She was
afraid of the hotel-keeper, who, in the daytime, taking advantage of the
fact that she lived in the hotel itself, and not in the Pavilion with
the other "artists" prowled round her, mute, hungry, portentous behind
his great beard, or else assailed her in quiet corners and empty
passages with deep, mysterious murmurs from behind, which, not
withstanding their clear import, sounded horribly insane somehow.
The contrast of Heyst's quiet, polished manner gave her special delight
and filled her with admiration. She had never seen anything like that
before. If she had, perhaps, known kindness in her life, she had never
met the forms of simple courtesy. She was interested by it as a very
novel experience, not very intelligible, but distinctly pleasurable.
"I tell you they are too many for me," she repeated, sometimes
recklessly, but more often shaking her head with ominous dejection.
She had, of course, no money at all. The quantities of "black men" all
about frightened her. She really had no definite idea where she was on
the surface of the globe. The orchestra was generally taken from the
steamer to some hotel, and kept shut up there till it was time to go on
board another steamer. She could not remember the names she heard.
"How do you call this place again?" she used to ask Heyst.
"Sourabaya," he would say distinctly, and would watch the discouragement
at the outlandish sound coming into her eyes, which were fastened on his
face.
Pages:
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111