Quotation from: Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard

Written by: Joseph Conrad


The shirt collar, cut low in the neck, the big bow of his cravat,
the style of his clothing, from the round hat to the varnished shoes,
suggested an idea of French elegance; but 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 opera-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 Senor
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."

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