章节正文
and good-humoured warning, whispered or shouted, "Steady, Captain
Lingard, steady." A smart fellow. He had brought him up. The
smartest fellow in the islands. If he had only stayed with him,
then all this . . . He called out to Willems--
"Tell her to let me go or . . ."
He heard Willems shouting something, waited for awhile, then
glanced vaguely down and saw the woman still stretched out
perfectly mute and unstirring, with her head at his feet. He
felt a nervousimpatience that, somehow, resembled fear.
"Tell her to let go, to go away, Willems, I tell you. I've had
enough of this," he cried.
"All right, Captain Lingard," answered the calm voice of Willems,
"she has let go. Take your foot off her hair; she can't get up."
Lingard leaped aside, clean away, and spun round quickly. He saw
her sit up and cover her face with both hands, then he turned
slowly on his heel and looked at the man. Willems held himself
very straight, but was unsteady on his feet, and moved about
nearly on the same spot, like a tipsy man attempting to preserve
his balance. After gazing at him for a while, Lingard called,
rancorous and irritable--
"What have you got to say for yourself?"
Willems began to walk towards him. He walked slowly, reeling a
little before he took each step, and Lingard saw him put his hand
to his face, then look at it holding it up to his eyes, as if he
had there, concealed in the hollow of the palm, some small object
which he wanted to examine secretly. Suddenly he drew it, with a
brusque movement, down the front of his jacket and left a long
smudge.
"That's a fine thing to do," said Willems.
He stood in front of Lingard, one of his eyes sunk deep in the
increasing swelling of his cheek, still repeating mechanically
the movement of feeling his damaged face; and every time he did
this he pressed the palm to some clean spot on his jacket,
covering the white cotton with bloody imprints as of some
deformed and monstrous hand. Lingard said nothing, looking on.
At last Willems left off staunching the blood and stood, his arms
hanging by his side, with his face stiff and distorted under the
patches of coagulated blood; and he seemed as though he had been
set up there for a warning: an incomprehensible figure marked all
over with some awful and symbolic signs of deadly import.
Speaking with difficulty, he repeated in a reproachful tone--
"That was a fine thing to do."
"After all," answered Lingard, bitterly, "I had too good an
opinion of you."
"And I of you. Don't you see that I could have had that fool
over there killed and the whole thing burnt to the ground, swept
off the face of the earth. You wouldn't have found as much as a
heap of ashes had I liked. I could have done all that. And I
wouldn't."
"You--could--not. You dared not. You scoundrel!" cried Lingard.
"What's the use of calling me names?"
"True," retorted Lingard--"there's no name bad enough for you."
There was a short interval of silence. At the sound of their
rapidly exchanged words, Aissa had got up from the ground where
she had been sitting, in a sorrowful and dejected pose, and
approached the two men. She stood on one side and looked on
eagerly, in a desperate effort of her brain, with the quick and
distracted eyes of a person trying for her life to penetrate the
meaning of sentences uttered in a foreign tongue: the meaning
portentous and fateful that lurks in the sounds of mysterious
words; in the sounds surprising, unknown and strange.
Willems let the last speech of Lingard pass by; seemed by a
slight movement of his hand to help it on its way to join the
other shadows of the past. Then he said--
"You have struck me; you have insulted me . . ."
"Insulted you!" interrupted Lingard, passionately. "Who--what
can insult you . . . you . . ."
He choked, advanced a step.
"Steady! steady!" said Willems calmly. "I tell you I sha'n't
fight. Is it clear enough to you that I sha'n't?
I--shall--not--lift--a--finger."
As he spoke, slowly punctuating each word with a slight jerk of
his head, he stared at Lingard, his right eye open and big, the
left small and nearly closed by the swelling of one half of his
face, that appeared all drawn out on one side like faces seen in
a concave glass. And they stood exactly opposite each other: one
tall, slight and disfigured; the other tall, heavy and severe.
Willems went on--
"If I had wanted to hurt you--if I had wanted to destroy you, it
was easy. I stood in the doorway long enough to pull a
trigger--and you know I shoot straight."
"You would have missed," said Lingard, with assurance. "There
is, under heaven, such a thing as justice."
