Джозеф Конрад - Suspense

“You won’t call it your luck,” he pursued. “Well, let us leave it without a name. It is something in you. Your carelessness in following your fantasy, signore, as when you forced your presence on me only two days ago,” he insisted, as if carelessness and fantasy were the compelling instruments of success. His voice was at its lowest as he added: “Your genius makes you true to your will.”

No human being could have been insensible to such words uttered unexpectedly in a tone of secret earnestness. But Cosmo’s inward response was a feeling of profound despondency. He was crushed by their appalling unfitness. For the last twenty–four hours he had been asking himself whether he had a will of his own, and it had seemed to him that he had lost the notion of the real nature of courage. At that very moment, while listening to the mysteriously low pitch of Attilio’s voice, the thought flashed through his mind that there was something within him that made of him a predestined victim of remorse.

“You can’t possibly know anything about me, Attilio,” he said; “and whatever you like to imagine about me, you will have to put me on shore presently. I can’t stay here till the morning, and neither can you,” he added. “What are you thinking of doing? What can you do?”

“Is it possible that it is of any interest to the signore? Only the other evening I could not induce you to leave me to myself, and now you are impatient to leave me to my fate. What can I do? I can always take a desperate chance,”—he paused, and added through his clenched teeth, “and when I think what little I need to make it almost safe!” The piously uttered exclamation, “Ah, Dio!” was accompanied by a shake of a clenched fist, apparently addressed to the universe, but made as it were discreetly, in keeping with the low and forcible tones.

“And what is that?” asked Cosmo, raising his head.

“Two pairs of stout arms, nothing more. With four oars and this boat, and using a little judgment in getting away, I would defy that fellow there.” He jerked his head towards the galley which in this tide–less sea had not shifted her position a yard. “Yes,” he went on, “I could even hope to remain unseen on account of a quick dash.”

And he explained to Cosmo further that in an hour or so, a little nearer the break of day, when men get heavy and sleepy, the watchfulness of those custom–house people would be relaxed and give him a better chance. But if he was seen, then he could still hope to out–row them, though he would have preferred it the other way, because with a boat making for the open sea, they would very soon guess that there must be some vessel waiting for her, and by telling the tale on shore, that Government zebec lying in the harbour would soon be out in chase. She was fast, and in twenty–four hours she would soon manage to overhaul all the craft she would sight, between this and the place he was going to.

“And where is that?” asked Cosmo, letting his head rest on his hands again.

“In the direction of Livorno,” said the other and checked himself. “But perhaps I had better not tell you, for should you happen to be interrogated by all those magistrates, or perhaps by the Austrians, you would of course want to speak the truth as becomes a gentleman—a nobilissimo signore—unless you manage to forget what I have already told you or perchance elect to come with us.”

“Come with you,” repeated Cosmo, before something peculiar in the tone made him sit up and face Attilio. “I believe you are capable of carrying me off.”

“ Dio ne voglio ,” was Attilio’s answer; “God forbid. The noise you would make would bring no end of trouble. But for that, perhaps, it would have been better for me,” he added reflectively, “whereas I have made up my mind that there should be nothing but good from our association. Yet, signore, you very nearly went away with us without any question at all, for our head pointed to seaward, and you could have had no idea that I was coming in here. Confess, signore, you didn’t think of return then. I had only to hold the tiller straight another five minutes and I would have had you in my power.”

“You are afraid of the dogana galley, my friend,” said Cosmo, as if arguing a point.

“Signore, this minute,” said Attilio, with the utmost seriousness. “Wake up there,” he said, in a raised undertone to his two men. “Take an oar, Pietro, and pull the boat to the foot of the tower.”

“There is also that old boatman,” said Cosmo.

“Hold,” said Attilio. “Him I will not land. They will be at his place in the morning, and then he tells his tale … unless he is dead. See forward there.”

A very subdued murmur arose in the bows, and Attilio muttered: “Pietro would not talk to a dead man.”

“He is extremely feeble,” said Cosmo.

It appeared on Attilio’s inquiry that this encumbrance, as he called him, was just strong enough to be helped over the thwarts. Presently, sustained under the elbows, he joined Cosmo in the stern–sheets, where they made him sit between them. He let his big hands lie in his lap. From time to time he shivered patiently.

“That wretch Barbone knows no pity,” observed Cosmo.

“I suppose he was the nearest he could get. What tyranny! The helpless are at the mercy of those fellows. He saved himself the trouble of going three doors further.”

They both looked at the ancient frame that age had not shrivelled.

“A fine man once,” said Attilio in a low voice. “Can you hear me, vecchio ?”

“ Si , and see you too, but I don’t know your voice,” was the answer in a voice stronger than either of them expected, but betraying no sort of interest.

“They will certainly throw him into prison.” And to Cosmo’s indignant exclamation, Attilio pointed out that the old man would be the only person they would be able to get hold of and he would have to pay for all the rest.

Cosmo expressed the opinion that he would not stay there long.

“Better for him to die under the open sky than in prison,” murmured Attilio in a gloomy voice. “Listen, old man, could you keep the boat straight at a star if I were to point you one?”

“I was at home in a boat before I could speak plainly,” was the answer, while the boatman raised his arm and let it rest on the tiller as if to prove that he had strength enough for that at least.

“I have my boat’s crew, signore. Let him do something for all Italy, if it is with his last breath, that old Genoese. And now if you were only to take that bow oar you have been using so well only a few moments ago, I will pull stroke and we will make this boat fly.”

Cosmo felt the subdued vibration of this appeal, without having paid any attention to the words. They required no answer. Attilio pressed him as though he had been arguing against objections. Surely he was no friend of tyranny or of Austrian oppressors, and he would not refuse to serve a man whom some hidden power had thrown in his way. He, Attilio, had not sought him. He would have been content to have never seen him. He surely had nothing that could call him back on shore this very night, since he had not been more than three days in Genoa. No time for him to have affairs. The words poured out of his lips into Cosmo’s ear, while the white–headed boatman sat still above the torrent of whispered speech, appearing to listen like a venerable judge. What could stand in the way of him lending his luck and the strength of his arm? Surely it couldn’t be love, since he was travelling alone.

“Enough,” said Cosmo, as if the word had been extorted from him by pain, but Attilio felt that his cause had been gained, though he hastened to apologise for the impropriety of the argument and assure the milor Inglese that nothing would be easier than to put him ashore in the course of the next day.