An Outcast of the Islands

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"Where's Abdulla?"

Babalatchi waved his hand towards the hut and stood listening intently.
The voices within had ceased, then recommenced again. He shot an oblique
glance at Willems, whose indistinct form towered above the glow of dying
embers.

"Make up this fire," said Willems, abruptly. "I want to see your face."

With obliging alacrity Babalatchi put some dry brushwood on the coals
from a handy pile, keeping all the time a watchful eye on Willems.
When he straightened himself up his hand wandered almost involuntarily
towards his left side to feel the handle of a kriss amongst the folds of
his sarong, but he tried to look unconcerned under the angry stare.

"You are in good health, please God?" he murmured.

"Yes!" answered Willems, with an unexpected loudness that caused
Babalatchi to start nervously. "Yes! . . . Health! . . . You . . ."

He made a long stride and dropped both his hands on the Malay's
shoulders. In the powerful grip Babalatchi swayed to and fro limply, but
his face was as peaceful as when he sat--a little while ago--dreaming by
the fire. With a final vicious jerk Willems let go suddenly, and turning
away on his heel stretched his hands over the fire. Babalatchi stumbled
backwards, recovered himself, and wriggled his shoulders laboriously.

"Tse! Tse! Tse!" he clicked, deprecatingly. After a short silence he
went on with accentuated admiration: "What a man it is! What a strong
man! A man like that"--he concluded, in a tone of meditative wonder--"a
man like that could upset mountains--mountains!"

He gazed hopefully for a while at Willems' broad shoulders, and
continued, addressing the inimical back, in a low and persuasive voice--

"But why be angry with me? With me who think only of your good? Did I
not give her refuge, in my own house? Yes, Tuan! This is my own house.
I will let you have it without any recompense because she must have a
shelter. Therefore you and she shall live here. Who can know a woman's
mind? And such a woman! If she wanted to go away from that other place,
who am I--to say no! I am Omar's servant. I said: 'Gladden my heart by
taking my house.' Did I say right?"

"I'll tell you something," said Willems, without changing his position;
"if she takes a fancy to go away from this place it is you who shall
suffer. I will wring your neck."

"When the heart is full of love there is no room in it for justice,"
recommenced Babalatchi, with unmoved and persistent softness. "Why slay
me? You know, Tuan, what she wants. A splendid destiny is her desire--as
of all women. You have been wronged and cast out by your people. She
knows that. But you are brave, you are strong--you are a man; and,
Tuan--I am older than you--you are in her hand. Such is the fate of
strong men. And she is of noble birth and cannot live like a slave. You
know her--and you are in her hand. You are like a snared bird, because
of your strength. And--remember I am a man that has seen much--submit,
Tuan! Submit! . . . Or else . . ."

He drawled out the last words in a hesitating manner and broke off his
sentence. Still stretching his hands in turns towards the blaze and
without moving his head, Willems gave a short, lugubrious laugh, and
asked--

"Or else what?"

"She may go away again. Who knows?" finished Babalatchi, in a gentle and
insinuating tone.

This time Willems spun round sharply. Babalatchi stepped back.

"If she does it will be the worse for you," said Willems, in a menacing
voice. "It will be your doing, and I . . ."

Babalatchi spoke, from beyond the circle of light, with calm disdain.

"Hai--ya! I have heard before. If she goes--then I die. Good! Will that
bring her back do you think--Tuan? If it is my doing it shall be well
done, O white man! and--who knows--you will have to live without her."

Willems gasped and started back like a confident wayfarer who, pursuing
a path he thinks safe, should see just in time a bottomless chasm
under his feet. Babalatchi came into the light and approached Willems
sideways, with his head thrown back and a little on one side so as to
bring his only eye to bear full on the countenance of the tall white
man.

"You threaten me," said Willems, indistinctly.

"I, Tuan!" exclaimed Babalatchi, with a slight suspicion of irony in the
affected surprise of his tone. "I, Tuan? Who spoke of death? Was it
I? No! I spoke of life only. Only of life. Of a long life for a lonely
man!"

They stood with the fire between them, both silent, both aware, each
in his own way, of the importance of the passing minutes. Babalatchi's
fatalism gave him only an insignificant relief in his suspense, because
no fatalism can kill the thought of the future, the desire of success,
the pain of waiting for the disclosure of the immutable decrees of
Heaven. Fatalism is born of the fear of failure, for we all believe that
we carry success in our own hands, and we suspect that our hands are
weak. Babalatchi looked at Willems and congratulated himself upon his
ability to manage that white man. There was a pilot for Abdulla--a
victim to appease Lingard's anger in case of any mishap. He would take
good care to put him forward in everything. In any case let the white
men fight it out amongst themselves. They were fools. He hated them--the
strong fools--and knew that for his righteous wisdom was reserved the
safe triumph.

