It struck him as
funny. A dead Malay; he had seen many dead Malays without any emotion;
and now he felt inclined to weep, but it was over the fate of a white man
he knew; a man that fell over a deep precipice and did not die. He
seemed somehow to himself to be standing on one side, a little way off,
looking at a certain Almayer who was in great trouble. Poor, poor
fellow! Why doesn't he cut his throat? He wished to encourage him; he
was very anxious to see him lying dead over that other corpse. Why does
he not die and end this suffering? He groaned aloud unconsciously and
started with affright at the sound of his own voice. Was he going mad?
Terrified by the thought he turned away and ran towards his house
repeating to himself, I am not going mad; of course not, no, no, no! He
tried to keep a firm hold of the idea.
Not mad, not mad. He stumbled as he ran blindly up the steps repeating
fast and ever faster those words wherein seemed to lie his salvation. He
saw Nina standing there, and wished to say something to her, but could
not remember what, in his extreme anxiety not to forget that he was not
going mad, which he still kept repeating mentally as he ran round the
table, till he stumbled against one of the arm-chairs and dropped into it
exhausted.
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