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- Джозеф Конрад
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- Стр. 242/274
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He
was
attracted
by
Giselle
,
with
her
candid
gaze
and
white
throat
,
pliable
,
silent
,
fond
of
excitement
under
her
quiet
indolence
;
whereas
Linda
,
with
her
intense
,
passionately
pale
face
,
energetic
,
all
fire
and
words
,
touched
with
gloom
and
scorn
,
a
chip
of
the
old
block
,
true
daughter
of
the
austere
republican
,
but
with
Teresa
's
voice
,
inspired
him
with
a
deep-seated
mistrust
.
Moreover
,
the
poor
girl
could
not
conceal
her
love
for
Gian
'
Battista
.
He
could
see
it
would
be
violent
,
exacting
,
suspicious
,
uncompromising
--
like
her
soul
.
Giselle
,
by
her
fair
but
warm
beauty
,
by
the
surface
placidity
of
her
nature
holding
a
promise
of
submissiveness
,
by
the
charm
of
her
girlish
mysteriousness
,
excited
his
passion
and
allayed
his
fears
as
to
the
future
.
His
absences
from
Sulaco
were
long
.
On
returning
from
the
longest
of
them
,
he
made
out
lighters
loaded
with
blocks
of
stone
lying
under
the
cliff
of
the
Great
Isabel
;
cranes
and
scaffolding
above
;
workmen
's
figures
moving
about
,
and
a
small
lighthouse
already
rising
from
its
foundations
on
the
edge
of
the
cliff
.
At
this
unexpected
,
undreamt-of
,
startling
sight
,
he
thought
himself
lost
irretrievably
.
What
could
save
him
from
detection
now
?
Nothing
!
He
was
struck
with
amazed
dread
at
this
turn
of
chance
,
that
would
kindle
a
far-reaching
light
upon
the
only
secret
spot
of
his
life
;
that
life
whose
very
essence
,
value
,
reality
,
consisted
in
its
reflection
from
the
admiring
eyes
of
men
.
All
of
it
but
that
thing
which
was
beyond
common
comprehension
;
which
stood
between
him
and
the
power
that
hears
and
gives
effect
to
the
evil
intention
of
curses
.
It
was
dark
.
Not
every
man
had
such
a
darkness
.
And
they
were
going
to
put
a
light
there
.
A
light
!
He
saw
it
shining
upon
disgrace
,
poverty
,
contempt
.
Somebody
was
sure
to
...
Perhaps
somebody
had
already
...
.
The
incomparable
Nostromo
,
the
Capataz
,
the
respected
and
feared
Captain
Fidanza
,
the
unquestioned
patron
of
secret
societies
,
a
republican
like
old
Giorgio
,
and
a
revolutionist
at
heart
(
but
in
another
manner
)
,
was
on
the
point
of
jumping
overboard
from
the
deck
of
his
own
schooner
.
That
man
,
subjective
almost
to
insanity
,
looked
suicide
deliberately
in
the
face
.
But
he
never
lost
his
head
.
He
was
checked
by
the
thought
that
this
was
no
escape
.
He
imagined
himself
dead
,
and
the
disgrace
,
the
shame
going
on
.
Or
,
rather
,
properly
speaking
,
he
could
not
imagine
himself
dead
.
He
was
possessed
too
strongly
by
the
sense
of
his
own
existence
,
a
thing
of
infinite
duration
in
its
changes
,
to
grasp
the
notion
of
finality
.
The
earth
goes
on
for
ever
.
And
he
was
courageous
.
It
was
a
corrupt
courage
,
but
it
was
as
good
for
his
purposes
as
the
other
kind
.
He
sailed
close
to
the
cliff
of
the
Great
Isabel
,
throwing
a
penetrating
glance
from
the
deck
at
the
mouth
of
the
ravine
,
tangled
in
an
undisturbed
growth
of
bushes
.
He
sailed
close
enough
to
exchange
hails
with
the
workmen
,
shading
their
eyes
on
the
edge
of
the
sheer
drop
of
the
cliff
overhung
by
the
jib-head
of
a
powerful
crane
.
He
perceived
that
none
of
them
had
any
occasion
even
to
approach
the
ravine
where
the
silver
lay
hidden
;
let
alone
to
enter
it
.
In
the
harbour
he
learned
that
no
one
slept
on
the
island
.
The
labouring
gangs
returned
to
port
every
evening
,
singing
chorus
songs
in
the
empty
lighters
towed
by
a
harbour
tug
.
For
the
moment
he
had
nothing
to
fear
.
But
afterwards
?
he
asked
himself
.
Later
,
when
a
keeper
came
to
live
in
the
cottage
that
was
being
built
some
hundred
and
fifty
yards
back
from
the
low
lighttower
,
and
four
hundred
or
so
from
the
dark
,
shaded
,
jungly
ravine
,
containing
the
secret
of
his
safety
,
of
his
influence
,
of
his
magnificence
,
of
his
power
over
the
future
,
of
his
defiance
of
ill-luck
,
of
every
possible
betrayal
from
rich
and
poor
alike
--
what
then
?
He
could
never
shake
off
the
treasure
.
His
audacity
,
greater
than
that
of
other
men
,
had
welded
that
vein
of
silver
into
his
life
.
And
the
feeling
of
fearful
and
ardent
subjection
,
the
feeling
of
his
slavery
--
so
irremediable
and
profound
that
often
,
in
his
thoughts
,
he
compared
himself
to
the
legendary
Gringos
,
neither
dead
nor
alive
,
bound
down
to
their
conquest
of
unlawful
wealth
on
Azuera
--
weighed
heavily
on
the
independent
Captain
Fidanza
,
owner
and
master
of
a
coasting
schooner
,
whose
smart
appearance
(
and
fabulous
good-luck
in
trading
)
were
so
well
known
along
the
western
seaboard
of
a
vast
continent
.
Fiercely
whiskered
and
grave
,
a
shade
less
supple
in
his
walk
,
the
vigour
and
symmetry
of
his
powerful
limbs
lost
in
the
vulgarity
of
a
brown
tweed
suit
,
made
by
Jews
in
the
slums
of
London
,
and
sold
by
the
clothing
department
of
the
Compania
Anzani
,
Captain
Fidanza
was
seen
in
the
streets
of
Sulaco
attending
to
his
business
,
as
usual
,
that
trip
.
And
,
as
usual
,
he
allowed
it
to
get
about
that
he
had
made
a
great
profit
on
his
cargo
.
It
was
a
cargo
of
salt
fish
,
and
Lent
was
approaching
.
He
was
seen
in
tramcars
going
to
and
fro
between
the
town
and
the
harbour
;
he
talked
with
people
in
a
cafe
or
two
in
his
measured
,
steady
voice
.
Captain
Fidanza
was
seen
.
The
generation
that
would
know
nothing
of
the
famous
ride
to
Cayta
was
not
born
yet
.
Nostromo
,
the
miscalled
Capataz
de
Cargadores
,
had
made
for
himself
,
under
his
rightful
name
,
another
public
existence
,
but
modified
by
the
new
conditions
,
less
picturesque
,
more
difficult
to
keep
up
in
the
increased
size
and
varied
population
of
Sulaco
,
the
progressive
capital
of
the
Occidental
Republic
.
