Complete Works

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 luggage 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 civilised 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 civilised 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 civilised 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.  She had tasted the whole bitterness of it and remembered distinctly that the virtuous Mrs. Vinck’s indignation was not so much directed against the young man from the bank as against the innocent cause of that young man’s infatuation.  And there was also no doubt in her mind that the principal cause of Mrs. Vinck’s indignation was the thought that such a thing should happen in a white nest, where her snow-white doves, the two Misses Vinck, had just returned from Europe, to find shelter under the maternal wing, and there await the coming of irreproachable men of their destiny.  Not even the thought of the money so painfully scraped together by Almayer, and so punctually sent for Nina’s expenses, could dissuade Mrs. Vinck from her virtuous resolve.  Nina was sent away, and in truth the girl herself wanted to go, although a little frightened by the impending change.  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 civilisation, in miserable domestic conditions; she had breathed in 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