Page 465 - nostromo-a-tale-of-the-seaboard

in the low, smoky room of Domingo’s posada, where the
fraternity of Cargadores gambled, sang, and danced of an
evening; to remain with empty pockets after a burst of pub-
lic generosity to some peyne d’oro girl or other (for whom
he did not care), had none of the humiliation of destitution.
He remained rich in glory and reputation. But since it was
no longer possible for him to parade the streets of the town,
and be hailed with respect in the usual haunts of his leisure,
this sailor felt himself destitute indeed.
His mouth was dry. It was dry with heavy sleep and ex-
tremely anxious thinking, as it had never been dry before. It
may be said that Nostromo tasted the dust and ashes of the
fruit of life into which he had bitten deeply in his hunger for
praise. Without removing his head from between his fists,
he tried to spit before him—‘Tfui’—and muttered a curse
upon the selfishness of all the rich people.
Since everything seemed lost in Sulaco (and that was the
feeling of his waking), the idea of leaving the country al-
together had presented itself to Nostromo. At that thought
he had seen, like the beginning of another dream, a vision
of steep and tideless shores, with dark pines on the heights
and white houses low down near a very blue sea. He saw the
quays of a big port, where the coasting feluccas, with their
lateen sails outspread like motionless wings, enter gliding
silently between the end of long moles of squared blocks
that project angularly towards each other, hugging a cluster
of shipping to the superb bosom of a hill covered with pal-
aces. He remembered these sights not without some filial
emotion, though he had been habitually and severely beaten

Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard