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- Джозеф Конрад
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He
bent
over
her
upturned
face
very
tenderly
and
a
little
remorsefully
.
Charles
Gould
was
competent
because
he
had
no
illusions
.
The
Gould
Concession
had
to
fight
for
life
with
such
weapons
as
could
be
found
at
once
in
the
mire
of
a
corruption
that
was
so
universal
as
almost
to
lose
its
significance
.
He
was
prepared
to
stoop
for
his
weapons
For
a
moment
he
felt
as
if
the
silver
mine
,
which
had
killed
his
father
,
had
decoyed
him
further
than
he
meant
to
go
;
and
with
the
roundabout
logic
of
emotions
,
he
felt
that
the
worthiness
of
his
life
was
bound
up
with
success
.
There
was
no
going
back
.
"
MRS.
GOULD
was
too
intelligently
sympathetic
not
to
share
that
feeling
.
It
made
life
exciting
,
and
she
was
too
much
of
a
woman
not
to
like
excitement
.
But
it
frightened
her
,
too
,
a
little
;
and
when
Don
Jose
Avellanos
,
rocking
in
the
American
chair
,
would
go
so
far
as
to
say
,
"
Even
,
my
dear
Carlos
,
if
you
had
failed
;
even
if
some
untoward
event
were
yet
to
destroy
your
work
--
which
God
forbid
!
--
you
would
have
deserved
well
of
your
country
,
"
Mrs.
Gould
would
look
up
from
the
tea-table
profoundly
at
her
unmoved
husband
stirring
the
spoon
in
the
cup
as
though
he
had
not
heard
a
word
.
Not
that
Don
Jose
anticipated
anything
of
the
sort
.
He
could
not
praise
enough
dear
Carlos
's
tact
and
courage
.
His
English
,
rock-like
quality
of
character
was
his
best
safeguard
,
Don
Jose
affirmed
;
and
,
turning
to
Mrs.
Gould
,
"
As
to
you
,
Emilia
,
my
soul
"
--
he
would
address
her
with
the
familiarity
of
his
age
and
old
friendship
--
"
you
are
as
true
a
patriot
as
though
you
had
been
born
in
our
midst
.
"
This
might
have
been
less
or
more
than
the
truth
.
Mrs.
Gould
,
accompanying
her
husband
all
over
the
province
in
the
search
for
labour
,
had
seen
the
land
with
a
deeper
glance
than
a
trueborn
Costaguanera
could
have
done
.
In
her
travel-worn
riding
habit
,
her
face
powdered
white
like
a
plaster
cast
,
with
a
further
protection
of
a
small
silk
mask
during
the
heat
of
the
day
,
she
rode
on
a
well-shaped
,
light-footed
pony
in
the
centre
of
a
little
cavalcade
.
Two
mozos
de
campo
,
picturesque
in
great
hats
,
with
spurred
bare
heels
,
in
white
embroidered
calzoneras
,
leather
jackets
and
striped
ponchos
,
rode
ahead
with
carbines
across
their
shoulders
,
swaying
in
unison
to
the
pace
of
the
horses
.
A
tropilla
of
pack
mules
brought
up
the
rear
in
charge
of
a
thin
brown
muleteer
,
sitting
his
long-eared
beast
very
near
the
tail
,
legs
thrust
far
forward
,
the
wide
brim
of
his
hat
set
far
back
,
making
a
sort
of
halo
for
his
head
.
An
old
Costaguana
officer
,
a
retired
senior
major
of
humble
origin
,
but
patronized
by
the
first
families
on
account
of
his
Blanco
opinions
,
had
been
recommended
by
Don
Jose
for
commissary
and
organizer
of
that
expedition
.
The
points
of
his
grey
moustache
hung
far
below
his
chin
,
and
,
riding
on
Mrs.
Gould
's
left
hand
,
he
looked
about
with
kindly
eyes
,
pointing
out
the
features
of
the
country
,
telling
the
names
of
the
little
pueblos
and
of
the
estates
,
of
the
smooth-walled
haciendas
like
long
fortresses
crowning
the
knolls
above
the
level
of
the
Sulaco
Valley
.
It
unrolled
itself
,
with
green
young
crops
,
plains
,
woodland
,
and
gleams
of
water
,
park-like
,
from
the
blue
vapour
of
the
distant
sierra
to
an
immense
quivering
horizon
of
grass
and
sky
,
where
big
white
clouds
seemed
to
fall
slowly
into
the
darkness
of
their
own
shadows
.
Men
ploughed
with
wooden
ploughs
and
yoked
oxen
,
small
on
a
boundless
expanse
,
as
if
attacking
immensity
itself
.
The
mounted
figures
of
vaqueros
galloped
in
the
distance
,
and
the
great
herds
fed
with
all
their
horned
heads
one
way
,
in
one
single
wavering
line
as
far
as
eye
could
reach
across
the
broad
potreros
.
A
spreading
cotton-wool
tree
shaded
a
thatched
ranche
by
the
road
;
the
trudging
files
of
burdened
Indians
taking
off
their
hats
,
would
lift
sad
,
mute
eyes
to
the
cavalcade
raising
the
dust
of
the
crumbling
camino
real
made
by
the
hands
of
their
enslaved
forefathers
.
And
Mrs.
Gould
,
with
each
day
's
journey
,
seemed
to
come
nearer
to
the
soul
of
the
land
in
the
tremendous
disclosure
of
this
interior
unaffected
by
the
slight
European
veneer
of
the
coast
towns
,
a
great
land
of
plain
and
mountain
and
people
,
suffering
and
mute
,
waiting
for
the
future
in
a
pathetic
immobility
of
patience
.
She
knew
its
sights
and
its
hospitality
,
dispensed
with
a
sort
of
slumbrous
dignity
in
those
great
houses
presenting
long
,
blind
walls
and
heavy
portals
to
the
wind-swept
pastures
.
She
was
given
the
head
of
the
tables
,
where
masters
and
dependants
sat
in
a
simple
and
patriarchal
state
.
The
ladies
of
the
house
would
talk
softly
in
the
moonlight
under
the
orange
trees
of
the
courtyards
,
impressing
upon
her
the
sweetness
of
their
voices
and
the
something
mysterious
in
the
quietude
of
their
lives
.
In
the
morning
the
gentlemen
,
well
mounted
in
braided
sombreros
and
embroidered
riding
suits
,
with
much
silver
on
the
trappings
of
their
horses
,
would
ride
forth
to
escort
the
departing
guests
before
committing
them
,
with
grave
good-byes
,
to
the
care
of
God
at
the
boundary
pillars
of
their
estates
.
In
all
these
households
she
could
hear
stories
of
political
outrage
;
friends
,
relatives
,
ruined
,
imprisoned
,
killed
in
the
battles
of
senseless
civil
wars
,
barbarously
executed
in
ferocious
proscriptions
,
as
though
the
government
of
the
country
had
been
a
struggle
of
lust
between
bands
of
absurd
devils
let
loose
upon
the
land
with
sabres
and
uniforms
and
grandiloquent
phrases
.
And
on
all
the
lips
she
found
a
weary
desire
for
peace
,
the
dread
of
officialdom
with
its
nightmarish
parody
of
administration
without
law
,
without
security
,
and
without
justice
.
