Nostromo by Joseph Conrad (book recommendations .txt) 📕

of practical use at the moment. These people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions⁠—sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover.”

He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, “That can lead one very far, though.”

Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their president to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of “a justly incensed democracy” upon all the provincial assemblies of the republic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman.

The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair, “Sulaco has answered by sending today an army upon his flank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we Occidentals⁠—”

A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at stake⁠ ⁠… No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his lungs, “Gran’ bestia!”

This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street.

“This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument,” he said to Antonia. “I have invented this definition, this last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the capataz of the Sulaco cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour⁠—this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is⁠—”

“And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?” interrupted Antonia.

“I was speaking of a man of that sort,” said Decoud, curtly. “The heroes of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?”

Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered against Antonia’s gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth.

She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices.

The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste’s fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould⁠—a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with downcast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine⁠—had infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom