South Wind(Fiscle Part-3) - Norman Douglas (ebook e reader .TXT) 📗
- Author: Norman Douglas
Book online «South Wind(Fiscle Part-3) - Norman Douglas (ebook e reader .TXT) 📗». Author Norman Douglas
Cable In Some Submarine Convulsion; A Man Had Stumbled In The
Market-Place Over The Dead Body Of A Woman--Choked, No Doubt; Two Of The
Judge's Russian Prisoners, Unaccustomed To Volcanic Phenomena, Had Gone
Stark Staring Mad And Disembowelled One Another With A Carving Knife.
Mr. Muhlen, Who Presently Turned Up In Anything But His Usual Sprightly
Humour, Was Furnished With A Full And Corrected Version Of This Last
Affair, To The Effect That There Were Not Two, But Fourteen, Of These
Victims; That Prior To Their Frenzied Act They Had Partaken Of Bread
And Salt And Sung The National Anthem; That The Instrument Chosen Was
Not A Carving Knife But A Rusty Chisel. None Of His Listeners Seemed To
Be Greatly Moved By What, Under Ordinary Circumstances, Would Have Been
A Valuable Contribution To The Entertainment. They Were Waiting For The
Appearance Of Their President, The Commissioner, The Life And Soul Of
The Place, Who Would Be Able To Give Them An Official Apology For This
Scandalous Outbreak Of Nature. The Commissioner, For Once In His Life,
Failed To Perform His Duty.
That Unfortunate Man Was Sitting At Home, In The Remote Villa Known As
The "Residency," Profoundly Troubled In Mind. He Leaned Over His Study
Table, Which Was Lighted By A Lamp; His Eyes Peered Dejectedly, Through
The Windows Beyond, Into The Gloom. Before Him Lay The Skeleton Draft
Of His Annual Report To The Nicaraguan Minister Of Finance, A Gentleman
Who Developed A Passionate Craving, Once A Year, To Be Informed Of The
Condition Of Nepenthe In Regard To Matters Such As Shipping And Trade
Returns, Zymotic Diseases, And The Methods Locally Employed For
Combating Beri-Beri.
The Elaboration Of This Report Had Hitherto Given Mr. Freddy Parker No
Trouble Whatever. It Was An Understood Thing Between Himself And His
Protector, Senor Pomponio De Vergara Y Puyarola, That His Labours Need
Not Be Otherwise Than Purely Formal. To Every One Of The Intelligent
Queries On The Part Of A Paternal Government It Had Been His Custom,
Therefore, To Append The Magic Word Nil. Banking System--Nil. Meat
Export--Nil. Cotton Industry--Nil. Agriculture--Nil. Canal Traffic--Nil.
Teak Trade--Nil. Emery Mines--Nil. Fisheries--Nil.
He Could Trust Senor De Vergara To Arrange Matters, In The Event Of Any
Complaint Arising As To The Unwarranted Ambiguity Or Succinctness Of
The Nepenthean Report.
Bad News Had Just Reached Him; Very Bad News Indeed. His Friend And
Protector Had Been Stabbed To Death, After The Approved Fashion Of
Nicaraguan Politicians, By A Couple Of Assassins In The Pay Of That
Minister's Rival, A Bankrupt Tradesman Who, Desirous Of Bettering His
Fortunes, Conceived That He Would Make As Good A Finance Minister As
Anyone Else And Had, In Fact, Already Usurped That Post. Worse News
Could Hardly Be Imagined. The Prognosis Was Most Unfavourable. For Mr.
Parer Shrewdly Argued That A Rival Of The Late Don Pomponio Would Look
Askance At Those Whom His Excellency Had Exalted--At Himself, For
Instance. And What Then? However Conscientiously He Might Henceforward
Edit The Report, He Realized That His Position Was No Longer Secure; He
Was Liable To Be Recalled At Any Moment--To Cede His Place To Some
Candidate Of The Opposing Faction. Those Damned Republics! Or The Post,
Being A Purely Honorary One Created Expressly For Himself By The
Obliging And Now Defunct Don Pomponio, Might Be Permanently Abolished.
It Was Not A Pleasant Prospect. Mr. Freddy Parker Was Rather Too Old To
Start Knocking About The World Again. He Was Losing What He Called His
"Nerve." What Was To Be Done?
He Tugged At His Beard And Puffed Furious Clouds Of Smoke Out Of His
Briar Pipe. He Thought Of Another Grief--Another Source Of Anxiety. The
Quarterly Remissions Forwarded To Him By Certain Obscure But
Respectable Relatives In England, Under The Condition That He Should
Never Again Set Foot In That Land Of Honest Men, Had Not Arrived. It
Was Two Weeks Overdue. What Had Happened? Had They Decided To Cancel
It? They Had Threatened To Do So Ere Now. And If So, How Was He Going
To Live? It Was A Facer, That Was. The Equivalent Of Fifteen Pounds
Sterling Was Urgently Necessary At That Very Moment. Fifteen Pounds.
