South Wind(Fiscle Part-3) - Norman Douglas (ebook e reader .TXT) 📗

Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

The Bishop Was Feeling Rather Sea-Sick. Confoundedly Sea-Sick,  In Fact.

 

This Annoyed Him. For He Disapproved Of Sickness In Every Shape Or

Form. His Own State Of Body Was Far From Satisfactory At That Moment;

Africa--He Was Bishop Of Bampopo In The Equatorial Regions--Had Played

The Devil With His Lower Gastric Department And Made Him Almost An

Invalid; A Circumstance Of Which He Was Nowise Proud,  Seeing That

Ill-Health Led To Inefficiency In All Walks Of Life. There Was Nothing

He Despised More Than Inefficiency. Well Or Ill,  He Always Insisted On

Getting Through His Tasks In A Businesslike Fashion. That Was The Way

To Live,  He Used To Say. Get Through With It. Be Perfect Of Your Kind,

Whatever That Kind May Be. Hence His Sneaking Fondness For The

Natives--They Were Such Fine,  Healthy Animals.

 

Fine,  Healthy Animals; Perfect Of Their Kind! Africa Liked Them To "Get

Through With It" According To Their Own Lights. But There Was Evidently

A Little Touch Of Spitefulness And Malice About Africa; Something

Almost Human. For When White People Try To Get Through With It After

Their Particular Fashion,  She Makes Hay Of Their Livers Or Something.

That Is What Had Happened To Thomas Heard,  D.D.,  Bishop Of Bampopo. He

Had Been So Perfect Of His Kind,  Such An Exemplary Pastor,  That There

Was Small Chance Of A Return To The Scenes Of His Episcopal Labours.

Anybody Could Have Told Him What Would Happen. He Ought To Have Allowed

For A Little Human Weakness,  On The Part Of The Black Continent. It

Could Not Be Helped. For The Rest,  He Was Half Inclined To Give Up The

Church And Take To Some Educational Work On His Return To England.

Perhaps That Was Why He At Present Preferred To Be Known As "Mr.

Heard." It Put People At Their Ease,  And Him Too.

 

Whence Now This Novel And Unpleasant Sensation In The Upper Gastric

Region? Most Annoying! He Had Dined Discreetly At His Hotel The Evening

Before; Had Breakfasted With Moderation. And Had He Not Voyaged In Many

Parts Of The World,  In China Seas And Round The Cape? Was He Not Even

Then On His Return Journey From Zanzibar? No Doubt. But The Big Liner

Which Deposited Him Yesterday At The Thronged Port Was A Different

Concern From This Wretched Tub,  Reeking With Indescribable Odours As It

Rolled In The Oily Swell Of The Past Storm Through Which The Mozambique

Had Ridden Without A Tremor. The Benches,  Too,  Were Frightfully

Uncomfortable,  And Sticky With Sirocco Moisture Under The Breathless

Awning. Above All,  There Was The Unavoidable Spectacle Of The Suffering

Passengers,  Natives Of The Country; It Infected Him With Misery. In

Attitudes Worthy Of Michelangelo They Sprawled About The Deck,  Groaning

With Anguish; Huddled Up In Corners With A Lemon-Prophylactic Against

Sea-Sickness,  Apparently-Pressed To Faces Which,  By Some Subtle Process

Of Colour-Adaptation,  Had Acquired The Complexion Of The Fruit;

Tottering To The Taffrail. . . .

 

There Was A Peasant Woman Dressed In Black,  Holding An Infant To Her

Breast. Both Child And Parent Suffered To A Distressing Degree. By Some

Kindly Dispensation Of Providence They Contrived To Be Ill In Turns,

And The Situation Might Have Verged On The Comical But For The Fact

That Blank Despair Was Written On The Face Of The Mother. She Evidently

Thought Her Last Day Had Come,  And Still,  In The Convulsions Of Her

Pain,  Tried To Soothe The Child. An Ungainly Creature,  With A Big Scar

Across One Cheek. She Suffered Dumbly,  Like Some Poor Animal. The

Bishop's Heart Went Out To Her.

 

He Took Out His Watch. Two More Hours Of Discomfort To Be Gone Through!

Then He Looked Over The Water. The Goal Was Far Distant.

 

Viewed From The Clammy Deck On This Bright Morning,  The Island Of

Nepenthe Resembled A Cloud. It Was A Silvery Speck Upon That Limitless

Expanse Of Blue Sea And Sky. A South Wind Breathed Over The

Mediterranean Waters,  Drawing Up Their Moisture Which Lay Couched In

Thick Mists Abut Its Flanks And Uplands. The Comely Outlines Were

Barely Suggested Through A Veil Of Fog. An Air Of Irreality Hung About

The Place. Could This Be An Island? A Veritable Island Of Rocks And

Vineyards And Houses--This Pallid Apparition? It Looked Like Some Snowy

Sea-Bird Resting Upon The Waves; A Sea-Bird Or A Cloud; One Of Those

Lonely Clouds That Stray From Their Fellows And Drift About In Wayward

Fashion At The Bidding Of Every Breeze.

