Human nature being what it is, having a silly side to it as well as
a mean side, there were not a few who pretended to be indignant on no
better authority than a general propensity to believe every evil report;
and a good many others who found it simply funny to call Heyst the
Spider--behind his back, of course. He was as serenely unconscious of
this as of his several other nicknames. But soon people found other
things to say of Heyst; not long afterwards he came very much to the
fore in larger affairs. He blossomed out into something definite. He
filled the public eye as the manager on the spot of the Tropical Belt
Coal Company with offices in London and Amsterdam, and other things
about it that sounded and looked grandiose. The offices in the two
capitals may have consisted--and probably did--of one room in each;
but at that distance, out East there, all this had an air. We were more
puzzled than dazzled, it is true; but even the most sober-minded among
us began to think that there was something in it. The Tesmans appointed
agents, a contract for government mail-boats secured, the era of steam
beginning for the islands--a great stride forward--Heyst's stride!
And all this sprang from the meeting of the cornered Morrison and of the
wandering Heyst, which may or may not have been the direct outcome of a
prayer. Morrison was not an imbecile, but he seemed to have got himself
into a state of remarkable haziness as to his exact position towards
Heyst. For, if Heyst had been sent with money in his pocket by a direct
decree of the Almighty in answer to Morrison's prayer then there was no
reason for special gratitude, since obviously he could not help himself.
But Morrison believed both, in the efficacy of prayer and in the
infinite goodness of Heyst. He thanked God with awed sincerity for his
mercy, and could not thank Heyst enough for the service rendered as
between man and man. In this (highly creditable) tangle of strong
feelings Morrison's gratitude insisted on Heyst's partnership in the
great discovery. Ultimately we heard that Morrison had gone home through
the Suez Canal in order to push the magnificent coal idea personally
in London. He parted from his brig and disappeared from our ken; but
we heard that he had written a letter or letters to Heyst, saying that
London was cold and gloomy; that he did not like either the men or
things, that he was "as lonely as a crow in a strange country." In
truth, he pined after the Capricorn--I don't mean only the tropic; I
mean the ship too. Finally he went into Dorsetshire to see his people,
caught a bad cold, and died with extraordinary precipitation in the
bosom of his appalled family. Whether his exertions in the City of
London had enfeebled his vitality I don't know; but I believe it was
this visit which put life into the coal idea. Be it as it may, the
Tropical Belt Coal Company was born very shortly after Morrison,
the victim of gratitude and his native climate, had gone to join his
forefathers in a Dorsetshire churchyard.
Heyst was immensely shocked. He got the news in the Moluccas through the
Tesmans, and then disappeared for a time. It appears that he stayed with
a Dutch government doctor in Amboyna, a friend of his who looked after
him for a bit in his bungalow. He became visible again rather suddenly,
his eyes sunk in his head, and with a sort of guarded attitude, as if
afraid someone would reproach him with the death of Morrison.
Naive Heyst! As if anybody would . . . Nobody amongst us had any
interest in men who went home. They were all right; they did not count
any more. Going to Europe was nearly as final as going to Heaven. It
removed a man from the world of hazard and adventure.
As a matter of fact, many of us did not hear of this death till months
afterwards--from Schomberg, who disliked Heyst gratuitously and made up
a piece of sinister whispered gossip:
"That's what comes of having anything to do with that fellow. He
squeezes you dry like a lemon, then chucks you out--sends you home to
die. Take warning by Morrison!"
Of course, we laughed at the innkeeper's suggestions of black mystery.
Several of us heard that Heyst was prepared to go to Europe himself,
to push on his coal enterprise personally; but he never went. It wasn't
necessary. The company was formed without him, and his nomination of
manager in the tropics came out to him by post.
From the first he had selected Samburan, or Round Island, for the
central station. Some copies of the prospectus issued in Europe, having
found their way out East, were passed from hand to hand. We greatly
admired the map which accompanied them for the edification of the
shareholders. On it Samburan was represented as the central spot of the
Eastern Hemisphere with its name engraved in enormous capitals. Heavy
lines radiated from it in all directions through the tropics, figuring a
mysterious and effective star--lines of influence or lines of distance,
or something of that sort. Company promoters have an imagination of
their own. There's no more romantic temperament on earth than the
temperament of a company promoter. Engineers came out, coolies were
imported, bungalows were put up on Samburan, a gallery driven into the
hillside, and actually some coal got out.
These manifestations shook the soberest minds. For a time everybody in
the islands was talking of the Tropical Belt Coal, and even those who
smiled quietly to themselves were only hiding their uneasiness. Oh, yes;
it had come, and anybody could see what would be the consequences--the
end of the individual trader, smothered under a great invasion of
steamers. We could not afford to buy steamers. Not we. And Heyst was the
"You know, Heyst, enchanted Heyst."
