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

To Blame. That Poor Old Man Had Much

Declined Of Late; He Was Enfeebled In Health And Spirits. A French

Artist Who Was Specially Despatched From Paris To Do An Original Sketch

Of Him For The Enterprising Journal L'illustration Had,  At The End Of

Several Sittings,  Uncharitably Declared Him To Be "Compleetement

Ga-Ga." The Voluptuous Surroundings Of Nepenthe,  The Abundant Food,

Adoration Of Disciples,  Alcoholic And Carnal Debaucheries,  Had Impaired

His Tough Monjik Frame And Blunted His Wit,  Working Havoc With That

Energy And Peasant Craftiness Which Once Ruled An Emperor's Court. His

Body Was Obese. His Mind Was In A State Of Advanced Putrefaction. Even

His Personal Cleanliness Left Something To Be Desired. Sitting There,

Puffy And Pasty,  In A Darkened Room,  He Looked More Than Ever Like Some

Obscene Vegetable That Has Grown Up In The Shade.

 

He Moved Seldom And With Difficulty; He Hardly Ever Opened His Mouth

Save To Eat--For His Appetite,  Thanks To Certain Daily Exertions On The

Part Of The Communal Doctor,  Was Still Fairly Satisfactory. When He

Spoke At All It Was In Scattered Monosyllables Which Even The Most

Devoted Of His Disciples Were Unable To Arrange Into Such Coherence As

To Justify Their Inclusion In The Golden Book. All This,  Though Hidden

From The World At Large,  Had Been Observed With Dismay By The

Initiated. It Was An Open Secret Among Them That The Last Twenty-One

Sayings Ascribed To Him In That Volume Had Never Issued From His Lips

At All. They Had Been Concocted By A Clique Of Young Extremists,  Who

Were Now Masters Of The Situation. These Fanatics Edited The Golden

Book And Held The Old Man Completely In Subjection,  Ousting His Former

And More Moderate Collaborators.

 

An Ill-Considered Action On The Part Of This Group Led To The Disaster

And Eclipsed The Light Of Holiness On Nepenthe By Bringing The Apostles

Into Conflict With The Secular Arm Of The Law. Fretting At The Master's

Prolonged Inactivity And Eager,  After The Fashion Of Disciples,  To

Improve On His Maxims,  They Decided On A Bold Step. They Decided That

The Time Was Ripe For A New Revelation.

 

The Messiah's Last Authentic One,  It Will Be Remembered,  Ran To The

Effect That "Flesh And Blood Of Warm-Blooded Beast Is Abomination To

Little White Cows." He Had Been Inspired To Insert The Word

Warm-Blooded Because Fish,  For Example,  Was An Article Of Diet Of Which

He Was Inordinately Fond,  And He Could Not Bring Himself To Deprive The

Faithful Of This Gift Of God.

 

With Misplaced Zeal,  And Little Thinking That It Would Cost Many Of

Them Their Lives And Liberties,  These Enthusiasts Gave It Out That The

New Revelation Ran As Follows: "Everything Derivable From Dead Beasts

Is Abomination To Little White Cows." They Had Been Inspired To Insert

The Word Dead Because Sheep's Wool,  For Example,  Was An Article Of

Clothing In Which They Greatly Delighted,  And They Could Not Bring

Themselves To Deprive The Faithful Of This Gift Of God.

 

Even As It Stood,  The Commandment Entailed Severe Sacrifices On The

Part Of The Sacred Sixty-Three. No Boot-Leather,  No Picturesque Belts,

No Bone Knife-Handles Or Combs,  No Tallow Candles. . . . They Were

Prepared,  None The Less,  To Carry Out To The Letter This Injunction,

Since It Gave Them What All Religious People Require--Something To

Torment Themselves With; And This Is How Matters Stood When,  On That

Morning,  A Stalwart Batch Of New-Comers From The Wilds Of Muscovy,

Burning With The Ardour Of Abnegation And Wholly Ignorant Of Local Laws

And Customs,  Sauntered Across The Market-Place In Freshly Purchased

Hempen Sandals.

 

Tobacco Being Derivable Neither From Warm-Blooded Beasts Nor Yet From

Dead Ones,  A Member Of The Band Bethought Himself Of The Fact That He

Had Run Out Of Cigarettes. Knowing Not A Word Of Italian He Entered The

Shop Of A Tobacconist And Imitated The Gesture Of Smoking With Such

Success That The Proprietor Straightway Understood And Supplied Him

With A Packet. Then He Remembered That He Also Needed Matches. This

Called For A Gesture Rather More Complex; So Complex,  Indeed,  That

Perhaps Nobody But A Nepenthean--Gifted,  As All His Nation Is,  With

Alert Intuition--Could Have Divined The Apostle's Want. The Tobacconist

Was Equal To The Occasion. With A Friendly Smile Of Comprehension He

Laid On The Counter A Diminutive Pack Of Wax Vestas,  Price Two Sous.