 

All The Better-Class Natives Had Disappeared Below Save An Unusually

Fat Young Priest With A Face Like A Full Moon,  Who Pretended To Be

Immersed In His Breviary But Was Looking Out Of The Corner Of His Eye

All The Time At A Pretty Peasant Girl Reclining Uncomfortably In A

Corner. He Rose And Arranged The Cushions To Her Liking. In Doing So He

Must Have Made Some Funny Remark In Her Ear,  For She Smiled Wanly As

She Said:

 

"Grazie,  Don Francesco."

 

"Means Thank You,  I Suppose," Thought The Bishop. "But Why Is He A

Don?"

 

Of The Other Alien Travellers,  Those Charming But Rather Metallic

American Ladies Had Retired To The Cabin; So Had The English Family; So

Had Everybody,  In Fact. On Deck There Remained Of The Foreign

Contingent Nobody But Himself And Mr. Muhlen,  A Flashy Over-Dressed

Personage Who Seemed To Relish The State Of Affairs. He Paced Up And

Down,  Cool As A Cucumber,  Trying To Walk Like A Sailor,  And Blandly

Indifferent To The Agonized Fellow-Creatures Whom The Movements Of The

Vessel Caused Him To Touch,  Every Now And Then,  With The Point Of His

Patent-Leather Boots. Patent-Leather Boots. That Alone Classes Him,

Thought Mr. Heard. Once He Paused And Remarked,  In His Horrible

Pronunciation Of English:

 

"That Woman Over There With The Child! I Wonder What I Would Do In Her

Place? Throw It Into The Water,  I Fancy. It's Often The Only Way Of

Getting Rid Of A Nuisance."

 

"Rather A Violent Measure," Replied The Bishop Politely.

 

"You're Not Feeling Very Well,  Sir?" He Continued,  With A Fine

Assumption Of Affability. "I Am So Sorry. As For Me,  I Like A Little

Movement Of The Boat. You Know Our Proverb? Weeds Don't Spoil. I'm

Alluding To Myself,  Of Course!"

 

Weeds Don't Spoil. . . .

 

Yes,  He Was A Weed. Mr. Heard Had Not Taken Kindly To Him; He Hoped

They Would Not See Too Much Of Each Other On Nepenthe,  Which He

Understood To Be Rather A Small Place. A Few Words Of Civility Over The

Table D'hote Had Led To An Exchange Of Cards--A Continental Custom Which

Mr. Heard Always Resented. It Could Not Easily Be Avoided In The

Present Case. They Had Talked Of Nepenthe,  Or Rather Mr. Muhlen Had

Talked; The Bishop,  As Usual,  Preferring To Listen And To Learn. Like

Himself,  Mr. Muhlen Had Never Before Set Foot On The Place. To Be Sure,

He Had Visited Other Mediterranean Islands; He Knew Sicily Fairly Well

And Had Once Spent A Pleasant Fortnight On Capri. But Nepenthe Was

Different. The Proximity To Africa,  You Know; The Volcanic Soil. Oh

Yes! It Was Obviously Quite Another Sort Of Island. Business? No! He

Was Not Bound On Any Errand Of Business; Not On Any Errand At All. Just

A Little Pleasure Trip. One Owes Something To One's Self: N'est-Ce-Pas?

And This Early Summer Was Certainly The Best Time For Travelling. One

Could Count On Good Weather; One Could Sleep In The Afternoon,  If The

Heat Were Excessive. He Had Telegraphed For A Couple Of Rooms In What

Was Described As The Best Hotel--He Hoped The Visitors Staying There

Would Be To His Liking. Unfortunately--So He Gathered--The Local Society

Was A Little Mixed,  A Little--How Shall We Say?--Ultra-Cosmopolitan. The

Geographical Situation Of The Island,  Lying Near The Converging Point

Of Many Trade-Routes,  Might Account For This. And Then Its Beauty And

Historical Associations: They Attracted Strange Tourists From Every

Part Of The World. Queer Types! Types To Be Avoided,  Perhaps. But What

Did It Matter,  After All? It Was One Of The Advantages Of Being A Man,

A Civilized Man,  That You Could Amuse Yourself Among Any Class Of

Society. As For Himself,  He Liked The Common People,  The Peasants And

Fishermen; He Felt At Home Among Them; They Were So Genuine,  So

Refreshingly Different.

 

To Suchlike Ingratiating And Rather Obvious Remarks The Bishop Had

Listened,  Over The Dinner Table,  With Urbane Acquiescence And Growing

Distrust. Peasants And Fisher Folks! This Fellow Did Not Look As If He

Cared For Such Company. He Was Probably A Fraud.

