Almayers Folly | Page 8

the dusty door, which looked as if it had not
been opened for a very long time. Close to the other side wall stood a
bent-wood rocking-chair, and by the table and about the verandah four
wooden armchairs straggled forlornly, as if ashamed of their shabby
surroundings. A heap of common mats lay in one corner, with an old
hammock slung diagonally above. In the other corner, his head
wrapped in a piece of red calico, huddled into a shapeless heap, slept a
Malay, one of Almayer's domestic slaves--"my own people," he used to

call them. A numerous and representative assembly of moths were
holding high revels round the lamp to the spirited music of swarming
mosquitoes. Under the palm-leaf thatch lizards raced on the beams
calling softly. A monkey, chained to one of the verandah
supports--retired for the night under the eaves-- peered and grinned at
Almayer, as it swung to one of the bamboo roof sticks and caused a
shower of dust and bits of dried leaves to settle on the shabby table.
The floor was uneven, with many withered plants and dried earth
scattered about. A general air of squalid neglect pervaded the place.
Great red stains on the floor and walls testified to frequent and
indiscriminate betel-nut chewing. The light breeze from the river
swayed gently the tattered blinds, sending from the woods opposite a
faint and sickly perfume as of decaying flowers.
Under Almayer's heavy tread the boards of the verandah creaked loudly.
The sleeper in the corner moved uneasily, muttering indistinct words.
There was a slight rustle behind the curtained doorway, and a soft voice
asked in Malay, "Is it you, father?"
"Yes, Nina. I am hungry. Is everybody asleep in this house?"
Almayer spoke jovially and dropped with a contented sigh into the
armchair nearest to the table. Nina Almayer came through the curtained
doorway followed by an old Malay woman, who busied herself in
setting upon the table a plateful of rice and fish, a jar of water, and a
bottle half full of genever. After carefully placing before her master a
cracked glass tumbler and a tin spoon she went away noiselessly. Nina
stood by the table, one hand lightly resting on its edge, the other
hanging listlessly by her side. Her face turned towards the outer
darkness, through which her dreamy eyes seemed to see some
entrancing picture, wore a look of impatient expectancy. She was tall
for a half-caste, with the correct profile of the father, modified and
strengthened by the squareness of the lower part of the face inherited
from her maternal ancestors--the Sulu pirates. Her firm mouth, with the
lips slightly parted and disclosing a gleam of white teeth, put a vague
suggestion of ferocity into the impatient expression of her features.
And yet her dark and perfect eyes had all the tender softness of

expression common to Malay women, but with a gleam of superior
intelligence; they looked gravely, wide open and steady, as if facing
something invisible to all other eyes, while she stood there all in white,
straight, flexible, graceful, unconscious of herself, her low but broad
forehead crowned with a shining mass of long black hair that fell in
heavy tresses over her shoulders, and made her pale olive complexion
look paler still by the contrast of its coal-black hue.
Almayer attacked his rice greedily, but after a few mouthfuls he paused,
spoon in hand, and looked at his daughter curiously.
"Did you hear a boat pass about half an hour ago Nina?" he asked.
The girl gave him a quick glance, and moving away from the light
stood with her back to the table.
"No," she said, slowly.
"There was a boat. At last! Dain himself; and he went on to Lakamba. I
know it, for he told me so. I spoke to him, but he would not come here
to-night. Will come to-morrow, he said."
He swallowed another spoonful, then said--
"I am almost happy to-night, Nina. I can see the end of a long road, and
it leads us away from this miserable swamp. We shall soon get away
from here, I and you, my dear little girl, and then --"
He rose from the table and stood looking fixedly before him as if
contemplating some enchanting vision.
"And then," he went on, "we shall be happy, you and I. Live rich and
respected far from here, and forget this life, and all this struggle, and all
this misery!"
He approached his daughter and passed his hand caressingly over her
hair.
"It is bad to have to trust a Malay," he said, "but I must own that this

Dain is a perfect gentleman--a perfect gentleman," he repeated.
"Did you ask him to come here, father?" inquired Nina, not looking at
him.
"Well, of