Nostromo by Joseph Conrad (book recommendations .txt) 📕

an opaque long blotch in the semitransparent obscurity of the room between the two tall parallelograms of the windows full of stars.

“You man of fear!” he cried. “You shall be avenged by me⁠—Nostromo. Out of my way, doctor! Stand aside⁠—or, by the suffering soul of a woman dead without confession, I will strangle you with my two hands.”

He bounded downwards into the black, smoky hall. With a grunt of astonishment, Dr. Monygham threw himself recklessly into the pursuit. At the bottom of the charred stairs he had a fall, pitching forward on his face with a force that would have stunned a spirit less intent upon a task of love and devotion. He was up in a moment, jarred, shaken, with a queer impression of the terrestrial globe having been flung at his head in the dark. But it wanted more than that to stop Dr. Monygham’s body, possessed by the exaltation of self-sacrifice; a reasonable exaltation, determined not to lose whatever advantage chance put into its way. He ran with headlong, tottering swiftness, his arms going like a windmill in his effort to keep his balance on his crippled feet. He lost his hat; the tails of his open gaberdine flew behind him. He had no mind to lose sight of the indispensable man. But it was a long time, and a long way from the custom house, before he managed to seize his arm from behind, roughly, out of breath.

“Stop! Are you mad?”

Already Nostromo was walking slowly, his head dropping, as if checked in his pace by the weariness of irresolution.

“What is that to you? Ah! I forgot you want me for something. Always. Siempre Nostromo.”

“What do you mean by talking of strangling me?” panted the doctor.

“What do I mean? I mean that the king of the devils himself has sent you out of this town of cowards and talkers to meet me tonight of all the nights of my life.”

Under the starry sky the Albergo d’Italia Una emerged, black and low, breaking the dark level of the plain. Nostromo stopped altogether.

“The priests say he is a tempter, do they not?” he added, through his clenched teeth.

“My good man, you drivel. The devil has nothing to do with this. Neither has the town, which you may call by what name you please. But Don Carlos Gould is neither a coward nor an empty talker. You will admit that?” He waited. “Well?”

“Could I see Don Carlos?”

“Great heavens! No! Why? What for?” exclaimed the doctor in agitation. “I tell you it is madness. I will not let you go into the town for anything.”

“I must.”

“You must not!” hissed the doctor, fiercely, almost beside himself with the fear of the man doing away with his usefulness for an imbecile whim of some sort. “I tell you you shall not. I would rather⁠—”

He stopped at loss for words, feeling fagged out, powerless, holding on to Nostromo’s sleeve, absolutely for support after his run.

“I am betrayed!” muttered the capataz to himself; and the doctor, who overheard the last word, made an effort to speak calmly.

“That is exactly what would happen to you. You would be betrayed.”

He thought with a sickening dread that the man was so well known that he could not escape recognition. The house of the señor administrador was beset by spies, no doubt. And even the very servants of the casa were not to be trusted. “Reflect, capataz,” he said, impressively⁠ ⁠… “What are you laughing at?”

“I am laughing to think that if somebody that did not approve of my presence in town, for instance⁠—you understand, señor doctor⁠—if somebody were to give me up to Pedrito, it would not be beyond my power to make friends even with him. It is true. What do you think of that?”

“You are a man of infinite resource, capataz,” said Dr. Monygham, dismally. “I recognize that. But the town is full of talk about you; and those few cargadores that are not in hiding with the railway people have been shouting ‘Viva Montero’ on the plaza all day.”

“My poor cargadores!” muttered Nostromo. “Betrayed! Betrayed!”

“I understand that on the wharf you were pretty free in laying about you with a stick amongst your poor cargadores,” the doctor said in a grim tone, which showed that he was recovering from his exertions. “Make no mistake. Pedrito is furious at señor Ribiera’s rescue, and at having lost the pleasure of shooting Decoud. Already there are rumours in the town of the treasure having been spirited away. To have missed that does not please Pedrito either; but let me tell you that if you had all that silver in your hand for ransom it would not save you.”

Turning swiftly, and catching the doctor by the shoulders, Nostromo thrust his face close to his.

“Maladetta! You follow me speaking of the treasure. You have sworn my ruin. You were the last man who looked upon me before I went out with it. And Sidoni the engine-driver says you have an evil eye.”

“He ought to know. I saved his broken leg for him last year,” the doctor said, stoically. He felt on his shoulders the weight of these hands famed amongst the populace for snapping thick ropes and bending horseshoes. “And to you I offer the best means of saving yourself⁠—let me go⁠—and of retrieving your great reputation. You boasted of making the capataz de cargadores famous from one end of America to the other about this wretched silver. But I bring you a better opportunity⁠—let me go, hombre!”

Nostromo released him abruptly, and the doctor feared that the indispensable man would run off again. But he did not. He walked on slowly. The doctor hobbled by his side till, within a stone’s throw from the Casa Viola, Nostromo stopped again.

Silent in inhospitable darkness, the Casa Viola seemed to have changed its nature; his home appeared to repel him with an air of hopeless and inimical mystery. The doctor said⁠—

“You will be safe there. Go in, capataz.”

“How can I go