a falling leaf,
seemed to calm him. He spoke quickly, and in English this time.
    »Tell me,« he said - »tell me, what have they done to you, your mother and
that man? What made you give yourself up to that savage? For he is a savage.
Between him and you there is a barrier that nothing can remove. I can see in
your eyes the look of those who commit suicide when they are mad. You are mad.
Don't smile. It breaks my heart. If I were to see you drowning before my eyes,
and I without the power to help you, I could not suffer a greater torment. Have
you forgotten the teaching of so many years?«
    »No,« she interrupted, »I remember it well. I remember how it ended also.
Scorn for scorn, contempt for contempt, hate for hate. I am not of your race.
Between your people and me there is also a barrier that nothing can remove. You
ask why I want to go, and I ask you why I should stay.«
    He staggered as if struck in the face, but with a quick, unhesitating grasp
she caught him by the arm and steadied him.
    »Why you should stay!« he repeated slowly, in a dazed manner, and stopped
short, astounded at the completeness of his misfortune.
    »You told me yesterday,« she went on again, »that I could not understand or
see your love for me: it is so. How can I? No two human beings understand each
other. They can understand but their own voices. You wanted me to dream your
dreams, to see your own visions - the visions of life amongst the white faces of
those who cast me out from their midst in angry contempt. But while you spoke I
listened to the voice of my own self; then this man came, and all was still;
there was only the murmur of his love. You call him a savage! What do you call
my mother, your wife?«
    »Nina!« cried Almayer, »take your eyes off my face.«
    She looked down directly, but continued speaking only a little above a
whisper.
    »In time,« she went on, »both our voices, that man's and mine, spoke
together in a sweetness that was intelligible to our ears only. You were
speaking of gold then, but our ears were filled with the song of our love, and
we did not hear you. Then I found that we could see through each other's eyes:
that he saw things that nobody but myself and he could see. We entered a land
where no one could follow us, and least of all you. Then I began to live.«
    She paused. Almayer sighed deeply. With her eyes still fixed on the ground
she began speaking again.
    »And I mean to live. I mean to follow him. I have been rejected with scorn
by the white people, and now I am a Malay! He took me in his arms, he laid his
life at my feet. He is brave; he will be powerful, and I hold his bravery and
his strength in my hand, and I shall make him great. His name shall be
remembered long after both our bodies are laid in the dust. I love you no less
than I did before, but I shall never leave him, for without him I cannot live.«
    »If he understood what you have said,« answered Almayer, scornfully, »he
must be highly flattered. You want him as a tool for some incomprehensible
ambition of yours. Enough, Nina. If you do not go down at once to the creek,
where Ali is waiting with my canoe, I shall tell him to return to the settlement
and bring the Dutch officers here. You cannot escape from this clearing, for I
have cast adrift your canoe. If the Dutch catch this hero of yours they will
hang him as sure as I stand here. Now go.«
    He made a step towards his daughter and laid hold of her by the shoulder,
his other hand pointing down the path to the landing-place.
    »Beware!« exclaimed Dain; »this woman belongs to me!«
    Nina wrenched herself free and looked straight at Almayer's angry face.
    »No, I will not go,« she said with desperate energy. »If he dies I shall die
too!«
    »You die?« said Almayer, contemptuously. »Oh, no! You shall live a life of
lies and deception till some other vagabond comes along to sing; how did you say
that? The song of love to you! Make up your mind quickly.«
    He waited for a while, and then added meaningly -
    »Shall I call out to Ali?«
    »Call out,« she answered in Malay, »you that cannot be true to your own
countrymen. Only a few days ago you were selling the powder of their
destruction; now you want to give up to them the man that yesterday you called
your friend. Oh, Dain,« she said, turning towards the motionless but attentive
figure in the darkness, »instead of bringing you life I bring you death, for he
will betray unless I leave you for ever!«
    Dain came into the circle of light, and, throwing his arm around Nina's
neck, whispered in her ear -
    »I can kill him where he stands, before a sound can pass his lips. For you
it is to say yes or no. Babalatchi cannot be far now.«
    He straightened himself up, taking his arm off her shoulder, and confronted
Almayer, who looked at them both with an expression of concentrated fury.
    »No!« she cried, clinging to Dain in wild alarm. »No! Kill me! Then perhaps
he will let you go. You do not know the mind of a white man. He would rather see
me dead than standing where I am. Forgive me, your slave, but you must not.« She
fell at his feet sobbing violently and repeating, »Kill me! Kill me!«
    »I want you alive« said Almayer, speaking also in Malay, with sombre
calmness. »You go, or he hangs. Will you obey?«
    Dain shook Nina off, and, making a sudden lunge, struck Almayer full in the
chest with the handle of his kriss, keeping the point towards himself.
    »Hai, look! It was easy for me to turn the point the other way,« he said in
his even voice. »Go, Tuan Putih,« he added with dignity. »I give you your life,
my life, and her life. I am the slave of this woman's desire, and she wills it
so.«
    There was not a glimmer of light in the sky now, and the tops of the trees
were as invisible as their trunks, being lost in the mass of clouds that hung
low over the woods, the clearing, and the river. Every outline had disappeared
in the intense blackness that seemed to have destroyed everything but space.
Only the fire glimmered like a star forgotten in this annihilation of all
visible things, and nothing was heard after Dain ceased speaking but the sobs of
Nina, whom he held in his arms, kneeling beside the fire. Almayer stood looking
down at them in gloomy thoughtfulness. As he was opening his lips to speak they
were startled by a cry of warning by the riverside, followed by the splash of
many paddles and the sound of voices.
