Complete Works

only one idea remained clear and definite — not to forgive her; only one vivid desire — to forget her.  And this must be made clear to her — and to himself — by frequent repetition.  That was his idea of his duty to himself — to his race — to his respectable connections; to the whole universe unsettled and shaken by this frightful catastrophe of his life.  He saw it clearly and believed he was a strong man.  He had always prided himself upon his unflinching firmness.  And yet he was afraid.  She had been all in all to him.  What if he should let the memory of his love for her weaken the sense of his dignity?  She was a remarkable woman; he could see that; all the latent greatness of his nature — in which he honestly believed — had been transfused into that slight, girlish figure.  Great things could be done!  What if he should suddenly take her to his heart, forget his shame, and pain, and anger, and — follow her!  What if he changed his heart if not his skin and made her life easier between the two loves that would guard her from any mischance!  His heart yearned for her.  What if he should say that his love for her was greater than . . .
    “I will never forgive you, Nina!” he shouted, leaping up madly in the sudden fear of his dream.
    This was the last time in his life that he was heard to raise his voice.  Henceforth he spoke always in a monotonous whisper like an instrument of which all the strings but one are broken in a last ringing clamour under a heavy blow.
    She rose to her feet and looked at him.  The very violence of his cry soothed her in an intuitive conviction of his love, and she hugged to her breast the lamentable remnants of that affection with the unscrupulous greediness of women who cling desperately to the very scraps and rags of love, any kind of love, as a thing that of right belongs to them and is the very breath of their life.  She put both her hands on Almayer’s shoulders, and looking at him half tenderly, half playfully, she said —
    “You speak so because you love me.”
    Almayer shook his head.
    “Yes, you do,” she insisted softly; then after a short pause she added, “and you will never forget me.”
    Almayer shivered slightly.  She could not have said a more cruel thing.
    “Here is the boat coming now,” said Dain, his arm outstretched towards a black speck on the water between the coast and the islet.
    They all looked at it and remained standing in silence till the little canoe came gently on the beach and a man landed and walked towards them.  He stopped some distance off and hesitated.
    “What news?” asked Dain.
    “We have had orders secretly and in the night to take off from this islet a man and a woman.  I see the woman.  Which of you is the man?”
    “Come, delight of my eyes,” said Dain to Nina.  “Now we go, and your voice shall be for my ears only.  You have spoken your last words to the Tuan Putih, your father.  Come.”
    She hesitated for a while, looking at Almayer, who kept his eyes steadily on the sea, then she touched his forehead in a lingering kiss, and a tear — one of her tears — fell on his cheek and ran down his immovable face.
    “Goodbye,” she whispered, and remained irresolute till he pushed her suddenly into Dain’s arms.
    “If you have any pity for me,” murmured Almayer, as if repeating some sentence learned by heart, “take that woman away.”
    He stood very straight, his shoulders thrown back, his head held high, and looked at them as they went down the beach to the canoe, walking enlaced in each other’s arms.  He looked at the line of their footsteps marked in the sand.  He followed their figures moving in the crude blaze of the vertical sun, in that light violent and vibrating, like a triumphal flourish of brazen trumpets.  He looked at the man’s brown shoulders, at the red sarong round his waist; at the tall, slender, dazzling white figure he supported.  He looked at the white dress, at the falling masses of the long black hair.  He looked at them embarking, and at the canoe growing smaller in the distance, with rage, despair, and regret in his heart, and on his face a peace as that of a carved image of oblivion.  Inwardly he felt himself torn to pieces, but Ali — who now aroused — stood close to his master, saw on his features the blank expression of those who live in that hopeless calm which sightless eyes only can give.
    The canoe disappeared, and Almayer stood