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

It Is A Good Age. One Begins To Appreciate Things At

Their True Value. Your Collar! Might I Enquire--"

 

"Ah,  My Collar; The Last Vestige. . . . Yes,  I Am A Bishop. Bishop Of

Bampopo In Central Africa."

 

"You Are Rather Young,  Surely,  For A Bishop?"

 

Mr. Heard Smiled.

 

"The Youngest On The List,  I Believe. There Were Not Many Applicants

For The Place; The Distance From England,  The Hard Work,  And The

Climate,  You Know--"

 

"A Bishop. Indeed!"

 

He Waxed Thoughtful. Probably He Imagined That His Companion Was

Telling Him Some Traveller's Tale.

 

"Yes," Continued Mr. Heard. "I Am What We Call A 'Returned Empty.' It

Is A Phrase We Apply In England To Colonial Bishops Who Come Back From

Their Dioceses."

 

"Returned Empty! That Sounds Like Beer."

 

The Priest Was Looking Perplexed,  As Though Uncertain Of The Other's

State Of Mind. Southern Politeness,  Or Curiosity,  Overcame His Fears.

Perhaps This Foreigner Was Fond Of Joking. Well,  He Would Humour Him.

 

"You Will See Our Bishop To-Morrow," He Pursued Blandly. "He Comes Over

For The Feast Of The Patron Saint; You Are Lucky In Witnessing It. The

Whole Island Is Decorated. There Will Be Music And Fireworks And A

Grand Procession. Our Bishop Is A Dear Old Man,  Though Not Exactly What

You Would Call A Liberal," He Added,  With A Laugh. "That Is As It

Should Be,  Is It Not? We Like Our Elders To Be Conservative. They

Counteract The Often Violent Modernism Of The Youngsters. Is This Your

First Visit To Nepenthe?"

 

"It Is. I Have Heard Much About The Beauty Of The Place."

 

"You Will Like It. The People Are Intelligent. There Is Good Food And

Wine. Our Lobsters Are Celebrated. You Will Find Compatriots On The

Island,  Some Ladies Among Them; The Duchess Of San Martino,  For

Instance,  Who Happens To Be An American; Some Delightful Ladies! And

The Country Girls,  Too,  Are Worthy Of A Benevolent Glance--"

 

"That Procession Is Sure To Interest Me. What Is The Name Of Your

Patron?"

 

"Saint Dodekanus. He Has A Wonderful History. There Is An Englishman On

Nepenthe,  Mr. Earnest Eames,  A Student,  Who Will Tell You All About It.

He Knows More About The Saint Than I Do; One Would Think He Dined With

Him Every Evening. But He Is A Great Hermit--Mr. Eames,  I Mean. And It

Is So Good Of Our Old Bishop To Come Over," He Pursued With A Shade Of

Emphasis. "His Work Keeps Him Mostly On The Mainland. He Has A Large

See--Nearly Thirty Square Miles. How Large,  By The Way,  Is Your

Diocese?"

 

"I Cannot Give You The Exact Figures," Mr. Heard Replied. "It Has Often

Taken Me Three Weeks To Travel From One End To The Other. It Is

Probably Not Much Smaller Than The Kingdom Of Italy."

 

"The Kingdom Of Italy. Indeed!"

 

That Settled It. The Conversation Died Abruptly; The Friendly Priest

Relapsed Into Silence. He Looked Hurt And Disappointed. This Was More

Than A Joke. He Had Done His Best To Be Civil To A Suffering Foreigner,

And This Was His Reward--To Be Fooled With The Grossest Of Fables. Maybe

He Remembered Other Occasions When Englishmen Had Developed A Queer

Sense Of Humour Which He Utterly Failed To Appreciate. A Liar. Or

Possibly A Lunatic; One Of Those Harmless Enthusiasts Who Go About The

World Imagining Themselves To Be The Pope Or The Archangel Gabriel.

However That Might Be,  He Said Not Another Word,  But Took To Reading

His Breviary In Good Earnest,  For The First Time.

 

The Boat Anchored. Natives Poured Out In A Stream. Mr. Muhlen Drove Up

Alone,  Presumably To His Sumptuous Hotel. The Bishop,  Having Gathered

His Luggage Together,  Followed In Another Carriage. He Enjoyed The

Drive Along That Winding Upward Track; He Admired The Festal

Decorations Of The Houses,  The Gardens And Vineyards,  The Many-Tinted

Rock Scenery Overhead,  The Smiling Sunburnt Peasantry. There Was An Air

Of Contentment And Well-Being About The Place; Something Joyful,

Opulent,  Almost Dramatic.

 

"I Like It," He Concluded.

 

And He Wondered How Long It Would Be Before He Met His Cousin,  Mrs.

Meadows,  On Whose Account He Had Undertaken To Break The Journey To

England.

