Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard
by Joseph Conrad
Part Third: The Lighthouse
NOSTROMO had been
growing rich very slowly. It was an effect of his prudence. He could command
himself even when thrown off his balance. And to become the slave of a
treasure with full self-knowledge is an occurrence rare and mentally
disturbing. But it was also in a great part because of the difficulty of
converting it into a form in which it could become available. The mere act
of getting it away from the island piecemeal, little by little, was
surrounded by difficulties, by the dangers of imminent detection. He had to
visit the Great Isabel in secret, between his voyages along the coast, which
were the ostensible source of his fortune. The crew of his own schooner were
to be feared as if they had been spies upon their dreaded captain. He did
not dare stay too long in port. When his coaster was unloaded, he hurried
away on another trip, for he feared arousing suspicion even by a day's
delay. Sometimes during a week's stay, or more, he could only manage one
visit to the treasure. And that was all. A couple of ingots. He suffered
through his fears as much as through his prudence. To do things by stealth
humiliated him. And he suffered most from the concentration of his thought
upon the treasure.
A transgression, a crime, entering a man's existence, eats it up like a
malignant growth, consumes it like a fever. Nostromo had lost his peace; the
genuineness of all his qualities was destroyed. He felt it himself, and
often cursed the silver of San Tome. His courage, his magnificence, his
leisure, his work, everything was as before, only everything was a sham. But
the treasure was real. He clung to it with a more tenacious, mental grip.
But he hated the feel of the ingots. Sometimes, after putting away a couple
of them in his cabin--the fruit of a secret night expedition to the Great
Isabel--he would look fixedly at his fingers, as if surprised they had left
no stain on his skin.
He had found means of disposing of the silver bars in distant ports. The
necessity to go far afield made his coasting voyages long, and caused his
visits to the Viola household to be rare and far between. He was fated to
have his wife from there. He had said so once to Giorgio himself. But the
Garibaldino had put the subject aside with a majestic wave of his hand,
clutching a smouldering black briar-root pipe. There was plenty of time; he
was not the man to force his girls upon anybody.
As time went on, Nostromo discovered his preference for the younger of the
two. They had some profound similarities of nature, which must exist for
complete confidence and understanding, no matter what outward differences of
temperament there may be to exercise their own fascination of contrast. His
wife would have to know his secret or else life would be impossible. 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
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
Captain Fidanza, unpicturesque, but always a little mysterious, was
recognized quite sufficiently under the lofty glass and iron roof of the
Sulaco railway station. He took a local train, and got out in Rincon, where
he visited the widow of the Cargador who had died of his wounds (at the dawn
of the New Era, like Don Jose Avellanos) in the patio of the Casa Gould. He
consented to sit down and drink a glass of cool lemonade in the hut, while
the woman, standing up, poured a perfect torrent of words to which he did
not listen. He left some money with her, as usual. The orphaned children,
growing up and well schooled, calling him uncle, clamoured for his blessing.
He gave that, too; and in the doorway paused for a moment to look at the
flat face of the San Tome mountain with a faint frown. This slight
contraction of his bronzed brow casting a marked tinge of severity upon his
usual unbending expression, was observed at the Lodge which he attended
--but went away before the banquet. He wore it at the meeting of some good
comrades, Italians and Occidentals, assembled in his honour under the
presidency of an indigent, sickly, somewhat hunchbacked little photographer,
with a white face and a magnanimous soul dyed crimson by a bloodthirsty hate
of all capitalists, oppressors of the two hemispheres. The heroic Giorgio
Viola, old revolutionist, would have understood nothing of his opening
speech; and Captain Fidanza, lavishly generous as usual to some poor
comrades, made no speech at all. He had listened, frowning, with his mind
far away, and walked off unapproachable, silent, like a man full of cares.
His frown deepened as, in the early morning, he watched the stone-masons go
off to the Great Isabel, in lighters loaded with squared blocks of stone,
enough to add another course to the squat light-tower. That was the rate of
the work. One course per day.
