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- Джозеф Конрад
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- Ностромо
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- Стр. 5/274
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The
old
man
,
full
of
scorn
for
the
populace
,
as
your
austere
republican
so
often
is
,
had
disregarded
the
preliminary
sounds
of
trouble
.
He
went
on
that
day
as
usual
pottering
about
the
"
casa
"
in
his
slippers
,
muttering
angrily
to
himself
his
contempt
of
the
non-political
nature
of
the
riot
,
and
shrugging
his
shoulders
.
In
the
end
he
was
taken
unawares
by
the
out-rush
of
the
rabble
.
It
was
too
late
then
to
remove
his
family
,
and
,
indeed
,
where
could
he
have
run
to
with
the
portly
Signora
Teresa
and
two
little
girls
on
that
great
plain
?
So
,
barricading
every
opening
,
the
old
man
sat
down
sternly
in
the
middle
of
the
darkened
cafe
with
an
old
shot-gun
on
his
knees
.
His
wife
sat
on
another
chair
by
his
side
,
muttering
pious
invocations
to
all
the
saints
of
the
calendar
.
The
old
republican
did
not
believe
in
saints
,
or
in
prayers
,
or
in
what
he
called
"
priest
's
religion
.
"
Liberty
and
Garibaldi
were
his
divinities
;
but
he
tolerated
"
superstition
"
in
women
,
preserving
in
these
matters
a
lofty
and
silent
attitude
.
His
two
girls
,
the
eldest
fourteen
,
and
the
other
two
years
younger
,
crouched
on
the
sanded
floor
,
on
each
side
of
the
Signora
Teresa
,
with
their
heads
on
their
mother
's
lap
,
both
scared
,
but
each
in
her
own
way
,
the
dark-haired
Linda
indignant
and
angry
,
the
fair
Giselle
,
the
younger
,
bewildered
and
resigned
.
The
Patrona
removed
her
arms
,
which
embraced
her
daughters
,
for
a
moment
to
cross
herself
and
wring
her
hands
hurriedly
.
She
moaned
a
little
louder
.
"
Oh
!
Gian
'
Battista
,
why
art
thou
not
here
?
Oh
!
why
art
thou
not
here
?
"
She
was
not
then
invoking
the
saint
himself
,
but
calling
upon
Nostromo
,
whose
patron
he
was
.
And
Giorgio
,
motionless
on
the
chair
by
her
side
,
would
be
provoked
by
these
reproachful
and
distracted
appeals
.
"
Peace
,
woman
!
Where
's
the
sense
of
it
?
There
's
his
duty
,
"
he
murmured
in
the
dark
;
and
she
would
retort
,
panting
--
"
Eh
!
I
have
no
patience
.
Duty
!
What
of
the
woman
who
has
been
like
a
mother
to
him
?
I
bent
my
knee
to
him
this
morning
;
do
n't
you
go
out
,
Gian
'
Battista
--
stop
in
the
house
,
Battistino
--
look
at
those
two
little
innocent
children
!
"
Mrs.
Viola
was
an
Italian
,
too
,
a
native
of
Spezzia
,
and
though
considerably
younger
than
her
husband
,
already
middle-aged
.
She
had
a
handsome
face
,
whose
complexion
had
turned
yellow
because
the
climate
of
Sulaco
did
not
suit
her
at
all
.
Her
voice
was
a
rich
contralto
.
When
,
with
her
arms
folded
tight
under
her
ample
bosom
,
she
scolded
the
squat
,
thick-legged
China
girls
handling
linen
,
plucking
fowls
,
pounding
corn
in
wooden
mortars
amongst
the
mud
outbuildings
at
the
back
of
the
house
,
she
could
bring
out
such
an
impassioned
,
vibrating
,
sepulchral
note
that
the
chained
watch-dog
bolted
into
his
kennel
with
a
great
rattle
.
Luis
,
a
cinnamon-coloured
mulatto
with
a
sprouting
moustache
and
thick
,
dark
lips
,
would
stop
sweeping
the
cafe
with
a
broom
of
palm-leaves
to
let
a
gentle
shudder
run
down
his
spine
.
His
languishing
almond
eyes
would
remain
closed
for
a
long
time
.
This
was
the
staff
of
the
Casa
Viola
,
but
all
these
people
had
fled
early
that
morning
at
the
first
sounds
of
the
riot
,
preferring
to
hide
on
the
plain
rather
than
trust
themselves
in
the
house
;
a
preference
for
which
they
were
in
no
way
to
blame
,
since
,
whether
true
or
not
,
it
was
generally
believed
in
the
town
that
the
Garibaldino
had
some
money
buried
under
the
clay
floor
of
the
kitchen
.
The
dog
,
an
irritable
,
shaggy
brute
,
barked
violently
and
whined
plaintively
in
turns
at
the
back
,
running
in
and
out
of
his
kennel
as
rage
or
fear
prompted
him
.
