His voice had penetrated6 to them, sounding breathlessly hurried: “Hola! Vecchio! O, Vecchio! Is it all well with you in there?”
“You see —” murmured old Viola to his wife. Signora Teresa was silent now. Outside Nostromo laughed.
“I can hear the padrona is not dead.”
“You have done your best to kill me with fear,” cried Signora Teresa. She wanted to say something more, but her voice failed her.
Linda raised her eyes to her face for a moment, but old Giorgio shouted apologetically —
“She is a little upset.”
Outside Nostromo shouted back with another laugh —
“She cannot upset me.”
Signora Teresa found her voice.
“It is what I say. You have no heart — and you have no conscience, Gian’ Battista —”
They heard him wheel his horse away from the shutters8. The party he led were babbling9 excitedly in Italian and Spanish, inciting10 each other to the pursuit. He put himself at their head, crying, “Avanti!”
“He has not stopped very long with us. There is no praise from strangers to be got here,” Signora Teresa said tragically11. “Avanti! Yes! That is all he cares for. To be first somewhere — somehow — to be first with these English. They will be showing him to everybody. ‘This is our Nostromo!’” She laughed ominously12. “What a name! What is that? Nostromo? He would take a name that is properly no word from them.”
Meantime Giorgio, with tranquil13 movements, had been unfastening the door; the flood of light fell on Signora Teresa, with her two girls gathered to her side, a picturesque14 woman in a pose of maternal15 exaltation. Behind her the wall was dazzlingly white, and the crude colours of the Garibaldi lithograph16 paled in the sunshine.
Old Viola, at the door, moved his arm upwards17 as if referring all his quick, fleeting18 thoughts to the picture of his old chief on the wall. Even when he was cooking for the “Signori Inglesi”— the engineers (he was a famous cook, though the kitchen was a dark place)— he was, as it were, under the eye of the great man who had led him in a glorious struggle where, under the walls of Gaeta, tyranny would have expired for ever had it not been for that accursed Piedmontese race of kings and ministers. When sometimes a frying-pan caught fire during a delicate operation with some shredded19 onions, and the old man was seen backing out of the doorway20, swearing and coughing violently in an acrid21 cloud of smoke, the name of Cavour — the arch intriguer22 sold to kings and tyrants23 — could be heard involved in imprecations against the China girls, cooking in general, and the brute24 of a country where he was reduced to live for the love of liberty that traitor25 had strangled.
Then Signora Teresa, all in black, issuing from another door, advanced, portly and anxious, inclining her fine, black-browed head, opening her arms, and crying in a profound tone —
“Giorgio! thou passionate26 man! Misericordia Divina! In the sun like this! He will make himself ill.”
At her feet the hens made off in all directions, with immense strides; if there were any engineers from up the line staying in Sulaco, a young English face or two would appear at the billiard-room occupying one end of the house; but at the other end, in the cafe, Luis, the mulatto, took good care not to show himself. The Indian girls, with hair like flowing black manes, and dressed only in a shift and short petticoat, stared dully from under the square-cut fringes on their foreheads; the noisy frizzling of fat had stopped, the fumes27 floated upwards in sunshine, a strong smell of burnt onions hung in the drowsy28 heat, enveloping29 the house; and the eye lost itself in a vast flat expanse of grass to the west, as if the plain between the Sierra overtopping Sulaco and the coast range away there towards Esmeralda had been as big as half the world.
Signora Teresa, after an impressive pause, remonstrated30 —
“Eh, Giorgio! Leave Cavour alone and take care of yourself now we are lost in this country all alone with the two children, because you cannot live under a king.”
And while she looked at him she would sometimes put her hand hastily to her side with a short twitch31 of her fine lips and a knitting of her black, straight eyebrows32 like a flicker33 of angry pain or an angry thought on her handsome, regular features.
It was pain; she suppressed the twinge. It had come to her first a few years after they had left Italy to emigrate to America and settle at last in Sulaco after wandering from town to town, trying shopkeeping in a small way here and there; and once an organized enterprise of fishing — in Maldonado — for Giorgio, like the great Garibaldi, had been a sailor in his time.
Sometimes she had no patience with pain. For years its gnawing34 had been part of the landscape embracing the glitter of the harbour under the wooded spurs of the range; and the sunshine itself was heavy and dull — heavy with pain — not like the sunshine of her girlhood, in which middle-aged35 Giorgio had wooed her gravely and passionately36 on the shores of the gulf37 of Spezzia.
“You go in at once, Giorgio,” she directed. “One would think you do not wish to have any pity on me — with four Signori Inglesi staying in the house.” “Va bene, va bene,” Giorgio would mutter. He obeyed. The Signori Inglesi would require their midday meal presently. He had been one of the immortal38 and invincible39 band of liberators who had made the mercenaries of tyranny fly like chaff40 before a hurricane, “un uragano terribile.” But that was before he was married and had children; and before tyranny had reared its head again amongst the traitors41 who had imprisoned42 Garibaldi, his hero.
There were three doors in the front of the house, and each afternoon the Garibaldino could be seen at one or another of them with his big bush of white hair, his arms folded, his legs crossed, leaning back his leonine head against the side, and looking up the wooded slopes of the foothills at the snowy dome43 of Higuerota. The front of his house threw off a black long rectangle of shade, broadening slowly over the soft ox-cart track. Through the gaps, chopped out in the oleander hedges, the harbour branch railway, laid out temporarily on the level of the plain, curved away its shining parallel ribbons on a belt of scorched44 and withered45 grass within sixty yards of the end of the house. In the evening the empty material trains of flat cars circled round the dark green grove46 of Sulaco, and ran, undulating slightly with white jets of steam, over the plain towards the Casa Viola, on their way to the railway yards by the harbour. The Italian drivers saluted47 him from the foot-plate with raised hand, while the negro brakesmen sat carelessly on the brakes, looking straight forward, with the rims48 of their big hats flapping in the wind. In return Giorgio would give a slight sideways jerk of the head, without unfolding his arms.
On this memorable49 day of the riot his arms were not folded on his chest. His hand grasped the barrel of the gun grounded on the threshold; he did not look up once at the white dome of Higuerota, whose cool purity seemed to hold itself aloof50 from a hot earth. His eyes examined the plain curiously51. Tall trails of dust subsided52 here and there. In a speckless53 sky the sun hung clear and blinding. Knots of men ran headlong; others made a stand; and the irregular rattle54 of firearms came rippling55 to his ears in the fiery56, still air. Single figures on foot raced desperately57. Horsemen galloped towards each other, wheeled round together, separated at speed. Giorgio saw one fall, rider and horse disappearing as if they had galloped into a chasm58, and the movements of the animated59 scene were like the passages of a violent game played upon the plain by dwarfs60 mounted and on foot, yelling with tiny throats, under the mountain that seemed a colossal61 embodiment of silence. Never before had Giorgio seen this bit of plain so full of active life; his gaze could not take in all its details at once; he shaded his eyes with his hand, till suddenly the thundering of many hoofs62 near by startled him.
A troop of horses had broken out of the fenced paddock of the Railway Company. They came on like a whirlwind, and dashed over the line snorting, kicking, squealing63 in a compact, piebald, tossing mob of bay, brown, grey backs, eyes staring, necks extended, nostrils64 red, long tails streaming. As soon as they had leaped upon the road the thick dust flew upwards from under their hoofs, and within six yards of Giorgio only a brown cloud with vague forms of necks and cruppers rolled by, making the soil tremble on its passage.
Viola coughed, turning his face away from the dust, and shaking his head slightly.
“There will be some horse-catching to be done before to-night,” he muttered.
In the square of sunlight falling through the door Signora Teresa, kneeling before the chair, had bowed her head, heavy with a twisted mass of ebony hair streaked65 with silver, into the palm of her hands. The black lace shawl she used to drape about her face had dropped to the ground by her side. The two girls had got up, hand-in-hand, in short skirts, their loose hair falling in disorder66. The younger had thrown her arm across her eyes, as if afraid to face the light. Linda, with her hand on the other’s shoulder, stared fearlessly. Viola looked at his children. The sun brought out the deep lines on his face, and, energetic in expression, it had the immobility of a carving67. It was impossible to discover what he thought. Bushy grey eyebrows shaded his dark glance.
“Well! And do you not pray like your mother?”