And Captain Fidanza meditated. The presence of strangers on the island would
cut him completely off the treasure. It had been difficult and dangerous
enough before. He was afraid, and he was angry. He thought with the
resolution of a master and the cunning of a cowed slave. Then he went
He was a man of resource and ingenuity; and, as usual, the expedient he
found at a critical moment was effective enough to alter the situation
radically. He had the gift of evolving safety out of the very danger, this
incomparable Nostromo, this "fellow in a thousand." With Giorgio
established on the Great Isabel, there would be no need for concealment. He
would be able to go openly, in daylight, to see his daughters--one of his
daughters--and stay late talking to the old Garibaldino. Then in the dark .
. . Night after night . . . He would dare to grow rich quicker now. He
yearned to clasp, embrace, absorb, subjugate in unquestioned possession this
treasure, whose tyranny had weighed upon his mind, his actions, his very
He went to see his friend Captain Mitchell--and the thing was done as Dr.
Monygham had related to Mrs. Gould. When the project was mooted to the
Garibaldino, something like the faint reflection, the dim ghost of a very
ancient smile, stole under the white and enormous moustaches of the old
hater of kings and ministers. His daughters were the object of his anxious
care. The younger, especially. Linda, with her mother's voice, had taken
more her mother's place. Her deep, vibrating "Eh, Padre?" seemed,
but for the change of the word, the very echo of the impassioned,
remonstrating "Eh, Giorgio?" of poor Signora Teresa. It was his
fixed opinion that the town was no proper place for his girls. The
infatuated but guileless Ramirez was the object of his profound aversion, as
resuming the sins of the country whose people were blind, vile esclavos.
On his return from his next voyage, Captain Fidanza found the Violas settled
in the light-keeper's cottage. His knowledge of Giorgio's idiosyncrasies had
not played him false. The Garibaldino had refused to entertain the idea of
any companion whatever, except his girls. And Captain Mitchell, anxious to
please his poor Nostromo, with that felicity of inspiration which only true
affection can give, had formally appointed Linda Viola as under-keeper of
the Isabel's Light.
"The light is private property," he used to explain. "It
belongs to my Company. I've the power to nominate whom I like, and Viola it
shall be. It's about the only thing Nostromo--a man worth his weight in
gold, mind you--has ever asked me to do for him."
Directly his schooner was anchored opposite the New Custom House, with its
sham air of a Greek temple, flatroofed, with a colonnade, Captain Fidanza
went pulling his small boat out of the harbour, bound for the Great Isabel,
openly in the light of a declining day, before all men's eyes, with a sense
of having mastered the fates. He must establish a regular position. He would
ask him for his daughter now. He thought of Giselle as he pulled. Linda
loved him, perhaps, but the old man would be glad to keep the elder, who had
his wife's voice.
He did not pull for the narrow strand where he had landed with Decoud, and
afterwards alone on his first visit to the treasure. He made for the beach
at the other end, and walked up the regular and gentle slope of the
wedge-shaped island. Giorgio Viola, whom he saw from afar, sitting on a
bench under the front wall of the cottage, lifted his arm slightly to his
loud hail. He walked up. Neither of the girls appeared.
"It is good here," said the old man, in his austere, far-away
Nostromo nodded; then, after a short silence--
"You saw my schooner pass in not two hours ago? Do you know why I am
here before, so to speak, my anchor has fairly bitten into the ground of
this port of Sulaco?"
"You are welcome like a son," the old man declared, quietly,
staring away upon the sea.
"Ah! thy son. I know. I am what thy son would have been. It is well,
viejo. It is a very good welcome. Listen, I have come to ask you
A sudden dread came upon the fearless and incorruptible Nostromo. He dared
not utter the name in his mind. The slight pause only imparted a marked
weight and solemnity to the changed end of the phrase.
"For my wife!" . . . His heart was beating fast." It is time
The Garibaldino arrested him with an extended arm. "That was left for
you to judge."
He got up slowly. His beard, unclipped since Teresa's death, thick,
snow-white, covered his powerful chest. He turned his head to the door, and
called out in his strong voice--
Her answer came sharp and faint from within; and the appalled Nostromo stood
up, too, but remained mute, gazing at the door. He was afraid. He was not
afraid of being refused the girl he loved--no mere refusal could stand
between him and a woman he desired--but the shining spectre of the treasure
rose before him, claiming his allegiance in a silence that could not be
gainsaid. He was afraid, because, neither dead nor alive, like the Gringos
on Azuera, he belonged body and soul to the unlawfulness of his audacity. He
was afraid of being forbidden the island. He was afraid, and said nothing.
Seeing the two men standing up side by side to await her, Linda stopped in
the doorway. Nothing could alter the passionate dead whiteness of her face;
but her black eyes seemed to catch and concentrate all the light of the low
sun in a flaming spark within the black depths, covered at once by the slow
descent of heavy eyelids.
"Behold thy husband, master, and benefactor." Old Viola's voice
resounded with a force that seemed to fill the whole gulf.
She stepped forward with her eyes nearly closed, like a sleep-walker in a
Nostromo made a superhuman effort. "It is time, Linda, we two were
betrothed," he said, steadily, in his level, careless, unbending tone.
She put her hand into his offered palm, lowering her head, dark with bronze
glints, upon which her father's hand rested for a moment.
"And so the soul of the dead is satisfied."
This came from Giorgio Viola, who went on talking for a while of his dead
wife; while the two, sitting side by side, never looked at each other. Then
the old man ceased; and Linda, motionless, began to speak.
"Ever since I felt I lived in the world, I have lived for you alone,
Gian' Battista. And that you knew! You knew it . . . Battistino."
She pronounced the name exactly with her mother's intonation. A gloom as of
the grave covered Nostromo's heart.
"Yes. I knew," he said.
The heroic Garibaldino sat on the same bench bowing his hoary head, his old
soul dwelling alone with its memories, tender and violent, terrible and
dreary--solitary on the earth full of men.
And Linda, his best-loved daughter, was saying, "I was yours ever since
I can remember. I had only to think of you for the earth to become empty to
my eyes. When you were there, I could see no one else. I was yours. Nothing
is changed. The world belongs to you, and you let me live in it." . . .
She dropped her low, vibrating voice to a still lower note, and found other
things to say--torturing for the man at her side. Her murmur ran on ardent
and voluble. She did not seem to see her sister, who came out with an
altar-cloth she was embroidering in her hands, and passed in front of them,
silent, fresh, fair, with a quick glance and a faint smile, to sit a little
away on the other side of Nostromo.
The evening was still. The sun sank almost to the edge of a purple ocean;
and the white lighthouse, livid against the background of clouds filling the
head of the gulf, bore the lantern red and glowing, like a live ember
kindled by the fire of the sky. Giselle, indolent and demure, raised the
altar-cloth from time to time to hide nervous yawns, as of a young panther.
Suddenly Linda rushed at her sister, and seizing her head, covered her face
with kisses. Nostromo's brain reeled. When she left her, as if stunned by
the violent caresses, with her hands lying in her lap, the slave of the
treasure felt as if he could shoot that woman. Old Giorgio lifted his
"Where are you going, Linda?"
"To the light, padre mio."
"Si, si--to your duty."
He got up, too, looked after his eldest daughter; then, in a tone whose
festive note seemed the echo of a mood lost in the night of ages--
"I am going in to cook something. Aha! Son! The old man knows where to
find a bottle of wine, too."
He turned to Giselle, with a change to austere tenderness.
"And you, little one, pray not to the God of priests and slaves, but to
the God of orphans, of the oppressed, of the poor, of little children, to
give thee a man like this one for a husband."
His hand rested heavily for a moment on Nostromo's shoulder; then he went
in. The hopeless slave of the San Tome silver felt at these words the
venomous fangs of jealousy biting deep into his heart. He was appalled by
the novelty of the experience, by its force, by its physical intimacy. A
husband! A husband for her! And yet it was natural that Giselle should have
a husband at some time or other. He had never realized that before. In
discovering that her beauty could belong to another he felt as though he
could kill this one of old Giorgio's daughters also. He muttered moodily--
"They say you love Ramirez."
