Nostromo by Joseph Conrad (book recommendations .txt) 📕

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 ground.

“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 tonight, 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 seduction.

“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 brow.”

“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 of Linda.”

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