Willems measured dismally the depth of his degradation. He--a white man,
the admired of white men, was held by those miserable savages whose tool
he was about to become. He felt for them all the hate of his race, of
his morality, of his intelligence. He looked upon himself with dismay
and pity. She had him. He had heard of such things. He had heard of
women who . . . He would never believe such stories. . . . Yet they
were true. But his own captivity seemed more complete, terrible, and
final--without the hope of any redemption. He wondered at the wickedness
of Providence that had made him what he was; that, worse still,
permitted such a creature as Almayer to live. He had done his duty by
going to him. Why did he not understand? All men were fools. He gave
him his chance. The fellow did not see it. It was hard, very hard on
himself--Willems. He wanted to take her from amongst her own people.
That's why he had condescended to go to Almayer. He examined himself.
With a sinking heart he thought that really he could not--somehow--live
without her. It was terrible and sweet. He remembered the first days.
Her appearance, her face, her smile, her eyes, her words. A savage
woman! Yet he perceived that he could think of nothing else but of the
three days of their separation, of the few hours since their reunion.
Very well. If he could not take her away, then he would go to her. . . .
He had, for a moment, a wicked pleasure in the thought that what he had
done could not be undone. He had given himself up. He felt proud of it.
He was ready to face anything, do anything. He cared for nothing, for
nobody. He thought himself very fearless, but as a matter of fact he was
only drunk; drunk with the poison of passionate memories.

He stretched his hands over the fire, looked round and called out--

"Aissa!"

She must have been near, for she appeared at once within the light of
the fire. The upper part of her body was wrapped up in the thick folds
of a head covering which was pulled down over her brow, and one end of
it thrown across from shoulder to shoulder hid the lower part of her
face. Only her eyes were visible--sombre and gleaming like a starry
night.

Willems, looking at this strange, muffled figure, felt exasperated,
amazed and helpless. The ex-confidential clerk of the rich Hudig would
hug to his breast settled conceptions of respectable conduct. He sought
refuge within his ideas of propriety from the dismal mangroves, from
the darkness of the forests and of the heathen souls of the savages that
were his masters. She looked like an animated package of cheap cotton
goods! It made him furious. She had disguised herself so because a man
of her race was near! He told her not to do it, and she did not obey.
Would his ideas ever change so as to agree with her own notions of what
was becoming, proper and respectable? He was really afraid they
would, in time. It seemed to him awful. She would never change! This
manifestation of her sense of proprieties was another sign of their
hopeless diversity; something like another step downwards for him. She
was too different from him. He was so civilized! It struck him suddenly
that they had nothing in common--not a thought, not a feeling; he could
not make clear to her the simplest motive of any act of his . . . and he
could not live without her.

The courageous man who stood facing Babalatchi gasped unexpectedly with
a gasp that was half a groan. This little matter of her veiling
herself against his wish acted upon him like a disclosure of some
great disaster. It increased his contempt for himself as the slave of
a passion he had always derided, as the man unable to assert his will.
This will, all his sensations, his personality--all this seemed to be
lost in the abominable desire, in the priceless promise of that woman.
He was not, of course, able to discern clearly the causes of his misery;
but there are none so ignorant as not to know suffering, none so simple
as not to feel and suffer from the shock of warring impulses. The
ignorant must feel and suffer from their complexity as well as the
wisest; but to them the pain of struggle and defeat appears strange,
mysterious, remediable and unjust. He stood watching her, watching
himself. He tingled with rage from head to foot, as if he had been
struck in the face. Suddenly he laughed; but his laugh was like a
distorted echo of some insincere mirth very far away.

From the other side of the fire Babalatchi spoke hurriedly--

"Here is Tuan Abdulla."



CHAPTER FIVE


Directly on stepping outside Omar's hut Abdulla caught sight of Willems.
He expected, of course, to see a white man, but not that white man, whom
he knew so well. Everybody who traded in the islands, and who had any
dealings with Hudig, knew Willems. For the last two years of his stay in
Macassar the confidential clerk had been managing all the local trade
of the house under a very slight supervision only on the part of the
master. So everybody knew Willems, Abdulla amongst others--but he was
ignorant of Willems' disgrace. As a matter of fact the thing had been
kept very quiet--so quiet that a good many people in Macassar were
expecting Willems' return there, supposing him to be absent on some
confidential mission. Abdulla, in his surprise, hesitated on the
threshold. He had prepared himself to see some seaman--some old officer
of Lingard's; a common man--perhaps difficult to deal with, but still
no match for him. Instead, he saw himself confronted by an individual
whose reputation for sagacity in business was well known to him. How did
he get here, and why? Abdulla, recovering from his surprise, advanced in
a dignified manner towards the fire, keeping his eyes fixed steadily on
Willems. When within two paces from Willems he stopped and lifted his
right hand in grave salutation. Willems nodded slightly and spoke after
a while.