She shook her head without looking at him. Coppery glints rippled to and fro
on the wealth of her gold hair. Her smooth forehead had the soft, pure sheen
of a priceless pearl in the splendour of the sunset, mingling the gloom of
starry spaces, the purple of the sea, and the crimson of the sky in a
"No," she said, slowly. "I never loved him. I think I never .
. . He loves me--perhaps."
The seduction of her slow voice died out of the air, and her raised eyes
remained fixed on nothing, as if indifferent and without thought.
"Ramirez told you he loved you?" asked Nostromo, restraining
"Ah! once--one evening . . ."
"The miserable . . . Ha!"
He had jumped up as if stung by a gad-fly, and stood before her mute with
"Misericordia Divina! You, too, Gian' Battista! Poor wretch that I
am!" she lamented in ingenuous tones. "I told Linda, and she
scolded--she scolded. Am I to live blind, dumb, and deaf in this world? And
she told father, who took down his gun and cleaned it. Poor Ramirez! Then
you came, and she told you."
He looked at her. He fastened his eyes upon the hollow of her white throat,
which had the invincible charm of things young, palpitating, delicate, and
alive. Was this the child he had known? Was it possible? It dawned upon him
that in these last years he had really seen very little--nothing--of her.
Nothing. She had come into the world like a thing unknown. She had come upon
him unawares. She was a danger. A frightful danger. The instinctive mood of
fierce determination that had never failed him before the perils of this
life added its steady force to the violence of his passion. She, in a voice
that recalled to him the song of running water, the tinkling of a silver
"And between you three you have brought me here into this captivity to
the sky and water. Nothing else. Sky and water. Oh, Sanctissima Madre. My
hair shall turn grey on this tedious island. I could hate you, Gian'
He laughed loudly. Her voice enveloped him like a caress. She bemoaned her
fate, spreading unconsciously, like a flower its perfume in the coolness of
the evening, the indefinable seduction of her person. Was it her fault that
nobody ever had admired Linda? Even when they were little, going out with
their mother to Mass, she remembered that people took no notice of Linda,
who was fearless, and chose instead to frighten her, who was timid, with
their attention. It was her hair like gold, she supposed.
He broke out--
"Your hair like gold, and your eyes like violets, and your lips like
the rose; your round arms, your white throat." . . .
Imperturbable in the indolence of her pose, she blushed deeply all over to
the roots of her hair. She was not conceited. She was no more self-conscious
than a flower. But she was pleased. And perhaps even a flower loves to hear
itself praised. He glanced down, and added, impetuously--
"Your little feet!"
Leaning back against the rough stone wall of the cottage, she seemed to bask
languidly in the warmth of the rosy flush. Only her lowered eyes glanced at
her little feet.
"And so you are going at last to marry our Linda. She is terrible. Ah!
now she will understand better since you have told her you love her. She
will not be so fierce."
"Chica!" said Nostromo, "I have not told her anything."
"Then make haste. Come to-morrow. Come and tell her, so that I may have
some peace from her scolding and--perhaps--who knows . . ."
"Be allowed to listen to your Ramirez, eh? Is that it? You . . ."
"Mercy of God! How violent you are, Giovanni," she said, unmoved.
"Who is Ramirez . . . Ramirez . . . Who is he?" she repeated,
dreamily, in the dusk and gloom of the clouded gulf, with a low red streak
in the west like a hot bar of glowing iron laid across the entrance of a
world sombre as a cavern, where the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores had
hidden his conquests of love and wealth.
"Listen, Giselle," he said, in measured tones; "I will tell
no word of love to your sister. Do you want to know why?"
"Alas! I could not understand perhaps, Giovanni. Father says you are
not like other men; that no one had ever understood you properly; that the
rich will be surprised yet. . . . Oh! saints in heaven! I am weary."
