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

This Blessing. It Was Cruel,  It Was

Illogical,  To Apply The Same Standard To Him As To Those Fortunate

Other Ones. Let The Court Call To Mind The Names Of Those Who Had

Deviated From The Narrow Path Of Duty; Did They Not All Belong To This

Unhappy Class? It Might Safely Be Inferred That They Had No Mothers!

Such Person Were To Be Pitied And Helped,  Rather Than Condemned For

What Was The Fault Not Of Their Natures But Of Their Anomalous

Situation In Life. To Rescue A Motherless Young Soul From The Brink Of

Perdition Was The Noblest Task Of A Christian. And This Was Still,

Thank Heaven,  A Christian Country,  Despite The Ever-Swelling Invasion

Of That Irreligious Foreign Element Which Threatened To Break Up The

Old Faith In God. The Madonna Was Still Worshipped; Together With The

Saints. Their Precious Relics And Other Holy Amulets Still Proved Their

Efficacy In The Hour Of Danger.

 

Amulets--Ah,  That Reminded Him.

 

To Kill A Man With A View To Possessing Yourself Of His Substance Was

An Unpardonable Crime. Now What Had This Boy Done? Let Them Take The

So-Called Robbery First. Well,  No Robbery Had Been Committed,  In Spite

Of The Notorious Fact That This Protestant,  This Foreigner Was Known To

Be Loaded With Money. His Client Had Fought Down The Temptation,  The

Almost Irresistible Temptation,  Of Appropriating The Gold. Let Them

Remember That! The Minutest Investigation Failed To Reveal Anything

Save A Single Coin Which He Had Attached To A String And Hung About His

Neck. Motives,  Not Deeds! What Were His Motives For This Strange Act?

An Unconscious Application Of The Homoeopathic Principle. He Had Taken

It As A Safeguard,  An Amulet,  In The Childish Belief That It Might

Protect Him On Future Occasions Against Insults Such As Those He Had

Undergone.

 

Then,  While The Audience Were Still Puzzling What The Last Words Meant,

He Suddenly Indulged In One Of Those Abrupt Transitions For Which He

Was Famous,  And Burst Out:

 

"Down With Foreigners! We Catholics Know What Foreigners Are,  How They

Work For Evil In Places High And Low. One Cannot Take Up A Daily Paper

Without Seeing Some Exposure Of Their Many-Sided Viciousness. They

Contaminate The Land With Their Godless Depravity. Nobody Can Count On

Immunity. The Highest Officials In The Land,  The Very Ministers Of The

Crown,  Are Subjected To Their Vile Disguised Attempts At Bribery And

Corruption,  No Humble Peasant Girl,  No Child,  Is Safe From The

Befoulment Of Their Filthy Minds. We Know Them--Our Police Records,  The

Archives Of Our Courts Of Justice,  Testify To Their Demoralizing

Agency. A Pest,  A Contagion! Who Can Tell What Proposals Were Made In

This Particular Case--What Degrading Proposals,  Backed By The Insidious

Offer Of Foreign Gold? A Weak Character Might Have Succumbed. But The

Victim Was Made Of Different Stuff. He Belonged To Another Type--The

Heroic Type. Suffering Anguish Of Soul,  He Yet Preferred Honour To

Baseness. In Self-Defence--"

 

At This Point The Great Deputy Ceased To Speak. Signor Malipizzo Had

Swooned Away. He Had To Be Carried Out Of Court.

 

It Mattered Little,  For The Proceedings Were At An End Save For A Few

Formalities. The Case Was Won.

 

People Were Rather Annoyed At Being Deprived Of One Of Don Giustino's

Far-Famed Perorations. It Could Not Be Helped. Better Luck Next Time.

Then They Asked Themselves Why The Judge Had Fainted. Some Thought It

Might Be The Heat,  Or A Touch Of His Old Complaint. The Majority Were

Agreed That The Attack Was Due To The Deputy's Eloquence. And It Was

True That He Was Greatly Impressed By The Speech,  But Not Quite As Much

As All That. He Had Decided To Faint At A Critical Moment,  For The Sake

Of Appearances. It Was Clever Of Him. He Did It Beautifully Too; He Had

Been Rehearsing Half The Night. Don Giustino,  On His Part,  Shared The

Common Opinion And Was Charmed With This Tribute To His Genius.

Altogether,  The Local Judge Had Made A Favourable Impression On Him;

His Attitude Had Been Irreproachably Correct. He Was Not A Bat Fellow,

For A Freemason. One Might Do Worse Than Leave Him In Possession Of His

Present Appointment On Nepenthe.

 

The Deputy Freed His Prisoner; It Was Unavoidable. But The Russians

Remained In Gaol,  And This Was Always Something To The Credit Of Signor

Malipizzo. . . .

 

Madame Steynlin,  On Hearing Of Peter The Great's Arrest,  Was Stricken

Dumb. She Wept The Bitterest Tears Of All Her Life. Then,  With

Returning Calmness,  She Remembered Mr. Keith Whose Friendship With The

Magistrate Was The Common Talk Of The Place. Would He Be Able To Do

Anything? Impulsive By Nature,  She Called On That Gentleman And Poured

Out Her Griefs To Him. Mr. Keith Was Sympathetic. He Declared He

Understood Perfectly. He Promised To Do His Utmost,  That Very Day.

 

The Master,  Meanwhile,  Languished In Prison. He Had Nobody To Take His

Part,  Not Even Among The Little White Cows; The New Section,  That

Clique Of Young Extremists,  Were Only Too Delighted To Have Him Out Of

The Way. The Communal Doctor Alone Interceded On His Behalf,  Imploring

The Judge In The Name Of The Sacred Brotherhood Of Freemasons That He,

The Messiah,  Should Be Excarcerated In Order That He,  The Physician,

Might Be Enabled To Continue The Daily Treatment To Which The Old Man

Had Grown Accustomed And For Which He Was Being Regularly Remunerated.

"Think Of My Wife And Children!" He Said To The Magistrate.

 

Signor Malipizzo On This Occasion Did Not Mean To Be Baulked Of His

Prey. He Was In Bad Humour; Don Giustino Had Got On His Nerves. By

Means Of A Lightning-Like Discharge Of Symbols Intelligible Only To The

Elect He Retorted That A Physician,  Who Depended For His Livelihood

Upon A Legitimate Practice Among Bona Fide Patients,  Was Not Fit To Be

A Freemason.

 

Then The Doctor Urged The Humanitarian Aspects Of The Case. The Old Man

Needed The Treatment Which Could Be Given In Prison Just As Well; The

Fees Would Doubtless Be Paid Sooner Or Later.

 

The Magistrate Proved Inexorable,  Adamantine. What Was Good Enough For

A Native,  He Argued,  Was Good Enough For A Vicious Old Alien. A

Stomach-Pump In Prison! What More? They Would Be Wanting Fried Fish And

Asparagus Next.

 

As A Special Concession To The Master's Age And Rank A Separate Upper

Chamber,  Described As Very Airy,  Had Been Allotted To Him In The Local

Gaol. The Poor Old Man Did Not Know How He Got There; They Had Thrust

Him Into This Strange Place And Locked The Door On Him. Long Hours Had

Passed. He Sat On An Uncomfortable Cane-Bottomed Chair,  His Hands

Folded Across His Stomach. There Was Already A Slight Sense Of

Oppression In That Region Of His Body. His Head,  Too,  Felt Heavy.

Without Knowing How Or Why,  He Had Fallen Into A Trap,  After The Manner

Of Some Dumb Beast Of Earth. When Would They Take Him Out Again? And

When Would That Kind Gentleman With The Machine Arrive?

 

Daylight Entered Through A Small But Thickly Grated Window. Looking Out

From Where He Sat,  He Could Detect Neither Men Nor Houses Nor

Trees--Nothing But Four Rectangular Patches Of Deep Blue. The Sea! Often

Had He Wondered About The Sea,  And Why It Was There. It Had Ever Been

An Enigma To Him,  This Purposeless Mass Of Water. Not Even Good To

Drink. He Knew Nothing Of Those Fables Of The Pagans--Of Old Poseidon

And White-Armed Leucothea And The Blithe Crew Of Triton And

Silver-Footed Thetis Moving Upon The Placid Sunlit Waters; Nothing Of

That Fair Sea-Born Goddess Whose Beauty Swayed The Hearts Of Men. His

Venus Ideals Had Been Of A More Terrestrial Nature--The Wives Or

Daughters Of Army Generals And State Functionaries Who Desired

Advancement,  And Sometimes Got It.

 

Not Even Good To Drink! There Was Nothing Like This In Holy Russia. God

Would Never Have Allowed It. The Uselessness Of This Sea Had Always

Been To Him A Source Of Perplexity And Even Vague Apprehension. The

Spectacle Of This Shining Immensity Troubled His World-Scheme. Why Did

God Create Water,  When Land Would Have Been So Much More Useful? Often

Had He Puzzled On The Subject. . . . Why?

 

But Now,  In The Evening Of His Life And The Extremity Of His Anguish,

The Truth Was Made Manifest. A Revelation Drew Nigh. It Just Came To

Him.

 

The Fishes.

 

It Was A Dying Gleam Of Intelligence,  His Last Inspired Thought,  His

Swan-Song. How Else Could The Fishes Live Save In The Water? All These

Long Years He Had Remained Ignorant Of The Truth. Ah,  If Only His

Disciples Were At Hand,  To Jot It Down Into That Golden Book!

 

But Why--Why Must The Fishes Live In Water? And Why So Much Water For So

Few Fishes? Why Cannot Fishes Live On Land? Then Everybody Would Be

Satisfied. Inscrutable Are The Ways Of God. . . .

 

And His Glazed Eye Moved Wearily From That Disquieting Expanse Of Blue

Along The Wall Of His Chamber Which Had Once Been White And Was Now

Scrawled Over With Obscene Jests And Drawings,  Product Of The Leisure

Hours Of Generations Of Prisoners. The Writing,  Like All Writing,  Was

Unintelligible To Him. But Some Of The Artistic Efforts Left Little To

The Imagination. He Was Saddened,  Less By Homely Pictures Than By The

Unfamiliar Script. He Had Always Distrusted The Written Word. Why All

These Strange Letterings--So Unnecessary,  So Dangerous To The Life Of An

Orthodox Christian? What One Brother Has To Tell Another--Why Write It

Down?

 

He Saw The Straw Pallet Destined For His Nocturnal Repose. It Reminded

Him Dimly Of A Similar Resting-Place During His Monastic Life. Then,

Too,  He Had Slept On A Couch Near The Floor. Flickering Visions Came To

Him Of Those Days,  So Long Ago,  Ere Yet The First Revelation Was Given

To The World. A Breath Of Old Russia Was Wafted Into His Nostrils. He

Remembered The Lusty,  Jovial Country Folk,  The Songs And Dances At

Hay-Making,  The Fragrance Of The Land,  The Sluggish Rivers Rolling

Their Brown Mud About The Plains,  The Mild Long-Drawn Evenings. He Felt

Again That All-Pervading Charm Of Sadness,  Of Tender Yearning,  That

Hangs In The Pale Russian Sky And Penetrates To The Very Soul Of The

Endless Country.

 

Gloomy Autumn Days--Wet Leaves And Lowering Horizons. The Long Winter

Within Doors. Faces Appeared To Him,  Faces Of Old,  An Endless

Procession Of Faces Clear-Cut As Ever . . . His Brother Monks,  Bearded

And Unkempt . . . Debauched Acolytes . . . Pilgrims From The Holy Land

. . . Glittering Festal Robes . . . Vodka Orgies,  Endless Chants And

Litanies,  Holy Lamps Burning,  Somber Eikons With Staring Eyes . . . The

Smell Of Greasy Lukewarm Cabbage Soup,  Of Unwashed Bodies And Boot

Leather And Incense. Holy Russia--It All Moved Before His Eyes In A Kind

Of Melodious Twilight. Then The First Revelation. The Man-God.

 

Man-God. The Word Filtered Through His Intelligence. How Strange It

Sounded. The Man-God--What Could It Mean.

 

A Sudden Change. A Life Of Glory And Intrigue. Food On Platters Of

Gold,  Sparkling Wines And Laughter. A Diamond Cross,  An Imperial Gift,

The Reward Of Faithful Services. Everybody Cringing. Showers Of Bribes.

Women--Always Women. A Divine Life! Nothing But Women. . . .

 

Darkness. Something Had Happened; They Had Carried Him Into A Place

Full Of Endless Penances,  Floggings,  Starvings. Then They Accused Him

Of Doing Wrong. What Was It? The Flesh Of Warm-Blooded Beasts. . . . He

Had Preferred The Service Of God To That Of His Earthly Master. For

This They Banished Him And Made Him Suffer. He Was Dying Now--Dying To

Save Mankind. He Was Giving Up His Life For Sinners. Someone Else Had

Once Done The Same Thing. Who Was It? He Could Not Remember. People Who

Read And Write--They Know These Things. Some Saint,  Possibly; Or At

Least A Man From Another Province--Someone He Had Never Met Or Spoken

To. A Good Russian,  Whoever It Was. But The Name--The Name Had Slipped

Out Of His Mind. He Always Had A Good Memory For Faces,  But A Bad One

For Names.

 

He Was So Ill And Oppressed Too. Worse Than Before. He Felt Himself

Rotting Earthwards,  Like A Fungus Of His Own Native Forests Under

Autumn Rains. His Body Remained Inert But His Eye,  Roaming Away From

The Straw Pallet,  Fixed Itself Upon The Door. When,  When Would That

Kindly Gentleman With The Instrument Arrive?

 

 

 

Chapter