The sound of that word on his own lips made him pause, confused,
like an unexpected and unanswerable rebuke. The anger of his
outraged pride, the anger of his outraged heart, had gone out in
the blow; and there remained nothing but the sense of some
immense infamy--of something vague, disgusting and terrible,
which seemed to surround him on all sides, hover about him with
shadowy and stealthy movements, like a band of assassins in the
darkness of vast and unsafe places. Was there, under heaven,
such a thing as justice? He looked at the man before him with
such an intensity of prolonged glance that he seemed to see right
through him, that at last he saw but a floating and unsteady mist
in human shape. Would it blow away before the first breath of
the breeze and leave nothing behind?
The sound of Willems' voice made him start violently. Willems was
saying--
"I have always led a virtuous life; you know I have. You always
praised me for my steadiness; you know you have. You know also I
never stole--if that's what you're thinking of. I borrowed. You
know how much I repaid. It was an error of judgment. But then
consider my position there. I had been a little unlucky in my
private affairs, and had debts. Could I let myself go under
before the eyes of all those men who envied me? But that's all
over. It was an error of judgment. I've paid for it. An error
of judgment."
Lingard, astounded into perfect stillness, looked down. He
looked down at Willems' bare feet. Then, as the other had
paused, he repeated in a blank tone--
"An error of judgment . . ."
"Yes," drawled out Willems, thoughtfully, and went on with
increasing animation: "As I said, I have always led a virtuous
life. More so than Hudig--than you. Yes, than you. I drank a
little, I played cards a little. Who doesn't? But I had
principles from a boy. Yes, principles. Business is business,
and I never was an ass. I never respected fools. They had to
suffer for their folly when they dealt with me. The evil was in
them, not in me. But as to principles, it's another matter. I
kept clear of women. It's forbidden--I had no time--and I
despised them. Now I hate them!"
He put his tongue out a little; a tongue whose pink and moist end
ran here and there, like something independently alive, under his
swollen and blackened lip; he touched with the tips of his
fingers the cut on his cheek, felt all round it with precaution:
and the unharmed side of his face appeared for a moment to be
preoccupied and uneasy about the state of that other side which
was so very sore and stiff.
He recommenced speaking, and his voice vibrated as though with
repressed emotion of some kind.
"You ask my wife, when you see her in Macassar, whether I have no
reason to hate her. She was nobody, and I made her Mrs. Willems.
A half-caste girl! You ask her how she showed her gratitude to
me. You ask . . . Never mind that. Well, you came and dumped
me here like a load of rubbish; dumped me here and left me with
nothing to do--nothing good to remember--and damn little to hope
for. You left me here at the mercy of that fool, Almayer, who
suspected me of something. Of what? Devil only knows. But he
suspected and hated me from the first; I suppose because you
befriended me. Oh! I could read him like a book. He isn't very
deep, your Sambir partner, Captain Lingard, but he knows how to
be disagreeable. Months passed. I thought I would die of sheer
weariness, of my thoughts, of my regrets And then . . ."
He made a quick step nearer to Lingard, and as if moved by the
same thought, by the same instinct, by the impulse of his will,
Aissa also stepped nearer to them. They stood in a close group,
and the two men could feel the calm air between their faces
stirred by the light breath of the anxious woman who enveloped
them both in the uncomprehending, in the despairing and wondering
glances of her wild and mournful eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
Willems turned a little from her and spoke lower.
"Look at that," he said, with an almost imperceptible movement of
his head towards the woman to whom he was presenting his
shoulder. "Look at that! Don't believe her! What has she been
saying to you? What? I have been asleep. Had to sleep at last.
I've been waiting for you three days and nights. I had to sleep
some time. Hadn't I? I told her to remain awake and watch for
you, and call me at once. She did watch. You can't believe her.
You can't believe any woman. Who can tell what's inside their
heads? No one. You can know nothing. The only thing you can
know is that it isn't anything like what comes through their
lips. They live by the side of you. They seem to hate you, or
they seem to love you; they caress or torment you; they throw you
over or stick to you closer than your skin for some inscrutable
and awful reason of their own--which you can never know! Look at
her--and look at me. At me!--her infernal work. What has she
been saying?"
His voice had sunk to a whisper. Lingard listened with great
attention, holding his chin in his hand, which grasped a great
handful of his white beard. His elbow was in the palm of his
other hand, and his eyes were still fixed on the ground. He
murmured, without looking up--
"She begged me for your life--if you want to know--as if the
thing were worth giving or taking!"
"And for three days she begged me to take yours," said Willems
quickly. "For three days she wouldn't give me any peace. She
was never still. She planned ambushes. She has been looking for
places all over here where I could hide and drop you with a safe
shot as you walked up. It's true. I give you my word."
"Your word," muttered Lingard, contemptuously.
Willems took no notice.
"Ah! She is a ferocious creature," he went on. "You don't know .
. . I wanted to pass the time--to do something--to have
something to think about--to forget my troubles till you came
back. And . . . look at her . . . she took me as if I did not
belong to myself. She did. I did not know there was something
in me she could get hold of. She, a savage. I, a civilized
European, and clever! She that knew no more than a wild animal!
Well, she found out something in me. She found it out, and I was
lost. I knew it. She tormented me. I was ready to do anything.
I resisted--but I was ready. I knew that too. That frightened
me more than anything; more than my own sufferings; and that was
frightful enough, I assure you."
Lingard listened, fascinated and amazed like a child listening to
a fairy tale, and, when Willems stopped for breath, he shuffled
his feet a little.
"What does he say?" cried out Aissa, suddenly.
The two men looked at her quickly, and then looked at one
another.
Willems began again, speaking hurriedly--
Lingard, steady." A smart fellow. He had brought him up. The
smartest fellow in the islands. If he had only stayed with him,
then all this . . . He called out to Willems--
"Tell her to let me go or . . ."
He heard Willems shouting something, waited for awhile, then
glanced vaguely down and saw the woman still stretched out
perfectly mute and unstirring, with her head at his feet. He
felt a nervousimpatience that, somehow, resembled fear.
"Tell her to let go, to go away, Willems, I tell you. I've had
enough of this," he cried.
"All right, Captain Lingard," answered the calm voice of Willems,
"she has let go. Take your foot off her hair; she can't get up."
Lingard leaped aside, clean away, and spun round quickly. He saw
her sit up and cover her face with both hands, then he turned
slowly on his heel and looked at the man. Willems held himself
very straight, but was unsteady on his feet, and moved about
nearly on the same spot, like a tipsy man attempting to preserve
his balance. After gazing at him for a while, Lingard called,
rancorous and irritable--
"What have you got to say for yourself?"
Willems began to walk towards him. He walked slowly, reeling a
little before he took each step, and Lingard saw him put his hand
to his face, then look at it holding it up to his eyes, as if he
had there, concealed in the hollow of the palm, some small object
which he wanted to examine secretly. Suddenly he drew it, with a
brusque movement, down the front of his jacket and left a long
smudge.
"That's a fine thing to do," said Willems.
He stood in front of Lingard, one of his eyes sunk deep in the
increasing swelling of his cheek, still repeating mechanically
the movement of feeling his damaged face; and every time he did
this he pressed the palm to some clean spot on his jacket,
covering the white cotton with bloody imprints as of some
deformed and monstrous hand. Lingard said nothing, looking on.
At last Willems left off staunching the blood and stood, his arms
hanging by his side, with his face stiff and distorted under the
patches of coagulated blood; and he seemed as though he had been
set up there for a warning: an incomprehensible figure marked all
over with some awful and symbolic signs of deadly import.
Speaking with difficulty, he repeated in a reproachful tone--
"That was a fine thing to do."
"After all," answered Lingard, bitterly, "I had too good an
opinion of you."
"And I of you. Don't you see that I could have had that fool
over there killed and the whole thing burnt to the ground, swept
off the face of the earth. You wouldn't have found as much as a
heap of ashes had I liked. I could have done all that. And I
wouldn't."
"You--could--not. You dared not. You scoundrel!" cried Lingard.
"What's the use of calling me names?"
"True," retorted Lingard--"there's no name bad enough for you."