"We know each other, Tuan Abdulla," he said, with an assumption of easy
indifference.

"We have traded together," answered Abdulla, solemnly, "but it was far
from here."

"And we may trade here also," said Willems.

"The place does not matter. It is the open mind and the true heart that
are required in business."

"Very true. My heart is as open as my mind. I will tell you why I am
here."

"What need is there? In leaving home one learns life. You travel.
Travelling is victory! You shall return with much wisdom."

"I shall never return," interrupted Willems. "I have done with my
people. I am a man without brothers. Injustice destroys fidelity."

Abdulla expressed his surprise by elevating his eyebrows. At the same
time he made a vague gesture with his arm that could be taken as an
equivalent of an approving and conciliating "just so!"

Till then the Arab had not taken any notice of Aissa, who stood by the
fire, but now she spoke in the interval of silence following Willems'
declaration. In a voice that was much deadened by her wrappings she
addressed Abdulla in a few words of greeting, calling him a kinsman.
Abdulla glanced at her swiftly for a second, and then, with perfect
good breeding, fixed his eyes on the ground. She put out towards him her
hand, covered with a corner of her face-veil, and he took it, pressed it
twice, and dropping it turned towards Willems. She looked at the two
men searchingly, then backed away and seemed to melt suddenly into the
night.

"I know what you came for, Tuan Abdulla," said Willems; "I have been
told by that man there." He nodded towards Babalatchi, then went on
slowly, "It will be a difficult thing."

"Allah makes everything easy," interjected Babalatchi, piously, from a
distance.

The two men turned quickly and stood looking at him thoughtfully, as
if in deep consideration of the truth of that proposition. Under their
sustained gaze Babalatchi experienced an unwonted feeling of shyness,
and dared not approach nearer. At last Willems moved slightly, Abdulla
followed readily, and they both walked down the courtyard, their voices
dying away in the darkness. Soon they were heard returning, and the
voices grew distinct as their forms came out of the gloom. By the fire
they wheeled again, and Babalatchi caught a few words. Willems was
saying--

"I have been at sea with him many years when young. I have used my
knowledge to observe the way into the river when coming in, this time."

Abdulla assented in general terms.

"In the variety of knowledge there is safety," he said; and then they
passed out of earshot.

Babalatchi ran to the tree and took up his position in the solid
blackness under its branches, leaning against the trunk. There he was
about midway between the fire and the other limit of the two men's walk.
They passed him close. Abdulla slim, very straight, his head high, and
his hands hanging before him and twisting mechanically the string of
beads; Willems tall, broad, looking bigger and stronger in contrast to
the slight white figure by the side of which he strolled carelessly,
taking one step to the other's two; his big arms in constant motion as
he gesticulated vehemently, bending forward to look Abdulla in the face.

They passed and repassed close to Babalatchi some half a dozen times,
and, whenever they were between him and the fire, he could see them
plain enough. Sometimes they would stop short, Willems speaking
emphatically, Abdulla listening with rigid attention, then, when the
other had ceased, bending his head slightly as if consenting to some
demand, or admitting some statement. Now and then Babalatchi caught
a word here and there, a fragment of a sentence, a loud exclamation.
Impelled by curiosity he crept to the very edge of the black shadow
under the tree. They were nearing him, and he heard Willems say--

"You will pay that money as soon as I come on board. That I must have."

He could not catch Abdulla's reply. When they went past again, Willems
was saying--

"My life is in your hand anyway. The boat that brings me on board your
ship shall take the money to Omar. You must have it ready in a sealed
bag."

Again they were out of hearing, but instead of coming back they stopped
by the fire facing each other. Willems moved his arm, shook his hand
on high talking all the time, then brought it down jerkily--stamped his
foot. A short period of immobility ensued. Babalatchi, gazing intently,
saw Abdulla's lips move almost imperceptibly. Suddenly Willems seized
the Arab's passive hand and shook it. Babalatchi drew the long breath of
relieved suspense. The conference was over. All well, apparently.

