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
Something, He Said. He Commanded That They Should Stay Awake, And
Decapitated Several Hundred Who Were Found Napping. When He Saw That
The Habit Was Ingrained In Their Natures And That Nothing Would Avail
Save A Total Extermination Of The Populace, He Gave Way, Gracefully.
Then Hi Instituted These Popular Theatricals In Honour Of The Patron
Saint, And Fixed Them Irrevocably For The Hour Of Three O'clock. He
Meant To Keep His Faithful Subjects Awake On One Afternoon Of The Year,
At All Events. He Took It For Granted That They Could Never Resist A
Performance Of This Kind. He Was Right. He Knew His People! That Was
Ages Ago. We Shall Find The Place Crammed This Afternoon."
There Was Barely Standing Room, In Spite Of The Sirocco Heat. Mr.
Keith, By Means Of Some Mysterious Formula, Soon Procured Two Seats In
The Front Row, The Occupants Of Which Smilingly Took Their Places Among
The Crowd At The Back.
The Bishop Found Himself Sitting Between His Host And A
Distinguished-Looking Elderly Gentleman Who Turned Out To Be Count
Caloveglia. He Was Dressed In Black. There Was Something Alert And
Military In That Upright Carriage, Those Keen Eyes, Bushy Black Brows
And Snowy Mustache. He Uttered A Few Pleasant Remarks On Making Mr.
Heard's Acquaintance, But Soon Relapsed Into Silence. Absorbed In The
Spectacle, He Sat Motionless, His Chin Resting In The Hollow Of His
Right Hand.
"A Fine Type," Keith Whispered Into The Bishop's Ear. "You Will Like
Him. I Call Him The Salt Of The South. If You Are Interested In The Old
Greek Life Of These Regions--Well, He Gives You An Idea Of Those People.
He Is The Epitome Of The Ionian Spirit. I'll Take You Up To See Him One
Of These Days."
The Performance Consisted Of A Series Of Twelve Scenes Without Words,
Representing The Twelve Chief Episodes In The Life Of The Patron Saint,
As Portrayed In A Certain Marble Frieze In The Church. The Actors Were
A Handful Of The More Attractive And Intelligent Children Of The Place.
They Had Been Trained Under The Watchful Eye Of A Priest Who Confessed
To Some Notions Of Stage-Craft And Delighted In Juvenile Theatricals.
It Was A Thrillingly Realistic Performance; The Costumes--Designed, Long
Ago, By The Good Duke Himself--Varied With Every Tableau. Vociferous
Expressions Of Approval Accompanied The Performance. The Saint's
Encounter In The Grove Of Alephane With The Golden-Haired Lady Was A
Masterpiece Of Histrionic Art; So Was His Solemn Preaching Among The
Black Natives. Tears Flowed Freely At His Violent Death--A Scene Which
Was Only Marred By The Erratic Movements Of His Venerable Beard; That
Mill-Stone, Too, Of Papier Mache, Played Lovely Pranks Upon A Pea-Green
Ocean. Best Of All Was The Cannibalistic Feast Of The Crotalophoboi
Ending With A Tempestuous, Demoniacal War-Dance. Their Blackened Limbs
Emerging From The Scantiest Of Vesture, The Actors Surpassed
Themselves. Such An Uproar Of Applause Accompanied The Orgy That It Had
To Be Repeated.
Every Year It Had To Be Repeated, This Particular Tableau. It Was By
Far The Most Popular, To The Intense Regret Of The Parroco, The Parish
Priest, A Rigid Disciplinarian, An Alien To Nepenthe, A Frost-Bitten
Soul From The Central Provinces Of The Mainland. He Used To Complain
That Times Were Changed; That What Was Good In The Days Of The Duke
Might Not Be Good For The Present Generation; That A Scene Such As This
Was No Incentive To True Religion; That The Holy Mother Of God Could
Hardly Be Edified By The Performance, Seeing That The Players Were
Almost Nude, And That Certain Of The Gestures Verged On Indelicacy And
Even Immodesty. Every Year He Complained In Like Fashion: Ah, What
Would The Madonna Say, If She Saw It?
And Every Year The Entire Body Of The Local Clergy, With Don Francesco
As Their Eloquent Spokesman, Opposed His Views.
The Play Was Tradition, They Avowed. Tradition Must Be Upheld. And What
More? It Savoured Of Heresy To Suggest That The Mother Of God Was Blind
To Anything That Happened On Earth. Doubtless She Saw This Particular
Scene; Doubtless She Approved; Doubtless She Smiled, Like Everyone
Else. She Loved Her People In True Motherly Fashion. She Was Not Born
In The Central Provinces. She Was Fond Of Children, Whether They Wore
Clothes Or Not. The Players Enjoyed Themselves. So Did The Audience.
