 | CHAPTER SEVEN Nostromo: a Tale of the Seaboard / Joseph Conrad |  |
7. CHAPTER SEVEN
AT ABOUT that time, in the Intendencia of Sulaco,
Charles Gould was assuring Pedrito Montero, who had
sent a request for his presence there, that he would never
let the mine pass out of his hands for the profit of a
Government who had robbed him of it. The Gould
Concession could not be resumed. His father had not
desired it. The son would never surrender it. He
would never surrender it alive. And once dead, where
was the power capable of resuscitating such an enterprise
in all its vigour and wealth out of the ashes and
ruin of destruction? There was no such power in the
country. And where was the skill and capital abroad
that would condescend to touch such an ill-omened
corpse? Charles Gould talked in the impassive tone
which had for many years served to conceal his anger
and contempt. He suffered. He was disgusted with
what he had to say. It was too much like heroics. In
him the strictly practical instinct was in profound discord
with the almost mystic view he took of his right.
The Gould Concession was symbolic of abstract justice.
Let the heavens fall. But since the San Tomé mine
had developed into world-wide fame his threat had
enough force and effectiveness to reach the rudimentary
intelligence of Pedro Montero, wrapped up as it was
in the futilities of historical anecdotes. The Gould
Concession was a serious asset in the country's finance,
and, what was more, in the private budgets of many
officials as well. It was traditional. It was known.
It was said. It was credible. Every Minister of
was natural. And Pedrito intended to be Minister
of the Interior and President of the Council in his
brother's Government. The Duc de Morny had occupied
those high posts during the Second French
Empire with conspicuous advantage to himself.
A table, a chair, a wooden bedstead had been procured
for His Excellency, who, after a short siesta, rendered
absolutely necessary by the labours and the pomps of his
entry into Sulaco, had been getting hold of the administrative
machine by making appointments, giving orders,
and signing proclamations. Alone with Charles Gould
in the audience room, His Excellency managed with his
well-known skill to conceal his annoyance and consternation.
He had begun at first to talk loftily of confiscation,
but the want of all proper feeling and mobility in the
Señor Administrador's features ended by affecting
adversely his power of masterful expression. Charles
Gould had repeated: "The Government can certainly
bring about the destruction of the San Tomé mine if it
likes; but without me it can do nothing else." It was
an alarming pronouncement, and well calculated to
hurt the sensibilities of a politician whose mind is bent
upon the spoils of victory. And Charles Gould said
also that the destruction of the San Tomé mine would
cause the ruin of other undertakings, the withdrawal
of European capital, the withholding, most probably,
of the last instalment of the foreign loan. That stony
fiend of a man said all these things (which were accessible
to His Excellency's intelligence) in a cold-
blooded manner which made one shudder.
A long course of reading historical works, light and
gossipy in tone, carried out in garrets of Parisian hotels,
sprawling on an untidy bed, to the neglect of his duties,
menial or otherwise, had affected the manners of Pedro
the old Intendencia, the magnificent hangings, the gilt
furniture ranged along the walls; had he stood upon a
daïs on a noble square of red carpet, he would have probably
been very dangerous from a sense of success and
elevation. But in this sacked and devastated residence,
with the three pieces of common furniture huddled up
in the middle of the vast apartment, Pedrito's imagination
was subdued by a feeling of insecurity and
impermanence. That feeling and the firm attitude
of Charles Gould who had not once, so far, pronounced
the word "Excellency," diminished him in his own eyes.
He assumed the tone of an enlightened man of the world,
and begged Charles Gould to dismiss from his mind
every cause for alarm. He was now conversing, he
reminded him, with the brother of the master of the
country, charged with a reorganizing mission. The
trusted brother of the master of the country, he repeated.
Nothing was further from the thoughts of
that wise and patriotic hero than ideas of destruction.
"I entreat you, Don Carlos, not to give way to your
anti-democratic prejudices," he cried, in a burst of
condescending effusion.
Pedrito Montero surprised one at first sight by the
vast development of his bald forehead, a shiny yellow
expanse between the crinkly coal-black tufts of hair
without any lustre, the engaging form of his mouth,
and an unexpectedly cultivated voice. But his eyes,
very glistening as if freshly painted on each side of his
hooked nose, had a round, hopeless, birdlike stare when
opened fully. Now, however, he narrowed them agreeably,
throwing his square chin up and speaking with
closed teeth slightly through the nose, with what he
imagined to be the manner of a grand seigneur.
In that attitude, he declared suddenly that the highest
rule based upon the direct popular vote. Cæsarism
was conservative. It was strong. It recognized the
legitimate needs of democracy which requires orders,
titles, and distinctions. They would be showered
upon deserving men. Cæsarism was peace. It was
progressive. It secured the prosperity of a country.
Pedrito Montero was carried away. Look at what the
Second Empire had done for France. It was a régime
which delighted to honour men of Don Carlos's stamp.
The Second Empire fell, but that was because its chief
was devoid of that military genius which had raised
General Montero to the pinnacle of fame and glory.
Pedrito elevated his hand jerkily to help the idea of
pinnacle, of fame. "We shall have many talks yet.
