Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated)

by Joseph Conrad

  “Was it lost, though?” the doctor exclaimed. “I’ve always felt that there was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the point of death — — ”

  “The point of death?” repeated Mrs. Gould.

  “Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver which — — ”

  “Oh, no! No!” exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. “Isn’t it lost and done with? Isn’t there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world miserable?”

  The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he ventured, very low —

  “And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as though father and sister had — — ”

  Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these girls.

  “I have a volante here,” the doctor said. “If you don’t mind getting into that — — ”

  He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood.

  It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet.

  “She is innocent,” the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still kept upon his body. “She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive.”

  He paused. Mrs. Gould’s face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz’s feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room.

  “Ha! Old Giorgio — the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is broken!”

  A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down.

  “I cannot see her. . . . No matter,” he went on, with the shadow of the old magnificent carelessness in his voice. “One kiss is enough, if there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine — soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores.” He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared —

  “I die betrayed — betrayed by — — ”

  But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed.

  “She would not have betrayed me,” he began again, opening his eyes very wide. “She was faithful. We were going very far — very soon. I could have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have left boxes and boxes of it — full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!”

  Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated — cold with apprehension.

  “What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?”

  “Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, ‘Save it on your life.’ And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? ‘It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!’“

  “Nostromo!” Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. “I, too, have hated the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Marvellous! — that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!”

  A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of the silver.

  “No, Capataz,” she said. “No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever.”

  After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women.

  “Now, Mrs. Gould,” he said, almost brutally in his impatience, “tell me, was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told you — — ”

  “He told me nothing,” said Mrs. Gould, steadily.

  The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham’s eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo’s genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and courage!

  “Pray send at once somebody for my carriage,” spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, “Come nearer me, child; come closer. We will wait here.”

  Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself.

  “Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his treasure.”

  “Senora, he loved me. He loved me,” Giselle whispered, despairingly. “He loved me as no one had ever been loved before.”

  “I have been loved, too,” Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone.

  Giselle clung to her convulsively. “Oh, senora, but you shall live adored to the end of your life,” she sobbed out.

  Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she leaned over to him.

  “You can do nothing?” she whispered.

  “No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won’t let us touch him. It does not matter. I just had one look. . . . Useless.”

  But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules.

  The rumour of some accident — an accident to Captain Fidanza — had been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night p
rowlers — the poorest of the poor — hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty street.

  There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded.

  “Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?” he asked, anxiously. “Do not forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own weapons.”

  Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a long silence —

  “Comrade Fidanza,” he began, solemnly, “you have refused all aid from that doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?”

  In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious sufferings.

  Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds.

  “Pull easy,” he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within himself. “Pull easy,” he repeated.

  * * * * * *

  From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out —

  “Do you know whom you have killed?” he answered —

  “Ramirez the vagabond.”

  White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled —

  “He cried out in son Gian’ Battista’s voice.”

  The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly.

  “You are too old to understand. Come into the house.”

  He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his chair.

  “In son Gian’ Battista’s voice,” he repeated in a severe tone. “I heard him — Ramirez — the miserable — — ”

  Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear —

  “You have killed Gian’ Battista.”

  The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies.

  “Where is the child?” he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the night with the open Bible before him.

  Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes.

  “She is asleep,” she said. “We shall talk of her tomorrow.”

  She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty —

  “Give me the book.”

  Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo.

  “The child had to be protected,” he said, in a strange, mournful voice.

  Behind his chair Linda wrung her hands, crying without noise. Suddenly she started for the door. He heard her move.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To the light,” she answered, turning round to look at him balefully.

  “The light! Si — duty.”

  Very upright, white-haired, leonine, heroic in his absorbed quietness, he felt in the pocket of his red shirt for the spectacles given him by Dona Emilia. He put them on. After a long period of immobility he opened the book, and from on high looked through the glasses at the small print in double columns. A rigid, stern expression settled upon his features with a slight frown, as if in response to some gloomy thought or unpleasant sensation. But he never detached his eyes from the book while he swayed forward, gently, gradually, till his snow-white head rested upon the open pages. A wooden clock ticked methodically on the white-washed wall, and growing slowly cold the Garibaldino lay alone, rugged, undecayed, like an old oak uprooted by a treacherous gust of wind.

