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The Arrow of Gold-Part23_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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mean the absoluteconviction of it, was, so to speak, nothing in

itself. The horrible part was the waiting. That was the cruelty,



the tragedy, the bitterness of it. "Why the devil don't I drop

dead now?" I asked myself peevishly, taking a clean handkerchief



out of the drawer and stuffing it in my pocket.

This was absolutely" target="_blank" title="ad.绝对地；确实">absolutely the last thing, the last ceremony of an



imperative rite. I was abandoned to myself now and it was

terrible. Generally I used to go out, walk down to the port, take



a look at the craft I loved with a sentiment that was extremely

complex, being mixed up with the image of a woman; perhaps go on



board, not because there was anything for me to do there but just

for nothing, for happiness, simply as a man will sit contented in



the companionship of the beloved object. For lunch I had the

choice of two places, one Bohemian, the other select, even



aristocratic, where I had still my reserved table in the petit

salon, up the white staircase. In both places I had friends who



treated my erratic appearances with discretion, in one case tinged

with respect, in the other with a certain amused tolerance. I owed



this tolerance to the most careless, the most confirmed of those

Bohemians (his beard had streaks of grey amongst its many other



tints) who, once bringing his heavy hand down on my shoulder, took

my defence against the charge of being disloyal and even foreign to



that milieu of earnest visions taking beautiful and revolutionary

shapes in the smoke of pipes, in the jingle of glasses.



"That fellow (ce garcon) is a primitive nature, but he may be an

artist in a sense. He has broken away from his conventions. He is



trying to put a special vibration and his own notion of colour into

his life; and perhaps even to give it a modelling according to his



own ideas. And for all you know he may be on the track of a

masterpiece; but observe: if it happens to be one nobody will see



it. It can be only for himself. And even he won't be able to see

it in its completeness except on his death-bed. There is something



fine in that."

I had blushed with pleasure; such fine ideas had never entered my



head. But there was something fine. . . . How far all this seemed!

How mute and how still! What a phantom he was, that man with a



beard of at least seven tones of brown. And those shades of the

other kind such as Baptiste with the shaven diplomatic face, the



maitre d'hotel in charge of the petit salon, taking my hat and

stick from me with a deferential remark: "Monsieur is not very



often seen nowadays." And those other well-groomed heads raised

and nodding at my passage - "Bonjour." "Bonjour" - following me



with interested eyes; these young X.s and Z.s, low-toned, markedly

discreet, lounging up to my table on their way out with murmurs:



"Are you well?" - "Will one see you anywhere this evening?" - not

from curiosity, God forbid, but just from friendliness; and passing



on almost without waiting for an answer. What had I to do with

them, this elegant dust, these moulds of provincial fashion?



I also often lunched with Dona Rita without invitation. But that

was now unthinkable. What had I to do with a woman who allowed



somebody else to make her cry and then with an amazing lack of good

feeling did her offensiveweeping on my shoulder? Obviously I



could have nothing to do with her. My five minutes' meditation in

the middle of the bedroom came to an end without even a sigh. The



dead don't sigh, and for all practical purposes I was that, except

for the final consummation, the growing cold, the rigor mortis -



that blessed state! With measured steps I crossed the landing to

my sitting-room.



CHAPTER II

The windows of that room gave out on the street of the Consuls



which as usual was silent. And the house itself below me and above

me was soundless, perfectly still. In general the house was quiet,



dumbly quiet, without resonances of any sort, something like what

one would imagine the interior of a convent would be. I suppose it






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