We shall understand each other thoroughly, Don
Carlos!" he cried in a tone of fellowship. Republicanism
had done its work. Imperial democracy was the
power of the future. Pedrito, the guerrillero, showing
his hand, lowered his voice forcibly. A man singled
out by his fellow-citizens for the honourable nickname
of El Rey de Sulaco could not but receive a full recognition
from an imperial democracy as a great captain
of industry and a person of weighty counsel, whose
popular designation would be soon replaced by a more
solid title. "Eh, Don Carlos? No! What do you
say? Conde de Sulaco — Eh? — or marquis . . ."
He ceased. The air was cool on the Plaza, where a patrol
of cavalry rode round and round without penetrating
into the streets, which resounded with shouts and
the strumming of guitars issuing from the open doors
of pulperias. The orders were not to interfere with the
enjoyments of the people. And above the roofs, next
to the perpendicular lines of the cathedral towers the
snowy curve of Higuerota blocked a large space of
After a time Pedrito Montero, thrusting his
hand in the bosom of his coat, bowed his head with
slow dignity. The audience was over.
Charles Gould on going out passed his hand over his
forehead as if to disperse the mists of an oppressive
dream, whose grotesque extravagance leaves behind a
subtle sense of bodily danger and intellectual decay.
In the passages and on the staircases of the old palace
Montero's troopers lounged about insolently, smoking
and making way for no one; the clanking of sabres
and spurs resounded all over the building. Three silent
groups of civilians in severe black waited in the main
gallery, formal and helpless, a little huddled up, each
keeping apart from the others, as if in the exercise of a
public duty they had been overcome by a desire to shun
the notice of every eye. These were the deputations
waiting for their audience. The one from the Provincial
Assembly, more restless and uneasy in its corporate
expression, was overtopped by the big face of Don Juste
Lopez, soft and white, with prominent eyelids and
wreathed in impenetrable solemnity as if in a dense
cloud. The President of the Provincial Assembly,
coming bravely to save the last shred of parliamentary
institutions (on the English model), averted his eyes
from the Administrador of the San Tomé mine as a
dignified rebuke of his little faith in that only saving
principle.
The mournful severity of that reproof did not affect
Charles Gould, but he was sensible to the glances of the
others directed upon him without reproach, as if only to
read their own fate upon his face. All of them had
talked, shouted, and declaimed in the great sala of the
Casa Gould. The feeling of compassion for those men,
struck with a strange impotence in the toils of moral
suffered from his fellowship in evil with them too much.
He crossed the Plaza unmolested. The Amarilla Club
was full of festive ragamuffins. Their frowsy heads
protruded from every window, and from within came
drunken shouts, the thumping of feet, and the twanging
of harps. Broken bottles strewed the pavement below.
Charles Gould found the doctor still in his house.
Dr. Monygham came away from the crack in the
shutter through which he had been watching the street.
"Ah! You are back at last!" he said in a tone of
relief. "I have been telling Mrs. Gould that you were
perfectly safe, but I was not by any means certain that
the fellow would have let you go."
"Neither was I," confessed Charles Gould, laying his
hat on the table.
"You will have to take action."
The silence of Charles Gould seemed to admit that
this was the only course. This was as far as Charles
Gould was accustomed to go towards expressing his
intentions.
"I hope you did not warn Montero of what you mean
to do," the doctor said, anxiously.
"I tried to make him see that the existence of the
mine was bound up with my personal safety," continued
Charles Gould, looking away from the doctor, and fixing
his eyes upon the water-colour sketch upon the wall.
"He believed you?" the doctor asked, eagerly.
"God knows!" said Charles Gould. "I owed it to
my wife to say that much. He is well enough informed.
He knows that I have Don Pépé there. Fuentes must
have told him. They know that the old major is perfectly
capable of blowing up the San Tomé mine without
hesitation or compunction. Had it not been for
that I don't think I'd have left the Intendencia a free
and from hate — from hate of these Liberals, as they
call themselves. Liberals! The words one knows so
well have a nightmarish meaning in this country.
Liberty, democracy, patriotism, government — all of
them have a flavour of folly and murder. Haven't
they, doctor? . . . I alone can restrain Don Pépé.
If they were to — to do away with me, nothing could
prevent him."
"They will try to tamper with him," the doctor
suggested, thoughtfully.
"It is very possible," Charles Gould said very low,
as if speaking to himself, and still gazing at the sketch
of the San Tomé gorge upon the wall. "Yes, I expect
they will try that." Charles Gould looked for the first
time at the doctor. "It would give me time," he added.
"Exactly," said Dr. Monygham, suppressing his excitement.
"Especially if Don Pépé behaves diplomatically.
Why shouldn't he give them some hope of success?
Eh? Otherwise you wouldn't gain so much time.
Couldn't he be instructed to —"
Charles Gould, looking at the doctor steadily, shook
his head, but the doctor continued with a certain
amount of fire —
"Yes, to enter into negotiations for the surrender of
the mine. It is a good notion. You would mature
your plan. Of course, I don't ask what it is. I don't
want to know. I would refuse to listen to you if you
tried to tell me. I am not fit for confidences."
