Complete Works

grasp.”
    He looked at his daughter’s attentive face and jumped to his feet upsetting the chair.
    “Do you hear?  I had it all there; so; within reach of my hand.”
    He paused, trying to keep down his rising anger, and failed.
    “Have you no feeling?” he went on.  “Have you lived without hope?”  Nina’s silence exasperated him; his voice rose, although he tried to master his feelings.
    “Are you content to live in this misery and die in this wretched hole?  Say something, Nina; have you no sympathy?  Have you no word of comfort for me?  I that loved you so.”
    He waited for a while for an answer, and receiving none shook his fist in his daughter’s face.
    “I believe you are an idiot!” he yelled.
    He looked round for the chair, picked it up and sat down stiffly.  His anger was dead within him, and he felt ashamed of his outburst, yet relieved to think that now he had laid clear before his daughter the inner meaning of his life.  He thought so in perfect good faith, deceived by the emotional estimate of his motives, unable to see the crookedness of his ways, the unreality of his aims, the futility of his regrets.  And now his heart was filled only with a great tenderness and love for his daughter.  He wanted to see her miserable, and to share with her his despair; but he wanted it only as all weak natures long for a companionship in misfortune with beings innocent of its cause.  If she suffered herself she would understand and pity him; but now she would not, or could not, find one word of comfort or love for him in his dire extremity.  The sense of his absolute loneliness came home to his heart with a force that made him shudder.  He swayed and fell forward with his face on the table, his arms stretched straight out, extended and rigid.  Nina made a quick movement towards her father and stood looking at the grey head, on the broad shoulders shaken convulsively by the violence of feelings that found relief at last in sobs and tears.
    Nina sighed deeply and moved away from the table.  Her features lost the appearance of stony indifference that had exasperated her father into his outburst of anger and sorrow.  The expression of her face, now unseen by her father, underwent a rapid change.  She had listened to Almayer’s appeal for sympathy, for one word of comfort, apparently indifferent, yet with her breast torn by conflicting impulses raised unexpectedly by events she had not foreseen, or at least did not expect to happen so soon.  With her heart deeply moved by the sight of Almayer’s misery, knowing it in her power to end it with a word, longing to bring peace to that troubled heart, she heard with terror the voice of her overpowering love commanding her to be silent.  And she submitted after a short and fierce struggle of her old self against the new principle of her life.  She wrapped herself up in absolute silence, the only safeguard against some fatal admission.  She could not trust herself to make a sign, to murmur a word for fear of saying too much; and the very violence of the feelings that stirred the innermost recesses of her soul seemed to turn her person into a stone.  The dilated nostrils and the flashing eyes were the only signs of the storm raging within, and those signs of his daughter’s emotion Almayer did not see, for his sight was dimmed by self-pity, by anger, and by despair.
    Had Almayer looked at his daughter as she leant over the front rail of the verandah he could have seen the expression of indifference give way to a look of pain, and that again pass away, leaving the glorious beauty of her face marred by deep-drawn lines of watchful anxiety.  The long grass in the neglected courtyard stood very straight before her eyes in the noonday heat.  From the river-bank there were voices and a shuffle of bare feet approaching the house; Babalatchi could be heard giving directions to Almayer’s men, and Mrs. Almayer’s subdued wailing became audible as the small procession bearing the body of the drowned man and headed by that sorrowful matron turned the corner of the house.  Babalatchi had taken the broken anklet off the man’s leg, and now held it in his hand as he moved by the side of the bearers, while Mahmat lingered behind timidly, in the hopes of the promised reward.
    “Lay him there,” said Babalatchi to Almayer’s men, pointing to a pile of drying planks in front of the verandah.  “Lay him there.  He was a Kaffir and the son of a dog,