Ностромо
Chapter 4
Thatiswhythelimpinhiswalk,thetwistofhisshoulders,thescarsonhischeeksweresopronounced.Hisconfessions,whentheycameatlast,wereverycomplete,too.Sometimesonthenightswhenhewalkedthefloor,hewondered,grindinghisteethwithshameandrage,atthefertilityofhisimaginationwhenstimulatedbyasortofpainwhichmakestruth,honour,selfrespect,andlifeitselfmattersoflittlemoment.
AndhecouldnotforgetFatherBeronwithhismonotonousphrase,“Willyouconfessnow?”reachinghiminanawfuliterationandlucidityofmeaningthroughthedeliriousincoherenceofunbearablepain.Hecouldnotforget.Butthatwasnottheworst.HadhemetFatherBeroninthestreetafteralltheseyearsDr.Monyghamwassurehewouldhavequailedbeforehim.Thiscontingencywasnottobefearednow.FatherBeronwasdead;butthesickeningcertitudepreventedDr.Monyghamfromlookinganybodyintheface.
Dr.Monygham.hadbecome,inamanner,theslaveofaghost.ItwasobviouslyimpossibletotakehisknowledgeofFatherBeronhometoEurope.WhenmakinghisextortedconfessionstotheMilitaryBoard,Dr.Monyghamwasnotseekingtoavoiddeath.Helongedforit.Sittinghalf-nakedforhoursonthewetearthofhisprison,andsomotionlessthatthespiders,hiscompanions,attachedtheirwebstohismattedhair,heconsoledthemiseryofhissoulwithacutereasoningsthathehadconfessedtocrimesenoughforasentenceofdeath—thattheyhadgonetoofarwithhimtolethimlivetotellthetale.
