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- Джозеф Конрад
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- Ностромо
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- Стр. 6/274
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Bursts
of
great
shouting
rose
and
died
away
,
like
wild
gusts
of
wind
on
the
plain
round
the
barricaded
house
;
the
fitful
popping
of
shots
grew
louder
above
the
yelling
.
Sometimes
there
were
intervals
of
unaccountable
stillness
outside
,
and
nothing
could
have
been
more
gaily
peaceful
than
the
narrow
bright
lines
of
sunlight
from
the
cracks
in
the
shutters
,
ruled
straight
across
the
cafe
over
the
disarranged
chairs
and
tables
to
the
wall
opposite
.
Old
Giorgio
had
chosen
that
bare
,
whitewashed
room
for
a
retreat
.
It
had
only
one
window
,
and
its
only
door
swung
out
upon
the
track
of
thick
dust
fenced
by
aloe
hedges
between
the
harbour
and
the
town
,
where
clumsy
carts
used
to
creak
along
behind
slow
yokes
of
oxen
guided
by
boys
on
horseback
.
In
a
pause
of
stillness
Giorgio
cocked
his
gun
.
The
ominous
sound
wrung
a
low
moan
from
the
rigid
figure
of
the
woman
sitting
by
his
side
.
A
sudden
outbreak
of
defiant
yelling
quite
near
the
house
sank
all
at
once
to
a
confused
murmur
of
growls
.
Somebody
ran
along
;
the
loud
catching
of
his
breath
was
heard
for
an
instant
passing
the
door
;
there
were
hoarse
mutters
and
footsteps
near
the
wall
;
a
shoulder
rubbed
against
the
shutter
,
effacing
the
bright
lines
of
sunshine
pencilled
across
the
whole
breadth
of
the
room
.
Signora
Teresa
's
arms
thrown
about
the
kneeling
forms
of
her
daughters
embraced
them
closer
with
a
convulsive
pressure
.
The
mob
,
driven
away
from
the
Custom
House
,
had
broken
up
into
several
bands
,
retreating
across
the
plain
in
the
direction
of
the
town
.
The
subdued
crash
of
irregular
volleys
fired
in
the
distance
was
answered
by
faint
yells
far
away
.
In
the
intervals
the
single
shots
rang
feebly
,
and
the
low
,
long
,
white
building
blinded
in
every
window
seemed
to
be
the
centre
of
a
turmoil
widening
in
a
great
circle
about
its
closed-up
silence
.
But
the
cautious
movements
and
whispers
of
a
routed
party
seeking
a
momentary
shelter
behind
the
wall
made
the
darkness
of
the
room
,
striped
by
threads
of
quiet
sunlight
,
alight
with
evil
,
stealthy
sounds
.
The
Violas
had
them
in
their
ears
as
though
invisible
ghosts
hovering
about
their
chairs
had
consulted
in
mutters
as
to
the
advisability
of
setting
fire
to
this
foreigner
's
casa
.
It
was
trying
to
the
nerves
.
Old
Viola
had
risen
slowly
,
gun
in
hand
,
irresolute
,
for
he
did
not
see
how
he
could
prevent
them
.
Already
voices
could
be
heard
talking
at
the
back
.
Signora
Teresa
was
beside
herself
with
terror
.
"
Ah
!
the
traitor
!
the
traitor
!
"
she
mumbled
,
almost
inaudibly
.
"
Now
we
are
going
to
be
burnt
;
and
I
bent
my
knee
to
him
.
No
!
he
must
run
at
the
heels
of
his
English
.
"
She
seemed
to
think
that
Nostromo
's
mere
presence
in
the
house
would
have
made
it
perfectly
safe
.
So
far
,
she
,
too
,
was
under
the
spell
of
that
reputation
the
Capataz
de
Cargadores
had
made
for
himself
by
the
waterside
,
along
the
railway
line
,
with
the
English
and
with
the
populace
of
Sulaco
.
To
his
face
,
and
even
against
her
husband
,
she
invariably
affected
to
laugh
it
to
scorn
,
sometimes
good-naturedly
,
more
often
with
a
curious
bitterness
.
But
then
women
are
unreasonable
in
their
opinions
,
as
Giorgio
used
to
remark
calmly
on
fitting
occasions
.
On
this
occasion
,
with
his
gun
held
at
ready
before
him
,
he
stooped
down
to
his
wife
's
head
,
and
,
keeping
his
eyes
steadfastly
on
the
barricaded
door
,
he
breathed
out
into
her
ear
that
Nostromo
would
have
been
powerless
to
help
.
What
could
two
men
shut
up
in
a
house
do
against
twenty
or
more
bent
upon
setting
fire
to
the
roof
?
Gian
'
Battista
was
thinking
of
the
casa
all
the
time
,
he
was
sure
.
"
He
think
of
the
casa
!
He
!
"
gasped
Signora
Viola
,
crazily
.
She
struck
her
breast
with
her
open
hands
.
"
I
know
him
.
He
thinks
of
nobody
but
himself
.
"