He ventured now to approach the two men, who saw him and waited in
silence. Willems had retired within himself already, and wore a look of
grim indifference. Abdulla moved away a step or two. Babalatchi looked
at him inquisitively.

"I go now," said Abdulla, "and shall wait for you outside the river,
Tuan Willems, till the second sunset. You have only one word, I know."

"Only one word," repeated Willems.

Abdulla and Babalatchi walked together down the enclosure, leaving the
white man alone by the fire. The two Arabs who had come with Abdulla
preceded them and passed at once through the little gate into the light
and the murmur of voices of the principal courtyard, but Babalatchi and
Abdulla stopped on this side of it. Abdulla said--

"It is well. We have spoken of many things. He consents."

"When?" asked Babalatchi, eagerly.

"On the second day from this. I have promised every thing. I mean to
keep much."

"Your hand is always open, O Most Generous amongst Believers! You will
not forget your servant who called you here. Have I not spoken the
truth? She has made roast meat of his heart."

With a horizontal sweep of his arm Abdulla seemed to push away that last
statement, and said slowly, with much meaning--

"He must be perfectly safe; do you understand? Perfectly safe--as if he
was amongst his own people--till . . ."

"Till when?" whispered Babalatchi.

"Till I speak," said Abdulla. "As to Omar." He hesitated for a moment,
then went on very low: "He is very old."

"Hai-ya! Old and sick," murmured Babalatchi, with sudden melancholy.

"He wanted me to kill that white man. He begged me to have him killed at
once," said Abdulla, contemptuously, moving again towards the gate.

"He is impatient, like those who feel death near them," exclaimed
Babalatchi, apologetically.

"Omar shall dwell with me," went on Abdulla, "when . . . But no matter.
Remember! The white man must be safe."

"He lives in your shadow," answered Babalatchi, solemnly. "It is
enough!" He touched his forehead and fell back to let Abdulla go first.

And now they are back in the courtyard wherefrom, at their appearance,
listlessness vanishes, and all the faces become alert and interested
once more. Lakamba approaches his guest, but looks at Babalatchi, who
reassures him by a confident nod. Lakamba clumsily attempts a smile,
and looking, with natural and ineradicable sulkiness, from under his
eyebrows at the man whom he wants to honour, asks whether he would
condescend to visit the place of sitting down and take food. Or perhaps
he would prefer to give himself up to repose? The house is his, and what
is in it, and those many men that stand afar watching the interview are
his. Syed Abdulla presses his host's hand to his breast, and informs him
in a confidential murmur that his habits are ascetic and his temperament
inclines to melancholy. No rest; no food; no use whatever for those
many men who are his. Syed Abdulla is impatient to be gone. Lakamba is
sorrowful but polite, in his hesitating, gloomy way. Tuan Abdulla must
have fresh boatmen, and many, to shorten the dark and fatiguing road.
Hai-ya! There! Boats!

By the riverside indistinct forms leap into a noisy and disorderly
activity. There are cries, orders, banter, abuse. Torches blaze sending
out much more smoke than light, and in their red glare Babalatchi comes
up to say that the boats are ready.

Through that lurid glare Syed Abdulla, in his long white gown, seems
to glide fantastically, like a dignified apparition attended by two
inferior shades, and stands for a moment at the landing-place to
take leave of his host and ally--whom he loves. Syed Abdulla says so
distinctly before embarking, and takes his seat in the middle of the
canoe under a small canopy of blue calico stretched on four sticks.
Before and behind Syed Abdulla, the men squatting by the gunwales hold
high the blades of their paddles in readiness for a dip, all together.
Ready? Not yet. Hold on all! Syed Abdulla speaks again, while Lakamba
and Babalatchi stand close on the bank to hear his words. His words are
encouraging. Before the sun rises for the second time they shall meet,
and Syed Abdulla's ship shall float on the waters of this river--at
last! Lakamba and Babalatchi have no doubt--if Allah wills. They are in
the hands of the Compassionate. No doubt. And so is Syed Abdulla, the
great trader who does not know what the word failure means; and so is
the white man--the smartest business man in the islands--who is lying
now by Omar's fire with his head on Aissa's lap, while Syed Abdulla
flies down the muddy river with current and paddles between the sombre
walls of the sleeping forest; on his way to the clear and open sea where
the Lord of the Isles (formerly of Greenock, but condemned, sold, and
registered now as of Penang) waits for its owner, and swings erratically
at anchor in the currents of the capricious tide, under the crumbling
red cliffs of Tanjong Mirrah.