    »Babalatchi!« shouted Dain, lifting up Nina as he got upon his feet quickly.
    »Ada! Ada!« came the answer from the panting statesman who ran up the path
and stood amongst them. »Run to my canoe,« he said to Dain excitedly, without
taking any notice of Almayer. »Run! we must go. That woman has told them all!«
    »What woman?« asked Dain, looking at Nina. Just then there was only one
woman in the whole world for him.
    »The she-dog with white teeth; the seven times accursed slave of Bulangi.
She yelled at Abdulla's gate till she woke up all Sambir. Now the white officers
are coming guided by her and Reshid. If you want to live, do not look at me, but
go!«
    »How do you know this?« asked Almayer.
    »Oh, Tuan! what matters how I know! I have only one eye, but I saw lights in
Abdulla's house and in his campong as we were paddling past. I have ears, and
while we lay under the bank I have heard the messengers sent out to the white
men's house.«
    »Will you depart without that woman who is my daughter?« said Almayer,
addressing Dain, while Babalatchi stamped with impatience, muttering, »Run! Run
at once!«
    »No,« answered Dain, steadily, »I will not go; to no man will I abandon this
woman.«
    »Then kill me and escape yourself,« sobbed out Nina.
    He clasped her close, looking at her tenderly, and whispered, »We will never
part, O Nina!«
    »I shall not stay here any longer,« broke in Babalatchi, angrily. »This is
great foolishness. No woman is worth a man's life. I am an old man, and I know.«
    He picked up his staff, and, turning to go, looked at Dain as if offering
him his last chance of escape. But Dain's face was hidden amongst Nina's black
tresses, and he did not see this last appealing glance.
    Babalatchi vanished in the darkness. Shortly after his disappearance they
heard the war canoe leave the landing-place in the swish of the numerous paddles
dipped in the water together. Almost at the same time Ali came up from the
riverside, two paddles on his shoulder.
    »Our canoe is hidden up the creek, Tuan Almayer,« he said, »in the dense
bush where the forest comes down to the water. I took it there because I heard
from Babalatchi's paddlers that the white men are coming here.«
    »Wait for me there,« said Almayer, »but keep the canoe hidden.«
    He remained silent, listening to Ali's footsteps, then turned to Nina.
    »Nina,« he said sadly »will you have no pity for me?«
    There was no answer. She did not even turn her head, which was pressed close
to Dain's breast.
    He made a movement as if to leave them and stopped. By the dim glow of the
burning-out fire he saw their two motionless figures. The woman's back turned to
him with the long black hair streaming down over the white dress, and Dain's
calm face looking at him above her head.
    »I cannot,« he muttered to himself. After a long pause he spoke again a
little lower, but in an unsteady voice, »It would be too great a disgrace. I am
a white man.« He broke down completely there, and went on tearfully, »I am a
white man, and of good family. Very good family,« he repeated, weeping bitterly.
»It would be a disgrace ... all over the island, ... the only white man on the
east coast. No, it cannot be ... white men finding my daughter with this Malay.
My daughter!« he cried aloud, with a ring of despair in his voice.
    He recovered his composure after a while and said distinctly -
    »I will never forgive you, Nina - never! If you were to come back to me now,
the memory of this night would poison all my life. I shall try to forget. I have
no daughter. There used to be a half-caste woman in my house, but she is going
even now. You, Dain, or whatever your name may be, I shall take you and that
woman to the island at the mouth of the river myself. Come with me.«
    He led the way, following the bank as far as the forest. Ali answered to his
call, and, pushing their way through the dense bush, they stepped into the canoe
hidden under the overhanging branches. Dain laid Nina in the bottom, and sat
holding her head on his knees. Almayer and Ali each took up a paddle. As they
were going to push out Ali hissed warningly. All listened.
    In the great stillness before the bursting out of the thunderstorm they
could hear the sound of oars working regularly in their row-locks. The sound
approached steadily, and Dain, looking through the branches, could see the faint
shape of a big white boat. A woman's voice said in a cautious tone -
    »There is the place where you may land white men; a little higher - there!«
    The boat was passing them so close in the narrow creek that the blades of
the long oars nearly touched the canoe.
    »Way enough! Stand by to jump on shore! He is alone and unarmed,« was the
quiet order in a man's voice, and in Dutch.
    Somebody else whispered: »I think I can see a glimmer of a fire through the
bush.« And then the boat floated past them, disappearing instantly in the
darkness.
    »Now,« whispered Ali, eagerly, »let us push out and paddle away.«
    The little canoe swung into the stream, and as it sprung forward in response
to the vigorous dig of the paddles they could hear an angry shout.
    »He is not by the fire. Spread out, men, and search for him!«
    Blue lights blazed out in different parts of the clearing, and the shrill
voice of a woman cried in accents of rage and pain -
    »Too late! O senseless white men! He has escaped!«
 

                                 Chapter Twelve

»That is the place,« said Dain, indicating with the blade of his paddle a small
islet about a mile ahead of the canoe - »that is the place where Babalatchi
promised that a boat from the prau would come for me when the sun is overhead.
We will wait for that boat there.«
    Almayer, who was steering, nodded without speaking, and by a slight sweep of
his paddle laid the head of the canoe in the required direction.
