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- Джозеф Конрад
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- Ностромо
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- Стр. 213/274
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The
tiny
piece
of
wood
flamed
up
quite
blindingly
at
the
end
of
his
fingers
,
raised
above
his
blinking
eyes
.
A
concentrated
glare
fell
upon
the
leonine
white
head
of
old
Giorgio
against
the
black
fire-place
--
showed
him
leaning
forward
in
a
chair
in
staring
immobility
,
surrounded
,
overhung
,
by
great
masses
of
shadow
,
his
legs
crossed
,
his
cheek
in
his
hand
,
an
empty
pipe
in
the
corner
of
his
mouth
.
It
seemed
hours
before
he
attempted
to
turn
his
face
;
at
the
very
moment
the
match
went
out
,
and
he
disappeared
,
overwhelmed
by
the
shadows
,
as
if
the
walls
and
roof
of
the
desolate
house
had
collapsed
upon
his
white
head
in
ghostly
silence
.
Nostromo
heard
him
stir
and
utter
dispassionately
the
words
--
"
It
may
have
been
a
vision
.
"
"
No
,
"
he
said
,
softly
.
"
It
is
no
vision
,
old
man
.
"
A
strong
chest
voice
asked
in
the
dark
--
"
Is
that
you
I
hear
,
Giovann
'
Battista
?
"
"
Si
,
viejo
.
Steady
.
Not
so
loud
.
"
After
his
release
by
Sotillo
,
Giorgio
Viola
,
attended
to
the
very
door
by
the
good-natured
engineer-in-chief
,
had
reentered
his
house
,
which
he
had
been
made
to
leave
almost
at
the
very
moment
of
his
wife
's
death
.
All
was
still
.
The
lamp
above
was
burning
.
He
nearly
called
out
to
her
by
name
;
and
the
thought
that
no
call
from
him
would
ever
again
evoke
the
answer
of
her
voice
,
made
him
drop
heavily
into
the
chair
with
a
loud
groan
,
wrung
out
by
the
pain
as
of
a
keen
blade
piercing
his
breast
.
The
rest
of
the
night
he
made
no
sound
.
The
darkness
turned
to
grey
,
and
on
the
colourless
,
clear
,
glassy
dawn
the
jagged
sierra
stood
out
flat
and
opaque
,
as
if
cut
out
of
paper
.
The
enthusiastic
and
severe
soul
of
Giorgio
Viola
,
sailor
,
champion
of
oppressed
humanity
,
enemy
of
kings
,
and
,
by
the
grace
of
Mrs.
Gould
,
hotel-keeper
of
the
Sulaco
harbour
,
had
descended
into
the
open
abyss
of
desolation
amongst
the
shattered
vestiges
of
his
past
.
He
remembered
his
wooing
between
two
campaigns
,
a
single
short
week
in
the
season
of
gathering
olives
.
Nothing
approached
the
grave
passion
of
that
time
but
the
deep
,
passionate
sense
of
his
bereavement
.
He
discovered
all
the
extent
of
his
dependence
upon
the
silenced
voice
of
that
woman
.
It
was
her
voice
that
he
missed
.
Abstracted
,
busy
,
lost
in
inward
contemplation
,
he
seldom
looked
at
his
wife
in
those
later
years
.
The
thought
of
his
girls
was
a
matter
of
concern
,
not
of
consolation
.
It
was
her
voice
that
he
would
miss
.
And
he
remembered
the
other
child
--
the
little
boy
who
died
at
sea
.
Ah
!
a
man
would
have
been
something
to
lean
upon
.
And
,
alas
!
even
Gian
'
Battista
--
he
of
whom
,
and
of
Linda
,
his
wife
had
spoken
to
him
so
anxiously
before
she
dropped
off
into
her
last
sleep
on
earth
,
he
on
whom
she
had
called
aloud
to
save
the
children
,
just
before
she
died
--
even
he
was
dead
!