She raised her embroidery to conceal the lower part of her face, then let it
fall on her lap. The lantern was shaded on the land side, but slanting away
from the dark column of the lighthouse they could see the long shaft of
light, kindled by Linda, go out to strike the expiring glow in a horizon of
purple and red.
Giselle Viola, with her head resting against the wall of the house, her eyes
half closed, and her little feet, in white stockings and black slippers,
crossed over each other, seemed to surrender herself, tranquil and fatal, to
the gathering dusk. The charm of her body, the promising mysteriousness of
her indolence, went out into the night of the Placid Gulf like a fresh and
intoxicating fragrance spreading out in the shadows, impregnating the air.
The incorruptible Nostromo breathed her ambient seduction in the tumultuous
heaving of his breast. Before leaving the harbour he had thrown off the
store clothing of Captain Fidanza, for greater ease in the long pull out to
the islands. He stood before her in the red sash and check shirt as he used
to appear on the Company's wharf--a Mediterranean sailor come ashore to try
his luck in Costaguana. The dusk of purple and red enveloped him,
too--close, soft, profound, as no more than fifty yards from that spot it
had gathered evening after evening about the self-destructive passion of Don
Martin Decoud's utter scepticism, flaming up to death in solitude.
"You have got to hear," he began at last, with perfect
self-control. "I shall say no word of love to your sister, to whom I am
betrothed from this evening, because it is you that I love. It is you!"
. . .
The dusk let him see yet the tender and voluptuous smile that came
instinctively upon her lips shaped for love and kisses, freeze hard in the
drawn, haggard lines of terror. He could not restrain himself any longer.
While she shrank from his approach, her arms went out to him, abandoned and
regal in the dignity of her languid surrender. He held her head in his two
hands, and showered rapid kisses upon the upturned face that gleamed in the
purple dusk. Masterful and tender, he was entering slowly upon the fulness
of his possession. And he perceived that she was crying. Then the
incomparable Capataz, the man of careless loves, became gentle and
caressing, like a woman to the grief of a child. He murmured to her fondly.
He sat down by her and nursed her fair head on his breast. He called her his
star and his little flower.
It had grown dark. From the living-room of the light-keeper's cottage, where
Giorgio, one of the Immortal Thousand, was bending his leonine and heroic
head over a charcoal fire, there came the sound of sizzling and the aroma of
an artistic frittura.
In the obscure disarray of that thing, happening like a cataclysm, it was in
her feminine head that some gleam of reason survived. He was lost to the
world in their embraced stillness. But she said, whispering into his ear--
"God of mercy! What will become of me--here--now--between this sky and
this water I hate? Linda, Linda--I see her!" . . . She tried to get out
of his arms, suddenly relaxed at the sound of that name. But there was no
one approaching their black shapes, enlaced and struggling on the white
background of the wall. "Linda! Poor Linda! I tremble! I shall die of
fear before my poor sister Linda, betrothed to-day to Giovanni--my lover!
Giovanni, you must have been mad! I cannot understand you! You are not like
other men! I will not give you up--never--only to God himself! But why have
you done this blind, mad, cruel, frightful thing?"
Released, she hung her head, let fall her hands. The altar-cloth, as if
tossed by a great wind, lay far away from them, gleaming white on the black
"From fear of losing my hope of you," said Nostromo.
"You knew that you had my soul! You know everything! It was made for
you! But what could stand between you and me? What? Tell me!" she
repeated, without impatience, in superb assurance.
"Your dead mother," he said, very low.
"Ah! . . . Poor mother! She has always . . . She is a saint in heaven
now, and I cannot give you up to her. No, Giovanni. Only to God alone. You
were mad--but it is done. Oh! what have you done? Giovanni, my beloved, my
life, my master, do not leave me here in this grave of clouds. You cannot
leave me now. You must take me away--at once--this instant--in the little
boat. Giovanni, carry me off to-night, from my fear of Linda's eyes, before
I have to look at her again."