There was a short interval of silence. At the sound of their
rapidly exchanged words, Aissa had got up from the ground where
she had been sitting, in a sorrowful and dejected pose, and
approached the two men. She stood on one side and looked on
eagerly, in a desperate effort of her brain, with the quick and
distracted eyes of a person trying for her life to penetrate the
meaning of sentences uttered in a foreign tongue: the meaning
portentous and fateful that lurks in the sounds of mysterious
words; in the sounds surprising, unknown and strange.
Willems let the last speech of Lingard pass by; seemed by a
slight movement of his hand to help it on its way to join the
other shadows of the past. Then he said--
"You have struck me; you have insulted me . . ."
"Insulted you!" interrupted Lingard, passionately. "Who--what
can insult you . . . you . . ."
He choked, advanced a step.
"Steady! steady!" said Willems calmly. "I tell you I sha'n't
fight. Is it clear enough to you that I sha'n't?
I--shall--not--lift--a--finger."
As he spoke, slowly punctuating each word with a slight jerk of
his head, he stared at Lingard, his right eye open and big, the
left small and nearly closed by the swelling of one half of his
face, that appeared all drawn out on one side like faces seen in
a concave glass. And they stood exactly opposite each other: one
tall, slight and disfigured; the other tall, heavy and severe.
Willems went on--
"If I had wanted to hurt you--if I had wanted to destroy you, it
was easy. I stood in the doorway long enough to pull a
trigger--and you know I shoot straight."
"You would have missed," said Lingard, with assurance. "There
is, under heaven, such a thing as justice."
The sound of that word on his own lips made him pause, confused,
like an unexpected and unanswerable rebuke. The anger of his
outraged pride, the anger of his outraged heart, had gone out in
the blow; and there remained nothing but the sense of some
immense infamy--of something vague, disgusting and terrible,
which seemed to surround him on all sides, hover about him with
shadowy and stealthy movements, like a band of assassins in the
darkness of vast and unsafe places. Was there, under heaven,
such a thing as justice? He looked at the man before him with
such an intensity of prolonged glance that he seemed to see right
through him, that at last he saw but a floating and unsteady mist
in human shape. Would it blow away before the first breath of
the breeze and leave nothing behind?
The sound of Willems' voice made him start violently. Willems was
saying--
"I have always led a virtuous life; you know I have. You always
praised me for my steadiness; you know you have. You know also I
never stole--if that's what you're thinking of. I borrowed. You
know how much I repaid. It was an error of judgment. But then
consider my position there. I had been a little unlucky in my
private affairs, and had debts. Could I let myself go under
before the eyes of all those men who envied me? But that's all
over. It was an error of judgment. I've paid for it. An error
of judgment."
Lingard, astounded into perfect stillness, looked down. He
looked down at Willems' bare feet. Then, as the other had
paused, he repeated in a blank tone--
"An error of judgment . . ."
"Yes," drawled out Willems, thoughtfully, and went on with
increasing animation: "As I said, I have always led a virtuous
life. More so than Hudig--than you. Yes, than you. I drank a
little, I played cards a little. Who doesn't? But I had
principles from a boy. Yes, principles. Business is business,
and I never was an ass. I never respected fools. They had to
suffer for their folly when they dealt with me. The evil was in
them, not in me. But as to principles, it's another matter. I
kept clear of women. It's forbidden--I had no time--and I
despised them. Now I hate them!"
He put his tongue out a little; a tongue whose pink and moist end
ran here and there, like something independently alive, under his
swollen and blackened lip; he touched with the tips of his
fingers the cut on his cheek, felt all round it with precaution:
and the unharmed side of his face appeared for a moment to be
preoccupied and uneasy about the state of that other side which
was so very sore and stiff.
He recommenced speaking, and his voice vibrated as though with
repressed emotion of some kind.
"You ask my wife, when you see her in Macassar, whether I have no
reason to hate her. She was nobody, and I made her Mrs. Willems.