    They were just leaving the southern outlet of the Pantai, which lay behind
them in a straight and long vista of water shining between two walls of thick
verdure that ran downwards and towards each other, till at last they joined and
sank together in the far-away distance. The sun, rising above the calm waters of
the Straits, marked its own path by a streak of light that glided upon the sea
and darted up the wide reach of the river, a hurried messenger of light and life
to the gloomy forests of the coast; and in this radiance of the sun's pathway
floated the black canoe heading for the islet which lay bathed in sunshine, the
yellow sands of its encircling beach shining like an inlaid golden disc on the
polished steel of the unwrinkled sea. To the north and south of it rose other
islets, joyous in their brilliant colouring of green and yellow, and on the main
coast the sombre line of mangrove bushes ended to the southward in the reddish
cliffs of Tanjong Mirrah, advancing into the sea, steep and shadowless under the
clear light of the early morning.
    The bottom of the canoe grated upon the sand as the little craft ran upon
the beach. Ali leaped on shore and held on while Dain stepped out carrying Nina
in his arms, exhausted by the events and the long travelling during the night.
Almayer was the last to leave the boat, and together with Ali ran it higher up
on the beach. Then Ali, tired out by the long paddling, laid down in the shade
of the canoe, and incontinently fell asleep. Almayer sat sideways on the
gunwale, and with his arms crossed on his breast, looked to the southward upon
the sea.
    After carefully laying Nina down in the shade of the bushes growing in the
middle of the islet, Dain threw himself beside her and watched in silent concern
the tears that ran down from under her closed eyelids, and lost themselves in
that fine sand upon which they both were lying face to face. These tears and
this sorrow were for him a profound and disquieting mystery. Now, when the
danger was past, why should she grieve? He doubted her love no more than he
would have doubted the fact of his own existence, but as he lay looking ardently
in her face, watching her tears, her parted lips, her very breath, he was
uneasily conscious of something in her he could not understand. Doubtless she
had the wisdom of perfect beings. He sighed. He felt something invisible that
stood between them, something that would let him approach her so far, but no
farther. No desire, no longing, no effort of will or length of life could
destroy this vague feeling of their difference. With awe but also with great
pride he concluded that it was her own incomparable perfection. She was his, and
yet she was like a woman from another world. His! His! He exulted in the
glorious thought; nevertheless her tears pained him.
    With a wisp of her own hair which he took in his hand with timid reverence
he tried in an access of clumsy tenderness to dry the tears that trembled on her
eye-lashes. He had his reward in a fleeting smile that brightened her face for
the short fraction of a second, but soon the tears fell faster than ever, and he
could bear it no more. He rose and walked towards Almayer, who still sat
absorbed in his contemplation of the sea. It was a very, very long time since he
had seen the sea - that sea that leads everywhere, brings everything, and takes
away so much. He had almost forgotten why he was there, and dreamily he could
see all his past life on the smooth and boundless surface that glittered before
his eyes.
    Dain's hand laid on Almayer's shoulder recalled him with a start from some
country very far away indeed. He turned round, but his eyes seemed to look
rather at the place where Dain stood than at the man himself. Dain felt uneasy
under the unconscious gaze.
    »What do you want?« asked Almayer.
    »She is crying,« murmured Dain, softly.
    »She is crying! Why?« asked Almayer, indifferently.
    »I came to ask you. My Ranee smiles when looking at the man she loves. It is
the white woman that is crying now. You would know.«
    Almayer shrugged his shoulders and turned away again towards the sea.
    »Go, Tuan Putih,« urged Dain. »Go to her; her tears are more terrible to me
than the anger of gods.«
    »Are they? You will see them more than once. She told me she could not live
without you,« answered Almayer, speaking without the faintest spark of
expression in his face, »so it behoves you to go to her quick, for fear you may
find her dead.«
    He burst into a loud and unpleasant laugh which made Dain stare at him with
some apprehension, but got off the gunwale of the boat and moved slowly towards
Nina, glancing up at the sun as he walked.
    »And you go when the sun is overhead?« he said.
    »Yes, Tuan. Then we go,« answered Dain.
    »I have not long to wait,« muttered Almayer. »It is most important for me to
see you go. Both of you. Most important,« he repeated, stopping short and
looking at Dain fixedly.
    He went on again towards Nina, and Dain remained behind. Almayer approached
his daughter and stood for a time looking down on her. She did not open her
eyes, but hearing footsteps near her, murmured in a low sob, »Dain.«
    Almayer hesitated for a minute and then sank on the sand by her side. She,
not hearing a responsive word, not feeling a touch, opened her eyes - saw her
father, and sat up suddenly with a movement of terror.
    »Oh, father!« she murmured faintly, and in that word there was expressed
regret and fear and dawning hope.
    »I shall never forgive you, Nina,« said Almayer, in a dispassionate voice.
»You have torn my heart from me while I dreamt of your happiness. You have
deceived me. Your eyes that for me were like truth itself lied to me in every
glance - for how long? You know that best. When you were caressing my cheek you
were counting the minutes to the sunset that was the signal for your meeting
with that man - there!«
    He ceased, and they both sat silent side by side, not looking at each other,
but gazing at the vast expanse of the sea. Almayer's words had dried Nina's
tears, and her look grew hard as she stared before her into the limitless sheet
of blue that shone limpid, unwaving, and steady like heaven itself. He looked at
it also, but his features had lost all expression, and life in his eyes seemed
to have gone out. The face was a blank, without a sign of emotion, feeling,
reason, or even knowledge of itself. All passion, regret, grief, hope, or anger
- all were gone, erased by the hand of fate, as if after this last stroke
everything was over and there was no need for any record. Those few who saw
Almayer during the short period of his remaining days were always impressed by
the sight of that face that seemed to know nothing of what went on within: like
the blank wall of a prison enclosing sin, regrets, and pain, and wasted life, in
the cold indifference of mortar and stones.
