CHAPTER ONE
The light and heat fell upon the settlement,the clearings,and the river as if flung down by an angry hand.The land lay silent,still,and brilliant under the avalanche of burning rays that had destroyed all sound and all motion,had buried all shadows,had choked every breath.No living thing dared to affront the serenity of this cloudless sky,dared to revolt against the oppression of this glorious and cruel sunshine.
Strength and resolution,body and mind alike were helpless,and tried to hide before the rush of the fire from heaven.Only the frail butterflies,the fearless children of the sun,the capricious tyrants of the flowers,fluttered audaciously in the open,and their minute shadows hovered in swarms over the drooping blossoms,ran lightly on the withering grass,or glided on the dry and cracked earth.No voice was heard in this hot noontide but the faint murmur of the river that hurried on in swirls and eddies,its sparkling wavelets chasing each other in their joyous course to the sheltering depths,to the cool refuge of the sea.
Almayer had dismissed his workmen for the midday rest,and,his little daughter on his shoulder,ran quickly across the courtyard,making for the shade of the verandah of his house.He laid the sleepy child on the seat of the big rocking-chair,on a pillow which he took out of his own hammock,and stood for a while looking down at her with tender and pensive eyes.The child,tired and hot,moved uneasily,sighed,and looked up at him with the veiled look of sleepy fatigue.He picked up from the floor a broken palm-leaf fan,and began fanning gently the flushed little face.Her eyelids fluttered and Almayer smiled.
A responsive smile brightened for a second her heavy eyes,broke with a dimple the soft outline of her cheek;then the eyelids dropped suddenly,she drew a long breath through the parted lips--and was in a deep sleep before the fleeting smile could vanish from her face.
Almayer moved lightly off,took one of the wooden armchairs,and placing it close to the balustrade of the verandah sat down with a sigh of relief.He spread his elbows on the top rail and resting his chin on his clasped hands looked absently at the river,at the dance of sunlight on the flowing water.Gradually the forest of the further bank became smaller,as if sinking below the level of the river.The outlines wavered,grew thin,dissolved in the air.Before his eyes there was now only a space of undulating blue--one big,empty sky growing dark at times...
Where was the sunshine?...He felt soothed and happy,as if some gentle and invisible hand had removed from his soul the burden of his body.In another second he seemed to float out into a cool brightness where there was no such thing as memory or pain.Delicious.His eyes closed--opened--closed again.
"Almayer!"
With a sudden jerk of his whole body he sat up,grasping the front rail with both his hands,and blinked stupidly.
"What?What's that?"he muttered,looking round vaguely.
"Here!Down here,Almayer."
Half rising in his chair,Almayer looked over the rail at the foot of the verandah,and fell back with a low whistle of astonishment.
"A ghost,by heavens!"he exclaimed softly to himself.
"Will you listen to me?"went on the husky voice from the courtyard."May I come up,Almayer?"Almayer stood up and leaned over the rail."Don't you dare,"he said,in a voice subdued but distinct."Don't you dare!The child sleeps here.And I don't want to hear you--or speak to you either.""You must listen to me!It's something important.""Not to me,surely."
"Yes!To you.Very important."
"You were always a humbug,"said Almayer,after a short silence,in an indulgent tone."Always!I remember the old days.Some fellows used to say there was no one like you for smartness--but you never took me in.Not quite.I never quite believed in you,Mr.Willems.""I admit your superior intelligence,"retorted Willems,with scornful impatience,from below."Listening to me would be a further proof of it.You will be sorry if you don't.""Oh,you funny fellow!"said Almayer,banteringly."Well,come up.Don't make a noise,but come up.You'll catch a sunstroke down there and die on my doorstep perhaps.I don't want any tragedy here.Come on!"Before he finished speaking Willems'head appeared above the level of the floor,then his shoulders rose gradually and he stood at last before Almayer--a masquerading spectre of the once so very confidential clerk of the richest merchant in the islands.His jacket was soiled and torn;below the waist he was clothed in a worn-out and faded sarong.He flung off his hat,uncovering his long,tangled hair that stuck in wisps on his perspiring forehead and straggled over his eyes,which glittered deep down in the sockets like the last sparks amongst the black embers of a burnt-out fire.An unclean beard grew out of the caverns of his sunburnt cheeks.The hand he put out towards Almayer was very unsteady.The once firm mouth had the tell-tale droop of mental suffering and physical exhaustion.He was barefooted.Almayer surveyed him with leisurely composure.
"Well!"he said at last,without taking the extended hand which dropped slowly along Willems'body.
