Джозеф Конрад - Suspense

“Livorno,” repeated that strange man. “Did I? Yes. The road along the Riviera di Levante is delightful for any person sensible to the beauties of Italian landscape.” He paused with a sour expression at the noise of voices filling the room, and muttered that, no doubt, Cantelucci found that sort of thing pay, but that the place was becoming impossible.

Cosmo was just thinking that there was not half enough uproar there. The naval officers seemed strangely subdued that evening. The same old lieutenant with sunken cheeks and a sharp nose, in the same shabby uniform, was at the head of the table. Cantelucci, wearing a long–skirted maroon coat, now glided about the room, unobtrusive and vigilant. His benefactor beckoned to him.

“You would know where to find a man with four good horses for the signore’s carriage?” he asked; and accepting Cantelucci’s low bow as an affirmative, addressed himself to Cosmo. “The road’s perfectly safe. The country’s full of Austrian troops.”

“I think I would prefer to go by sea,” said Cosmo, who had not thought of making any arrangements for the journey. Instantly Cantelucci glided away, while the doctor emitted a grunt and applied himself to his dinner. Cosmo thought desperately. “Oh, yes, the sea, why not by sea, away from everybody.” He had been rolling and bumping on the roads, good, bad and indifferent, in dust or mud, meeting in inns ladies and gentlemen for days and days between Paris and Genoa, and for a moment he was fascinated by the notion of a steady gliding progress in company of three or four bronzed sailors over a blue sea in sight of a picturesque coast of rocks and hills crowded with pines, with opening valleys, with white villages, and purple promontories of lovely shape. It was like a dream which lasted till the doctor was heard suddenly saying: “I think I could find somebody that would take your travelling carriage off your hands”—and the awakening came with an inward recoil of all his being, as if before a vision of irrevocable consequences. The doctor lowered his eyelids. “He is changed,” he said to himself. “Oh, yes, he is changed.” This, however, did not prevent him from feeling irritated by Cosmo’s lack of response to the offer to dispose of his travelling carriage.

“There are many people that would consider themselves lucky to have such an offer made to them,” he remarked, after a period of silence. “It is not so easy at this time to get rid of a travelling carriage; nor yet to have an opportunity to hire a dependable man with four good horses, if you want to go by land. I mean at a time like this, when anything may happen any day.”

“I am sure I am very much obliged to you,” said Cosmo, “but I am really in no hurry.”

The doctor took notice of Cosmo’s languid attitude and the untouched plate before him.

“The trouble is that you don’t seem to have any aim at all. Isn’t that it?”

“Yes. I confess,” said Cosmo carelessly. “I think I want a rest.”

“Well, Mr. Latham, you had better see that you get it, then. This place isn’t restful, it is merely dull. And then suppose you were suddenly to perceive an aim, such, for instance, as a visit to Elba—you may be too late if you linger unduly. You know you are not likely to see a specimen like that one over there again in your lifetime. And even he may not be with us very long.”

“You seem very positive about that,” said Cosmo, looking at his interlocutor searchingly. “This is the third or fourth time that I hear that sort of allusion from you. Have you any special information?”

“Yes, of a sort. It has been my lot to hear much of what is said in high places, and the nature of my occupation has given me much practice in appreciating what is said.”

“In high places!” interjected Cosmo.

“And in low too,” retorted the doctor a little impatiently, “if that is the distinction you have in your mind, Mr. Latham. However, I told you I have been in Vienna quite recently, and I have heard something there.”

“From Prince Talleyrand?” was Cosmo’s stolid suggestion.

The doctor smiled acidly. “Not a bad guess. I did hear something at Prince Talleyrand’s. I heard it from Montrond. You know who I mean?”

“Never heard of him. Who is he?”

“Never heard of Montrond? Oh, I forgot, you have been shut up in that tight island of ours. Monsieur Montrond has the advantage to live near the rose. You understand me? He is the intimate companion to the prince. Has been for many years. The prince told somebody once that he liked Montrond because he was not ‘excessively’ scrupulous. That just paints the man for you. I was talking with Monsieur Montrond about Bonaparte’s future—and I was not trying to be unkind either. I pointed out that one could hardly expect him to settle down if the French Government were not made to pay him the money guaranteed under the Treaty. He could see the moment when he would find himself without a penny. That’s enough to make any human being restive. He was bound to try and do something. A man must live, I said. And Montrond looks at me sideways, and says deliberately: ‘Oh, here we don’t see the necessity.’ You understand that after a hint like this I dropped the subject. It’s a point of view like another, eh, Mr. Latham?”

Cosmo was impressed. “I heard last night,” he said, “that he is taking precautions for his personal safety.”

“He remembered, perhaps, what happened to a certain Duc d’Enghien, a young man who obviously didn’t take precautions. So you heard that story? Well, in Livorno you will hear many sorts of stories. Livorno is an exciting place, and an excellent point to start from for a visit to Elba, which would be a great memory for your old age. And if you happen to observe anything remarkable there, I would thank you to drop me a line, care of Cantelucci. You see, I have put some money into a deal in oil, and I don’t know how it is, everything in the world, even a little twopenny affair like that, is affected by this feeling of suspense that man’s presence gives rise to: hopes, plans, affections, love affairs. If I were you, Mr. Latham, I would certainly go to Livorno.” He waited a little before he got up, muttering something about having a lot of pen–work to do, and went out, Cantelucci hastening to open the door for him.

Cosmo remained passive in his chair. The room emptied itself gradually, and there was not even a servant left in it when Cosmo rose in his turn. He went back to his room, threw a few pieces of wood on the fire and sat down. He felt as if lost in a strange world.

He doubted whether he ought not to have called that day at the palace, if only to say good–bye. And suddenly all the occurrences and even words of the day before assailed his memory. The morning call, the mulatto girl, the sunshine in Madame de Montevesso’s boudoir, the seduction of her voice, the emotional appeal of her story, had stirred him to the depths of his soul. Where was the man who could have imagined the existence of a being of such splendid humanity, with such a voice, with such amazing harmony of aspect, expression, gesture—with such a face in this gross world of mortals in which Lady Jane and Mrs. R.’s daughters counted for the most exquisite products offered to the love of men? And yet Cosmo remembered now, that even while all his senses had been thrown into confusion by the first sight of Madame de Montevesso, he had felt dimly that she was no stranger, that he had seen her glory before: the presence, the glance, the lips. He did not connect that dim recognition with the child Adèle. No child could have promised a woman like this. It was rather like the awed recollection of a prophetic vision. And it had been in Latham Hall—but not in a dream: he was certain no man ever found the premonition of such a marvel in the obscure promptings of slumbering flesh. And it was not in a vision of his own; such visions were for artists, for inspired seers. She must have been foretold to him in some picture he had seen in Latham Hall, where one came on pictures (mostly of the Italian school) in unexpected places, on landings, at the end of dark corridors, in spare bedrooms. A luminous oval face on the dark background—the noble full–length woman, stepping out of the narrow frame with long draperies held by jewelled clasps and girdle, with pearls on head and bosom, carrying a book and pen (or was it a palm?), and—yes! he saw it plainly with terror—with her left breast pierced by a dagger. He saw it there plainly as if the blow had been struck before his eyes. The released hilt seemed to vibrate yet, while the eyes looked straight at him, profound, unconscious, in miraculous tranquillity.