    »What is there to forgive?« asked Nina, not addressing Almayer directly, but
more as if arguing with herself. »Can I not live my own life as you have lived
yours? The path you would have wished me to follow has been closed to me by no
fault of mine.«
    »You never told me,« muttered Almayer.
    »You never asked me,« she answered, »and I thought you were like the others
and did not care. I bore the memory of my humiliation alone, and why should I
tell you that it came to me because I am your daughter? I knew you could not
avenge me.«
    »And yet I was thinking of that only,« interrupted Almayer, »and I wanted to
give you years of happiness for the short day of your suffering. I only knew of
one way.«
    »Ah! but it was not my way!« she replied. »Could you give me happiness
without life? Life!« she repeated with sudden energy that sent the word ringing
over the sea. »Life that means power and love,« she added in a low voice.
    »That!« said Almayer, pointing his finger at Dain standing close by and
looking at them in curious wonder.
    »Yes, that!« she replied, looking her father full in the face and noticing
for the first time with a slight gasp of fear the unnatural rigidity of his
features.
    »I would have rather strangled you with my own hands,« said Almayer, in an
expressionless voice which was such a contrast to the desperate bitterness of
his feelings that it surprised even himself. He asked himself who spoke, and,
after looking slowly round as if expecting to see somebody, turned again his
eyes towards the sea.
    »You say that because you do not understand the meaning of my words,« she
said sadly. »Between you and my mother there never was any love. When I returned
to Sambir I found the place which I thought would be a peaceful refuge for my
heart, filled with weariness and hatred - and mutual contempt. I have listened
to your voice and to her voice. Then I saw that you could not understand me; for
was I not part of that woman? Of her who was the regret and shame of your life?
I had to choose - I hesitated. Why were you so blind? Did you not see me
struggling before your eyes? But, when he came, all doubt disappeared, and I saw
only the light of the blue and cloudless heaven -«
    »I will tell you the rest,« interrupted Almayer: »when that man came I also
saw the blue and the sunshine of the sky. A thunderbolt has fallen from that
sky, and suddenly all is still and dark around me for ever. I will never forgive
you, Nina; and tomorrow I shall forget you! I shall never forgive you,« he
repeated with mechanical obstinacy while she sat, her head bowed down as if
afraid to look at her father.
    To him it seemed of the utmost importance that he should assure her of his
intention of never forgiving. He was convinced that his faith in her had been
the foundation of his hopes, the motive of his courage, of his determination to
live and struggle, and to be victorious for her sake. And now his faith was
gone, destroyed by her own hands; destroyed cruelly, treacherously, in the dark;
in the very moment of success. In the utter wreck of his affections and of all
his feelings, in the chaotic disorder of his thoughts, above the confused
sensation of physical pain that wrapped him up in a sting as of a whiplash
curling round him from his shoulders down to his feet, only one idea remained
clear and definite - not to forgive her; only one vivid desire - to forget her.
And this must be made clear to her - and to himself - by frequent repetition.
That was his idea of his duty to himself - to his race - to his respectable
connections; to the whole universe unsettled and shaken by this frightful
catastrophe of his life. He saw it clearly and believed he was a strong man. He
had always prided himself upon his unflinching firmness. And yet he was afraid.
She had been all in all to him. What if he should let the memory of his love for
her weaken the sense of his dignity? She was a remarkable woman; he could see
that; all the latent greatness of his nature - in which he honestly believed -
had been transfused into that slight, girlish figure. Great things could be
done! What if he should suddenly take her to his heart, forget his shame, and
pain, and anger, and - follow her! What if he changed his heart if not his skin
and made her life easier between the two loves that would guard her from any
mischance! His heart yearned for her. What if he should say that his love for
her was greater than ...
    »I will never forgive you, Nina!« he shouted, leaping up madly in the sudden
fear of his dream.
    This was the last time in his life that he was heard to raise his voice.
Henceforth he spoke always in a monotonous whisper like an instrument of which
all the strings but one are broken in a last ringing clamour under a heavy blow.
    She rose to her feet and looked at him. The very violence of his cry soothed
her in an intuitive conviction of his love, and she hugged to her breast the
lamentable remnants of that affection with the unscrupulous greediness of women
who cling desperately to the very scraps and rags of love, any kind of love, as
a thing that of right belongs to them and is the very breath of their life. She
put both her hands on Almayer's shoulders, and looking at him half tenderly,
half playfully, she said -
    »You speak so because you love me.«
    Almayer shook his head.
    »Yes, you do,« she insisted softly; then after a short pause she added, »and
you will never forget me.«
    Almayer shivered slightly. She could not have said a more cruel thing.
    »Here is the boat coming now,« said Dain, his arm outstretched towards a
black speck on the water between the coast and the islet.
    They all looked at it and remained standing in silence till the little canoe
came gently on the beach and a man landed and walked towards them. He stopped
some distance off and hesitated.
    »What news?« asked Dain.
    »We have had orders secretly and in the night to take off from this islet a
man and a woman. I see the woman. Which of you is the man?«
    »Come, delight of my eyes,« said Dain to Nina. »Now we go, and your voice
shall be for my ears only. You have spoken your last words to the Tuan Putih,
your father. Come.«
    She hesitated for a while, looking at Almayer, who kept his eyes steadily on
the sea, then she touched his forehead in a lingering kiss, and a tear - one of
her tears - fell on his cheek and ran down his immovable face.