 

There The Matter Might Have Rested But For The New Revelation,  Which

Prompted The Sturdy Stranger To Investigate The Composition Of The

Article Tendered. He Took Out One Match And Examined It Carefully.

Then,  Triturating Its Substance Between His Fingers,  He Applied His

Nose To The Product And Sniffed Critically. The Outcome Was Suspicious

In The Highest Degree. There Was No Perceptible Odour Of Beeswax; The

Object Had Been Compounded,  Only Too Plainly,  Of The Fat Of Dead

Animals; It Was The Abomination,  The Unclean Thing. Devout,  And Gifted

With The Hot Impulse Of Youth,  He Acted Precisely As He Would Have

Acted In Russia Under A Similar Provocation. With A Third Gesture,  One

Of Abhorrence And Ungovernable Fury,  He Threw The Box In The

Tobacconist's Face.

 

And There The Matter,  Once More,  Might Have Rested,  Had The Salesman

Been A Russian. Russians Understand Frank Dealing.

 

He Happened To Be A Native.

 

Fully To Appreciate What Followed,  It Is Necessary To Bear In Mind That

Local Tobacconists Are In A Somewhat Anomalous Position. They Occupy A

Social Status Superior To Those Of Many Other Countries. They Are Not

Private Merchants Or Ordinary Citizens; They Are,  In A Manner,  Servants

Of The State. A Native Tobacconist Is Empowered To Dispense Carta

Bollata,  Which Is The Official Stamped Paper Used For Contracts And

Other Legal Documents Requiring Registration; He Deals In Tobacco And

Postage Stamps--Government Monopolies; He Sells,  By Special Licence,  Wax

Vestas,  On Each Box Of Which There Is A Duty So Minute As Not To Be

Felt By The Individual Purchaser And Yet,  In Its Cumulative Effect,  So

Great As To Enable The State To Pay,  Out Of This Source Of Revenue

Alone,  For The Upkeep Of All Its Colonial Judges At A Monthly Salary Of

Forty-Five Francs Apiece. It Is A Reasonable Tax. Don Francesco,  Who

Had Notions Of Political Economy And Knew Something Of English Life,

Having Preached To Thousands Of Catholic Miners In Wales And Confessed

Hundreds Of Catholic Ladies In Mayfair--An Occupation In Which He Might

Still Be Engaged,  But For A Little Contretemps Which Brought Him Into

Collision With The Jesuits Of Mount Street--Don Francesco,  Who Could

Voice The Southerner's One-Sided Point Of View,  Often Adverted To This

Match-Tax When Proving The Superiority Of His Country's Administrative

Methods Over Those Of England. This Is What He Would Say To His

Intimate Friends:

 

"The Russian Has Convictions But No Principles. The Englishman Has

Principles But No Convictions--Cast-Iron Principles,  Which Save Him The

Trouble Of Thinking Out Anything For Himself. This Is As Much As Anyone

Can Ever Hope To Grasp Concerning This Lymphatic,  Unimaginative Race.

They Obey The Laws--A Criminal Requires Imagination. They Never Start A

Respectable Revolution--You Cannot Revolt Without Imagination. Among

Other Things They Pride Themselves On Their Immunity From Vexatious

Imposts. Yet Whisky,  The Best Quality Of Which Is Worth Tenpence A

Bottle,  Is Taxed Till It Costs Five Shillings; Ale,  The Life-Blood Of

The People,  Would Be Dear At Three-Pence A Gallon And Yet Costs

Fivepence A Pint; Tobacco,  Which Could Profitably Be Sold At Twopence A

Pound,  Goes For Fivepence An Ounce. They Will Submit To Any Number Of

These Extortions,  Being Persuaded,  In The Depths Of Their Turbid

Intelligence,  That Such Things Are Devised For The Good Of The Nation

At Large. That Is The Englishman's Method Of Procuring Happiness: To

Deny Himself Pleasure In Order To Save His Neighbour's Soul. Ale And

Tobacco Are Commodities Out Of Which A Man Can Extract Pleasure. They

Are Therefore Appropriate Objects For Harassing Restrictions. But

Nobody Can Extract Pleasure Out Of Lucifer Matches. They Are Therefore

Pre-Eminently Unfitted For Exploitation As A Source Of Governmental

Revenue. So Keen Is Their Sense Of Pleasure And Non-Pleasure,  And Such

Is Their Furor Phlegmaticus On This Particular Question,  That When It

Is Proposed To Establish A Tax On Matches--An Imperceptible Duty Which

Would Enrich The Exchequer To A Vast Extent--They Will Form A Procession

Ten Miles Long To Protest Against The Outrage,  And Threaten To Batter

Down The Houses Of Parliament. Why? Because There Is No Ethical Purpose

To Be Served By Taxing Matches,  Seeing That Only A Madman Would Give

Himself The Guilty Pleasure Of Either Drinking Or Smoking Them. In

Short,  These English Reason After The Fashion Of Paranoiacs--Logically,

But From A Wrong Premise. Not That I Dislike Their Women. . . ."

