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An Outcast of the Islands-Part42_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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Eh? I believe she has lost the little wits she had and is crying

night and day since I began to prepare her for the news of her



husband's death--as Lingard told me. I wonder what she thinks.

It's just like father to make me invent all these stories for



nothing at all. Out of kindness. Kindness! Damn! . . . She

isn't deaf, surely.



He knocked again, then said in a friendly tone, grinning

benevolently at the closed door--



"It's me, Mrs. Willems. I want to speak to you. I have . . .

have . . . important news. . . ."



"What is it?"

"News," repeated Almayer, distinctly. "News about your husband.



Your husband! . . . Damn him!" he added, under his breath.

He heard a stumbling rush inside. Things were overturned.



Joanna's agitated voice cried--

"News! What? What? I am coming out."



"No," shouted Almayer. "Put on some clothes, Mrs. Willems, and

let me in. It's . . . very confidential. You have a candle,



haven't you?"

She was knocking herself about blindlyamongst the furniture in



that room. The candlestick was upset. Matches were struck

ineffectually. The matchbox fell. He heard her drop on her



knees and grope over the floor while she kept on moaning in

maddened distraction.



"Oh, my God! News! Yes . . . yes. . . . Ah! where . . . where .

. . candle. Oh, my God! . . . I can't find . . . Don't go



away, for the love of Heaven . . ."

"I don't want to go away," said Almayer, impatiently, through the



keyhole; "but look sharp. It's coni . . . it's pressing."

He stamped his foot lightly, waiting with his hand on the



door-handle. He thought anxiously: The woman's a perfect idiot.

Why should I go away? She will be off her head. She will never



catch my meaning. She's too stupid.

She was moving now inside the room hurriedly and in silence. He



waited. There was a moment of perfect stillness in there, and

then she spoke in an exhausted voice, in words that were shaped



out of an expiring sigh--out of a sigh light and profound, like

words breathed out by a woman before going off into a dead



faint--

"Come in."



He pushed the door. Ali, coming through the passage with an

armful of pillows and blankets pressed to his breast high up



under his chin, caught sight of his master before the door closed

behind him. He was so astonished that he dropped his bundle and



stood staring at the door for a long time. He heard the voice of

his master talking. Talking to that Sirani woman! Who was she?



He had never thought about that really. He speculated for a

while hazily upon things in general. She was a Sirani woman--and



ugly. He made a disdainful grimace, picked up the bedding, and

went about his work, slinging the hammock between two uprights of



the verandah. . . . Those things did not concern him. She was

ugly, and brought here by the Rajah Laut, and his master spoke to



her in the night. Very well. He, Ali, had his work to do.

Sling the hammock--go round and see that the watchmen were



awake--take a look at the moorings of the boats, at the padlock

of the big storehouse--then go to sleep. To sleep! He shivered



pleasantly. He leaned with both arms over his master's hammock

and fell into a light doze.



A scream, unexpected, piercing--a screambeginning at once in the

highest pitch of a woman's voice and then cut short, so short



that it suggested the swift work of death--caused Ali to jump on




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