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

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."

"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