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- Джозеф Конрад
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- Стр. 48/274
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"
And
I
have
sat
alone
at
night
with
my
revolver
in
the
Company
's
warehouse
time
and
again
by
the
side
of
that
other
Englishman
's
heap
of
silver
,
guarding
it
as
though
it
had
been
my
own
.
"
Viola
seemed
lost
in
thought
.
"
It
is
a
great
thing
for
me
,
"
he
repeated
again
,
as
if
to
himself
.
"
It
is
,
"
agreed
the
magnificent
Capataz
de
Cargadores
,
calmly
.
"
Listen
,
Vecchio
--
go
in
and
bring
me
,
out
a
cigar
,
but
do
n't
look
for
it
in
my
room
.
There
's
nothing
there
.
"
Viola
stepped
into
the
cafe
and
came
out
directly
,
still
absorbed
in
his
idea
,
and
tendered
him
a
cigar
,
mumbling
thoughtfully
in
his
moustache
,
"
Children
growing
up
--
and
girls
,
too
!
Girls
!
"
He
sighed
and
fell
silent
.
"
What
,
only
one
?
"
remarked
Nostromo
,
looking
down
with
a
sort
of
comic
inquisitiveness
at
the
unconscious
old
man
.
"
No
matter
,
"
he
added
,
with
lofty
negligence
;
"
one
is
enough
till
another
is
wanted
.
"
He
lit
it
and
let
the
match
drop
from
his
passive
fingers
.
Giorgio
Viola
looked
up
,
and
said
abruptly
--
"
My
son
would
have
been
just
such
a
fine
young
man
as
you
,
Gian
'
Battista
,
if
he
had
lived
.
"
"
What
?
Your
son
?
But
you
are
right
,
padrone
.
If
he
had
been
like
me
he
would
have
been
a
man
.
"
He
turned
his
horse
slowly
,
and
paced
on
between
the
booths
,
checking
the
mare
almost
to
a
standstill
now
and
then
for
children
,
for
the
groups
of
people
from
the
distant
Campo
,
who
stared
after
him
with
admiration
.
The
Company
's
lightermen
saluted
him
from
afar
;
and
the
greatly
envied
Capataz
de
Cargadores
advanced
,
amongst
murmurs
of
recognition
and
obsequious
greetings
,
towards
the
huge
circus-like
erection
.
The
throng
thickened
;
the
guitars
tinkled
louder
;
other
horsemen
sat
motionless
,
smoking
calmly
above
the
heads
of
the
crowd
;
it
eddied
and
pushed
before
the
doors
of
the
high-roofed
building
,
whence
issued
a
shuffle
and
thumping
of
feet
in
time
to
the
dance
music
vibrating
and
shrieking
with
a
racking
rhythm
,
overhung
by
the
tremendous
,
sustained
,
hollow
roar
of
the
gombo
.
The
barbarous
and
imposing
noise
of
the
big
drum
,
that
can
madden
a
crowd
,
and
that
even
Europeans
can
not
hear
without
a
strange
emotion
,
seemed
to
draw
Nostromo
on
to
its
source
,
while
a
man
,
wrapped
up
in
a
faded
,
torn
poncho
,
walked
by
his
stirrup
,
and
,
buffeted
right
and
left
,
begged
"
his
worship
"
insistently
for
employment
on
the
wharf
.