  The light of the Great Isabel burned unfailing above the lost treasure of the San Tome mine. Into the bluish sheen of a night without stars the lantern sent out a yellow beam towards the far horizon. Like a black speck upon the shining panes, Linda, crouching in the outer gallery, rested her head on the rail. The moon, drooping in the western board, looked at her radiantly.

  Below, at the foot of the cliff, the regular splash of oars from a passing boat ceased, and Dr. Monygham stood up in the stern sheets.

  “Linda!” he shouted, throwing back his head. “Linda!”

  Linda stood up. She had recognized the voice.

  “Is he dead?” she cried, bending over.

  “Yes, my poor girl. I am coming round,” the doctor answered from below. “Pull to the beach,” he said to the rowers.

  Linda’s black figure detached itself upright on the light of the lantern with her arms raised above her head as though she were going to throw herself over.

  “It is I who loved you,” she whispered, with a face as set and white as marble in the moonlight. “I! Only I! She will forget thee, killed miserably for her pretty face. I cannot understand. I cannot understand. But I shall never forget thee. Never!”

  She stood silent and still, collecting her strength to throw all her fidelity, her pain, bewilderment, and despair into one great cry.

  “Never! Gian’ Battista!”

  Dr. Monygham, pulling round in the police-galley, heard the name pass over his head. It was another of Nostromo’s triumphs, the greatest, the most enviable, the most sinister of all. In that true cry of undying passion that seemed to ring aloud from Punta Mala to Azuera and away to the bright line of the horizon, overhung by a big white cloud shining like a mass of solid silver, the genius of the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores dominated the dark gulf containing his conquests of treasure and love.

  THE SECRET AGENT

  A SIMPLE TALE

  First published in 1907, this novel is set in London in 1886 and concerns the life of Mr. Verloc and his job as a spy. The Secret Agent is notable as a political novel, moving away from Conrad’s typical tales of seafaring. The novel also deals broadly with the notions of anarchism, espionage and terrorism.

  TO

  H. G. WELLS

  THE CHRONICLER OF MR LEWISHAM’S LOVE

  THE BIOGRAPHER OF KIPPS AND THE

  HISTORIAN OF THE AGES TO COME

  THIS SIMPLE TALE OF THE XIX CENTURY

  IS AFFECTIONATELY OFFERED

  The first edition

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

 
CHAPTER XIII

  Conrad with his son at Pent Farm, Ashford. It was in this home that Conrad wrote ‘The Secret Agent’

  CHAPTER I

  Mr Verloc, going out in the morning, left his shop nominally in charge of his brother-in-law. It could be done, because there was very little business at any time, and practically none at all before the evening. Mr Verloc cared but little about his ostensible business. And, moreover, his wife was in charge of his brother-in-law.

  The shop was small, and so was the house. It was one of those grimy brick houses which existed in large quantities before the era of reconstruction dawned upon London. The shop was a square box of a place, with the front glazed in small panes. In the daytime the door remained closed; in the evening it stood discreetly but suspiciously ajar.

  The window contained photographs of more or less undressed dancing girls; nondescript packages in wrappers like patent medicines; closed yellow paper envelopes, very flimsy, and marked two-and-six in heavy black figures; a few numbers of ancient French comic publications hung across a string as if to dry; a dingy blue china bowl, a casket of black wood, bottles of marking ink, and rubber stamps; a few books, with titles hinting at impropriety; a few apparently old copies of obscure newspapers, badly printed, with titles like The Torch, The Gong — rousing titles. And the two gas jets inside the panes were always turned low, either for economy’s sake or for the sake of the customers.

  These customers were either very young men, who hung about the window for a time before slipping in suddenly; or men of a more mature age, but looking generally as if they were not in funds. Some of that last kind had the collars of their overcoats turned right up to their moustaches, and traces of mud on the bottom of their nether garments, which had the appearance of being much worn and not very valuable. And the legs inside them did not, as a general rule, seem of much account either. With their hands plunged deep in the side pockets of their coats, they dodged in sideways, one shoulder first, as if afraid to start the bell going.