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

His

Whole Existence Was A Tangle Of Shady And Ignoble Transactions--That He

Looked Like A Fraud,  And Behaved Like One. He Couldn't Help His Face;

But His Face,  They Soon Discovered,  Was Not The Only,  Or Even The Most,

Evasive And Fugitive Part Of His Personality.

 

At Last Nicaragua,  Even Nicaragua,  Got Too Hot For Him.

 

There Was Don Pomponio Di Vergara Y Puyarola,  Nicaraguan Minister Of

Finance; One Might Come To Terms With A Man Of That Kind. It Was

Arranged Between Them That His Excellency,  Who Had A Large Family And

Many Poor Dependents,  Should Take Over Mr. Parker's Landed Interests;

Being A Native Of The Place He Might Succeed In Squeezing A Little

Something Out Of Them. In Exchange For This Concession An Unobtrusive

Government Job Was Specially Created For Mr. Parker. He Was Appointed

Financial Commissioner For South-Eastern Europe,  To Reside At Nepenthe

Or Wherever Else He Pleased--Unpaid; The Exalted Social Status Conferred

By Such A Post Being Deemed Ample Compensation. His Sole Duty Consisted

Of Submitting A Short Annual Report,  A Pure Formality,  To His

Government.

 

He Departed,  But Not Alone. With Him Went His Familiar Spirit,  His

Guardian Angel,  His Lady,  His Step-Sister--A Dusky Dame Of Barn-Like

Proportions. Arrived At Nepenthe They Rented A Small Villa,  Rather Out

Of The Way,  Which They Called The Residency. The Change Of Climate Did

Them Good. So Did The Appointment. He Was Now A Person Of

Consequence--The Sole Representative Of A Foreign Power On The Island.

His Official Rank Procured Him Not Only Dignity And A New Start In Life

But,  What Was Still More Urgent,  Credit. It Brought Him Into Contact

With The Local Authorities--With The Red-Haired Rachitic Judge,  For

Instance,  Between Whom And Mr. Parker There Sprang Up An Intimacy Which

Was Viewed With Vague Forebodings. The Lady,  Being A Catholic--Mr.

Parker,  Too,  Was Suspected Of Roman Proclivities--Was Confessed By The

Parish Priest. That Was A Point Gained; The Parroco Being Above

Suspicioin,  Among Foreigners At Least. She Stayed Mostly Indoors,

Inventing Scandals About People And Writing Voluminous Letters To Warn

New-Comers Of The Appalling Immorality Of The Place.

 

To Outward Appearance The Commissioner And His Lady Agreed Like A Brace

Of Turtle-Doves. He,  Too,  Was A Moral And Social Reformer. But Men Must

Live. The Refined Social Status Attached To Mr. Parker's Honorary Post

Producing Nothing Tangible In The Way Of Ready Cash,  He Began To Cast

About For Some Means Of Livelihood. They Wre Getting Into Debt Once

More. Something Must Be Done,  He Declared.

 

His Portly Presence,  Flushed Countenance,  Briar Pipe,  Knickerbockers

And White Spats Had Already Become A Familiar Object In The Streets Of

The Town,  When A Terrible Uproar At The Club--One Of Those Periodical,

Approximately Monthly,  Rows At Which The Police,  Who Hated Meddling

With Foreigners,  Were Reluctantly Compelled To Intervene--Suggested To

Her That Something Might Be Done In That Direction. She Got Him Elected

President For That Year,  President For The Next,  The Next,  And The

Next; In Spite Of The Fact That,  According To The Rules,  A New

President Had To Be Elected Every Year. Who Cared About Rules? He Was

The Commissioner! People Were Only Too Glad To Have Him There. In Fact,

Like Napoleon,  He Became A Sort Of Dictator.

 

He Was Now In His Element. There Were Emoluments To Be Picked Up

Here--Percentages,  Perquisites,  And Profits Of All Kinds. He Made A

Little Arrangement With The Club Laundry-Woman To Take In His Own

Washing As Well,  Gratis. Under The Threat Of Placing The Club Custom

Elsewhere He Concluded A Number Of Treaties,  Each Containing A Secret

Clause Which Referred To Fifteen Per Cent Profit For Himself,  With The

Grocer Who Supplied Provisions; And With Other Tradespeople Dealing In

Stationery,  Soap,  Crockery (Broken Crockery Was A Heavy Item In The

Accounts) And Such--Like Club Necessaries. Next,  He Took The Landlord In

Hand. He Would Clear Out,  By God,  And Take More Respectable Premises If

The Rent Were Not Reduced By Twenty Per Cent! Scandalous! Downright

Robbery! The Landlord Being A Reasonable Sort Of Man,  It Was Agreed

That The Old Rate Should Stand In The Contract,  While The Balance Of

Twenty Per Cent Found Its Way Into Mr. Parker's Pockets,  And Not,  As

Theretofore,  Into His Own. The Same With The Servants. From The Boy Who

Cleaned The Rooms,  And Whom He Changed As Often As Ever Possible,  He

Exacted A Monetary Deposit As A Guarantee Of Good Conduct--A Deposit

Which Was Never Returned,  Whatever His Behaviour Had Been. Then--The

Subscriptions. For Of Course The Accounts Were Never Audited; Nobody

Bothered About Such Things On Nepenthe,  With All That South Wind

Hanging About. If They Had Been He Would Have Squared The Auditor Up To

Any Sum--A Hundred Francs,  Almost; It Was Worth While. Pickings,  He

Called Hem. The Place,  The System Suited Him Down To The Ground. He Had

Lived All His Life On Pickings. He Was A Retail Welsher; He Lacked The

Nerve For Sweeping Enterprises.