Linda pouted68, advancing her red lips, which were almost too red; but she had admirable eyes, brown, with a sparkle of gold in the irises69, full of intelligence and meaning, and so clear that they seemed to throw a glow upon her thin, colourless face. There were bronze glints in the sombre clusters of her hair, and the eyelashes, long and coal black, made her complexion70 appear still more pale.
“Mother is going to offer up a lot of candles in the church. She always does when Nostromo has been away fighting. I shall have some to carry up to the Chapel71 of the Madonna in the Cathedral.”
She said all this quickly, with great assurance, in an animated, penetrating72 voice. Then, giving her sister’s shoulder a slight shake, she added —
“And she will be made to carry one, too!”
“Why made?” inquired Giorgio, gravely. “Does she not want to?”
“She is timid,” said Linda, with a little burst of laughter. “People notice her fair hair as she goes along with us. They call out after her, ‘Look at the Rubia! Look at the Rubiacita!’ They call out in the streets. She is timid.”
“And you? You are not timid — eh?” the father pronounced, slowly.
She tossed back all her dark hair.
“Nobody calls out after me.”
Old Giorgio contemplated73 his children thoughtfully. There was two years difference between them. They had been born to him late, years after the boy had died. Had he lived he would have been nearly as old as Gian’ Battista — he whom the English called Nostromo; but as to his daughters, the severity of his temper, his advancing age, his absorption in his memories, had prevented his taking much notice of them. He loved his children, but girls belong more to the mother, and much of his affection had been expended74 in the worship and service of liberty.
When quite a youth he had deserted75 from a ship trading to La Plata, to enlist76 in the navy of Montevideo, then under the command of Garibaldi. Afterwards, in the Italian legion of the Republic struggling against the encroaching tyranny of Rosas, he had taken part, on great plains, on the banks of immense rivers, in the fiercest fighting perhaps the world had ever known. He had lived amongst men who had declaimed about liberty, suffered for liberty, died for liberty, with a desperate exaltation, and with their eyes turned towards an oppressed Italy. His own enthusiasm had been fed on scenes of carnage, on the examples of lofty devotion, on the din7 of armed struggle, on the inflamed77 language of proclamations. He had never parted from the chief of his choice — the fiery apostle of independence — keeping by his side in America and in Italy till after the fatal day of Aspromonte, when the treachery of kings, emperors, and ministers had been revealed to the world in the wounding and imprisonment78 of his hero — a catastrophe79 that had instilled80 into him a gloomy doubt of ever being able to understand the ways of Divine justice.
He did not deny it, however. It required patience, he would say. Though he disliked priests, and would not put his foot inside a church for anything, he believed in God. Were not the proclamations against tyrants addressed to the peoples in the name of God and liberty? “God for men — religions for women,” he muttered sometimes. In Sicily, an Englishman who had turned up in Palermo after its evacuation by the army of the king, had given him a Bible in Italian — the publication of the British and Foreign Bible Society, bound in a dark leather cover. In periods of political adversity, in the pauses of silence when the revolutionists issued no proclamations, Giorgio earned his living with the first work that came to hand — as sailor, as dock labourer on the quays81 of Genoa, once as a hand on a farm in the hills above Spezzia — and in his spare time he studied the thick volume. He carried it with him into battles. Now it was his only reading, and in order not to be deprived of it (the print was small) he had consented to accept the present of a pair of silver-mounted spectacles from Senora Emilia Gould, the wife of the Englishman who managed the silver mine in the mountains three leagues from the town. She was the only Englishwoman in Sulaco.
Giorgio Viola had a great consideration for the English. This feeling, born on the battlefields of Uruguay, was forty years old at the very least. Several of them had poured their blood for the cause of freedom in America, and the first he had ever known he remembered by the name of Samuel; he commanded a negro company under Garibaldi, during the famous siege of Montevideo, and died heroically with his negroes at the fording of the Boyana. He, Giorgio, had reached the rank of ensign-alferez-and cooked for the general. Later, in Italy, he, with the rank of lieutenant82, rode with the staff and still cooked for the general. He had cooked for him in Lombardy through the whole campaign; on the march to Rome he had lassoed his beef in the Campagna after the American manner; he had been wounded in the defence of the Roman Republic; he was one of the four fugitives83 who, with the general, carried out of the woods the inanimate body of the general’s wife into the farmhouse84 where she died, exhausted85 by the hardships of that terrible retreat. He had survived that disastrous86 time to attend his general in Palermo when the Neapolitan shells from the castle crashed upon the town. He had cooked for him on the field of Volturno after fighting all day. And everywhere he had seen Englishmen in the front rank of the army of freedom. He respected their nation because they loved Garibaldi. Their very countesses and princesses had kissed the general’s hands in London, it was said. He could well believe it; for the nation was noble, and the man was a saint. It was enough to look once at his face to see the divine force of faith in him and his great pity for all that was poor, suffering, and oppressed in this world.