Who Would Lend Him Fifteen Pounds? Keith? Not Likely. Keith Was A
Miser--A Scotchman, Ten To One. Koppen? He Had Once Already Tried To
Touch Him For A Loan, With Discouraging Results. A Most Unsympathetic
Millionaire. Almost Offensive, The Older Bounder Had Been. Perhaps
Somebody Had Let On About That Bit Of Crepe De Chine Preserved At The
Residency, And Its Uses As A Sociological Document. How Things Got
About On Nepenthe! Where The Hell, Then, Was Money To Come From?
Both These Troubles, Great In Themselves, Faded Into Insignificance
Before A New And Overwhelming Sorrow.
In A Room Directly Overhead Lay The Dead Body Of His Lady. She Had
Breathed Her Last On The Previous Midday, And It Is More Than Likely
That The Noise Of The Cannon-Shots, Reverberating Through Her Chamber,
Had Accelerated Her End; Not The Noise As Such, For She Was Naturally A
Rowdy Woman And Never Felt Comfortable Save In An Atmosphere Of
Domestic Explosions And Quarrels With Servants, But The Noise In Its
Social Significance, The Noise As Demonstrating To Her Exhausted
Consciousness That There Was Something Wrong, Something At The Same
Time Of Considerable Importance--Something She Might Never Live To
Comment On--Happening In The Market-Place. In Other Words, It Is Highly
Probable That Her Death Had Been Hastened By The Moral Rather Than The
Physical Shock Of The Noise; By Disappointment; By The Bitter
Reflection That She Would Never Survive To Learn What This New Scandal,
Evidently An Interesting One, Was About.
The Doctor, For Reasons Which He Deemed Sufficient, Had Recommended A
Speedy Interment; It Was Fixed For That Morning. The Fall Of Ashes Had
Put The Ceremony Out Of The Question. There She Lay. And In The Room
Below Sat Her Bereaved Stepbrother, Distractedly Gazing Out Of The
Window Upon The Darkness Of Erebus.
It Harmonized With The Darkness Of His Mourning Trousers, Newly Creased
But Not Newly Purchased; And Of His Soul. He Saw His Worldly Existence
Menaced--Tottering To Its Fall. All These Catastrophes, So Crushing, So
Unexpected, Filled Him With A Kind Of Primeval Terror. Mr. Parker Was
Neither A Devout Believer Nor The Reverse. He Was A Fool And Liable, As
Such, Under The Stress Of Bodily Or Mental Disturbance, To Spasmodic
Fits Of Abject Fright Which He Mistook For Religion. An Attack Of
Indigestion, The Failure Of Some Pecuniary Speculation, The Demise Of A
Beloved Stepsister--These Various Happenings, So Dissimilar To One
Another, Had Yet This Feature In Common, That They Put The Fear Of God
Into The Otherwise Empty Brain Of Mr. Parker.
He Had Been In Many Tight Corners, But Never In So Tight A Corner As
This. Hardly Ever. He Thought Of The Lady Lying Dead Upstairs And All
She Had Done Towards Establishing And Consolidating Their Social
Position; How She Had Economized For Him, Yes, And Lied For Him--Better,
Far Better, Than He Could Ever Hope To Lie. For She Possessed That Most
Priceless Of All Gifts: She Believed Her Own Lies. She Looked People
Straight In The Face And Spoke From Her Heart; A Falsehood, Before It
Left Her Lips, Had Grown Into A Flaming Truth. She Was A Florid,
Improvident Liar. There Was No Classical Parsimony About Her
Misstatements. They Were Copious Baroque, And Encrusted With Pleasing
And Unexpected Tricks Of Ornamentation. That Tropical Redundancy For
Which Her Person Was Renowned Reflected Itself Likewise In Her
Temperament--In Nothing More Than The Exuberance Of Her Untruths Which
Were Poured Out In So Torrential A Flood, With Such Burning Conviction
At The Opulence Of Detail That Persons Who Knew Her Well Used To Stand
Aghast (Catholics Had Been Known To Cross Themselves) At The Fertility
Of Her Constructive Imagination, While The Most Hardened Sceptics
Protested That, Even If Her Facts Were Wrong, There Could Be No Doubt
As To Her Sincerity, Her Ingenuousness. Ah, She Was A Woman In A
Thousand! Often Had Mr. Parker Sat At Her Feet, A Respectful Disciple,
Listening Spellbound And Striving To Acquire That Secret--A Secret Which
Was, After All, Not So Much Art As Nature. He Could Never Hope To Rival
Her Technique.
