Nostromo by Joseph Conrad (book recommendations .txt) 📕

“There is nothing I would not do for the sake of Antonia. There is nothing I am not prepared to undertake. There is no risk I am not ready to run.”

Decoud seemed to find a fresh audacity in this voicing of his thoughts. “You would not believe me if I were to say that it is the love of the country which⁠—”

She made a sort of discouraged protest with her arm, as if to express that she had given up expecting that motive from anyone.

“A Sulaco revolution,” Decoud pursued in a forcible undertone. “The Great Cause may be served here, on the very spot of its inception, in the place of its birth, Mrs. Gould.”

Frowning, and biting her lower lip thoughtfully, she made a step away from the door.

“You are not going to speak to your husband?” Decoud arrested her anxiously.

“But you will need his help?”

“No doubt,” Decoud admitted without hesitation. “Everything turns upon the San Tome mine, but I would rather he didn’t know anything as yet of my⁠—my hopes.”

A puzzled look came upon Mrs. Gould’s face, and Decoud, approaching, explained confidentially⁠—

“Don’t you see, he’s such an idealist.”

Mrs. Gould flushed pink, and her eyes grew darker at the same time.

“Charley an idealist!” she said, as if to herself, wonderingly. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Yes,” conceded Decoud, “it’s a wonderful thing to say with the sight of the San Tome mine, the greatest fact in the whole of South America, perhaps, before our very eyes. But look even at that, he has idealized this fact to a point⁠—” He paused. “Mrs. Gould, are you aware to what point he has idealized the existence, the worth, the meaning of the San Tome mine? Are you aware of it?”

He must have known what he was talking about.

The effect he expected was produced. Mrs. Gould, ready to take fire, gave it up suddenly with a low little sound that resembled a moan.

“What do you know?” she asked in a feeble voice.

“Nothing,” answered Decoud, firmly. “But, then, don’t you see, he’s an Englishman?”

“Well, what of that?” asked Mrs. Gould.

“Simply that he cannot act or exist without idealizing every simple feeling, desire, or achievement. He could not believe his own motives if he did not make them first a part of some fairy tale. The earth is not quite good enough for him, I fear. Do you excuse my frankness? Besides, whether you excuse it or not, it is part of the truth of things which hurts the⁠—what do you call them?⁠—the Anglo-Saxon’s susceptibilities, and at the present moment I don’t feel as if I could treat seriously either his conception of things or⁠—if you allow me to say so⁠—or yet yours.”

Mrs. Gould gave no sign of being offended. “I suppose Antonia understands you thoroughly?”

“Understands? Well, yes. But I am not sure that she approves. That, however, makes no difference. I am honest enough to tell you that, Mrs. Gould.”

“Your idea, of course, is separation,” she said.

“Separation, of course,” declared Martin. “Yes; separation of the whole Occidental Province from the rest of the unquiet body. But my true idea, the only one I care for, is not to be separated from Antonia.”

“And that is all?” asked Mrs. Gould, without severity.

“Absolutely. I am not deceiving myself about my motives. She won’t leave Sulaco for my sake, therefore Sulaco must leave the rest of the republic to its fate. Nothing could be clearer than that. I like a clearly defined situation. I cannot part with Antonia, therefore the one and indivisible Republic of Costaguana must be made to part with its western province. Fortunately it happens to be also a sound policy. The richest, the most fertile part of this land may be saved from anarchy. Personally, I care little, very little; but it’s a fact that the establishment of Montero in power would mean death to me. In all the proclamations of general pardon which I have seen, my name, with a few others, is specially excepted. The brothers hate me, as you know very well, Mrs. Gould; and behold, here is the rumour of them having won a battle. You say that supposing it is true, I have plenty of time to run away.”

The slight, protesting murmur on the part of Mrs. Gould made him pause for a moment, while he looked at her with a sombre and resolute glance.

“Ah, but I would, Mrs. Gould. I would run away if it served that which at present is my only desire. I am courageous enough to say that, and to do it, too. But women, even our women, are idealists. It is Antonia that won’t run away. A novel sort of vanity.”

“You call it vanity,” said Mrs. Gould, in a shocked voice.

“Say pride, then, which Father Corbelan would tell you, is a mortal sin. But I am not proud. I am simply too much in love to run away. At the same time I want to live. There is no love for a dead man. Therefore it is necessary that Sulaco should not recognize the victorious Montero.”

“And you think my husband will give you his support?”

“I think he can be drawn into it, like all idealists, when he once sees a sentimental basis for his action. But I wouldn’t talk to him. Mere clear facts won’t appeal to his sentiment. It is much better for him to convince himself in his own way. And, frankly, I could not, perhaps, just now pay sufficient respect to either his motives or even, perhaps, to yours, Mrs. Gould.”

It was evident that Mrs. Gould was very determined not to be offended. She smiled vaguely, while she seemed to think the matter over. As far as she could judge from the girl’s half-confidences, Antonia understood that young man. Obviously there was promise of safety in his plan, or rather in his idea. Moreover, right or wrong, the idea could do no harm. And it was quite possible, also, that the rumour was false.

“You have some sort of a plan,” she said.

“Simplicity itself. Barrios has started, let him go on then; he will hold Cayta,