    »Good-bye,« she whispered, and remained irresolute till he pushed her
suddenly into Dain's arms.
    »If you have any pity for me,« murmured Almayer, as if repeating some
sentence learned by heart, »take that woman away.«
    He stood very straight, his shoulders thrown back, his head held high, and
looked at them as they went down the beach to the canoe, walking enlaced in each
other's arms. He looked at the line of their footsteps marked in the sand. He
followed their figures moving in the crude blaze of the vertical sun, in that
light violent and vibrating, like a triumphal flourish of brazen trumpets. He
looked at the man's brown shoulders, at the red sarong round his waist; at the
tall, slender, dazzling white figure he supported. He looked at the white dress,
at the falling masses of the long black hair. He looked at them embarking, and
at the canoe growing smaller in the distance, with rage, despair, and regret in
his heart, and on his face a peace as that of a carved image of oblivion.
Inwardly he felt himself torn to pieces, but Ali who - now aroused - stood close
to his master, saw on his features the blank expression of those who live in
that hopeless calm which sightless eyes only can give.
    The canoe disappeared, and Almayer stood motionless with his eyes fixed on
its wake. Ali from under the shade of his hand examined the coast curiously. As
the sun declined, the sea-breeze sprang up from the northward and shivered with
its breath the glassy surface of the water.
    »Dapat!« exclaimed Ali, joyously. »Got him, master! Got prau! Not there!
Look more Tanah Mirrah side. Aha! That way! Master, see? Now plain. See?«
    Almayer followed Ali's forefinger with his eyes for a long time in vain. At
last he sighted a triangular patch of yellow light on the red background of the
cliffs of Tanjong Mirrah. It was the sail of the prau that had caught the
sunlight and stood out, distinct with its gay tint, on the dark red of the cape.
The yellow triangle crept slowly from cliff to cliff, till it cleared the last
point of land and shone brilliantly for a fleeting minute on the blue of the
open sea. Then the prau bore up to the southward: the light went out of the
sail, and all at once the vessel itself disappeared, vanishing in the shadow of
the steep headland that looked on, patient and lonely, watching over the empty
sea.
    Almayer never moved. Round the little islet the air was full of the talk of
the rippling water. The crested wavelets ran up the beach audaciously, joyously,
with the lightness of young life, and died quickly, unresistingly, and
graciously, in the wide curves of transparent foam on the yellow sand. Above the
white clouds sailed rapidly southwards as if intent upon overtaking something.
Ali seemed anxious.
    »Master,« he said timidly, »time to get house now. Long way off to pull. All
ready, sir.«
    »Wait,« whispered Almayer.
    Now she was gone his business was to forget, and he had a strange notion
that it should be done systematically and in order. To Ali's great dismay he
fell on his hands and knees, and, creeping along the sand, erased carefully with
his hand all traces of Nina's footsteps. He piled up small heaps of sand,
leaving behind him a line of miniature graves right down to the water. After
burying the last slight imprint of Nina's slipper he stood up, and, turning his
face towards the headland where he had last seen the prau, he made an effort to
shout out loud again his firm resolve to never forgive. Ali watching him
uneasily saw only his lips move, but heard no sound. He brought his foot down
with a stamp. He was a firm man - firm as a rock. Let her go. He never had a
daughter. He would forget. He was forgetting already.
    Ali approached him again, insisting on immediate departure, and this time he
consented, and they went together towards their canoe, Almayer leading. For all
his firmness he looked very dejected and feeble as he dragged his feet slowly
through the sand on the beach; and by his side - invisible to Ali - stalked that
particular fiend whose mission it is to jog the memories of men, lest they
should forget the meaning of life. He whispered into Almayer's ear a childish
prattle of many years ago. Almayer, his head bent on one side, seemed to listen
to his invisible companion, but his face was like the face of a man that has
died struck from behind - a face from which all feelings and all expression are
suddenly wiped off by the hand of unexpected death.
 
They slept on the river that night, mooring their canoe under the bushes and
lying down in the bottom side by side, in the absolute exhaustion that kills
hunger, thirst, all feeling and all thought in the overpowering desire for that
deep sleep which is like the temporary annihilation of the tired body. Next day
they started again and fought doggedly with the current all the morning, till
about midday they reached the settlement and made fast their little craft to the
jetty of Lingard and Co. Almayer walked straight to the house, and Ali followed,
paddles on shoulder, thinking that he would like to eat something. As they
crossed the front courtyard they noticed the abandoned look of the place. Ali
looked in at the different servants houses: all were empty. In the back
courtyard there was the same absence of sound and life. In the cooking-shed the
fire was out and the black embers were cold. A tall, lean man came stealthily
out of the banana plantation, and went away rapidly across the open space
looking at them with big, frightened eyes over his shoulder. Some vagabond
without a master; there were many such in the settlement, and they looked upon
Almayer as their patron. They prowled about his premises and picked their living
there, sure that nothing worse could befall them than a shower of curses when
they got in the way of the white man, whom they trusted and liked, and called a
fool amongst themselves. In the house, which Almayer entered through the back
verandah, the only living thing that met his eyes was his small monkey, which
hungry and unnoticed for the last two days, began to cry and complain in monkey
language as soon as it caught sight of the familiar face. Almayer soothed it
with a few words and ordered Ali to bring in some bananas, then while Ali was
gone to get them he stood in the doorway of the front verandah looking at the
chaos of overturned furniture. Finally he picked up the table and sat on it
while the monkey let itself down from the roof-stick by its chain and perched on
his shoulder. When the bananas came they had their breakfast together; both
hungry, both eating greedily and showering the skins round them recklessly, in
the trusting silence of perfect friendship. Ali went away, grumbling, to cook
some rice himself, for all the women about the house had disappeared; he did not
know where. Almayer did not seem to care, and, after he finished eating, he sat
on the table swinging his legs and staring at the river as if lost in thought.
