Joseph Conrad: Nostromo

PART THIRD: THE LIGHTHOUSE 11. CHAPTER ELEVEN (continued)

The doctor, with his back to Mrs. Gould, contemplated a
flower-bed away in the sunshine. People believed him scornful and
soured. The truth of his nature consisted in his capacity for
passion and in the sensitiveness of his temperament. What he
lacked was the polished callousness of men of the world, the
callousness from which springs an easy tolerance for oneself and
others; the tolerance wide as poles asunder from true sympathy
and human compassion. This want of callousness accounted for his
sardonic turn of mind and his biting speeches.

In profound silence, and glaring viciously at the brilliant
flower-bed, Dr. Monygham poured mental imprecations on Charles
Gould's head. Behind him the immobility of Mrs. Gould added to
the grace of her seated figure the charm of art, of an attitude
caught and interpreted for ever. Turning abruptly, the doctor
took his leave.

Mrs. Gould leaned back in the shade of the big trees planted in a
circle. She leaned back with her eyes closed and her white hands
lying idle on the arms of her seat. The half-light under the
thick mass of leaves brought out the youthful prettiness of her
face; made the clear, light fabrics and white lace of her dress
appear luminous. Small and dainty, as if radiating a light of her
own in the deep shade of the interlaced boughs, she resembled a
good fairy, weary with a long career of well-doing, touched by
the withering suspicion of the uselessness of her labours, the
powerlessness of her magic.

Had anybody asked her of what she was thinking, alone in the
garden of the Casa, with her husband at the mine and the house
closed to the street like an empty dwelling, her frankness would
have had to evade the question. It had come into her mind that
for life to be large and full, it must contain the care of the
past and of the future in every passing moment of the present.
Our daily work must be done to the glory of the dead, and for the
good of those who come after. She thought that, and sighed
without opening her eyes--without moving at all. Mrs. Gould's
face became set and rigid for a second, as if to receive, without
flinching, a great wave of loneliness that swept over her head.
And it came into her mind, too, that no one would ever ask her
with solicitude what she was thinking of. No one. No one, but
perhaps the man who had just gone away. No; no one who could be
answered with careless sincerity in the ideal perfection of
confidence.