Complete Works

despair.  Babalatchi, looking at him curiously, was astonished to see him smile.  A strange fancy had taken possession of Almayer’s brain, distracted by this new misfortune.  It seemed to him that for many years he had been falling into a deep precipice.  Day after day, month after month, year after year, he had been falling, falling, falling; it was a smooth, round, black thing, and the black walls had been rushing upwards with wearisome rapidity.  A great rush, the noise of which he fancied he could hear yet; and now, with an awful shock, he had reached the bottom, and behold! he was alive and whole, and Dain was dead with all his bones broken.  It struck him as funny.  A dead Malay; he had seen many dead Malays without any emotion; and now he felt inclined to weep, but it was over the fate of a white man he knew; a man that fell over a deep precipice and did not die.  He seemed somehow to himself to be standing on one side, a little way off, looking at a certain Almayer who was in great trouble.  Poor, poor fellow!  Why doesn’t he cut his throat?  He wished to encourage him; he was very anxious to see him lying dead over that other corpse.  Why does he not die and end this suffering?  He groaned aloud unconsciously and started with affright at the sound of his own voice.  Was he going mad?  Terrified by the thought he turned away and ran towards his house repeating to himself, I am not going mad; of course not, no, no, no!  He tried to keep a firm hold of the idea.
    Not mad, not mad.  He stumbled as he ran blindly up the steps repeating fast and ever faster those words wherein seemed to lie his salvation.  He saw Nina standing there, and wished to say something to her, but could not remember what, in his extreme anxiety not to forget that he was not going mad, which he still kept repeating mentally as he ran round the table, till he stumbled against one of the arm-chairs and dropped into it exhausted.  He sat staring wildly at Nina, still assuring himself mentally of his own sanity and wondering why the girl shrank from him in open-eyed alarm.  What was the matter with her?  This was foolish.  He struck the table violently with his clenched fist and shouted hoarsely, “Give me some gin!  Run!”  Then, while Nina ran off, he remained in the chair, very still and quiet, astonished at the noise he had made.
    Nina returned with a tumbler half filled with gin, and found her father staring absently before him.  Almayer felt very tired now, as if he had come from a long journey.  He felt as if he had walked miles and miles that morning and now wanted to rest very much.  He took the tumbler with a shaking hand, and as he drank his teeth chattered against the glass which he drained and set down heavily on the table.  He turned his eyes slowly towards Nina standing beside him, and said steadily —
    “Now all is over, Nina.  He is dead, and I may as well burn all my boats.”
    He felt very proud of being able to speak so calmly.  Decidedly he was not going mad.  This certitude was very comforting, and he went on talking about the finding of the body, listening to his own voice complacently.  Nina stood quietly, her hand resting lightly on her father’s shoulder, her face unmoved, but every line of her features, the attitude of her whole body expressing the most keen and anxious attention.
    “And so Dain is dead,” she said coldly, when her father ceased speaking.
    Almayer’s elaborately calm demeanour gave way in a moment to an outburst of violent indignation.
    “You stand there as if you were only half alive, and talk to me,” he exclaimed angrily, “as if it was a matter of no importance.  Yes, he is dead!  Do you understand?  Dead!  What do you care?  You never cared; you saw me struggle, and work, and strive, unmoved; and my suffering you could never see.  No, never.  You have no heart, and you have no mind, or you would have understood that it was for you, for your happiness I was working.  I wanted to be rich; I wanted to get away from here.  I wanted to see white men bowing low before the power of your beauty and your wealth.  Old as I am I wished to seek a strange land, a civilisation to which I am a stranger, so as to find a new life in the contemplation of your high fortunes, of your triumphs, of your happiness.  For that I bore patiently the burden of work, of disappointment, of humiliation amongst these savages here, and I had it all nearly in my