"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 eyelashes. 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?" said 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 to-morrow 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.
"Goodbye," 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
has 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 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!