South Wind(Fiscle Part-3) by Norman Douglas (novels for students TXT) 📕

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