She nestled close to him. The slave of the San Tome silver felt the weight
as of chains upon his limbs, a pressure as of a cold hand upon his lips. He
struggled against the spell.
"I cannot," he said. "Not yet. There is something that stands
between us two and the freedom of the world."
She pressed her form closer to his side with a subtle and naive instinct of
"You rave, Giovanni--my lover!" she whispered, engagingly.
"What can there be? Carry me off--in thy very hands--to Dona Emilia--away
from here. I am not very heavy."
It seemed as though she expected him to lift her up at once in his two
palms. She had lost the notion of all impossibility. Anything could happen
on this night of wonder. As he made no movement, she almost cried aloud--
"I tell you I am afraid of Linda!" And still he did not move. She
became quiet and wily. "What can there be?" she asked, coaxingly.
He felt her warm, breathing, alive, quivering in the hollow of his arm. In
the exulting consciousness of his strength, and the triumphant excitement of
his mind, he struck out for his freedom.
"A treasure," he said. All was still. She did not understand.
"A treasure. A treasure of silver to buy a gold crown for thy
"A treasure?" she repeated in a faint voice, as if from the depths
of a dream. "What is it you say?"
She disengaged herself gently. He got up and looked down at her, aware of
her face, of her hair, her lips, the dimples on her cheeks--seeing the
fascination of her person in the night of the gulf as if in the blaze of
noonday. Her nonchalant and seductive voice trembled with the excitement of
admiring awe and ungovernable curiosity.
"A treasure of silver!" she stammered out. Then pressed on faster:
"What? Where? How did you get it, Giovanni?"
He wrestled with the spell of captivity. It was as if striking a heroic blow
that he burst out--
"Like a thief!"
The densest blackness of the Placid Gulf seemed to fall upon his head. He
could not see her now. She had vanished into a long, obscure abysmal
silence, whence her voice came back to him after a time with a faint
glimmer, which was her face.
"I love you! I love you!"
These words gave him an unwonted sense of freedom; they cast a spell
stronger than the accursed spell of the treasure; they changed his weary
subjection to that dead thing into an exulting conviction of his power. He
would cherish her, he said, in a splendour as great as Dona Emilia's. The
rich lived on wealth stolen from the people, but he had taken from the rich
nothing --nothing that was not lost to them already by their folly and their
betrayal. For he had been betrayed--he said--deceived, tempted. She believed
him. . . . He had kept the treasure for purposes of revenge; but now he
cared nothing for it. He cared only for her. He would put her beauty in a
palace on a hill crowned with olive trees--a white palace above a blue sea.
He would keep her there like a jewel in a casket. He would get land for
her--her own land fertile with vines and corn--to set her little feet upon.
He kissed them. . . . He had already paid for it all with the soul of a
woman and the life of a man. . . . The Capataz de Cargadores tasted the
supreme intoxication of his generosity. He flung the mastered treasure
superbly at her feet in the impenetrable darkness of the gulf, in the
darkness defying--as men said--the knowledge of God and the wit of the
devil. But she must let him grow rich first--he warned her.
She listened as if in a trance. Her fingers stirred in his hair. He got up
from his knees reeling, weak, empty, as though he had flung his soul away.
"Make haste, then," she said. "Make haste, Giovanni, my
lover, my master, for I will give thee up to no one but God. And I am afraid
He guessed at her shudder, and swore to do his best. He trusted the courage
of her love. She promised to be brave in order to be loved always--far away
in a white palace upon a hill above a blue sea. Then with a timid, tentative
eagerness she murmured--
"Where is it? Where? Tell me that, Giovanni."
He opened his mouth and remained silent--thunderstruck.
"Not that! Not that!" he gasped out, appalled at the spell of
secrecy that had kept him dumb before so many people falling upon his lips
again with unimpaired force. Not even to her. Not even to her. It was too
dangerous. "I forbid thee to ask," he cried at her, deadening
cautiously the anger of his voice.