"Oh, come! He has been no better than a loafer around here as far back
as any of us can remember."
"Yes, he said he was looking for facts. Well, he's got hold of one that
will do for all of us," commented a bitter voice.
"That's what they call development--and be hanged to it!" muttered
Never was Heyst talked about so much in the tropical belt before.
"Isn't he a Swedish baron or something?"
"He, a baron? Get along with you!"
For my part I haven't the slightest doubt that he was. While he was
still drifting amongst the islands, enigmatical and disregarded like an
insignificant ghost, he told me so himself on a certain occasion. It
was a long time before he materialized in this alarming way into the
destroyer of our little industry--Heyst the Enemy.
It became the fashion with a good many to speak of Heyst as the Enemy.
He was very concrete, very visible now. He was rushing all over the
Archipelago, jumping in and out of local mail-packets as if they had
been tram-cars, here, there, and everywhere--organizing with all his
might. This was no mooning about. This was business. And this sudden
display of purposeful energy shook the incredulity of the most
sceptical more than any scientific demonstration of the value of these
coal-outcrops could have done. It was impressive. Schomberg was the
only one who resisted the infection. Big, manly in a portly style,
and profusely bearded, with a glass of beer in his thick paw, he would
approach some table where the topic of the hour was being discussed,
would listen for a moment, and then come out with his invariable
"All this is very well, gentlemen; but he can't throw any of his
coal-dust in my eyes. There's nothing in it. Why, there can't be
anything in it. A fellow like that for manager? Phoo!"
Was it the clairvoyance of imbecile hatred, or mere stupid tenacity of
opinion, which ends sometimes by scoring against the world in a most
astonishing manner? Most of us can remember instances of triumphant
folly; and that ass Schomberg triumphed. The T.B.C. Company went into
liquidation, as I began by telling you. The Tesmans washed their hands
of it. The Government cancelled those famous contracts, the talk died
out, and presently it was remarked here and there that Heyst had faded
completely away. He had become invisible, as in those early days when
he used to make a bolt clear out of sight in his attempts to break away
from the enchantment of "these isles," either in the direction of New
Guinea or in the direction of Saigon--to cannibals or to cafes. The
enchanted Heyst! Had he at last broken the spell? Had he died? We were
too indifferent to wonder overmuch. You see we had on the whole liked
him well enough. And liking is not sufficient to keep going the interest
one takes in a human being. With hatred, apparently, it is otherwise.
Schomberg couldn't forget Heyst. The keen, manly Teutonic creature was a
good hater. A fool often is.
"Good evening, gentlemen. Have you got everything you want? So! Good!
You see? What was I always telling you? Aha! There was nothing in it. I
knew it. But what I would like to know is what became of that--Swede."
He put a stress on the word Swede as if it meant scoundrel. He detested
Scandinavians generally. Why? Goodness only knows. A fool like that is
unfathomable. He continued:
"It's five months or more since I have spoken to anybody who has seen
As I have said, we were not much interested; but Schomberg, of course,
could not understand that. He was grotesquely dense. Whenever three
people came together in his hotel, he took good care that Heyst should
be with them.
"I hope the fellow did not go and drown himself," he would add with a
comical earnestness that ought to have made us shudder; only our crowd
was superficial, and did not apprehend the psychology of this pious
"Why? Heyst isn't in debt to you for drinks is he?" somebody asked him
once with shallow scorn.
"Drinks! Oh, dear no!"
The innkeeper was not mercenary. Teutonic temperament seldom is. But he
put on a sinister expression to tell us that Heyst had not paid perhaps
three visits altogether to his "establishment." This was Heyst's crime,
for which Schomberg wished him nothing less than a long and tormented
existence. Observe the Teutonic sense of proportion and nice forgiving
At last, one afternoon, Schomberg was seen approaching a group of his
customers. He was obviously in high glee. He squared his manly chest
with great importance.
"Gentlemen, I have news of him. Who? why, that Swede. He is still
on Samburan. He's never been away from it. The company is gone,
the engineers are gone, the clerks are gone, the coolies are gone,
everything's gone; but there he sticks. Captain Davidson, coming by from
the westward, saw him with his own eyes. Something white on the wharf,
so he steamed in and went ashore in a small boat. Heyst, right enough.
Put a book into his pocket, always very polite. Been strolling on
the wharf and reading. 'I remain in possession here,' he told Captain
Davidson. What I want to know is what he gets to eat there. A piece of
dried fish now and then--what? That's coming down pretty low for a man
who turned up his nose at my table d'hote!"
He winked with immense malice. A bell started ringing, and he led the
way to the dining-room as if into a temple, very grave, with the air
of a benefactor of mankind. His ambition was to feed it at a profitable
price, and his delight was to talk of it behind its back. It was very
characteristic of him to gloat over the idea of Heyst having nothing
decent to eat.
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