The Mother Of God Liked Them To Make A Cheerful Show In Honour Of That
Good Old Man, The Patron Saint. And Saint Dodekanus Himself--What Would
He Think, If This Ancient Act Of Homage Were Withheld? He Would Be Very
Angry. He Would Send An Earthquake, Or A Visitation Of The Cholera, Or
A Shower Of Ashes From The Volcano Across The Water. Piety And Prudence
Alike Counselled Them To Keep In His Good Graces. And What More? The
Performance Had Been Established By The Good Duke; And That Endless
Line Of Godly Bishops, Succeeding Each Other Since His Day, Would Never
Have Given Their Sanction To The Costumes And The Acting Had They Not
Known That The Madonna Approved Of Them. Why Should She Now Think
Differently? The Mother Of God Was Not A Fickle Earthly Creature, To
Change Her Mind From One Day To The Next.
With Arguments Such As These They Endeavoured To Controvert The Parroco
Who, Being A Fighter To The Death, A Resourceful Ascetic Of Unbending
Will, Never Admitted Defeat. He Bethought Him Of Other Shifts. On One
Celebrated Occasion He Actually Induced The Bishop--Tired As The Old
Prelate Was, After His Morning's Ride On The White Donkey--To Attend The
Performance, Hoping To Obtain From Him Some Confirmation Of His Own
View, That The Objectionable Scene Should Be Entirely Remodelled Or,
Better Still, Cut Out Altogether. The Reverend Dignitary Was Supposed
To Be Extremely Short-Sighted And Wandering, Moreover, In His Mind,
From Sheer Decrepitude. Perhaps He Was Wily Beyond The Common Measure
Of Man. Be That As It May, He Witnessed The Spectacle But Allowed
Nothing To Escape His Lips Safe A Succession Of Soft Purring Sound
Resembling:
Gu-Gu-Gu-Gu-Gu-Gu-Gu-Gu-Gu-,
An Ambiguous Utterance, Which Was Construed By Both Parties As A
Verdict In Their Favour.
Mr. Heard, While Conceding That The Acting Was Good--First Rate, In
Fact--Could Not Make Up His Mind Whether To Be Shocked Or Pleased. He
Wondered Whether Such A Play Had Any Features In Common With Religion.
His Host, Who Stood For Paganism And Nudity And Laughter, Convinced Him
That It Had.
"You Would Have Seen The Same Thing In Pre-Puritan England," He
Concluded, At The End Of A Long Exposition. "And Now, If You Like, We
Will Have A Look At That Club. It May Amuse You. There Is Still Time
For The Duchess."
Chapter 5
"This Is The Place," Said Mr. Keith.
It Was One Of A Row Of Tawdry Modern Buildings, The Lower Floors Of
Which Were Utilized As Shops--An Undistinguished Sort Of Place, In An
Undistinguished Street. They Climbed Upstairs And Wandered Through Two
Or Three Rooms, All Alike Save That One Of Them Had A Balcony; Square,
White-Washed Rooms, Not Very Clean, And Inadequately Furnished With
Tables, Cane-Bottomed Chairs And A Few Prints On The Walls. There Was A
Lavish Display, However, Of Bottles And Glasses, And Several Shelves
Were Littered With Newspapers In Different Languages. Acetylene Lamps
Hung From The Flat Ceiling. An Odour Of Stale Tobacco And Alcohol
Pervaded The Premises. Flies Were Buzzing Against The Window-Panes.
Half A Dozen Nondescript Members, Looking Considerably The Worse For
Wear, Loafed About Moodily Or Snored In Deck Chairs. Two Or Three Were
Writing Letters. It Was The Sulkiest Hour Of The Day. Mr. Heard Noticed
A Slender Young Indian And A Blond-Haired Fellow--Probably A
Scandinavian. They Were Arguing About Cigars With A Rosy-Cheeked Old
Reprobate Whom They Called Charlie. An Adjoining Apartment, The
Card-Room, Contained A Livelier Party, Among Whom The Bishop Recognized
Mr. Muhlen. He Had Lost No Time In Making Himself Popular. He Must Have
Found Congenial Spirits Here.
"Well?" Asked Keith.
"Cheap And Nasty," Suggested The Other.
"That's It! They Call It The Alpha And Omega Club, To Shadow Forth Its
All-Embracing International Character; It's Just A Boozing Institution,
Where You Run To Seed. They Come In Here, And Say The South Wind Makes
Them Thirsty. Red And Blue Club Would Be A More Appropriate Name. That
Is The Whisky They Have To Drink."