He had not regained his freedom. The spectre of the unlawful treasure arose,
standing by her side like a figure of silver, pitiless and secret, with a
finger on its pale lips. His soul died within him at the vision of himself
creeping in presently along the ravine, with the smell of earth, of damp
foliage in his nostrils--creeping in, determined in a purpose that numbed
his breast, and creeping out again loaded with silver, with his ears alert
to every sound. It must be done on this very night--that work of a craven
He stooped low, pressed the hem of her skirt to his lips, with a muttered
"Tell him I would not stay," and was gone suddenly from her,
silent, without as much as a footfall in the dark night.
She sat still, her head resting indolently against the wall, and her little
feet in white stockings and black slippers crossed over each other. Old
Giorgio, coming out, did not seem to be surprised at the intelligence as
much as she had vaguely feared. For she was full of inexplicable fear
now--fear of everything and everybody except of her Giovanni and his
treasure. But that was incredible.
The heroic Garibaldino accepted Nostromo's abrupt departure with a sagacious
indulgence. He remembered his own feelings, and exhibited a masculine
penetration of the true state of the case.
"Va bene. Let him go. Ha! ha! No matter how fair the woman, it galls a
little. Liberty, liberty. There's more than one kind! He has said the great
word, and son Gian' Battista is not tame." He seemed to be instructing
the motionless and scared Giselle. . . . "A man should not be
tame," he added, dogmatically out of the doorway. Her stillness and
silence seemed to displease him. "Do not give way to the enviousness of
your sister's lot," he admonished her, very grave, in his deep voice.
Presently he had to come to the door again to call in his younger daughter.
It was late. He shouted her name three times before she even moved her head.
Left alone, she had become the helpless prey of astonishment. She walked
into the bedroom she shared with Linda like a person profoundly asleep. That
aspect was so marked that even old Giorgio, spectacled, raising his eyes
from the Bible, shook his head as she shut the door behind her.
She walked right across the room without looking at anything, and sat down
at once by the open window. Linda, stealing down from the tower in the
exuberance of her happiness, found her with a lighted candle at her back,
facing the black night full of sighing gusts of wind and the sound of
distant showers--a true night of the gulf, too dense for the eye of God and
the wiles of the devil. She did not turn her head at the opening of the
There was something in that immobility which reached Linda in the depths of
her paradise. The elder sister guessed angrily: the child is thinking of
that wretched Ramirez. Linda longed to talk. She said in her arbitrary
voice, "Giselle!" and was not answered by the slightest movement.
The girl that was going to live in a palace and walk on ground of her own
was ready to die with terror. Not for anything in the world would she have
turned her head to face her sister. Her heart was beating madly. She said
with subdued haste--
"Do not speak to me. I am praying."
Linda, disappointed, went out quietly; and Giselle sat on unbelieving, lost,
dazed, patient, as if waiting for the confirmation of the incredible. The
hopeless blackness of the clouds seemed part of a dream, too. She waited.
She did not wait in vain. The man whose soul was dead within him, creeping
out of the ravine, weighted with silver, had seen the gleam of the lighted
window, and could not help retracing his steps from the beach.
On that impenetrable background, obliterating the lofty mountains by the
seaboard, she saw the slave of the San Tome silver, as if by an
extraordinary power of a miracle. She accepted his return as if henceforth
the world could hold no surprise for all eternity.
She rose, compelled and rigid, and began to speak long before the light from
within fell upon the face of the approaching man.
"You have come back to carry me off. It is well! Open thy arms,
Giovanni, my lover. I am coming."
His prudent footsteps stopped, and with his eyes glistening wildly, he spoke
in a harsh voice:
"Not yet. I must grow rich slowly." . . . A threatening note came
into his tone. "Do not forget that you have a thief for your
"Yes! Yes!" she whispered, hastily. "Come nearer! Listen! Do
not give me up, Giovanni! Never, never! . . . I will be patient! . . ."
Her form drooped consolingly over the low casement towards the slave of the
unlawful treasure. The light in the room went out, and weighted with silver,
the magnificent Capataz clasped her round her white neck in the darkness of
the gulf as a drowning man clutches at a straw.