 

Don Francesco,  The Smiling Priest,  Soon Outstripped Both Of Them,  In

Spite Of A Ten Minutes' Conversation On The Quay With The Pretty

Peasant Girl Of The Steamer. He Had Engaged The Fastest Driver On The

Island,  And Was Now Tearing Frantically Up The Road,  Determined To Be

The First To Apprise The Duchess Of The Lunatic's Arrival.

 

Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

The Duchess Of San Martino,  A Kind-Hearted And Imposing Lady Of Mature

Age Who,  Under Favourable Atmospheric Conditions (In Winter-Time,  For

Instance,  When The Powder Was Not So Likely To Run Down Her Face),

Might Have Passed,  So Far As Profile Was Concerned,  For A Faded French

Beauty Of Bygone Centuries--The Duchess Was No Exception To The Rule.

 

It Was An Old Rule. Nobody Knew When It First Came Into Vogue. Mr.

Eames,  Bibliographer Of Nepenthe,  Had Traced It Down To The Second

Phoenician Period,  But Saw No Reason Why The Phoenicians,  More Than

Anybody Else,  Should Have Established The Precedent. On The Contrary,

He Was Inclined To Think That It Dated From Yet Earlier Days; Days When

The Troglodytes,  Manigones,  Septocardes,  Merdones,  Anthropophagoi And

Other Hairy Aboriginals Used To Paddle Across,  In Crazy Canoes,  To

Barter The Produce Of Their Savage African Glens-Serpent-Skins,  And

Gums,  And Gazelle Horns,  And Ostrich Eggs--For Those Super-Excellent

Lobsters And Peasant Girls For Which Nepenthe Had Been Renowned From

Time Immemorial. He Based This Scholarly Conjecture On The Fact That A

Gazelle Horn,  Identified As Belonging To A Now Extinct Tripolitan

Species,  Was Actually Discovered On The Island,  While An Adolescent

Female Skull Of The Hypo-Dolichocephalous (Nepenthean) Type Had Come To

Light In Some Excavations At Benghazi.

 

It Was A Pleasant Rule. It Ran To The Effect That In The Course Of The

Forenoon All The Inhabitants Of Nepenthe,  Of Whatever Age,  Sex,  Or

Condition,  Should Endeavour To Find Themselves In The Market-Place Or

Piazza--A Charming Square,  Surrounded On Three Sides By The Principal

Buildings Of The Town And Open,  On The Fourth,  To A Lovely Prospect

Over Land And Sea. They Were To Meet On This Spot; Here To Exchange

Gossip,  Make Appointments For The Evening,  And Watch The Arrival Of

New-Comers To Their Island. An Admirable Rule! For It Effectively

Prevented Everybody From Doing Any Kind Of Work In The Morning; And

After Luncheon,  Of Course,  You Went To Sleep. It Was Delightful To Be

Obliged,  By Iron Convention,  To Stroll About In The Bright Sunshine,

Greeting Your Friends,  Imbibing Iced Drinks,  And Letting Your Eye Stray

Down To The Lower Level Of The Island With Its Farmhouses Embowered In

Vineyards; Or Across The Glittering Water Towards The Distant Coastline

And Its Volcano; Or Upwards,  Into Those Pinnacles Of The Higher Region

Against Whose Craggy Ramparts,  Nearly Always,  A Fleet Of Snowy

Sirocco-Clouds Was Anchored. For Nepenthe Was Famous Not Only For Its

Girls And Lobsters,  But Also For Its South Wind.

 

As Usual At This Hour The Market-Place Was Crowded With Folks. It Was A

Gay Throng. Priests And Curly-Haired Children,  Farmers,  Fishermen,

Citizens,  A Municipal Policeman Or Two,  Brightly Dressed Women Of All

Ages,  Foreigners In Abundance--They Moved Up And Down,  Talking,

Laughing,  Gesticulating. Nobody Had Anything Particular To Do; Such Was

The Rule.

 

The Russian Sect Was Well Represented. They Were Religious Enthusiasts,

Ever Increasing In Numbers And Led By Their Master,  The Divinely

Inspired Bazhakuloff,  Who Was Then Living In Almost Complete Seclusion

On The Island. They Called Themselves The "Little White Cows," To Mark

Their Innocence Of Worldly Affairs,  And Their Scarlet Blouses,  Fair

Hair,  And Wondering Blue Eyes Were Quite A Feature Of The Place.

Overhead,  Fluttering Flags And Wreaths Of Flowers,  And Bunting,  And

Brightly Tinted Paper Festoons--An Orgy Of Colour,  In Honour Of The

Saint's Festival On The Morrow.

 

The Duchess,  Attired In Black,  With A Black And White Sunshade,  And A

String Of Preposterous Amethysts Nestling In The Imitation Val Of Her

Bosom,  Was Leaning On The Arm Of An Absurdly Good-Looking Youth Whom

She Addressed As Denis. Everyone Called Him Denis Or Mr. Denis. People

Used His Surname As Little As Possible. It Was Phipps.

