"RichardHardingDavis-TheConsul" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davis Richard Harding)

The Secretary coughed uncomfortably. "And they say," he murmured, "republics are
ungrateful."
"I don't quite get that," said the practical politician.
Of Porto Banos, of the Republic of Colombia, where as consul Mr. Marshall was
upholding the dignity of the United States, little could be said except that it
possessed a sure harbor. When driven from the Caribbean Sea by stress of
weather, the largest of ocean tramps, and even battle-ships, could find in its
protecting arms of coral a safe shelter. But, as young Mr. Aiken, the wireless
operator, pointed out, unless driven by a hurricane and the fear of death, no
one ever visited it. Back of the ancient wharfs, that dated from the days when
Porto Banos was a receiver of stolen goods for buccaneers and pirates, were rows
of thatched huts, streets, according to the season, of dust or mud, a few
iron-barred, jail-like barracks, customhouses, municipal buildings, and the
whitewashed adobe houses of the consuls. The backyard of the town was a swamp.
Through this at five each morning a rusty engine pulled a train of flat cars to
the base of the mountains, and, if meanwhile the rails had not disappeared into
the swamp, at five in the evening brought back the flat cars laden with odorous
coffeesacks.
In the daily life of Porto Banos, waiting for the return of the train, and
betting if it would return, was the chief interest. Each night the consuls, the
foreign residents, the wireless operator, the manager of the rusty railroad met
for dinner. There at the head of the long table, by virtue of his years, of his
courtesy and distinguished manner, of his office, Mr. Marshall presided. Of the
little band of exiles he was the chosen ruler. His rule was gentle. By force of
example he had made existence in Porto Banos more possible. For women and
children Porto Banos was a death-trap, and before "old man Marshall" came there
had been no influence to remind the enforced bachelors of other days.
They had lost interest, had grown lax, irritable, morose. Their white duck was
seldom white. Their cheeks were unshaven. When the sun sank into the swamp and
the heat still turned Porto Banos into a Turkish bath, they threw dice on the
greasy tables of the Cafe Bolivar for drinks. The petty gambling led to petty
quarrels; the drinks to fever. The coming of Mr. Marshall changed that. His
standard of life, his tact, his worldly wisdom, his cheerful courtesy, his
fastidious personal neatness shamed the younger men; the desire to please him,
to, stand well in his good opinion, brought back pride and self-esteem.
The lieutenant of her Majesty's gun-boat PLOVER noted the change.
"Used to be," he exclaimed, "you couldn't get out of the Cafe Bolivar without
some one sticking a knife in you; now it's a debating club. They all sit round a
table and listen to an old gentleman talk world politics."
If Henry Marshall brought content to the exiles of Porto Banos, there was little
in return that Porto Banos could give to him. Magazines and correspondents in
six languages kept him in touch with those foreign lands in which he had
represented his country, but of the country he had represented, newspapers and
periodicals showed him only too clearly that in forty years it had grown away
from him, had changed beyond recognition.
When last he had called at the State Department, he had been made to feel he was
a man without a country, and when he visited his home town in Vermont, he was
looked upon as a Rip Van Winkle. Those of his boyhood friends who were not dead
had long thought of him as dead. And the sleepy, pretty village had become a
bustling commercial centre. In the lanes where, as a young man, he had walked