 

They Had Met Again In The Evening,  And Taken A Short Stroll Along The

Quay Where A Noisy Band Was Discoursing Operatic Airs. The Performance

Elicited From Mr. Muhlen Some Caustic Comments On Latin Music As

Contrasted With That Of Russia And Other Countries. He Evidently Knew

The Subject. Mr. Heard,  To Whom Music Was Greek,  Soon Found Himself Out

Of His Depths. Later On,  In The Smoking-Room,  They Had Indulged In A

Game Of Cards--The Bishop Being Of That Broadminded Variety Which Has

Not The Slightest Objection To A Gentlemanly Gamble. Once More His

Companion Had Revealed Himself As An Accomplished Amateur.

 

No; It Was Something Else That Annoyed Him About The Man--Certain Almost

Contemptuous Remarks He Had Dropped In The Course Of The Evening On The

Subject Of The Female Sex; Not Any Particular Member Of It,  But The Sex

In General. Mr. Heard Was Sensitive On That Point. He Was Not

Disheartened By Experience. He Had Never Allowed His Judgment To Be

Warped By Those Degrading Aspects Of Womanhood Which He Had Encountered

Ruing His Work Among The London Poor,  And More Recently In Africa,

Where Women Are Treated As The Veriest Beasts. He Kept His Ideals

Bright. He Would Tolerate No Flippant Allusions To The Sex. Muhlen's

Talk Had Left A Bad Taste In His Mouth.

 

And Here He Was,  Prancing Up And Down,  Sublimely Pleased With Himself.

Mr. Heard Watched His Perambulations With Mixed Feelings--Moral

Disapproval Combining With A Small Grain Of Envy At The Fellow's

Conspicuous Immunity From The Prevailing Sea-Sickness.

 

A Weed; Unquestionably A Weed.

 

Meanwhile,  The Mainland Slowly Receded. Morning Wore On,  And Under The

Fierce Attraction Of The Sun The Fogs Were Drawn Upwards. Nepenthe

Became Tangible--An Authentic Island. It Gleamed With Golden Rocks And

Emerald Patches Of Culture. A Cluster Of White Houses,  Some Town Or

Village,  Lay Perched On The Middle Heights Where A Playful Sunbeam Had

Struck A Pathway Through The Vapours. The Curtain Was Lifted. Half

Lifted; For The Volcanic Peaks And Ravines Overhead Were Still Shrouded

In Pearly Mystery.

 

The Fat Priest Looked Up From His Breviary And Smiled In Friendly

Fashion.

 

"I Heard You Speak English To That Person," He Began,  With Hardly A

Trace Of Foreign Accent. "You Will Pardon Me. I See You Are Unwell. May

I Get You A Lemon? Or Perhaps A Glass Of Cognac?"

 

"I Am Feeling Better,  Thank You. It Must Have Been The Sight Of Those

Poor People That Upset Me. They Seem To Suffer Horribly. I Suppose I

Have Got Used To It."

 

"They Do Suffer. And They Get Used To It Too. I Often Wonder Whether

They Are As Susceptible To Pain And Discomfort As The Rich With Their

Finer Nervous Structure. Who Can Say? Animals Also Have Their

Sufferings,  But They Are Not Encouraged To Tell Us About Them. Perhaps

That Is Why God Made Them Dumb. Zola,  In One Of His Novels,  Speaks Of A

Sea-Sick Donkey."

 

"Dear Me!" Said Mr. Heard. It Was An Old-Fashioned Trick He Had Got

From His Mother. "Dear Me!"

 

He Wondered What This Youthful Ecclesiastic Was Doing With Zola. In

Fact,  He Was Slightly Shocked. But He Never Allowed Such A State Of

Affairs To Be Noticed.

 

"You Like Zola?" He Queried.

 

"Not Much. He Is Rather A Dirty Dog,  And His Technique Is So

Ridiculously Transparent. But One Can't Help Respecting The Man. If I

Were To Read This Class Of Literature For My Own Amusement I Would

Prefer,  I Think,  Catulle Mendes. But I Don't. I Read It,  You

Understand,  In Order To Be Able To Penetrate Into The Minds Of My

Penitents,  Many Of Whom Refuse To Deprive Themselves Of Such Books.

Women Are So Influenced By What They Read! Personally,  I Am Not Very

Fond Of Improper Writers. And Yet They Sometimes Make One Laugh In

Spite Of One's Self,  Don't They? I Perceive You Are Feeling Better."

 

Mr. Heard Could Not Help Saying:

 

"You Express Yourself Very Well In English."

 

"Oh,  Passably! I Have Preached To Large Congregations Of Catholics In

The United States. In England,  Too. My Mother Was English. The Vatican

Has Been Pleased To Reward The Poor Labours Of My Tongue By The Title

Of Monsignor."

 

"My Congratulations. You Are Rather Young For A Monsignor,  Are You Not?

We Are Apt To Associate That Distinction With Snuff-Boxes And Gout

And--"

 

"Thirty-Nine.