A half-caste girl! You ask her how she showed her gratitude to
me. You ask . . . Never mind that. Well, you came and dumped
me here like a load of rubbish; dumped me here and left me with
nothing to do--nothing good to remember--and damn little to hope
for. You left me here at the mercy of that fool, Almayer, who
suspected me of something. Of what? Devil only knows. But he
suspected and hated me from the first; I suppose because you
befriended me. Oh! I could read him like a book. He isn't very
deep, your Sambir partner, Captain Lingard, but he knows how to
be disagreeable. Months passed. I thought I would die of sheer
weariness, of my thoughts, of my regrets And then . . ."
He made a quick step nearer to Lingard, and as if moved by the
same thought, by the same instinct, by the impulse of his will,
Aissa also stepped nearer to them. They stood in a close group,
and the two men could feel the calm air between their faces
stirred by the light breath of the anxious woman who enveloped
them both in the uncomprehending, in the despairing and wondering
glances of her wild and mournful eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
Willems turned a little from her and spoke lower.
"Look at that," he said, with an almost imperceptible movement of
his head towards the woman to whom he was presenting his
shoulder. "Look at that! Don't believe her! What has she been
saying to you? What? I have been asleep. Had to sleep at last.
I've been waiting for you three days and nights. I had to sleep
some time. Hadn't I? I told her to remain awake and watch for
you, and call me at once. She did watch. You can't believe her.
You can't believe any woman. Who can tell what's inside their
heads? No one. You can know nothing. The only thing you can
know is that it isn't anything like what comes through their
lips. They live by the side of you. They seem to hate you, or
they seem to love you; they caress or torment you; they throw you
over or stick to you closer than your skin for some inscrutable
and awful reason of their own--which you can never know! Look at
her--and look at me. At me!--her infernal work. What has she
been saying?"
His voice had sunk to a whisper. Lingard listened with great
attention, holding his chin in his hand, which grasped a great
handful of his white beard. His elbow was in the palm of his
other hand, and his eyes were still fixed on the ground. He
murmured, without looking up--
"She begged me for your life--if you want to know--as if the
thing were worth giving or taking!"
"And for three days she begged me to take yours," said Willems
quickly. "For three days she wouldn't give me any peace. She
was never still. She planned ambushes. She has been looking for
places all over here where I could hide and drop you with a safe
shot as you walked up. It's true. I give you my word."
"Your word," muttered Lingard, contemptuously.
Willems took no notice.
"Ah! She is a ferocious creature," he went on. "You don't know .
. . I wanted to pass the time--to do something--to have
something to think about--to forget my troubles till you came
back. And . . . look at her . . . she took me as if I did not
belong to myself. She did. I did not know there was something
in me she could get hold of. She, a savage. I, a civilized
European, and clever! She that knew no more than a wild animal!
Well, she found out something in me. She found it out, and I was
lost. I knew it. She tormented me. I was ready to do anything.
I resisted--but I was ready. I knew that too. That frightened
me more than anything; more than my own sufferings; and that was
frightful enough, I assure you."
Lingard listened, fascinated and amazed like a child listening to
a fairy tale, and, when Willems stopped for breath, he shuffled
his feet a little.
"What does he say?" cried out Aissa, suddenly.
The two men looked at her quickly, and then looked at one
another.
