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NOSTROMO
smoky room of Domingo’s posada, where the fraternity of
Cargadores gambled, sang, and danced of an evening; to remain with empty pockets after a burst of public generosity to
some peyne d’oro girl or other (for whom he did not care), had
none of the humiliati on of destitution. He remained rich in
glory and reputation. But since it was no longer possible for
him to parade the streets of the town, and be hailed with respect in the usual haunts of his leisure, this sailor felt himself
destitute indeed.
His mouth was dry. It was dry with heavy sleep and extremely anxious thinking, as it had never been dry before.
It may be said that Nostromo tasted the dust and ashes of
the fruit of life into which he had bitten deeply in his hunger
for praise. Without removing his head from between his fi sts,
he tried to spit before him – «Tfui» – and muttered a curse
up on the selfi shness of all the rich people.
Since everything seemed lost in Sulaco (and that was
the feeling of his waking), the idea of leaving the country
altogether had presented itself to Nostromo.At that thought
he had seen, like the beginning of another dream, a visi on of
steep and tideless shores, with dark pines on the heights
and white houses low down near a very blue sea. He saw
the quays of a big port, where the coasting feluccas, with
their lateen sails outspread like motionless wings, enter gliding silently between the end of long moles of squared blocks
that project angularly towards each other, hugging a cluster of shipping to the superb bosom of a hill covered with
palaces. He remembered these sights not without some fi lial
emotion, though he had been habitually and severely beaten
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JOSEPH CONRAD
as a boy on one of these feluccas by a short-necked, shaven
Genoese, with a deliberate and distrustful manner, who (he
fi rmly believed) had cheated him out of his orphan’s inheritance. But it is mercifully decreed that the evils of the past
should appear but faintly in retrospect. Under the sense of
loneliness, abandonment, and failure, the idea of return to
these things appeared tolerable. But, what? Return? With
bare feet and head, with one check shirt and a pair of cott on
calzoneros for all worldly possessions?
The renowned Capataz, his elbows on his knees and a fi st
dug into each cheek, laughed with self-derision, as he had spat
with disgust, straight out before him into the night. The confused and intimate impressions of universal dissoluti on which
beset a subjective natureat any strong check to its ruling passi on had a bitterness approaching that of death itself. He was
simple. He was as ready to become the prey of any belief, superstition, or desire as a child.
The facts of his situati on he could appreciate like
a man with a distinct experience of the country. He saw them
clearly. He was as if sobered after a long bout of intoxication.
His fi delity had been taken advantage of. He had persuaded the body of Cargadores to side with the Blancos against
the rest of the people; he had had interviews with D on Jose;
he had been made use of by Father Corbelan for negotiating with Hernandez; it was known that D on Martin Decoud
had admitted him to a sort of intimacy, so that he had been
free of the offi ces of the Porvenir. All these things had fl attered
him in the usual way. What did he care about their politics?
Nothingat all. Andat the end of it all – Nostromo here and
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NOSTROMO
Nostromo there – where is Nostromo? Nostromo can do this
and that – work all day and ride all night – behold! he found
himself a marked Ribierist for any sort of vengeance Gamacho, for instance, would choose to take, now the Montero party, had, after all, mastered the town. The Europeans had given
up; the Caballeros had given up. D on Martin had indeed explained it was only temporary – that he was going to bring
Barrios to the rescue. Where was that now – with D on Martin
(whose ironic manner of talk had always made the Capataz
feel vaguely uneasy) stranded on the Great Isabel? Everybody
had given up. Even D on Carlos had given up. The hurried removal of the treasure out to sea meant nothing else than that.
The Capataz de Cargadores, on a revulsi on of subjectiveness,
exasperated almost to insanity, beheld all his world without
faith and courage. He had been betrayed!
With the boundless shadows of the sea behind him, out of
his silence and immobility, facing the lofty shapes of the lower
peaks crowded around the white, misty sheen of Higuerota,
Nostromo laughed aloud again, sprang abruptly to his feet,
and stood still. He must go. But where?
«There is no mistake. They keep us and encourage us as
if we were dogs born to fi ght and hunt for them. The vecchio is right», he said, slowly and scathingly. He remembered
old Giorgio taking his pipe out of his mouth to throw these
words over his shoulderat the cafe, full of engine-drivers and
fi tters from the railway workshops. This image fi xed his wavering purpose. He would try to fi nd old Giorgio if he could.
God knows what might have happened to him! He made a few
steps, then stopped again and shook his head. To the left and
463
JOSEPH CONRAD
right, in front and behind him, the scrubby bush rustled mysteriously in the darkness.
«Teresa was right, too», he added in a low tone touched
with awe. He wondered whether she was dead in her anger
with him or still alive. As if in answer to this thought, half of
remorse and half of hope, with a soft fl utter and oblique fl ight,
a big owl, whose appalling cry: «Ya-acabo! Ya-acabo! – it is
fi nished; it is fi nished» – announces calamity and death in
the popular belief, drifted vaguely like a large dark ball across
his path. In the downfall of all the realities that made his force,
he was affected by the superstition, and shuddered slightly.
