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The Mirror of the Sea-Part23_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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became aware that J. M. K. B. had followed me into the room,

elegant, fatal, correct and severe in a white tie and large shirt-



front. In answer to his politelysinister, prolonged glance of

inquiry, I overheard Dona Rita murmuring, with some confusion and



annoyance, "VOUS ETES BETE MON CHER. VOYONS! CA N'A AUCUNE

CONSEQUENCE." Well content in this case to be of no particular



consequence, I had already about me the elements of some worldly

sense.



Rearranging my collar, which, truth to say, ought to have been a

round one above a short jacket, but was not, I observed



felicitously that I had come to say good-bye, being ready to go off

to sea that very night with the Tremolino. Our hostess, slightly



panting yet, and just a shade dishevelled, turned tartly upon J. M.

K. B., desiring to know when HE would be ready to go off by the



Tremolino, or in any other way, in order to join the royal

headquarters. Did he intend, she asked ironically, to wait for the



very eve of the entry into Madrid? Thus by a judicious exercise of

tact and asperity we re-established the atmosphericequilibrium of



the room long before I left them a little before midnight, now

tenderly reconciled, to walk down to the harbour and hail the



Tremolino by the usual soft whistle from the edge of the quay. It

was our signal, invariably heard by the ever-watchful Dominic, the



PADRONE.

He would raise a lanternsilently to light my steps along the



narrow, springy plank of our primitive gangway. "And so we are

going off," he would murmur directly my foot touched the deck. I



was the harbinger of sudden departures, but there was nothing in

the world sudden enough to take Dominic unawares. His thick black



moustaches, curled every morning with hot tongs by the barber at

the corner of the quay, seemed to hide a perpetual smile. But



nobody, I believe, had ever seen the true shape of his lips. From

the slow, imperturbable gravity of that broad-chested man you would



think he had never smiled in his life. In his eyes lurked a look

of perfectly remorseless irony, as though he had been provided with



an extremelyexperienced soul; and the slightest distension of his

nostrils would give to his bronzed face a look of extraordinary



boldness. This was the only play of feature of which he seemed

capable, being a Southerner of a concentrated, deliberate type.



His ebony hair curled slightly on the temples. He may have been

forty years old, and he was a great voyager on the inland sea.



Astute and ruthless, he could have rivalled in resource the

unfortunate son of Laertes and Anticlea. If he did not pit his



craft and audacity against the very gods, it is only because the

Olympian gods are dead. Certainly no woman could frighten him. A



one-eyed giant would not have had the ghost of a chance against

Dominic Cervoni, of Corsica, not Ithaca; and no king, son of kings,



but of very respectable family - authentic Caporali, he affirmed.

But that is as it may be. The Caporali families date back to the



twelfth century.

For want of more exalted adversaries Dominic turned his audacity



fertile in impious stratagems against the powers of the earth, as

represented by the institution of Custom-houses and every mortal



belonging thereto - scribes, officers, and guardacostas afloat and

ashore. He was the very man for us, this modern and unlawful



wanderer with his own legend of loves, dangers, and bloodshed. He

told us bits of it sometimes in measured, ironic tones. He spoke



Catalonian, the Italian of Corsica and the French of Provence with

the same easy naturalness. Dressed in shore-togs, a white starched



shirt, black jacket, and round hat, as I took him once to see Dona

Rita, he was extremely presentable. He could make himself



interesting by a tactful and rugged reserve set off by a grim,

almost imperceptible, playfulness of tone and manner.






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