Джозеф Конрад - Suspense

“He said to me,” he continued, “‘Ah! If Bonaparte had had the sense not to quarrel with me he wouldn’t be in Elba now.’ What do you think of that, Mr. Latham? Is that a point of view?”

“I should call it mad egotism.”

“Yes. But the most amusing thing is that there is some truth in it. The private enmity of one man may be more dangerous and more effective than the hatred of millions on public grounds. Pozzo has the ear of the Russian emperor. The fate of the Bourbons hung on a hair. Alexander’s word was law—and who knows!”

Cosmo plunged in abstraction was repeating to himself mechanically: “The fate of the Bourbons hung on a hair—the fate of the Bourbons.” … Those words seemed meaningless. He tried to rouse himself. “Yes, Alexander,” he murmured vaguely. The doctor raised his voice suddenly in a peevish tone.

“I am not talking of Alexander of Macedon, Mr. Latham.” His vanity had been hurt by Cosmo’s attitude. The young man’s faint smile placated him, and the incongruous dimples reappeared on the doctor’s cheeks while he continued: “Here you are. For Pozzo, Napoleon has always been a starveling squireen. For the prince, he has been principally the born enemy of good taste….”

“The prince?” repeated Cosmo, struggling to keep his head above the black waters of melancholia which seemed to lap about his very lips. “You have said the prince, haven’t you? What prince?”

“Why, Talleyrand, of course. He did once tell him so too. Pretty audacious! What? … Well, I don’t know. Suppose you were master of the world, and somebody were to tell you something of the sort to your face—what could you do? Nothing. You would have to gulp it, feeling pretty small. A private gentleman of good position could resent such a remark from an equal, but a master of the world couldn’t. A master of the world, Mr. Latham, is very small potatoes; and I will tell you why; it’s because he is alone of his kind, stuck up like a thief in the pillory, for dead cats and cabbage stalks to be thrown at him. A devil of a position to be in unless for a moment. But no man born of woman is a monster. There never was such a thing. A man who would really be a monster would arouse nothing but loathing and hatred. But this man has been loved by an army, by a people. For years his soldiers died for him with joy. Now, didn’t they?”

Cosmo perceived that he had managed to forget himself. “Yes,” he said, “that cannot be denied.”

“No,” continued the doctor. “And now, within twenty yards of us, on the other side of the wall, there are millions of people who still love him. Hey! Cantelucci!” he called across the now empty length of the room. “Come here.”

The inn–keeper, who had been noiselessly busy about a distant sideboard, approached with deference, in his shirt–sleeves, girt with a long apron of which one corner was turned up, and with a white cap on his head. Being asked whether it was true that Italians loved Napoleon, he answered by a bow and “Excellency.”

“You think yourself that he is a great man, don’t you?” pursued the doctor, and obtained another bow and another murmured “Excellency.”

The doctor turned to Cosmo triumphantly. “You see! And Bonaparte has been stealing from them all he could lay his hands on for years. All their works of art. I am surprised he didn’t take away the wall on which the Last Supper is painted. It makes my blood boil. I love Italy, you know.” He addressed again the motionless Cantelucci.

“But what is it that makes you people love this man?”

This time Cantelucci did not bow. He seemed to make an effort: “Signore—it is the idea.”

The doctor directed his eyes again to Cosmo in silence. At last the inn–keeper stepped back three paces before turning away from his English clients. The dimples had vanished from the doctor’s full cheeks. There was something contemptuous in the peevishness of his thin lips and the extreme hardness of his eyes. They softened somewhat before he addressed Cosmo.

“Here is another point of view for you. Devil only knows what that idea is, but I suspect it’s vague enough to include every illusion that ever fooled mankind. There must be some charm in that grey coat and that old three–cornered hat of his, for the man himself has betrayed every hatred and every hope that have helped him on his way.”

“What I am wondering at,” Cosmo said at last, “is whether you have ever talked like this to anybody before.”

The doctor seemed taken aback a little.

“Oh! You mean about Bonaparte,” he said. “If you had gone to that other inn, Pollegrini’s, more suitable to your nationality and social position, you would have heard nothing of that kind. I am not very communicative really, but to sit at meals like two mutes would have been impossible. What could we have conversed about? One must have some subject other than the weather and, frankly, what other subject could we have had here in Genoa, or for that matter, in any other spot of the civilised world? I know there are amongst us in England a good many young men who call themselves revolutionists, and even republicans. Charming young men, generous and all that. Friends of Boney. You might be one of them.”

As he paused markedly, Cosmo murmured that he was hardly prepared to state what he was. That other inn, the Pollegrini, was full when he arrived.

“Well, there have been three departures this morning,” the doctor informed him. “You can have your things packed up this afternoon and carried across the place. You know, by staying here you make yourself conspicuous to the spies, not to speak of the thieves; they ask themselves: ‘What sort of inferior Englishman is that?’ With me it is different. I am known for a man who has his own work to do. People are curious. And as my work is confidential I prefer to keep out of the way rather than have to be rude. But for you it would be more amusing to live over there. New faces all the time; endless gossip about all sorts of people.”

“I do not think it is worth while to change now,” said Cosmo coldly.

“Of course not, if you are not going to prolong your stay. If you project a visit to Elba, Livorno is the port for that. And if you are anxious to hear about Napoleon, you will hear plenty of gossip about him there. Here you have nothing but my talk.”

“I have found it very interesting,” said Cosmo, rising to go away. The doctor smiled without amiability. He was determined never to let Cosmo guess that he knew of his acquaintance with the people occupying the palace guarded by the symbolic griffins. Of that fact he had been made aware by the Count de Montevesso, who, once he had got the doctor into Clelia’s room, decided to take him into his confidence—on the ground that one must be frank with a medical man. The real reason was, however, that knowing Dr. Martel to be employed on secret political work by the statesmen of the Alliance, and having a very great idea of his occult influences in all sorts of spheres, he hoped to get from him another sort of assistance. His last words were: “You see yourself the state the child is in. I want that popinjay moved out of Genoa.”

The only answer of the doctor to this, and the last sound during that professional visit that Count de Montevesso heard from him, was a short wooden laugh. That man of political intrigues, confidential missions (often he had more than one at a time on his hands), inordinately vain of his backstairs importance, was not mercenary. He had always preserved a most independent attitude towards his employers. To him the Count de Montevesso was but a common stupid soldier of fortune of no importance, and of no position except as the son–in–law of the Marquis d’Armand. He had never seen him before, but his marital life was known to him as it was known to the rest of the world. To be waylaid by a strange priest just as he was leaving the marquis’s room was annoying enough, but he could not very well refuse the request since it seemed to be a case of sudden illness. He was soon enlightened as to its nature by Clelia, who had treated him and the count to another of her indescribable performances. Characteristically enough the doctor had never been for a moment irritated with the girl. He behaved by her tempestuous bedside like a man of science, calm, attentive, impenetrable. But it was afterwards, when he had been drawn aside by the count for a confidential talk, that he had asked himself whether he were dreaming or awake. His scorn for the man helped him to preserve his self–command, and to the end the count was not intelligent enough to perceive its character.