That Was Because He Could Not Look You In The Face; Because He
Disbelieved Not Only His Own Lies, But Those Of Other People--And Not
Only Their Lies, But Their Truths; Because He Distrusted Everything And
Everybody, And Was Duly Distrusted In His Turn. Nobody Believed A Word
He Said, And Some Rude Persons Went So Far As To Tell Him Exactly What
They Thought Of Him. They Called Him A Liar In Public And In Private.
Such Experiences Are Trying To One's Nerve; They End In Giving You A
Shifty Look. People Who Knew Him Well Never Took His Word For Granted,
And The More Casual Acquaintance Would Say That Even If His Facts Were
Correct Now And Then He Could Not Help Being A Fraud All The Same.
And Now She Was Gone, This Lady Who Had Saved Him From Countless Small
Annoyances, Who Had Given Him Self-Esteem And A Kind Of Social
Backbone. He Stared Into The Darkness. Where Was Money To Come
From--Those Miserable Fifteen Pounds, For Example? What Would Happen?
He Almost Decided Upon Praying, Only He Could Not Think Of Appropriate
Words In Which To Appeal For This Loan; It Might Seem To The Deity A
Contemptuously Small Sum, Not Worth Bothering The Angels About. On The
Other Hand He Dared Not Apply For More Than He Actually Needed--Not To
That Quarter, At Least--For Fear Of Being Found Out. He Was Always Being
Found Out, Even By His Earthly Creditors. Besides, There Lingered At
The Back Of His Mind All The Time Certain Doubts As To The Efficacy Of
Applying To God For Money Or Anything Else. The Whole Thing Might Be A
Farce. He Remembered, With Pain And Grief, That He Had Already On
Several Occasions Tried The Prayer-System, Like Most Other Systems. And
Alas, The Results Had Invariably Been Nil. . . .
A Visit From His Reverence The Parroco Was Announced.
This Heroic Priest, Accompanied By Two Acolytes Bearing Torches, Had
Braved The Downpour Of Ashes. He Never Shirked His Duty. It Was His
Duty That Morning To Confer With Mr. Parker Anent The Delayed Funeral
And Other Painfully Material Matters. For The Deceased Lady Had Not
Deserted The Creed Of Her Fathers; She Was An Ardent Catholic--So Ardent
That She Professed Great Pain At Her Stepbrother's Alien Leanings And
Had Taken Considerable Trouble To Convert Him To Her Own Way Of
Thinking. She Used To Say, In Her Flowery Language, That His
Contumacious Attitude Towards The True Faith Gnawed At Her
Vitals--Meaning, Presumably, That It Annoyed Her. Often She Pointed Out
How Many Social And Other Advantages They Would Gain--Living In A
Catholic Country--If He, Too, Could Bring Himself To Enter The Field Of
Believers. In Vain! The Commissioner Had A Knack Of Being
Ultra-Protestant On Such Occasions.
Not That He Greatly Cared To What Church He Belonged. But If Nobody
Made It Worth His While--Why, He Remained An Englishman. He Knew
Perfectly Well That The Parroco, His Lady's Confessor, Was Anxious To
Do Something In The Proselytizing Line Which Might Lower The Prestige
Of Don Francesco. And He Was Clever Enough To Realize That, By
Embracing Catholicism At Torquemada's Hands, He, The Official
Representative Of Nicaragua, Would Be Putting A Feather In The Priest's
Cap. He Was Not Going To Put A Feather In Anybody's Cap--Not For
Nothing. It Was Not Good Enough. Some Strong Leader Of Nations Had Once
Remarked, "Every Man His Price." Mr. Parker Liked That Phrase; He Was
Deeply Convinced Of Its Veracity. He Also Had His Price, And Once, In A
Moment Of Extreme Financial Embarrassment, He Had Delighted His
Stepsister By Announcing That He Was Prepared To Consider The Question
Of Conversion. He Then Named His Price. It Was A Condition Not To Be
Expressed By Such Terms As A Gratified Church Might Have Been Able To
Concede--By Some Elevation To A Higher Sphere Of Influence Or Other
Worldly Favour; It Was A Figure Baldly Commercial, Expressible, That
Is, In Pounds, Shillings And Pence.
"You've Got Some Cheek, Freddy," Was All She Could Bring Herself To
Say.
"My Dear Lola, He Can Take It Or Leave It," The Commissioner Had
Replied, Sulkily.
His Reverence Never Found Himself In The Odious Dilemma Of Either
Taking It Or Leaving It, For The Lady Was Wise Enough Not To Divulge So
Ignoble A Proposition.
But Now, While The Good Priest Uttered A Few Parting Platitudes Of
Condolence, The Other Was Revolving In His Mind How Negotiations--Direct
Negotiations, This Time--Could Be Opened Up. He Needed Fifteen Pounds;
Well, One Might Be Able To Do A Little Juggling With The Club Money For
That Part Of The Business. It Was Necessary, Above All, To Devise Some
Means Whereby The Nicaraguan Government Might Be Induced To Keep Him At
His Old
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