Willems began again, speaking hurriedly--
- awhile [ə´wail]
ad.少顷；片刻 (初中英语单词) - nervous [´nə:vəs] a.神经的；神经过敏的 (初中英语单词)
- movement [´mu:vmənt] n.活动；运动；动作 (初中英语单词)
- jacket [´dʒækit] n.茄克衫；外套 (初中英语单词)
- bloody [´blʌdi] a.(流)血的；血腥的 (初中英语单词)
- deadly [´dedli] a.致命的 ad.死一般地 (初中英语单词)
- bitterly [´bitəli] ad.悲痛地；憎恨地 (初中英语单词)
- interval [´intəvəl] n.间隙；(工间)休息 (初中英语单词)
- desperate [´despərit] a.拼死的；绝望的 (初中英语单词)
- surprising [sə´praiziŋ] a.惊人的；意外的 (初中英语单词)
- insult [in´sʌlt, ´insʌlt] n.&vt.侮辱；损害 (初中英语单词)
- advanced [əd´vɑ:nst] a.先进的；高级的 (初中英语单词)
- calmly [´kɑ:mli] ad.平静地；无风浪地 (初中英语单词)
- doorway [´dɔ:wei] n.门口 (初中英语单词)
- breath [breθ] n.呼吸；气息 (初中英语单词)
- breeze [bri:z] n.微风；不费力的事 (初中英语单词)
- emotion [i´məuʃən] n.感情；情绪；激动 (初中英语单词)
- gratitude [´grætitju:d] n.感激，感谢 (初中英语单词)
- partner [´pɑ:tnə] n.伙伴 v.同....合作 (初中英语单词)
- instinct [´instiŋkt] n.本能；直觉；天资 (初中英语单词)
- impulse [´impʌls] n.推动(力)；冲动；刺激 (初中英语单词)
- anxious [´æŋkʃəs] a.担忧的；渴望的 (初中英语单词)
- waiting [´weitiŋ] n.等候；伺候 (初中英语单词)
- whisper [´wispə] v.耳语 n.低语；沙沙声 (初中英语单词)
- savage [´sævidʒ] a.野蛮的 n.蛮人 (初中英语单词)
- secretly [´si:kritli] ad.秘密地；隐蔽地 (高中英语单词)
- monstrous [´mɔnstrəs] a.怪异的；庞大的 (高中英语单词)
- repeated [ri´pi:tid] a.反复的；重复的 (高中英语单词)
- penetrate [´penitreit] v.贯穿；穿透；渗透 (高中英语单词)
- assurance [ə´ʃuərəns] n.保证；自信；信任 (高中英语单词)
- unexpected [ʌniks´pektid] a.突然的；意外的 (高中英语单词)
- rebuke [ri´bju:k] vt.&n.指责；训斥 (高中英语单词)
- intensity [in´tensiti] a.激烈；强度；深度 (高中英语单词)
- violently [´vaiələntli] ad.强暴地；猛烈地 (高中英语单词)
- stillness [´stilnis] n.不动；无声，寂静 (高中英语单词)
- thoughtfully [´θɔ:tfuli] ad.深思地；体贴地 (高中英语单词)
- uneasy [ʌn´i:zi] a.不安的；不自在的 (高中英语单词)
- disagreeable [,disə´gri:əbl] a.令人不悦的 (高中英语单词)
- caress [kə´res] n.&vt.爱抚；接吻 (高中英语单词)
- torment [´tɔ:ment] vt.(使)痛苦，折磨 (高中英语单词)
- warning [´wɔ:niŋ] n.警告；前兆 a.预告的 (英语四级单词)
- vaguely [´veigli] ad.含糊地，暖昧地 (英语四级单词)
- impatience [im´peiʃəns] n.不耐烦，急躁 (英语四级单词)
- sorrowful [´sɔrəuful] a.悲伤的，使人伤心的 (英语四级单词)
- trying [´traiiŋ] a.难堪的；费劲的 (英语四级单词)
- passionately [´pæʃənitli] ad.多情地；热烈地 (英语四级单词)
- virtuous [´və:tjuəs] a.道德的；善良的 (英语四级单词)
- unlucky [ʌn´lʌki] a.倒霉的，不幸的 (英语四级单词)
- rubbish [´rʌbiʃ] n.垃圾；碎屑；废话 (英语四级单词)
- mournful [´mɔ:nful] a.令人沮丧的 (英语四级单词)
- holding [´həuldiŋ] n.保持，固定，存储 (英语六级单词)
- calling [´kɔ:liŋ] n.点名；职业；欲望 (英语六级单词)
- dejected [di´dʒektid] a.垂头丧气的 (英语六级单词)
- concave [,kɔn´keiv] a.凹(面)的 n.凹面(物) (英语六级单词)
- independently [,indi´pendəntli] ad.独立地；自由地 (英语六级单词)
- speaking [´spi:kiŋ] n.说话 a.发言的 (英语六级单词)
- despairing [di´speəriŋ] a.感到绝望的 (英语六级单词)
- infernal [in´fə:nəl] a.地狱的，恶魔似的 (英语六级单词)
- ferocious [fə´rəuʃəs] a.凶猛的；残忍的 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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