Nostromo

«I have already sent a memorial», said Charles Gould, steadily, «and I reck on now confi dently up on your Excellen­cy’s favourable conclusions».

«Ah, D on Carlos! What we want is advanced men like you in the province. The lethargy – the lethargy of these aristo­crats! The want of public spirit! The absence of all enterprise! I, with my profound studies in Europe, you understand –»

With one hand thrust into his swelling bosom, he rose and fell on his toes, and for ten minutes, almost without drawing breath, went on hurling himself intellectually to the assault of Charles Gould’s polite silence; and when, stopping abruptly, he fell back into his chair, it was as though he had been beaten off from a fortress. To save his dignity he hastened to dismiss this silent man with a solemn inclinati on of the head and the words, pronounced with moody, fatigued condescensi on –

He took up a paper fan and began to cool himself with a consequential air, while Charles Gould bowed and with­drew. Then he dropped the fan at once, and stared with an ap­pearance of wonder and perplexityat the closed door for quite a long time.At last he shrugged his shoulders as if to assure himself of his disdain. Cold, dull. No intellectuality. Red hair. A true Englishman. He despised him.

balderdash personally was by no means included in the bar­gain. He drew the line there. To these provincial autocrats, before whom the peaceable populati on of all classes had been accustomed to tremble, the reserve of that English-looking en­gineer caused an uneasiness which swung to and fro between cringing and truculence. Gradually all of them discovered that, no matter what party was in power, that man remained in most effective touch with the higher authorities in Sta. Marta.

are opened, indiscriminately, with the frankness of a bra­zen and childish impudence characteristic of some Spanish­American Governments. But it must be noted thatat about the time of the re-opening of the San Tome mine the mule­teer who had been employed by Charles Gould in his prelimi­nary travels on the Campo added his small train of animals to the thin stream of traffi c carried over the mountain passes be­tween the Sta. Marta upland and the Valley of Sulaco. There are no travellers by that arduous and unsafe route unless un­der very exceptional circumstances, and the state of inland trade did not visibly require additional transport facilities; but the man seemed to fi nd his account in it. A few packages were always found for him whenever he took the road. Very brown and wooden, in goatskin breeches with the hair out­side, he sat near the tail of his own smart mule, his great hat turned against the sun, an expressi on of blissful vacancy on his long face, humming day after day a love-song in a plain­tive key, or, without a change of expression, letting out a yel­lat his small tropilla in front. A round little guitar hung high up on his back; and there was a place scooped out artistically in the wood of one of his pack-saddles where a tightly rolled piece of paper could be slipped in, the wooden plug replaced, and the coarse canvas nailed on again. When in Sulaco it was his practice to smoke and doze all day long (as though he had no care in the world) on a stone bench outside the doorway of the Casa Gould and facing the windows of the Avellanos house. Years and years ago his mother had been chief laundry­woman in that family – very accomplished in the matter of clear-starching. He himself had been born on one of their

haciendas. His name was Bonifacio, and D on Jose, crossing the street about fi ve o’clock to call on Dona Emilia, always ac­knowledged his humble salute by some movement of hand or head. The porters of both houses conversed lazily with him in tones of grave intimacy. His evenings he devoted to gambling and to calls in a spirit of generous festivity up on the peyne d’oro girls in the more remote side-streets of the town. But he, too, was a discreet man.

Nobody had ever heard of labour troubles then. The Car­gadores of the port formed, indeed, an unruly brother­hood of all sorts of scum, with a patr on saint of their own. They went on strike regularly (every bull-fi ght day), a form of trouble that even Nostromoat the height of his prestige could never cope with effi ciently; but the morning after each fi es­ta, before the Indian market-women had opened their mat parasols on the plaza, when the snows of Higuerota gleamed pale over the town on a yet black sky, the appearance of a phantom-like horseman mounted on a silver-grey mare solved the problem of labour without fail. His steed paced

the lanes of the slums and the weed-grown enclosures within the old ramparts, between the black, lightless cluster of huts, like cow-byres, like dog-kennels. The horseman hammered with the butt of a heavy revolverat the doors of low pulpe­rias, of obscene lean-to sheds sloping against the tumble­down piece of a noble wall,at the wooden sides of dwellings so fl imsy that the sound of snores and sleepy mutters within could be heard in the pauses of the thundering clatter of his blows. He called out men’s names menacingly from the saddle, once, twice. The drowsy answers – grumpy, conciliating, sav­age, jocular, or deprecating – came out into the silent darkness in which the horseman sat still, and presently a dark fi gure would fl it out coughing in the still air. Sometimes a low-toned woman cried through the window-hole softly, «He’s coming directly, senor», and the horseman waited silent on a motion­less horse. But if perchance he had to dismount, then, after a while, from the door of that hovel or of that pulperia, with a ferocious scuffl e and stifl ed imprecations, a cargador would fl y out head fi rst and hands abroad, to sprawl under the fore­legs of the silver-grey mare, who only pricked forward her sharp little ears. She was used to that work; and the man, pick­ing himself up, would walk away hastily from Nostromo’s re­volver, reeling a little along the street and snarling low curses. At sunrise Captain Mitchell, coming out anxiously in his night attire on to the wooden balcony running the whole length of the O.S.N. Company’s lonely building by the shore, would see the lighters already under way, fi gures moving busily about the cargo cranes, perhaps hear the invaluable Nostromo, now dismounted and in the checked shirt and red sash of a Medi-