    After some time he got up and went to the door of a room on the right of the
verandah. That was the office. The office of Lingard and Co. He very seldom went
in there. There was no business now, and he did not want an office. The door was
locked, and he stood biting his lower lip, trying to think of the place where
the key could be. Suddenly he remembered: in the women's room hung upon a nail.
He went over to the doorway where the red curtain hung down in motionless folds,
and hesitated for a moment before pushing it aside with his shoulder as if
breaking down some solid obstacle. A great square of sunshine entering through
the window lay on the floor. On the left he saw Mrs. Almayer's big wooden chest,
the lid thrown back, empty; near it the brass nails of Nina's European trunk
shone in the large initials N.A. on the cover. A few of Nina's dresses hung on
wooden pegs, stiffened in a look of offended dignity at their abandonment. He
remembered making the pegs himself and noticed that they were very good pegs.
Where was the key? He looked round and saw it near the door where he stood. It
was red with rust. He felt very much annoyed at that, and directly afterwards
wondered at his own feeling. What did it matter? There soon would be no key - no
door - nothing! He paused, key in hand, and asked himself whether he knew well
what he was about. He went out again on the verandah and stood by the table
thinking. The monkey jumped down, and, snatching a banana skin, absorbed itself
in picking it to shreds industriously.
    »Forget!« muttered Almayer, and that word started before him a sequence of
events, a detailed programme of things to do. He knew perfectly well what was to
be done now. First this, then that, and then forgetfulness would come easy. Very
easy. He had a fixed idea that if he should not forget before he died he would
have to remember to all eternity. Certain things had to be taken out of his
life, stamped out of sight, destroyed, forgotten. For a long time he stood in
deep thought, lost in the alarming possibilities of unconquerable memory, with
the fear of death and eternity before him. »Eternity!« he said aloud, and the
sound of that word recalled him out of his reverie. The monkey started, dropped
the skin, and grinned up at him amicably.
    He went towards the office door and with some difficulty managed to open it.
He entered in a cloud of dust that rose under his feet. Books open with torn
pages bestrewed the floor; other books lay about grimy and black, looking as if
they had never been opened. Account books. In those books he had intended to
keep day by day a record of his rising fortunes. Long time ago. A very long
time. For many years there had been no record to keep on the blue and red ruled
pages! In the middle of the room the big office desk, with one of its legs
broken, careened over like the hull of a stranded ship; most of the drawers had
fallen out, disclosing heaps of paper yellow with age and dirt. The revolving
office chair stood in its place, but he found the pivot set fast when he tried
to turn it. No matter. He desisted, and his eyes wandered slowly from object to
object. All those things had cost a lot of money at the time. The desk, the
paper, the torn books, and the broken shelves, all under a thick coat of dust.
The very dust and bones of a dead and gone business. He looked at all these
things, all that was left after so many years of work, of strife, of weariness,
of discouragement, conquered so many times. And all for what? He stood thinking
mournfully of his past life till he heard distinctly the clear voice of a child
speaking amongst all this wreck, ruin, and waste. He started with a great fear
in his heart, and feverishly began to rake in the papers scattered on the floor,
broke the chair into bits, splintered the drawers by banging them against the
desk, and made a big heap of all that rubbish in one corner of the room.
    He came out quickly, slammed the door after him, turned the key, and, taking
it out, ran to the front rail of the verandah, and, with a great swing of his
arm, sent the key whizzing into the river. This done he went back slowly to the
table, called the monkey down, unhooked its chain, and induced it to remain
quiet in the breast of his jacket. Then he sat again on the table and looked
fixedly at the door of the room he had just left. He listened also intently. He
heard a dry sound of rustling sharp cracks as of dry wood snapping; a whirr like
that of a bird's wings when it rises suddenly, and then he saw a thin stream of
smoke come through the keyhole. The monkey struggled under his coat. Ali
appeared with his eyes starting out of his head.
    »Master! House burn!« he shouted.
    Almayer stood up holding by the table. He could hear the yells of alarm and
surprise in the settlement. Ali wrung his hands, lamenting aloud.
    »Stop this noise, fool!« said Almayer, quietly. »Pick up my hammock and
blankets and take them to the other house. Quick, now!«
    The smoke burst through the crevices of the door, and Ali, with the hammock
in his arms, cleared in one bound the steps of the verandah.
    »It has caught well,« muttered Almayer to himself. »Be quiet, Jack,« he
added, as the monkey made a frantic effort to escape from its confinement.
    The door split from top to bottom, and a rush of flame and smoke drove
Almayer away from the table to the front rail of the verandah. He held on there
till a great roar overhead assured him that the roof was ablaze. Then he ran
down the steps of the verandah, coughing, half choked with the smoke that
pursued him in bluish wreaths curling about his head.
    On the other side of the ditch, separating Almayer's courtyard from the
settlement, a crowd of the inhabitants of Sambir looked at the burning house of
the white man. In the calm air the flames rushed up on high, coloured pale
brick-red, with violet gleams in the strong sunshine. The thin column of smoke
ascended straight and unwavering till it lost itself in the clear blue of the
sky, and in the great empty space between the two houses the interested
spectators could see the tall figure of the Tuan Putih, with bowed head and
dragging feet, walking slowly away from the fire towards the shelter of
Almayer's Folly.
    In that manner did Almayer move into his new house. He took possession of
the new ruin, and in the undying folly of his heart set himself to wait in
anxiety and pain for that forgetfulness which was so slow to come. He had done
all he could. Every vestige of Nina's existence had been destroyed; and now with
every sunrise he asked himself whether the longed-for oblivion would come before
sunset, whether it would come before he died? He wanted to live only long enough
to be able to forget, and the tenacity of his memory filled him with dread and
horror of death; for should it come before he could accomplish the purpose of
his life he would have to remember for ever! He also longed for loneliness. He
wanted to be alone. But he was not. In the dim light of the rooms with their
closed shutters, in the bright sunshine of the verandah, wherever he went,
whichever way he turned, he saw the small figure of a little maiden with pretty
olive face, with long black hair, her little pink robe slipping off her
shoulders, her big eyes looking up at him in the tender trustfulness of a petted
child. Ali did not see anything, but he also was aware of the presence of a
child in the house. In his long talks by the evening fires of the settlement he
used to tell his intimate friends of Almayer's strange doings. His master had
turned sorcerer in his old age. Ali said that often when Tuan Putih had retired
for the night he could hear him talking to something in his room. Ali thought
that it was a spirit in the shape of a child. He knew his master spoke to a
child from certain expressions and words his master used. His master spoke in
Malay a little, but mostly in English, which he, Ali, could understand. Master
spoke to the child at times tenderly, then he would weep over it, laugh at it,
scold it, beg of it to go away; curse it. It was a bad and stubborn spirit. Ali
thought his master had imprudently called it up, and now could not get rid of
it. His master was very brave; he was not afraid to curse this spirit in the
very Presence; and once he fought with it. Ali had heard a great noise as of
running about inside the room and groans. His master groaned. Spirits do not
groan. His master was brave, but foolish. You cannot hurt a spirit. Ali expected
to find his master dead next morning, but he came out very early, looking much
older than the day before, and had no food all day.
    So far Ali to the settlement. To Captain Ford he was much more
communicative, for the good reason that Captain Ford had the purse and gave
orders. On each of Ford's monthly visits to Sambir Ali had to go on board with a
report about the inhabitant of Almayer's Folly. On his first visit to Sambir,
after Nina's departure, Ford had taken charge of Almayer's affairs. They were
not cumbersome. The shed for the storage of goods was empty, the boats had
disappeared, appropriated - generally in night-time - by various citizens of
Sambir in need of means of transport. During a great flood the jetty of Lingard
and Co. left the bank and floated down the river, probably in search of more
cheerful surroundings; even the flock of geese - the only geese on the east
coast - departed somewhere, preferring the unknown dangers of the bush to the
desolation of their old home. As time went on the grass grew over the black
patch of ground where the old house used to stand, and nothing remained to mark
the place of the dwelling that had sheltered Almayer's young hopes, his foolish
dream of splendid future, his awakening, and his despair.
    Ford did not often visit Almayer, for visiting Almayer was not a pleasant
task. At first he used to respond listlessly to the old seaman's boisterous
inquiries about his health; he even made efforts to talk, asking for news in a
voice that made it perfectly clear that no news from this world had any interest
for him. Then gradually he became more silent - not sulkily - but as if he was
forgetting how to speak. He used also to hide in the darkest rooms of the house
where Ford had to seek him out guided by the patter of the monkey galloping
before him. The monkey was always there to receive and introduce Ford. The
little animal seemed to have taken complete charge of its master, and whenever
it wished for his presence on the verandah it would tug perseveringly at his
jacket, till Almayer obediently came out into the sunshine, which he seemed to
dislike so much.
    One morning Ford found him sitting on the floor of the verandah, his back
against the wall, his legs stretched stiffly out, his arms hanging by his side.
His expressionless face, his eyes open wide with immobile pupils, and the
rigidity of his pose, made him look like an immense man-doll broken and flung
there out of the way. As Ford came up the steps he turned his head slowly.
    »Ford,« he murmured from the floor, »I cannot forget.«
    »Can't you?« said Ford, innocently, with an attempt at joviality: »I wish I
was like you. I am losing my memory - age, I suppose; only the other day my mate
-«
    He stopped, for Almayer had got up, stumbled, and steadied himself on his
friend's arm.
    »Hallo! You are better to-day. Soon be all right,« said Ford, cheerfully,
but feeling rather scared.
    Almayer let go his arm and stood very straight with his head up and
shoulders thrown back, looking stonily at the multitude of suns shining in
ripples of the river. His jacket and his loose trousers flapped in the breeze on
his thin limbs.
    »Let her go!« he whispered in a grating voice. »Let her go. To-morrow I
shall forget. I am a firm man, ... firm as a ... rock, ... firm ....«
    Ford looked at his face - and fled. The skipper was a tolerably firm man
himself - as those who had sailed with him could testify - but Almayer's
firmness was altogether too much for his fortitude.
    Next time the steamer called in Sambir Ali came on board early with a
grievance. He complained to Ford that Jim-Eng the Chinaman had invaded Almayer's
house, and actually had lived there for the last month.
    »And they both smoke,« added Ali.
    »Phew! Opium, you mean?«
    Ali nodded, and Ford remained thoughtful; then he muttered to himself, »Poor
devil! The sooner the better now.« In the afternoon he walked up to the house.