 

The Action Of The Quick-Tempered Apostle Can Now Be Appraised In Its

Full Enormity. A Local Tobacconist Is A Person In Authority,  A State

Official,  And The Nation Safeguards The Interests And The Fair Name Of

Those Who Serve It Faithfully. When It Is Remembered That According To

Sect 43 Of The 16th Section Of Their Penal Code Any Person Speaking

Disrespectfully To,  Or Of,  A Government Official Renders Himself Liable

To A Term Of Cellular Confinement Not Exceeding Thirty-One Years,  Ten

Lunar Months And Eighteen Days,  It May Be Imagined What Penalties Are

Applicable To The Crime Of Actual Personal Violence Towards Such A

Sacrosanct Individual--A Crime Of Which The Russian Was Unquestionably

Guilty.

 

Now This Particular Tobacconist,  Though Tremulously Sensitive,  Like All

Southerners,  On A Point Of Honour,  Was As Good-Natured And Forgiving As

Might Be Consistent With His Rank Of Government Official. He Passed For

A Respectable Married Man With An Eligible Daughter And A Taste For The

Quiet Life; He Did Not Want Trouble. The Purchase Of An Additional Pack

Of Cigarettes,  Accompanied Or Unaccompanied By A Frank Apology,  Would

Have More Than Satisfied His Sense Of Honour.

 

There The Matter Might Have Rested. The Second Packet Might Have Been

Bought And Even The Apology Tendered,  But For The Ill-Considered Action

Of A Young Farmer Who Entered The Shop At That Moment To Procure A

Couple Of Postcards. This Worthy Lad Was One Of Several Dozen Aspirants

To The Hand Of The Tobacconist's Daughter,  Whose Dowry Was Reputed To

Be Considerable. He Witnessed The Insult And,  Desirous Of Standing Well

In The Graces Of A Prospective Father-In-Law,  Dealt The Offending Alien

So Masterly A Punch In The Region Of The Solar Plexus That He Not Only

Doubled Up,  But Forgot To Straighten Himself Out Again. Two Or Three

Lusty Apostles Came To The Rescue Without Delay. They Threw The Youth

Down,  Stamped On His Face,  Pounded His Abdomen,  Pulled His Hair Out In

Handfuls,  And Otherwise Treated Him Exactly As If The Thing Were

Happening In Russia. This Spectacle Was Too Much For The Tobacconist's

Sense Of Honour. With Unwonted Sprightliness He Vaulted Over The

Writhing Cluster And Summoned A Municipal Policeman. The Officer Was On

The Spot In A Twinkling,  Sword And Trumpet In Hand. And There,  In All

Conscience,  The Matter Ought To Have Rested--With The Identification And

Bestowal In Custody Of The Turbulent Parties.

 

But Frenzy Hung In The Air; A Red Cloud Of Insanity Was Hovering Over

Nepenthe. Although The Volcano Continued To Behave In Exemplary

Fashion,  Although The Clergy Had Done Their Utmost To Allay Popular

Apprehensions,  The Native Mind Had Not Calmed Down Since The News

Concerning The Saint Elias Fountain And Those Other Portents Had Been

Disseminated. The Inhabitants Were In A State Of Suppressed Alarm And

Ready,  At The Least Provocation,  To Burst Out Into Some Fiendish Act Of

Folly. And The Russians,  Especially Those Latest Arrivals,  Could Not

Withdraw Themselves From The Subtle Influence Of The Sound Wind,  The

Frank Stimulation Of A Cloudless Sky; It Made Them Fell,  After Their

Gloomy Forests And Lowering Horizons,  Like Wild Beasts That Rush From

Darkened Cages Into Some Sunny Arena. Everyone Lost His Wits. The

Appearance Of A Constable,  Far From Restoring Order,  Was The Signal For

An Uproarious Tumult; The Fracas,  As The French Artist Was Heard To

Declare,  Promptly Developed Into A Melee. Nobody Troubled About The

Merits Of The Case Further Than That It Was A Question Of Apostles

Versus Gentiles.

 

The Former Were In Sad Minority. But They Constituted A Serried Rank Of

Muscular Christians; They Laid About Them Like Those Old Monks Of

Alexandria. All Russians Are Born Fighters--If Not On The Battlefield,

Then At Least In The Lanes And Taverns Of Their Natal Villages. The

Little White Cows,  Wholly Ignorant Of The Difference Between Their Own

Law And That Of Italy On Questions Of Assault And Battery,  Used Their

Fists With Such Success That Thirty Natives Were Stretched Out In

Almost A Few Seconds. Their Faith Was At Stake; Moreover,  And As A

Matter Of Fact,  They Were Enjoying Themselves Hugely. The Occasion

Reminded Them Of A Sunday At Home.

 

Then Numbers Began To Tell--Numbers And Knives. For Your Sun-Scorched

Nepenthean,  When Duly Roused,  Confesses To An Expert Knowledge Of

Anatomy; He Can Tell You,  To The Fraction Of An Inch,  Where The Liver,

The Spleen,  Kidneys And Various Other Coy Organs Of