Signora Teresa must have died, then. It could mean nothing
else. The cry of the ill-omened bird, the fi rst sound he was to
hear on his return, was a fi tting welcome for his betrayed individuality. The unseen powers which he had offended by
refusing to bring a priest to a dying woman were lifting up
their voice against him. She was dead. With admirable and human consistency he referred everything to himself. She had
been a woman of good counsel always. And the bereaved old
Giorgio remained stunned by his loss just as he was likely to
require the advice of his sagacity. The blow would render
the dreamy old man quite stupid for a time.
As to Captain Mitchell, Nostromo, after the manner of
trusted subordinates, considered him as a pers on fi tted by educati on perhaps to sign papers in an offi ce and to give orders,
but otherwise of no use whatever, and something of a fool.
The necessity of winding round his little fi nger, almost daily,
the pompous and testy self-importance of the old seaman had
grown irksome with use to Nostromo.At fi rst it had given him
464
NOSTROMO
an inward satisfaction. But the necessity of overcoming small
obstacles becomes wearisome to a self-confi dent personality
as much by the certitude of success as by the monotony of effort. He mistrusted his superior’s proneness to fussy action.
That old Englishman had no judgment, he said to himself. It
was useless to suppose that, acquainted with the true state of
the case, he would keep it to himself. He would talk of doing impracticable things. Nostromo feared him as one would
fear saddling one’s self with some persistent worry. He had no
discretion. He would betray the treasure. And Nostromo had
made up his mind that the treasure should not be betrayed.
The word had fi xed itself tenaciously in his intelligence. His
imaginati on had seized up on the clear and simple noti on of
betrayal to account for the dazed feeling of enlightenment
as to being done for, of having inadvertently gone out of his
existence on an issue in which his personality had not been
taken into account. A man betrayed is a man destroyed. Signora Teresa (may God have her soul!) had been right. He had
never been taken into account. Destroyed! Her white form sitting up bowed in bed, the falling black hair, the wide-browed
suffering face raised to him, the anger of her denunciations
appeared to him now majestic with the awfulness of inspirati on and of death. For it was not for nothing that the evil
bird had uttered its lamentable shriek over his head. She was
dead – may God have her soul!
Sharing in the anti-priestly freethought of the masses,
his mind used the pious formula from the superfi cial force of
habit, but with a deep-seated sincerity. The popular mind is
incapable of scepticism; and that incapacity delivers their
465
JOSEPH CONRAD
helpless strength to the wiles of swindlers and to the pitiless
enthusiasms of leaders inspired by visions of a high destiny.
She was dead. But would God consent to receive her soul? She
had died without confessi on or absolution, because he had
not been willing to spare her another moment of his time.
His scorn of priests as priests remained; but after all, it was
impossible to know whether what they affi rmed was not true.
Power, punishment, pardon, are simple and credible notions.
The magnifi cent Capataz de Cargadores, deprived of certain
simple realities, such as the admirati on of women, the adulati on of men, the admired publicity of his life, was ready to feel
the burden of sacrilegious guilt descend up on his shoulders.
Bareheaded, in a thin shirt and drawers, he felt the lingering warmth of the fi ne sand under the soles of his feet.
The narrow strand gleamed far ahead in a long curve, defi ning
the outline of this wild side of the harbour. He fl itted along
the shore like a pursued shadow between the sombre palmgroves and the sheet of water lying as still as death on his right
hand. He strode with headlong haste in the silence and solitude as though he had forgotten all prudence and caution.
But he knew that on this side of the water he ran no risk of
discovery. The only inhabitant was a lonely, silent, apathetic
Indian in charge of the palmarias, who brought sometimes
a load of cocoanuts to the town for sale. He lived without
a woman in an open shed, with a perpetual fi re of dry sticks
smouldering near an old canoe lying bottom up on the beach.
He could be easily avoided.
The barking of the dogs about that man’s ranche was
the fi rst thing that checked his speed. He had forgotten
466
NOSTROMO
the dogs. He swerved sharply, and plunged into the palmgrove, as into a wilderness of columns in an immense hall,
whose dense obscurity seemed to whisper and rustle faintly
high above his head. He traversed it, entered a ravine, and
climbed to the top of a steep ridge free of trees and bushes.
From there, open and vague in the starlight, he saw
the plain between the town and the harbour. In the woods
above some night-bird made a strange drumming noise. Below beyond the palmaria on the beach, the Indian’s dogs
continued to bark uproariously. He wondered what had upset them so much, and, peering down from his elevation, was
surprised to detect unaccountable movements of the ground
below, as if several oblong pieces of the plain had been in motion. Those dark, shifting patches, alternately catching and
eluding the eye, altered their place always away from the harbour, with a suggesti on of consecutive order and purpose.
A light dawned up on him. It was a column of infantry on
a night march towards the higher broken countryat the foot of
the hills. But he was too much in the dark about everything
for wonder and speculation.
The plain had resumed its shadowy immobility. He descended the ridge and found himself in the open solitude,
between the harbour and the town. Its spaciousness, extended indefi nitely by an effect of obscurity, rendered more sensible his profound isolation. His pace became slower. No one
waited for him; no one thought of him; no one expected or
wished his return. «Betrayed! Betrayed!» he muttered to himself. No one cared. He might have been drowned by this time.
No one would have cared – unless, perhaps, the children, he
467
JOSEPH CONRAD
thought to himself. But they were with the English signora,
and not thinking of himat all.
He wavered in his purpose of making straight for
the Casa Viola. To what end? What could he expect there? His
life seemed to fail him in all its details, even to the scornful
reproaches of Teresa. He was aware painfully of his reluctance.
Was it that remorse which she had prophesied with, what he
saw now, was her last breath?
Meantime, he had deviated from the straight course, inclining by a sort of instinct to the right, towards the jetty and
the harbour, the scene of his daily labours. The great length of
the Custom House loomed up allat once like the wall of a factory. Not a soul challenged his approach, and his curiosity
became excited as he passed cautiously towards the front by
the unexpected sight of two lighted windows.
They had the fascinati on of a lonely vigil kept by some
mysterious watcher up there, those two windows shining
dimly up on the harbour in the whole vast extent of the abandoned building. The solitude could almost be felt. A strong
smell of wood smoke hung about in a thin haze, which was
faintly perceptible to his raised eyes against the glitter of
the stars. As he advanced in the profound silence, the shrilling of innumerable cicalas in the dry grass seemed positively
deafening to his strained ears. Slowly, step by step, he found
himself in the great hall, sombre and full of acrid smoke.
A fi re built against the staircase had burnt down impotently to a low heap of embers. The hard wood had failed to catch;
only a few stepsat the bottom smouldered, with a creeping
glow of sparks defi ning their charred edges.At the top he saw
468
NOSTROMO
a streak of light from an open door. It fell up on the vast landing, all foggy with a slow drift of smoke. That was the room.
He climbed the stairs, then checked himself, because he had
seen within the shadow of a man cast up on one of the walls. It
was a shapeless, high-shouldered shadow of somebody standing still, with lowered head, out of his line of sight. The Capataz, remembering that he was totally unarmed, stepped aside,
and, effacing himself upright in a dark corner, waited with his
eyes fi xed on the door.
The whole enormous ruined barrack of a place, unfi nished, without ceilings under its lofty roof, was pervaded by
the smoke swaying to and fro in the faint cross draughts playing in the obscurity of many lofty rooms and barnlike passages. Once one of the swinging shutters came against the wall
with a single sharp crack, as if pushed by an impatient hand.
A piece of paper scurried out from somewhere, rustling
along the landing. The man, whoever he was, did not darken
the lighted doorway. Twice the Capataz, advancing a couple of
steps out of his corner, craned his neck in the hope of catching sight of what he could be at, so quietly, in there. But every
time he saw only the distorted shadow of broad shoulders and
bowed head. He was doing apparently nothing, and stirred not
from the spot, as though he were meditating – or, perhaps,
reading a paper. And not a sound issued from the room.
Once more the Capataz stepped back. He wondered who it
was – some Monterist? But he dreaded to show himself. To discover his presence on shore, unless after many days, would,
he believed, endanger the treasure. With his own knowledge
possessing his whole soul, it seemed impossible that anybody
469
JOSEPH CONRAD
in Sulaco should fail to jumpat the right surmise. After a couple of weeks or so it would be different. Who could tell he
had not returned overland from some port beyond the limits of the Republic? The existence of the treasure confused his
thoughts with a peculiar sort of anxiety, as though his life had
become bound up with it. It rendered him timorous for a moment before that enigmatic, lighted door. Devil take the fellow! He did not want to see him. There would be nothing to
learn from his face, known or unknown. He was a fool to waste
his time there in waiting.
Less than fi ve minutes after entering the place the Capataz
began his retreat. He got away down the stairs with perfect
success, gave one upward look over his shoulderat the light on
the landing, and ran stealthily across the hall. Butat the very
moment he was turning out of the great door, with his mind
fi xed up on escaping the notice of the man upstairs, somebody
he had not heard coming briskly along the front ran full into
him. Both muttered a stifl ed exclamati on of surprise, and
leaped back and stood still, each indistinct to the other. Nostromo was silent. The other man spoke fi rst, in an amazed and
deadened tone.
«Who are you?»
Already Nostromo had seemed to recognize Dr. Monygham.
He had no doubt now. He hesitated the space of a second.
The idea of bolting without a word presented itself to his
mind. No use! An inexplicable repugnance to pronounce
the name by which he was known kept him silent a little longer.At last he said in a low voice –
«A Cargador».
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