Nostromo Joseph Conrad (best large ereader .TXT) 📖

greatest man that ever lived. A man of the people, too⁠—a sailor. I may let another keep a roof over my head. Si⁠ ⁠… I am old. I may let her. Life lasts too long sometimes.”

“And she herself may not have a roof over her head before many days are out, unless I⁠ ⁠… What do you say? Am I to keep a roof over her head? Am I to try⁠—and save all the Blancos together with her?”

“You shall do it,” said old Viola in a strong voice. “You shall do it as my son would have⁠ ⁠…”

“Thy son, viejo!⁠ ⁠… There never has been a man like thy son. Ha, I must try⁠ ⁠… But what if it were only a part of the curse to lure me on?⁠ ⁠… And so she called upon me to save⁠—and then⁠—?”

“She spoke no more.” The heroic follower of Garibaldi, at the thought of the eternal stillness and silence fallen upon the shrouded form stretched out on the bed upstairs, averted his face and raised his hand to his furrowed brow. “She was dead before I could seize her hands,” he stammered out, pitifully.

Before the wide eyes of the capataz, staring at the doorway of the dark staircase, floated the shape of the Great Isabel, like a strange ship in distress, freighted with enormous wealth and the solitary life of a man. It was impossible for him to do anything. He could only hold his tongue, since there was no one to trust. The treasure would be lost, probably⁠—unless Decoud⁠ ⁠… And his thought came abruptly to an end. He perceived that he could not imagine in the least what Decoud was likely to do.

Old Viola had not stirred. And the motionless capataz dropped his long, soft eyelashes, which gave to the upper part of his fierce, black-whiskered face a touch of feminine ingenuousness. The silence had lasted for a long time.

“God rest her soul!” he murmured, gloomily.

X

The next day was quiet in the morning, except for the faint sound of firing to the northward, in the direction of Los Hatos. Captain Mitchell had listened to it from his balcony anxiously. The phrase, “In my delicate position as the only consular agent then in the port, everything, sir, everything was a just cause for anxiety,” had its place in the more or less stereotyped relation of the “historical events” which for the next few years was at the service of distinguished strangers visiting Sulaco. The mention of the dignity and neutrality of the flag, so difficult to preserve in his position, “right in the thick of these events between the lawlessness of that piratical villain Sotillo and the more regularly established but scarcely less atrocious tyranny of His Excellency Don Pedro Montero,” came next in order. Captain Mitchell was not the man to enlarge upon mere dangers much. But he insisted that it was a memorable day. On that day, towards dusk, he had seen “that poor fellow of mine⁠—Nostromo. The sailor whom I discovered, and, I may say, made, sir. The man of the famous ride to Cayta, sir. An historical event, sir!”

Regarded by the O.S.N. Company as an old and faithful servant, Captain Mitchell was allowed to attain the term of his usefulness in ease and dignity at the head of the enormously extended service. The augmentation of the establishment, with its crowds of clerks, an office in town, the old office in the harbour, the division into departments⁠—passenger, cargo, lighterage, and so on⁠—secured a greater leisure for his last years in the regenerated Sulaco, the capital of the Occidental Republic. Liked by the natives for his good nature and the formality of his manner, self-important and simple, known for years as a “friend of our country,” he felt himself a personality of mark in the town. Getting up early for a turn in the marketplace while the gigantic shadow of Higuerota was still lying upon the fruit and flower stalls piled up with masses of gorgeous colouring, attending easily to current affairs, welcomed in houses, greeted by ladies on the alameda, with his entry into all the clubs and a footing in the Casa Gould, he led his privileged old bachelor, man-about-town existence with great comfort and solemnity. But on mail-boat days he was down at the Harbour Office at an early hour, with his own gig, manned by a smart crew in white and blue, ready to dash off and board the ship directly she showed her bows between the harbour heads.

It would be into the Harbour Office that he would lead some privileged passenger he had brought off in his own boat, and invite him to take a seat for a moment while he signed a few papers. And Captain Mitchell, seating himself at his desk, would keep on talking hospitably⁠—

“There isn’t much time if you are to see everything in a day. We shall be off in a moment. We’ll have lunch at the Amarilla Club⁠—though I belong also to the Anglo-American⁠—mining engineers and business men, don’t you know⁠—and to the Mirliflores as well, a new club⁠—English, French, Italians, all sorts⁠—lively young fellows mostly, who wanted to pay a compliment to an old resident, sir. But we’ll lunch at the Amarilla. Interest you, I fancy. Real thing of the country. Men of the first families. The president of the Occidental Republic himself belongs to it, sir. Fine old bishop with a broken nose in the patio. Remarkable piece of statuary, I believe. Cavaliere Parrochetti⁠—you know Parrochetti, the famous Italian sculptor⁠—was working here for two years⁠—thought very highly of our old bishop⁠ ⁠… There! I am very much at your service now.”

Proud of his experience, penetrated by the sense of historical importance of men, events, and buildings, he talked pompously in jerky periods, with slight sweeps of his short, thick arm, letting nothing “escape the attention” of his privileged captive.

“Lot of building going on, as you observe. Before the Separation it was a plain of burnt