    »What are you doing here?« he asked of Jim-Eng, whom he found strolling
about on the verandah.
    Jim-Eng explained in bad Malay, and speaking in that monotonous,
uninterested voice of an opium smoker pretty far gone, that his house was old,
the roof leaked, and the floor was rotten. So, being an old friend for many,
many years, he took his money, his opium, and two pipes, and came to live in
this big house.
    »There is plenty of room. He smokes, and I live here. He will not smoke
long,« he concluded.
    »Where is he now?« asked Ford.
    »Inside. He sleeps,« answered Jim-Eng, wearily.
    Ford glanced in through the doorway. In the dim light of the room he could
see Almayer lying on his back on the floor, his head on a wooden pillow, the
long white beard scattered over his breast, the yellow skin of the face, the
half-closed eyelids showing the whites of the eye only ....
    He shuddered and turned away. As he was leaving he noticed a long strip of
faded red silk, with some Chinese letters on it, which Jim-Eng had just fastened
to one of the pillars.
    »What's that?« he asked.
    »That,« said Jim-Eng, in his colourless voice, »that is the name of the
house. All the same like my house. Very good name.«
    Ford looked at him for awhile and went away. He did not know what the
crazy-looking maze of the Chinese inscription on the red silk meant. Had he
asked Jim-Eng, that patient Chinaman would have informed him with proper pride
that its meaning was: »House of heavenly delight.«
    In the evening of the same day Babalatchi called on Captain Ford. The
captain's cabin opened on deck, and Babalatchi sat astride on the high step,
while Ford smoked his pipe on the settee inside. The steamer was leaving next
morning, and the old statesman came as usual for a last chat.
    »We had news from Bali last moon,« remarked Babalatchi. »A grandson is born
to the old Rajah, and there is great rejoicing.«
    Ford sat up interested.
    »Yes,« went on Babalatchi, in answer to Ford's look. »I told him. That was
before he began to smoke.«
    »Well, and what?« asked Ford.
    »I escaped with my life,« said Babalatchi, with perfect gravity, »because
the white man is very weak and fell as he rushed upon me.« Then, after a pause,
he added, »She is mad with joy.«
    »Mrs. Almayer, you mean?«
    »Yes, she lives in our Rajah's house. She will not die soon. Such women live
a long time,« said Babalatchi, with a slight tinge of regret in his voice. »She
has dollars, and she has buried them, but we know where. We had much trouble
with those people. We had to pay a fine and listen to threats from the white
men, and now we have to be careful.« He sighed and remained silent for a long
while. Then with energy:
    »There will be fighting. There is a breath of war on the islands. Shall I
live long enough to see? ... Ah, Tuan!« he went on, more quietly, »the old times
were best. Even I have sailed with Lanun men, and boarded in the night silent
ships with white sails. That was before an English Rajah ruled in Kuching. Then
we fought amongst ourselves and were happy. Now when we fight with you we can
only die!«
    He rose to go. »Tuan,« he said, »you remember the girl that man Bulangi had?
Her that caused all the trouble?«
    »Yes,« said Ford. »What of her?«
    »She grew thin and could not work. Then Bulangi, who is a thief and a
pig-eater, gave her to me for fifty dollars. I sent her amongst my women to grow
fat. I wanted to hear the sound of her laughter, but she must have been
bewitched, and ... she died two days ago. Nay, Tuan. Why do you speak bad words?
I am old - that is true - but why should I not like the sight of a young face
and the sound of a young voice in my house?« He paused, and then added with a
little mournful laugh, »I am like a white man talking too much of what is not
men's talk when they speak to one another.«
    And he went off looking very sad.
 
The crowd massed in a semicircle before the steps of Almayer's Folly, swayed
silently backwards and forwards, and opened out before the group of white-robed
and turbaned men advancing through the grass towards the house. Abdulla walked
first, supported by Reshid and followed by all the Arabs in Sambir. As they
entered the lane made by the respectful throng there was a subdued murmur of
voices, where the word »Mati« was the only one distinctly audible. Abdulla
stopped and looked round slowly.
    »Is he dead?« he asked.
    »May you live!« answered the crowd in one shout, and then there succeeded a
breathless silence.
    Abdulla made a few paces forward and found himself for the last time face to
face with his old enemy. Whatever he might have been once he was not dangerous
now, lying stiff and lifeless in the tender light of the early day. The only
white man on the east coast was dead, and his soul, delivered from the trammels
of his earthly folly, stood now in the presence of Infinite Wisdom. On the
upturned face there was that serene look which follows the sudden relief from
anguish and pain, and it testified silently before the cloudless heaven that the
man lying there under the gaze of indifferent eyes had been permitted to forget
before he died.
    Abdulla looked down sadly at this Infidel he had fought so long and had
bested so many times. Such was the reward of the Faithful! Yet in the Arab's old
heart there was a feeling of regret for that thing gone out of his life. He was
leaving fast behind him friendships, and enmities, successes, and
disappointments - all that makes up a life; and before him was only the end.
Prayer would fill up the remainder of the days allotted to the True Believer! He
took in his hand the beads that hung at his waist.
    »I found him here, like this, in the morning,« said Ali, in a low and awed
voice.
    Abdulla glanced coldly once more at the serene face.
    »Let us go,« he said, addressing Reshid.
    And as they passed through the crowd that fell back before them, the beads
in Abdulla's hand clicked, while in a solemn whisper he breathed out piously the
name of Allah! The Merciful! The Compassionate!
 
                                    The End