 

On His Accession,  The Club Was In Such A State Of Demoralization,  Had

Become Such A Public Scandal,  That Mr. Parker,  In His Capacity Of

Moralist,  Would Have Been The First Person To Dissolve That Assembly Of

Topers And Rakes. As Financier,  He Meant To Live By It. But How Was The

Place To Be Purified?

 

Parker's Poison Solved That Problem,  Besides Yielding A Fine Slice Of

Additional Revenue. The Hardest Drinkers,  The Inveterate Rowdies,

Refused To Believe That It Was Anything But The Ordinary Whisky To

Which They Had Been Accustomed From Childhood; Or Believing,  Refused

Out Of Sheer Boastfulness,  Or Force Of Habit,  To Reduce Their Doses.

While The Moderate Realized The Truth And Acted Accordingly,  These

Others Insisted Upon Regarding It As Genuine Scotch--With Inevitable And

Dire Results. They Succumbed. During The First Year Of Freddy Parker's

Reign,  Eight Of These Stubborn Sinners Were Carried To Their Graves.

And Year By Year,  The Same Causes Being In Action,  The Process Of

Betterment Went On. Extremists Dropped Off,  Moderates Survived. The

Club Was Purged Of Its Grosser Elements,  The Moral Tone Of The

Establishment Was Raised,  Through The Operation Of Parker's Poison. It

Was Napoleon's Way With The Paris Parliament,  He Once Explained To His

Lady,  Who Wondered Vaguely How Long The Hero Himself Would Have

Outlived The Effects Of That Mixture Which She Brewed,  With Her Own

Fair Hands,  In The Dim Vaults Of The Residency.

 

Even Now It Was A Pretty Tough Place. New Crooks,  Like The Dubious Mr.

Hopkins,  New Fire-Eaters,  New Cranks,  New Sots,  Were Always Dropping In

From Different Corners Of The Globe To Spread Their Infection Among The

More Recent Crowd Of Curio-Hunters,  Gentlemen Of Commerce,  Nautical

Wrecks,  Decayed Missionaries,  Painters,  Authors And Other Vagrant

Riff-Raff Who Frequented The Premises. There Were Rows Going On All The

Time--Insignificant Rows,  Mostly About Newspapers And Gambling Debts.

Mr. Samuel Got His Eye Blacked Over A Harmless Game Of Ecarte; Mr.

White,  One Of The Steadiest Members,  Threatened To Withdraw His

Subscription On Account Of The Black-Beetles; A Swedish Sea-Captain

Smashed Nine Panes Of Glass--Just By Way Of A Friendly Demonstration,  He

Said--Because The Great Upsala Journal,  The Utan Stafvel,  Was Missing

From Its Shelf; A Muscular Japanese Made Himself Distinctly Offensive

About The Nichi-Nichi-Shin-Bum Being Out Of Date,  And Was Going To

Twist Everybody's Head Off,  If It Occurred Again; The Excellent

Vice-President,  Mr. Richards,  Tumbled Noisily Downstairs,  Nobody Knew

How Or Why--All On A Single Afternoon. The Sirocco Happened To Be

Particularly Trying That Day.

 

On The Whole,  There Was No Denying The Fact That The Club Flourished

Under The Statesman-Like Autocracy Of Mr. Parker. That Was Partly

Because,  Unlike Previous Presidents,  He Was Generally On The Spot. Some

Great Man Once Made A Remark About The Need Of "The Master's Eye." He

Believed In That Remark. If You Run A Place,  Run It Yourself. He Was

Ever-Present,  Absorbing At Ogher People's Expense His Own Poison,  To

The Effects Of Which He Seemed To Be Immune; And Borrowing Money,  On

The Sly,  From The Richer And More Forgetful Members. His Uproarious

Joviality,  His Echoing Ha! Ha! Became A Feature Of The Place; It

Deceived The Simple,  And Amused The Complex. He Was Ready To Talk About

Anything With Anybody Who Shoved Along; He Had A Fund Of Naughty

Tropical Stories For The So-Called Bawdy Section,  And Could Be As

Sympathetic And Pious As You Please With A Contrite Youngster Suffering

From Last Night's Debauch.

 

"A Hair Of The Dog," He Would Suggest With A Genial Wink,  Pushing The

Bottle Temptingly Nearer.

 

The Regulations Had Also Been Improved Under His Auspices. The Entrance

Fee Was Imperceptibly Raised,  While The Conditions Of Entry Were

Relaxed. It Was His Lady's Idea Originally. She Made It Clear That The

More Numerous The Members The Greater The Quantity Of Whisky

Consumed--The Greater,  Therefore,  Their Profits; Quite Apart From The

Possibility Of Additional Subscriptions Being Paid. He Agreed. Then,  In

A Sudden Glow Of Commercial Enthusiasm,  He Proceeded To Hint That

Ladies Should Also Be Admitted. Regretfully She Put Her Foot Down.

Anywhere Else The Proposal Would Have Been Welcome. It Was Out Of The

Question On Nepenthe.

 

"You're Forgetting That Wilberforce Woman," She Said. "She Would Have

To Be Carried Home Every Night. It Couldn't Be Done,  Freddy. We Might

As Well Shut Up The Shop At Once. People Would Get Talking About The

Place--You Know How They Talk,  As It Is."

 

Miss Wilberforce Was A Pathetic Local Figure,  A Lady By Birth,  With A

Ready Tongue,  Wiry Limbs,  And An Insatiable Craving For Alcohol. She

Would Unavoidably Have Damaged The Reputation Of The Place,  To Say

Nothing Of Its Furniture. She Had Gone From Bad To Worse Lately.

 

"Perhaps You're Right,  Lola. It Isn't Worth While For Those Few

Subscriptions. After All,  I'm An Englishman. But How About All Those

Russians?" He Added.

 

"I've Often Told You To Let Them In,  Freddy."

 

"So You Have,  Dear! It Was Your Idea Originally. Well,  I Must Think It

Over Again."

 

He Thought It Over And Regretfully Came To The Conclusion That It Could

Not Be Done. Russians Were Not People Of The Right Kind. They Were Not

Honest.

 

"Russians Are Too Artistic To Be Honest," He Declared.

 

It Was A Bon Mot Which He Had Picked Up,  Long Ago,  From Madame

Steynlin,  In The Days When The Lady Looked With Disfavour On The

Muscovite Colony. That Lutheran Period Was Over For The Present: She

Was Orthodox So Far As Sentiments Were Concerned. Nothing Could Be Good

Enough For The Russians,  Just Then. An Acquaintance With Peter,  One Of

The Handsomest Of The Whole Batch Of Religious Enthusiasts,  Had Brought

About Her Psychological Conversion And Altered Her Outlook Upon Life.

Her Heart Was In The Urals. But That Stupid,  Malicious Epigram Had

Impressed Itself On The Mind Of Mr. Parker,  Who Was Hopelessly

Insensitive To The Flaxen Curls Of Peter.

 

"No," He Decided. "They Are Not Honest. We Must Draw The Line

Somewhere,  Lola. I Draw It At Russians. At Least I Think We Ought To.

But I'll Think It Over Again."

 

That Was Foolish Of Him,  She Opined. For The Muscovites Would Probably

Have Paid Their Accounts As Regularly As Other Members; And As To Their

Capacity For Raising The Club Revenues By The Destruction Of

Alcohol--Why,  Many People Had Said Unkind Things About Them,  And Yet

Nobody Had Gone So Far As To Accuse Them Of Being Unable To Stow It

Away In Proper Christian Style. No Wonder. Because There Was Nothing

Whatever In Their Bible,  The Golden Book Of The Divinely Inspired

Bazhakuloff,  To Prohibit Or Even Limit The Consumption Of Strong

Waters. In The Matter Of Dietary He Had Only Bidden Them Refrain Fro

The Flesh Of Warm-Blooded Beasts.

 

Mr. Parker Was Always Thinking Things Over And Coming To The Wrong

Conclusion. It Was Foolish Of Him.

 

She Knew Him Too Well To Say Anything More For The Moment. She Would

Have To Bide Her Time Because Freddy,  Of Whom She Had Made An

Exhaustive Study,  Was A Wobbler,  And Worse Than A Wobbler. He Was

Stubborn At The Wrong Season And Difficult To Manage. He Needed Careful

Motherly Guidance. All Fools,  She Reflected,  Were Subject To Meteoric

Gleams Of Common Sense. He Was No Exception To That Rule. But Whereas

They Received Such Flashes With Thankfulness,  He Persisted In Regarding

Them As Inspirations Of The Devil. That Was The Tragedy Of Freddy

Parker. It Made Him Into Something Quinessential--A Kind Of Super-Fool.

. . .

 

Mr. Keith Enquired:

 

"You Don't Want To Become A Member Of This Institution,  Do You,

Bishop?"

 

The Other Pondered Awhile.

 

"I Am Pretty Democratic," He Replied. "We Have Some Warm Places In

Africa,  You Know,  And I Never Allowed Myself To Be Beaten By Them.

Perhaps I Might Be Of Use To Some Of Those Poor Fellows In There. But I

Like To Do Things Properly. It Would Entail At First A Little Friendly

Drinking,  I'm Afraid,  In Order To Gain Their Confidence. It Is Not In

My Character To Do One Thing And Preach Another. I Cannot Pose As An

Abstainer After The Way I Enjoyed Your Luncheon. But The Smell