For some time Lakamba, Sahamin, and Bahassoen looked silently into the
humid darkness which had swallowed the big canoe that carried Abdulla
and his unvarying good fortune. Then the two guests broke into a talk
expressive of their joyful anticipations. The venerable Sahamin, as
became his advanced age, found his delight in speculation as to the
activities of a rather remote future. He would buy praus, he would send
expeditions up the river, he would enlarge his trade, and, backed by
Abdulla's capital, he would grow rich in a very few years. Very few.
Meantime it would be a good thing to interview Almayer to-morrow and,
profiting by the last day of the hated man's prosperity, obtain some
goods from him on credit. Sahamin thought it could be done by skilful
wheedling. After all, that son of Satan was a fool, and the thing was
worth doing, because the coming revolution would wipe all debts out.
Sahamin did not mind imparting that idea to his companions, with much
senile chuckling, while they strolled together from the riverside
towards the residence. The bull-necked Lakamba, listening with pouted
lips without the sign of a smile, without a gleam in his dull, bloodshot
eyes, shuffled slowly across the courtyard between his two guests. But
suddenly Bahassoen broke in upon the old man's prattle with the generous
enthusiasm of his youth. . . . Trading was very good. But was the
change that would make them happy effected yet? The white man should be
despoiled with a strong hand! . . . He grew excited, spoke very loud,
and his further discourse, delivered with his hand on the hilt of his
sword, dealt incoherently with the honourable topics of throat-cutting,
fire-raising, and with the far-famed valour of his ancestors.

Babalatchi remained behind, alone with the greatness of his conceptions.
The sagacious statesman of Sambir sent a scornful glance after his noble
protector and his noble protector's friends, and then stood meditating
about that future which to the others seemed so assured. Not so to
Babalatchi, who paid the penalty of his wisdom by a vague sense of
insecurity that kept sleep at arm's length from his tired body. When he
thought at last of leaving the waterside, it was only to strike a path
for himself and to creep along the fences, avoiding the middle of the
courtyard where small fires glimmered and winked as though the sinister
darkness there had reflected the stars of the serene heaven. He slunk
past the wicket-gate of Omar's enclosure, and crept on patiently along
the light bamboo palisade till he was stopped by the angle where it
joined the heavy stockade of Lakamba's private ground. Standing there,
he could look over the fence and see Omar's hut and the fire before its
door. He could also see the shadow of two human beings sitting between
him and the red glow. A man and a woman. The sight seemed to inspire the
careworn sage with a frivolous desire to sing. It could hardly be called
a song; it was more in the nature of a recitative without any rhythm,
delivered rapidly but distinctly in a croaking and unsteady voice; and
if Babalatchi considered it a song, then it was a song with a purpose
and, perhaps for that reason, artistically defective. It had all the
imperfections of unskilful improvisation and its subject was gruesome.
It told a tale of shipwreck and of thirst, and of one brother killing
another for the sake of a gourd of water. A repulsive story which might
have had a purpose but possessed no moral whatever. Yet it must have
pleased Babalatchi for he repeated it twice, the second time even in
louder tones than at first, causing a disturbance amongst the white
rice-birds and the wild fruit-pigeons which roosted on the boughs of
the big tree growing in Omar's compound. There was in the thick foliage
above the singer's head a confused beating of wings, sleepy remarks in
bird-language, a sharp stir of leaves. The forms by the fire moved; the
shadow of the woman altered its shape, and Babalatchi's song was cut
short abruptly by a fit of soft and persistent coughing. He did not try
to resume his efforts after that interruption, but went away stealthily
to seek--if not sleep--then, at least, repose.



CHAPTER SIX


As soon as Abdulla and his companions had left the enclosure, Aissa
approached Willems and stood by his side. He took no notice of her
expectant attitude till she touched him gently, when he turned furiously
upon her and, tearing off her face-veil, trampled upon it as though
it had been a mortal enemy. She looked at him with the faint smile of
patient curiosity, with the puzzled interest of ignorance watching the
running of a complicated piece of machinery. After he had exhausted his
rage, he stood again severe and unbending looking down at the fire, but
the touch of her fingers at the nape of his neck effaced instantly the
hard lines round his mouth; his eyes wavered uneasily; his lips trembled
slightly. Starting with the unresisting rapidity of a particle of
iron--which, quiescent one moment, leaps in the next to a powerful
magnet--he moved forward, caught her in his arms and pressed her
violently to his breast. He released her as suddenly, and she stumbled a
little, stepped back, breathed quickly through her parted lips, and said
in a tone of pleased reproof--