"Why Cannot They Drink Wine Or--Or Ginger Beer?"
"He Tries To Stop That. He Would Not Be Able To Make Any Profits On
Wine."
"Who?"
"The President."
And Mr. Keith Proceeded To Sketch The History Of The Establishment.
The Alpha And Omega Club Had Led A Precarious Existence. Often Its Life
Dangled By A Thread For Lack Of Members, Or Because Those Members Who
Owed Subscriptions Were Unable Or Unwilling To Pay Them. Such Had Been
The Case Before The Accession Of The New President. It Hung Its
Drooping Head; Had Almost Withered Away. Mr. Freddy Parker Tended The
Languid Flower, And Watered It--With Whisky Of His Own Composition.
It Revived. Or Rather (Which Amounts To The Same Thing) Mr. Parker
Revived--Sufficiently, At All Events, To Pay Off Some Of The More
Pressing Of His Private Debts. Napoleon, Or Somebody, Once Remarked:
"L'etat, C'est Moi." Mr. Parker Thought Highly Of A Strong Character
Like Napoleon. He Used To Say, When Talking Things Over With His Lady
In Her "Boudoir" At The Residency:
"The Club, That's Me."
Declaring That Wine Was The Ruin Of The Place, He Imported--It Was The
Lady's Idea, Originally--The Far-Famed "Red-And-Blue" Brand Of Whisky In
Barrels. The Liquid Was Bottled In The Cellars Of The Residency. What
Happened During That Process Was Never Revealed. It Was Affirmed, None
The Less, That One Barrel Of The Original Stuff Was More Than Enough
For Three Barrelfuls Of The Bottled Product. Cultured Members, On
Drinking It, Were Wont To Say Things About Locusta And Borgia. The
Commoner Sort Swore Like Hell At Freddy Parker. It Made You Feel
Squiffy After The Sixth Glass--Argumentative, Magisterial, Maudlin,
Taciturn, Erotic, Sentimental, Sea-Sick, Ecstatic, Paralysed,
Lachrymose, Hilarious, Pugilistic--According To Your Temperament.
Whatever Your Temperament It Gave You A Thundering Head Next Morning,
And A Throat Like Nebuchadnezzar's Fiery Furnace. It Was Known As
"Parker's Poison."
The Stuff Was Served, At An Alluring Price, Out Of Bottles Adorned With
A Seductive Label--A Label Which Had Been Designed By An Impecunious
Artist Who, After Running Up A Rousing Bill For Drinks, Got Off Payment
On The Strength Of This Job. But The Prettiest Label In The World Could
Not Stone For The Mixture Within. Members Often Complained Of Feeling
Queer. They Threatened To Resign. Mr. Parker Did Not Want Them To
Resign; He Wanted Their Subscriptions. He Had A Grand Way With Him On
Such Occasions. Whenever One Of Them Complained Too Bitterly Or Too
Persistently--Became Damned Abusive, In Fact--He Would Patiently Wait And
See Which Was The Fellow's Favourite Newspaper. That Point Settled--It
Was His Lady's Idea, Originally--He Would Stop The Supply Of The Journal
In Question, Alleging Insufficiency Of Club Revenues. These
Napoleon-Like Tactics Generally Brought The Offending Member To His
Senses.
Mr. Frederick Parker Spent A Good Deal Of His Time In Endeavouring To
Mask, Under A Cloak Of Boisterous Good Humour, A Really Remarkable
Combination Of Malevolence And Imbecility. He Was What You Call A
Remittance Man. He Got So Much A Quarter--A Miserable Sum It Was--To Keep
Out Of England. He Travelled About Formerly. But No Amount Of Travel,
No Association With His Betters, Could Pierce His Stolid Pachydermatous
Obliquity. He Was The Worst Kind Of Englishman; He Could Not Even Cheat
Without Being Found Out. But For The Wise Counsels Of His Lady He Would
Have Been In The Lock-Up Over And Over Again. Such Being The Case, He
Took A Justifiable Pride In His Anglo-Saxon Origin. Whenever A Project
Seemed Too Risky--Not Worth While, He Called It--He Would Say:
"It Can't Be Done. That's A Job For A Dago. I'm An Englishman, You
Know."
He Had Knocked About The World A Good Bit, Had Mr. Parker. His Last
Known Domicile Was Nicaragua. There He Invested In Some Land Affair--A
Most Unfortunate Speculation, As It Turned Out. All His Speculation Had
A Way Of Turning Badly. That Was Because People, Even People In
Nicaragua, Distrusted Him For One Reason Or Another; They Said
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