Nostromo by Joseph Conrad (book recommendations .txt) 📕

otherwise he was the very type of a fair Spanish creole. The fluffy moustache and the short, curly, golden beard did not conceal his lips, rosy, fresh, almost pouting in expression. His full, round face was of that warm, healthy creole white which is never tanned by its native sunshine. Martin Decoud was seldom exposed to the Costaguana sun under which he was born. His people had been long settled in Paris, where he had studied law, had dabbled in literature, had hoped now and then in moments of exaltation to become a poet like that other foreigner of Spanish blood, Jose Maria Heredia. In other moments he had, to pass the time, condescended to write articles on European affairs for the Semenario, the principal newspaper in Sta. Marta, which printed them under the heading “From our special correspondent,” though the authorship was an open secret. Everybody in Costaguana, where the tale of compatriots in Europe is jealously kept, knew that it was “the son Decoud,” a talented young man, supposed to be moving in the higher spheres of society. As a matter of fact, he was an idle boulevardier, in touch with some smart journalists, made free of a few newspaper offices, and welcomed in the pleasure haunts of pressmen. This life, whose dreary superficiality is covered by the glitter of universal blague, like the stupid clowning of a harlequin by the spangles of a motley costume, induced in him a Frenchified⁠—but most un-French⁠—cosmopolitanism, in reality a mere barren indifferentism posing as intellectual superiority. Of his own country he used to say to his French associates: “Imagine an atmosphere of opéra bouffe in which all the comic business of stage statesmen, brigands, etc., etc., all their farcical stealing, intriguing, and stabbing is done in dead earnest. It is screamingly funny, the blood flows all the time, and the actors believe themselves to be influencing the fate of the universe. Of course, government in general, any government anywhere, is a thing of exquisite comicality to a discerning mind; but really we Spanish-Americans do overstep the bounds. No man of ordinary intelligence can take part in the intrigues of une farce macabre. However, these Ribierists, of whom we hear so much just now, are really trying in their own comical way to make the country habitable, and even to pay some of its debts. My friends, you had better write up señor Ribiera all you can in kindness to your own bondholders. Really, if what I am told in my letters is true, there is some chance for them at last.”

And he would explain with railing verve what Don Vincente Ribiera stood for⁠—a mournful little man oppressed by his own good intentions, the significance of battles won, who Montero was (un grotesque vaniteux et feroce), and the manner of the new loan connected with railway development, and the colonization of vast tracts of land in one great financial scheme.

And his French friends would remark that evidently this little fellow Decoud connaissait la question a fond. An important Parisian review asked him for an article on the situation. It was composed in a serious tone and in a spirit of levity. Afterwards he asked one of his intimates⁠—

“Have you read my thing about the regeneration of Costaguana⁠—une bonne blague, hein?”

He imagined himself Parisian to the tips of his fingers. But far from being that he was in danger of remaining a sort of nondescript dilettante all his life. He had pushed the habit of universal raillery to a point where it blinded him to the genuine impulses of his own nature. To be suddenly selected for the executive member of the patriotic small-arms committee of Sulaco seemed to him the height of the unexpected, one of those fantastic moves of which only his “dear countrymen” were capable.

“It’s like a tile falling on my head. I⁠—I⁠—executive member! It’s the first I hear of it! What do I know of military rifles? C’est funambulesque!” he had exclaimed to his favourite sister; for the Decoud family⁠—except the old father and mother⁠—used the French language amongst themselves. “And you should see the explanatory and confidential letter! Eight pages of it⁠—no less!”

This letter, in Antonia’s handwriting, was signed by Don Jose, who appealed to the “young and gifted Costaguanero” on public grounds, and privately opened his heart to his talented godson, a man of wealth and leisure, with wide relations, and by his parentage and bringing-up worthy of all confidence.

“Which means,” Martin commented, cynically, to his sister, “that I am not likely to misappropriate the funds, or go blabbing to our chargé d’affaires here.”

The whole thing was being carried out behind the back of the war minister, Montero, a mistrusted member of the Ribiera government, but difficult to get rid of at once. He was not to know anything of it till the troops under Barrios’s command had the new rifle in their hands. The president-dictator, whose position was very difficult, was alone in the secret.

“How funny!” commented Martin’s sister and confidante; to which the brother, with an air of best Parisian blague, had retorted:

“It’s immense! The idea of that chief of the state engaged, with the help of private citizens, in digging a mine under his own indispensable war minister. No! We are unapproachable!” And he laughed immoderately.

Afterwards his sister was surprised at the earnestness and ability he displayed in carrying out his mission, which circumstances made delicate, and his want of special knowledge rendered difficult. She had never seen Martin take so much trouble about anything in his whole life.

“It amuses me,” he had explained, briefly. “I am beset by a lot of swindlers trying to sell all sorts of gaspipe weapons. They are charming; they invite me to expensive luncheons; I keep up their hopes; it’s extremely entertaining. Meanwhile, the real affair is being carried through in quite another quarter.”

When the business was concluded he declared suddenly his intention of seeing the precious