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The Arrow of Gold-Part48_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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addressed him directly.

"Captain Blunt," he said, "the result of this meeting may go



against me. In that case you will recognize publicly that you were

wrong. For you are wrong and you know it. May I trust your



honour?"

In answer to that appeal Captain Blunt, always correct, didn't open



his lips but only made a little bow. For the rest he was perfectly

ruthless. If he was utterly incapable of being carried away by



love there was nothing equivocal about his jealousy. Such

psychology is not very rare and really from the point of view of



the combat itself one cannot very well blame him. What happened

was this. Monsieur George fired on the word and, whether luck or



skill, managed to hit Captain Blunt in the upper part of the arm

which was holding the pistol. That gentleman's arm dropped



powerless by his side. But he did not drop his weapon. There was

nothing equivocal about his determination. With the greatest



deliberation he reached with his left hand for his pistol and

taking careful aim shot Monsieur George through the left side of



his breast. One may imagine the consternation of the four seconds

and the activity of the two surgeons in the confined, drowsy heat



of that walled garden. It was within an easy drive of the town and

as Monsieur George was being conveyed there at a walking pace a



little brougham coming from the opposite direction pulled up at the

side of the road. A thickly veiled woman's head looked out of the



window, took in the state of affairs at a glance, and called out in

a firm voice: "Follow my carriage." The brougham turning round



took the lead. Long before this convoy reached the town another

carriage containing four gentlemen (of whom one was leaning back



languidly with his arm in a sling) whisked past and vanished ahead

in a cloud of white, Provencal dust. And this is the last



appearance of Captain Blunt in Monsieur George's narrative. Of

course he was only told of it later. At the time he was not in a



condition to notice things. Its interest in his surroundings

remained of a hazy and nightmarish kind for many days together.



From time to time he had the impression that he was in a room

strangely familiar to him, that he had unsatisfactory visions of



Dona Rita, to whom he tried to speak as if nothing had happened,

but that she always put her hand on his mouth to prevent him and



then spoke to him herself in a very strange voice which sometimes

resembled the voice of Rose. The face, too, sometimes resembled



the face of Rose. There were also one or two men's faces which he

seemed to know well enough though he didn't recall their names. He



could have done so with a slight effort, but it would have been too

much trouble. Then came a time when the hallucinations of Dona



Rita and the faithful Rose left him altogether. Next came a

period, perhaps a year, or perhaps an hour, during which he seemed



to dream all through his past life. He felt no apprehension, he

didn't try to speculate as to the future. He felt that all



possible conclusions were out of his power, and therefore he was

indifferent to everything. He was like that dream's disinterested



spectator who doesn't know what is going to happen next. Suddenly

for the first time in his life he had the soul-satisfying



consciousness of floating off into deep slumber.

When he woke up after an hour, or a day, or a month, there was dusk



in the room; but he recognized it perfectly. It was his apartment

in Dona Rita's house; those were the familiar surroundings in which



he had so often told himself that he must either die or go mad.

But now he felt perfectly clear-headed and the full sensation of



being alive came all over him, languidly delicious. The greatest

beauty of it was that there was no need to move. This gave him a



sort of moral satisfaction. Then the first thought independent of

personal sensations came into his head. He wondered when Therese



would come in and begin talking. He saw vaguely a human figure in

the room but that was a man. He was speaking in a deadened voice



which had yet a preternatural distinctness.

"This is the second case I have had in this house, and I am sure



that directly or indirectly it was connected with that woman. She

will go on like this leaving a track behind her and then some day



there will be really a corpse. This young fellow might have been

it."



"In this case, Doctor," said another voice, "one can't blame the

woman very much. I assure you she made a very determined fight."



"What do you mean? That she didn't want to. . . "




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