"I am come,"began Willems.
"So I see,"interrupted Almayer."You might have spared me this treat without making me unhappy.You have been away five weeks,if I am not mistaken.I got on very well without you--and now you are here you are not pretty to look at.""Let me speak,will you!"exclaimed Willems.
"Don't shout like this.Do you think yourself in the forest with your...your friends?This is a civilized man's house.Awhite man's.Understand?"
"I am come,"began Willems again;"I am come for your good and mine.""You look as if you had come for a good feed,"chimed in the irrepressible Almayer,while Willems waved his hand in a discouraged gesture."Don't they give you enough to eat,"went on Almayer,in a tone of easy banter,"those--what am I to call them--those new relations of yours?That old blind scoundrel must be delighted with your company.You know,he was the greatest thief and murderer of those seas.Say!do you exchange confidences?Tell me,Willems,did you kill somebody in Macassar or did you only steal something?""It is not true!"exclaimed Willems,hotly."I only borrowed..
They all lied!I..."
"Sh-sh!"hissed Almayer,warningly,with a look at the sleeping child."So you did steal,"he went on,with repressed exultation."I thought there was something of the kind.And now,here,you steal again."For the first time Willems raised his eyes to Almayer's face.
"Oh,I don't mean from me.I haven't missed anything,"said Almayer,with mocking haste."But that girl.Hey!You stole her.You did not pay the old fellow.She is no good to him now,is she?""Stop that.Almayer!"
Something in Willems'tone caused Almayer to pause.He looked narrowly at the man before him,and could not help being shocked at his appearance.
"Almayer,"went on Willems,"listen to me.If you are a human being you will.I suffer horribly--and for your sake."Almayer lifted his eyebrows."Indeed!How?But you are raving,"he added,negligently.
"Ah!You don't know,"whispered Willems."She is gone.Gone,"he repeated,with tears in his voice,"gone two days ago.""No!"exclaimed the surprised Almayer."Gone!I haven't heard that news yet."He burst into a subdued laugh."How funny!Had enough of you already?You know it's not flattering for you,my superior countryman."Willems--as if not hearing him--leaned against one of the columns of the roof and looked over the river."At first,"he whispered,dreamily,"my life was like a vision of heaven--or hell;I didn't know which.Since she went I know what perdition means;what darkness is.I know what it is to be torn to pieces alive.
That's how I feel."
"You may come and live with me again,"said Almayer,coldly.
"After all,Lingard--whom I call my father and respect as such--left you under my care.You pleased yourself by going away.Very good.Now you want to come back.Be it so.I am no friend of yours.I act for Captain Lingard.""Come back?"repeated Willems,passionately."Come back to you and abandon her?Do you think I am mad?Without her!Man!what are you made of?To think that she moves,lives,breathes out of my sight.I am jealous of the wind that fans her,of the air she breathes,of the earth that receives the caress of her foot,of the sun that looks at her now while I...I haven't seen her for two days--two days."The intensity of Willems'feeling moved Almayer somewhat,but he affected to yawn elaborately "You do bore me,"he muttered."Why don't you go after her instead of coming here?""Why indeed?"
"Don't you know where she is?She can't be very far.No native craft has left this river for the last fortnight.""No!not very far--and I will tell you where she is.She is in Lakamba's campong."And Willems fixed his eyes steadily on Almayer's face.
"Phew!Patalolo never sent to let me know.Strange,"said Almayer,thoughtfully."Are you afraid of that lot?"he added,after a short pause.
"I--afraid!"
"Then is it the care of your dignity which prevents you from following her there,my high-minded friend?"asked Almayer,with mock solicitude."How noble of you!"There was a short silence;then Willems said,quietly,"You are a fool.I should like to kick you.""No fear,"answered Almayer,carelessly;"you are too weak for that.You look starved.""I don't think I have eaten anything for the last two days;perhaps more--I don't remember.It does not matter.I am full of live embers,"said Willems,gloomily."Look!"and he bared an arm covered with fresh scars."I have been biting myself to forget in that pain the fire that hurts me there!"He struck his breast violently with his fist,reeled under his own blow,fell into a chair that stood near and closed his eyes slowly.
"Disgusting exhibition,"said Almayer,loftily."What could father ever see in you?You are as estimable as a heap of garbage.""You talk like that!You,who sold your soul for a few guilders,"muttered Willems,wearily,without opening his eyes.