The spirit of self-forgetfulness, the simple devotion to a vast humanitarian87 idea which inspired the thought and stress of that revolutionary time, had left its mark upon Giorgio in a sort of austere88 contempt for all personal advantage. This man, whom the lowest class in Sulaco suspected of having a buried hoard89 in his kitchen, had all his life despised money. The leaders of his youth had lived poor, had died poor. It had been a habit of his mind to disregard to-morrow. It was engendered90 partly by an existence of excitement, adventure, and wild warfare91. But mostly it was a matter of principle. It did not resemble the carelessness of a condottiere, it was a puritanism of conduct, born of stern enthusiasm like the puritanism of religion.
This stern devotion to a cause had cast a gloom upon Giorgio’s old age. It cast a gloom because the cause seemed lost. Too many kings and emperors flourished yet in the world which God had meant for the people. He was sad because of his simplicity92. Though always ready to help his countrymen, and greatly respected by the Italian emigrants93 wherever he lived (in his exile he called it), he could not conceal94 from himself that they cared nothing for the wrongs of down-trodden nations. They listened to his tales of war readily, but seemed to ask themselves what he had got out of it after all. There was nothing that they could see. “We wanted nothing, we suffered for the love of all humanity!” he cried out furiously sometimes, and the powerful voice, the blazing eyes, the shaking of the white mane, the brown, sinewy95 hand pointing upwards as if to call heaven to witness, impressed his hearers. After the old man hadbroken off abruptly96 with a jerk of the head and a movement of the arm, meaning clearly, “But what’s the good of talking to you?” they nudged each other. There was in old Giorgio an energy of feeling, a personal quality of conviction, something they called “terribilita”—“an old lion,” they used to say of him. Some slight incident, a chance word would set him off talking on the beach to the Italian fishermen of Maldonado, in the little shop he kept afterwards (in Valparaiso) to his countrymen customers; of an evening, suddenly, in the cafe at one end of the Casa Viola (the other was reserved for the English engineers) to the select clientele of engine-drivers and foremen of the railway shops.
With their handsome, bronzed, lean faces, shiny black ringlets, glistening97 eyes, broad-chested, bearded, sometimes a tiny gold ring in the lobe98 of the ear, the aristocracy of the railway works listened to him, turning away from their cards or dominoes. Here and there a fair-haired Basque studied his hand meantime, waiting without protest. No native of Costaguana intruded99 there. This was the Italian stronghold. Even the Sulaco policemen on a night patrol let their horses pace softly by, bending low in the saddle to glance through the window at the heads in a fog of smoke; and the drone of old Giorgio’s declamatory narrative100 seemed to sink behind them into the plain. Only now and then the assistant of the chief of police, some broad-faced, brown little gentleman, with a great deal of Indian in him, would put in an appearance. Leaving his man outside with the horses he advanced with a confident, sly smile, and without a word up to the long trestle table. He pointed101 to one of the bottles on the shelf; Giorgio, thrusting his pipe into his mouth abruptly, served him in person. Nothing would be heard but the slight jingle102 of the spurs. His glass emptied, he would take a leisurely103, scrutinizing104 look all round the room, go out, and ride away slowly, circling towards the town.
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1
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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inciting
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| 刺激的，煽动的 | |
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tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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lithograph
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| n.平板印刷，平板画；v.用平版印刷 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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intriguer
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| 密谋者 | |
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tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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45
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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49
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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52
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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53
speckless
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| adj.无斑点的，无瑕疵的 | |
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54
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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dwarfs
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| n.侏儒，矮子（dwarf的复数形式）vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的第三人称单数形式） | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irises
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| n.虹( iris的名词复数 )；虹膜；虹彩；鸢尾（花） | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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lobe
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| n.耳垂，（肺，肝等的）叶 | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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102
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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