 

With A Smile For Everyone,  She Moved More Deliberately Than The Rest,

And Used Her Fan Rather More Frequently. She Knew That The Sirocco Was

Making Stealthy Inroads Upon Her Carefully Powdered Cheeks; She Wanted

To Look Her Best On The Arrival Of Don Francesco,  Who Was To Bring Some

Important Message From The Clerical Authorities Of The Mainland Anent

Her Forthcoming Reception Into The Roman Catholic Church. He Was Her

Friend. Soon He Would Be Her Confessor.

 

Wordly-Wise,  Indolent,  Good-Natured And,  Like Most Southerners,  A

Thorough-Going Pagan,  Don Francesco Was Deservedly Popular As

Ecclesiastic. Women Adored Him; He Adored Women. He Passed For An

Unrivalled Preacher; His Golden Eloquence Made Converts Everywhere,

Greatly To The Annoyance Of The Parroco,  The Parish Priest,  Who Was

Doubtless Sounder On The Trinity But A Shocking Bad Orator And

Altogether Deficient In Humanity,  And Who Nearly Had A Fit,  They Said,

When The Other Was Created Monsignor. Don Francesco Was A Fisher Of

Men,  And Of Women. He Fished Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam,  And For The Fun Of

The Thing. It Was His Way Of Taking Exercise,  He Once Confessed To His

Friend Keith; He Was Too Fat To Run About Like Other People--He Could

Only Talk. He Fished Among Natives,  And Among Foreigners.

 

Foreigners Were Hard To Catch,  On Nepenthe. They Came And Went In Such

Breathless Succession. Of The Permanent Residents Only The Duchess,

Always Of High Church Leanings,  Had Of Late Yielded To His

Blandishments. She Was Fairly Hooked. Madame Steynlin,  A Lady Of Dutch

Extraction Whose Hats Were Proverbial,  Was Uncompromisingly Lutheran.

The Men Were Past Redemption,  All Save The Commissioner Who,  However,

Was Under Bad Influences And An Incurable Wobbler,  Anyhow. Eames,  The

Scholar,  Cared For Nothing But His Books. Keith,  A Rich Eccentric Who

Owned One Of The Finest Villas And Gardens On The Place,  Only Came To

The Island For A Few Weeks Every Year. He Knew Too Much,  And Had

Travelled Too Far,  To Be Anything But A Hopeless Unbeliever; Besides,

He Was A Particular Friend Of His,  With Whom He Agreed,  In His Heart Of

Hearts,  On Every Subject. The Frequenters Of The Club Were Mostly

Drunkards,  Derelicts,  Crooks,  Or Faddist--Not Worth Catching.

 

Arriages Began To Arrive On The Scene. That Of Don Francesco Drove Up

First Of All. He Stepped Out And Sailed Across The Piazza Like A

Schooner Before The Wind. But His Discourse,  Usually Ample And Florid

As Befitted Both His Person And His Calling,  Was Couched On This

Occasion In Tacitean Brevity.

 

"We Have Landed A Queer Fish,  Duchess," He Remarked. "He Calls Himself

Bishop Of Bim-Bam-Bum,  And Resembles A Broken-Down Matrimonial Agent.

So Lean! So Yellow! His Face All Furrowed! He Has Lived Very Viciously,

That Man. Perhaps He Is Mad. In Every Case,  Look To Your Purse,  Mr.

Denis. He'll Be Here In A Minute."

 

"That's Quite Right," Said The Young Man. "The Bishop Of Bampopo. It's

In The New York Herald. Sailing By The Mozambique. But They Didn't Say

He Was Coming To The Island. I Wonder What He Wants Here?"

 

Don Francesco Was Aghast.

 

"Indeed?" He Asked. "A Bishop,  And So Yellow! He Must Have Thought Me

Very Rude," He Added.

 

"You Couldn't Be Rude If You Tried," Said The Duchess,  Giving Him A

Playful Slap With Her Fan.

 

She Was Burning With Ardour To Be The First To Introduce Such A Lion To

The Local Society. But Fearful Of Making A Faux Pas,  She Said:

 

"You'll Go And Speak To Him,  Denis. Find Out If It's The Right One--The

One You Read About In The Paper,  I Mean. Then Come And Tell Me."

 

"Good Lord,  Duchess,  Don't Ask Me To Do That! I Couldn't Tackle A

Bishop. Not An African. Not Unless He Has A Proper Apron On."

 

"Be A Man,  Denis. He Won't Bite A Pretty Boy Like You."

 

"What Nice Things The Lady Is Saying To You," Observed Don Francesco.

 

"She Always Does," He Laughed,  "When She Wants Me To Do Something For

Her. I Haven't Been On This Island Long,  But I Have Already Found Out

The Duchess! You Do