"Not so few,"said Almayer,with instinctive readiness,and stopped confused for a moment.He recovered himself quickly,however,and went on:"But you--you have thrown yours away for nothing;flung it under the feet of a damned savage woman who has made you already the thing you are,and will kill you very soon,one way or another,with her love or with her hate.You spoke just now about guilders.You meant Lingard's money,I suppose.
Well,whatever I have sold,and for whatever price,I never meant you--you of all people--to spoil my bargain.I feel pretty safe though.Even father,even Captain Lingard,would not touch you now with a pair of tongs;not with a ten-foot pole..."He spoke excitedly,all in one breath,and,ceasing suddenly,glared at Willems and breathed hard through his nose in sulky resentment.Willems looked at him steadily for a moment,then got up.
"Almayer,"he said resolutely,"I want to become a trader in this place."Almayer shrugged his shoulders.
"Yes.And you shall set me up.I want a house and trade goods--perhaps a little money.I ask you for it.""Anything else you want?Perhaps this coat?"and here Almayer unbuttoned his jacket--"or my house--or my boots?""After all it's natural,"went on Willems,without paying any attention to Almayer--"it's natural that she should expect the advantages which...and then I could shut up that old wretch and then..."He paused,his face brightened with the soft light of dreamy enthusiasm,and he turned his eyes upwards.With his gaunt figure and dilapidated appearance he looked like some ascetic dweller in a wilderness,finding the reward of a self-denying life in a vision of dazzling glory.He went on in an impassioned murmur--"And then I would have her all to myself away from her people--all to myself--under my own influence--to fashion--to mould--to adore--to soften--to...Oh!Delight!And then--then go away to some distant place where,far from all she knew,I would be all the world to her!All the world to her!"His face changed suddenly.His eyes wandered for awhile and then became steady all at once.
"I would repay every cent,of course,"he said,in a business-like tone,with something of his old assurance,of his old belief in himself,in it."Every cent.I need not interfere with your business.I shall cut out the small native traders.Ihave ideas--but never mind that now.And Captain Lingard would approve,I feel sure.After all it's a loan,and I shall be at hand.Safe thing for you.""Ah!Captain Lingard would approve!He would app..."Almayer choked.The notion of Lingard doing something for Willems enraged him.His face was purple.He spluttered insulting words.Willems looked at him coolly.
"I assure you,Almayer,"he said,gently,"that I have good grounds for my demand.""Your cursed impudence!"
"Believe me,Almayer,your position here is not so safe as you may think.An unscrupulous rival here would destroy your trade in a year.It would be ruin.Now Lingard's long absence gives courage to certain individuals.You know?--I have heard much lately.They made proposals to me...You are very much alone here.Even Patalolo...""Damn Patalolo!I am master in this place.""But,Almayer,don't you see..."
"Yes,I see.I see a mysterious ass,"interrupted Almayer,violently."What is the meaning of your veiled threats?Don't you think I know something also?They have been intriguing for years--and nothing has happened.The Arabs have been hanging about outside this river for years--and I am still the only trader here;the master here.Do you bring me a declaration of war?Then it's from yourself only.I know all my other enemies.
I ought to knock you on the head.You are not worth powder and shot though.You ought to be destroyed with a stick--like a snake."Almayer's voice woke up the little girl,who sat up on the pillow with a sharp cry.He rushed over to the chair,caught up the child in his arms,walked back blindly,stumbled against Willems'
hat which lay on the floor,and kicked it furiously down the steps.
"Clear out of this!Clear out!"he shouted.
Willems made an attempt to speak,but Almayer howled him down.
"Take yourself off!Don't you see you frighten the child--you scarecrow!No,no!dear,"he went on to his little daughter,soothingly,while Willems walked down the steps slowly."No.
Don't cry.See!Bad man going away.Look!He is afraid of your papa.Nasty,bad man.Never come back again.He shall live in the woods and never come near my little girl.If he comes papa will kill him--so!"He struck his fist on the rail of the balustrade to show how he would kill Willems,and,perching the consoled child on his shoulder held her with one hand,while he pointed toward the retreating figure of his visitor.
"Look how he runs away,dearest,"he said,coaxingly."Isn't he funny.Call 'pig'after him,dearest.Call after him."The seriousness of her face vanished into dimples.Under the long eyelashes,glistening with recent tears,her big eyes sparkled and danced with fun.She took firm hold of Almayer's hair with one hand,while she waved the other joyously and called out with all her might,in a clear note,soft and distinct like the pipe of a bird:--"Pig!Pig!Pig!"