"What nonsense!" muttered Charles Gould, with
displeasure.
He disapproved of the doctor's sensitiveness about
that far-off episode of his life. So much memory
shocked Charles Gould. It was like morbidness. And
again he shook his head. He refused to tamper with
taste and from policy. Instructions would have to be
either verbal or in writing. In either case they ran the
risk of being intercepted. It was by no means certain
that a messenger could reach the mine; and, besides,
there was no one to send. It was on the tip of Charles's
tongue to say that only the late Capataz de Cargadores
could have been employed with some chance of success
and the certitude of discretion. But he did not say
that. He pointed out to the doctor that it would have
been bad policy. Directly Don Pépé let it be supposed
that he could be bought over, the Administrador's
personal safety and the safety of his friends would become
endangered. For there would be then no reason
for moderation. The incorruptibility of Don Pépé
was the essential and restraining fact. The doctor hung
his head and admitted that in a way it was so.
He couldn't deny to himself that the reasoning was
sound enough. Don Pépé's usefulness consisted in his
unstained character. As to his own usefulness, he
reflected bitterly it was also his own character. He
declared to Charles Gould that he had the means of
keeping Sotillo from joining his forces with Montero,
at least for the present.
"If you had had all this silver here," the doctor said,
"or even if it had been known to be at the mine, you
could have bribed Sotillo to throw off his recent Monterism.
You could have induced him either to go away
in his steamer or even to join you."
"Certainly not that last," Charles Gould declared,
firmly. "What could one do with a man like that,
afterwards — tell me, doctor? The silver is gone, and
I am glad of it. It would have been an immediate
and strong temptation. The scramble for that visible
plunder would have precipitated a disastrous ending.
removed it — even if it is lost. It would have been a
danger and a curse."
"Perhaps he is right," the doctor, an hour later, said
hurriedly to Mrs. Gould, whom he met in the corridor.
"The thing is done, and the shadow of the treasure may
do just as well as the substance. Let me try to serve you
to the whole extent of my evil reputation. I am off now
to play my game of betrayal with Sotillo, and keep him
off the town."
She put out both her hands impulsively. "Dr. Monygham,
you are running a terrible risk," she whispered,
averting from his face her eyes, full of tears, for a short
glance at the door of her husband's room. She pressed
both his hands, and the doctor stood as if rooted to the
spot, looking down at her, and trying to twist his lips
into a smile.
"Oh, I know you will defend my memory," he uttered
at last, and ran tottering down the stairs across the
patio, and out of the house. In the street he kept up.
a great pace with his smart hobbling walk, a case of instruments
under his arm. He was known for being loco.
Nobody interfered with him. From under the seaward
gate, across the dusty, arid plain, interspersed with low
bushes, he saw, more than a mile away, the ugly enormity
of the Custom House, and the two or three other
buildings which at that time constituted the seaport
of Sulaco. Far away to the south groves of palm trees
edged the curve of the harbour shore. The distant
peaks of the Cordillera had lost their identity of clear-
cut shapes in the steadily deepening blue of the eastern
sky. The doctor walked briskly. A darkling shadow
seemed to fall upon him from the zenith. The sun
had set. For a time the snows of Higuerota continued
to glow with the reflected glory of the west. The
appeared lonely, hopping amongst the dark bushes like
a tall bird with a broken wing.
Tints of purple, gold, and crimson were mirrored in
the clear water of the harbour. A long tongue of land,
straight as a wall, with the grass-grown ruins of the
fort making a sort of rounded green mound, plainly
visible from the inner shore, closed its circuit; while
beyond the Placid Gulf repeated those splendours of
colouring on a greater scale and with a more sombre
magnificence. The great mass of cloud filling the head
of the gulf had long red smears amongst its convoluted
folds of grey and black, as of a floating mantle stained
with blood. The three Isabels, overshadowed and
clear cut in a great smoothness confounding the sea
and sky, appeared suspended, purple-black, in the air.
The little wavelets seemed to be tossing tiny red sparks
upon the sandy beaches. The glassy bands of water
along the horizon gave out a fiery red glow, as if fire
and water had been mingled together in the vast bed
of the ocean.
At last the conflagration of sea and sky, lying embraced
and still in a flaming contact upon the edge of
the world, went out. The red sparks in the water
vanished together with the stains of blood in the black
mantle draping the sombre head of the Placid Gulf; a
sudden breeze sprang up and died out after rustling
heavily the growth of bushes on the ruined earthwork
of the fort. Nostromo woke up from a fourteen hours'
sleep, and arose full length from his lair in the long grass.
He stood knee deep amongst the whispering undulations
of the green blades with the lost air of a man just born
into the world. Handsome, robust, and supple, he
threw back his head, flung his arms open, and stretched
himself with a slow twist of the waist and a leisurely
evil in the moment of waking as a magnificent and
unconscious wild beast. Then, in the suddenly steadied
glance fixed upon nothing from under a thoughtful
frown, appeared the man.
| CHAPTER SEVEN Nostromo: a Tale of the Seaboard / Joseph Conrad | |