CHAPTER TWO
A sigh under the flaming blue,a shiver of the sleeping sea,a cool breath as if a door had been swung upon the frozen spaces of the universe,and with a stir of leaves,with the nod of boughs,with the tremble of slender branches the sea breeze struck the coast,rushed up the river,swept round the broad reaches,and travelled on in a soft ripple of darkening water,in the whisper of branches,in the rustle of leaves of the awakened forests.It fanned in Lakamba's campong the dull red of expiring embers into a pale brilliance;and,under its touch,the slender,upright spirals of smoke that rose from every glowing heap swayed,wavered,and eddying down filled the twilight of clustered shade trees with the aromatic scent of the burning wood.The men who had been dozing in the shade during the hot hours of the afternoon woke up,and the silence of the big courtyard was broken by the hesitating murmur of yet sleepy voices,by coughs and yawns,with now and then a burst of laughter,a loud hail,a name or a joke sent out in a soft drawl.Small groups squatted round the little fires,and the monotonous undertone of talk filled the enclosure;the talk of barbarians,persistent,steady,repeating itself in the soft syllables,in musical tones of the never-ending discourses of those men of the forests and the sea,who can talk most of the day and all the night;who never exhaust a subject,never seem able to thresh a matter out;to whom that talk is poetry and painting and music,all art,all history;their only accomplishment,their only superiority,their only amusement.The talk of camp fires,which speaks of bravery and cunning,of strange events and of far countries,of the news of yesterday and the news of to-morrow.The talk about the dead and the living--about those who fought and those who loved.
Lakamba came out on the platform before his own house and sat down--perspiring,half asleep,and sulky--in a wooden armchair under the shade of the overhanging eaves.Through the darkness of the doorway he could hear the soft warbling of his womenkind,busy round the looms where they were weaving the checkered pattern of his gala sarongs.Right and left of him on the flexible bamboo floor those of his followers to whom their distinguished birth,long devotion,or faithful service had given the privilege of using the chief's house,were sleeping on mats or just sat up rubbing their eyes:while the more wakeful had mustered enough energy to draw a chessboard with red clay on a fine mat and were now meditating silently over their moves.
Above the prostrate forms of the players,who lay face downward supported on elbow,the soles of their feet waving irresolutely about,in the absorbed meditation of the game,there towered here and there the straight figure of an attentive spectator looking down with dispassionate but profound interest.On the edge of the platform a row of high-heeled leather sandals stood ranged carefully in a level line,and against the rough wooden rail leaned the slender shafts of the spears belonging to these gentlemen,the broad blades of dulled steel looking very black in the reddening light of approaching sunset.
A boy of about twelve--the personal attendant of Lakamba--squatted at his master's feet and held up towards him a silver siri box.Slowly Lakamba took the box,opened it,and tearing off a piece of green leaf deposited in it a pinch of lime,a morsel of gambier,a small bit of areca nut,and wrapped up the whole with a dexterous twist.He paused,morsel in hand,seemed to miss something,turned his head from side to side,slowly,like a man with a stiff neck,and ejaculated in an ill-humoured bass--"Babalatchi!"
The players glanced up quickly,and looked down again directly.
Those men who were standing stirred uneasily as if prodded by the sound of the chief's voice.The one nearest to Lakamba repeated the call,after a while,over the rail into the courtyard.There was a movement of upturned faces below by the fires,and the cry trailed over the enclosure in sing-song tones.The thumping of wooden pestles husking the evening rice stopped for a moment and Babalatchi's name rang afresh shrilly on women's lips in various keys.A voice far off shouted something--another,nearer,repeated it;there was a short hubbub which died out with extreme suddenness.The first crier turned to Lakamba,saying indolently--"He is with the blind Omar."
Lakamba's lips moved inaudibly.The man who had just spoken was again deeply absorbed in the game going on at his feet;and the chief--as if he had forgotten all about it already--sat with a stolid face amongst his silent followers,leaning back squarely in his chair,his hands on the arms of his seat,his knees apart,his big blood-shot eyes blinking solemnly,as if dazzled by the noble vacuity of his thoughts.
Babalatchi had gone to see old Omar late in the afternoon.The delicate manipulation of the ancient pirate's susceptibilities,the skilful management of Aissa's violent impulses engrossed him to the exclusion of every other business--interfered with his regular attendance upon his chief and protector--even disturbed his sleep for the last three nights.That day when he left his own bamboo hut--which stood amongst others in Lakamba's campong--his heart was heavy with anxiety and with doubt as to the success of his intrigue.He walked slowly,with his usual air of detachment from his surroundings,as if unaware that many sleepy eyes watched from all parts of the courtyard his progress towards a small gate at its upper end.That gate gave access to a separate enclosure in which a rather large house,built of planks,had been prepared by Lakamba's orders for the reception of Omar and Aissa.It was a superior kind of habitation which Lakamba intended for the dwelling of his chief adviser--whose abilities were worth that honour,he thought.But after the consultation in the deserted clearing--when Babalatchi had disclosed his plan--they both had agreed that the new house should be used at first to shelter Omar and Aissa after they had been persuaded to leave the Rajah's place,or had been kidnapped from there--as the case might be.Babalatchi did not mind in the least the putting off of his own occupation of the house of honour,because it had many advantages for the quiet working out of his plans.It had a certain seclusion,having an enclosure of its own,and that enclosure communicated also with Lakamba's private courtyard at the back of his residence--a place set apart for the female household of the chief.The only communication with the river was through the great front courtyard always full of armed men and watchful eyes.Behind the whole group of buildings there stretched the level ground of rice-clearings,which in their turn were closed in by the wall of untouched forests with undergrowth so thick and tangled that nothing but a bullet--and that fired at pretty close range--could penetrate any distance there.
Babalatchi slipped quietly through the little gate and,closing it,tied up carefully the rattan fastenings.Before the house there was a square space of ground,beaten hard into the level smoothness of asphalte.A big buttressed tree,a giant left there on purpose during the process of clearing the land,roofed in the clear space with a high canopy of gnarled boughs and thick,sombre leaves.To the right--and some small distance away from the large house--a little hut of reeds,covered with mats,had been put up for the special convenience of Omar,who,being blind and infirm,had some difficulty in ascending the steep plankway that led to the more substantial dwelling,which was built on low posts and had an uncovered verandah.Close by the trunk of the tree,and facing the doorway of the hut,the household fire glowed in a small handful of embers in the midst of a large circle of white ashes.An old woman--some humble relation of one of Lakamba's wives,who had been ordered to attend on Aissa--was squatting over the fire and lifted up her bleared eyes to gaze at Babalatchi in an uninterested manner,as he advanced rapidly across the courtyard.
Babalatchi took in the courtyard with a keen glance of his solitary eye,and without looking down at the old woman muttered a question.Silently,the woman stretched a tremulous and emaciated arm towards the hut.Babalatchi made a few steps towards the doorway,but stopped outside in the sunlight.
"O!Tuan Omar,Omar besar!It is I--Babalatchi!"Within the hut there was a feeble groan,a fit of coughing and an indistinct murmur in the broken tones of a vague plaint.
Encouraged evidently by those signs of dismal life within,Babalatchi entered the hut,and after some time came out leading with rigid carefulness the blind Omar,who followed with both his hands on his guide's shoulders.There was a rude seat under the tree,and there Babalatchi led his old chief,who sat down with a sigh of relief and leaned wearily against the rugged trunk.The rays of the setting sun,darting under the spreading branches,rested on the white-robed figure sitting with head thrown back in stiff dignity,on the thin hands moving uneasily,and on the stolid face with its eyelids dropped over the destroyed eyeballs;a face set into the immobility of a plaster cast yellowed by age.
"Is the sun near its setting?"asked Omar,in a dull voice.
"Very near,"answered Babalatchi.
"Where am I?Why have I been taken away from the place which Iknew--where I,blind,could move without fear?It is like black night to those who see.And the sun is near its setting--and Ihave not heard the sound of her footsteps since the morning!
Twice a strange hand has given me my food to-day.Why?Why?
Where is she?"
"She is near,"said Babalatchi.
"And he?"went on Omar,with sudden eagerness,and a drop in his voice."Where is he?Not here.Not here!"he repeated,turning his head from side to side as if in deliberate attempt to see.
"No!He is not here now,"said Babalatchi,soothingly.Then,after a pause,he added very low,"But he shall soon return.""Return!O crafty one!Will he return?I have cursed him three times,"exclaimed Omar,with weak violence.
"He is--no doubt--accursed,"assented Babalatchi,in a conciliating manner--"and yet he will be here before very long--Iknow!"
"You are crafty and faithless.I have made you great.You were dirt under my feet--less than dirt,"said Omar,with tremulous energy.
"I have fought by your side many times,"said Babalatchi,calmly.
"Why did he come?"went on Omar."Did you send him?Why did he come to defile the air I breathe--to mock at my fate--to poison her mind and steal her body?She has grown hard of heart to me.
