South Wind(Fiscle Part-3), Norman Douglas [most important books of all time .TXT] 📗

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Concerning The Life And Death Of Saint Eulalia,  Patroness Of Nepenthean

Sailors,  We Possess Ample And Accurate Information.

 

She Was Born In 1712 At A Remote Village In The Spanish Province Of

Estramadura. Various Divine Portents Accompanied Her Birth. Her Mother

Dreamed A Strange Dream About A Sea-Serpent; Her Father Was Cured Of A

Painful Gouty Affection; The Image Of Saint James Of Compostella In The

Local Church Was Observed To Smile Benignly At The Very Hour Of Her

Entry Into The World. At The Age Of Two Years And Eleven Months She

Took The Vow Of Chastity. Much Difficulty Was Experienced In Keeping

The Infant Alive; She Tormented Her Body In So Merciless A Fashion. She

Refused To Partake Of Food Save Once In Every Five Weeks; She Remained

Immovable "Like A Statue" For Months On End; She Wore Under Her Rough

Clothing Iron Spikes Which Were Found,  After Death,  To Have Entered

Deeply Into Her Flesh. She Was Never Known To Use A Drop Of Water For

Purposes Of Ablution Or To Change Her Underwear More Than Once A Year,

And Then Only At The Order Of Her Confessor Who Was Obliged To Be In

Daily Contact With Her. The Heat Of Her Body Was Such That It Could Not

Be Touched By Human Hands. During Her Frequent Trances She Spoke

Accurately In Sixty-Nine Different Languages; There Was No Hair

Whatever On Her Head Which Was "Spotless As An Egg." She Put Baskets Of

Sea Urchins Into Her Bed And,  As A Penance For What She Called "Her

Many Sins," Forced Herself To Catch The Legions Of Vermin That Infested

Her Brown Blanket,  Count Them,  Separate The Males From The Females,  Set

Them Free Once More,  And Begin Over Again. She Died At The Age Of

Fourteen Years And Two Months. Her Corpse Forthwith Became Roseate In

Colour,  Exhaled A Delicious Odour Of Violets For Twenty Weeks,  And

Performed Countless Miracles. On Dissection,  A Portrait Of Saint James

Of Compostella Was Discovered Embedded In Her Liver.

 

Saint Eulalia Appeared Too Late To Find Her Proper Niche In Monsignor

Perrelli's Antiquities Or To Be Commemorated In Some Worthy

Architectural Monument By The Good Duke Alfred; Too Late--And This Is

Doubtless A Lucky Circumstance--To Become The Victim Of One Of Father

Capocchio's Offensive Sneers. Whoever Is Interested In Her Saintly

Career May Purchase At Nepenthe,  For The Small Sum Of Sixpence,  An

Admirable Biography By A Young Canon Of The Church,  Don Giacinto

Mellino. It Gives A Full Account Of Her Life And Of Those Nine Hundred

And Seventy-Two Miracles Of Hers Which Have Been Authenticated By

Eye-Witnesses. No Need,  Therefore,  To Expatiate Further.

 

It Stands To Reason That Mr. Eames Possessed A Copy Of This Treatise.

An Ideal Annotator,  He Rarely Indulged In Speculation; His Business Was

To Discover And Co-Ordinate References. Nevertheless,  In Regard To The

Earthly Life Of This Particular Saint,  He Used To Say: "There Are Some

Things A Man Cannot Help Puzzling About." It Irked Him--Her Success On

Nepenthe. He Knew The Sailormen To Be A Horny-Handed,  Skeptical,

Worldly Brood. Why Had They Imported The Cult Of Eulalia From Spain;

Why Had They Chosen For Their Patroness A Mawkish Suffering Nonentity,

So Different From Those Sunny Goddesses Of Classical Days? He

Concluded,  Lamely,  That There Was An Element Of The Child In Every

Southerner; That Men,  Refusing To Believe What Is Improbable,  Reserve

Their Credulity For What Is Utterly Impossible; In Brief,  That The

Prosaic Sea-Folk Of Nepenthe Were Like Everybody Else In Possessing A

Grain Of Stupidity In Their Composition--"Which Does Not Bring Us Much

Further," He Would Add. . . .

 

At The Time Of This Year's Festival Mr. Eames Was Supremely Happy.

Another Pamphlet Had Come Into His Hands,  An Anonymous Pamphlet Making

Fun Of The Duchess Whose Reception Into The Roman Church Had Been Fixed

For The Day Of Saint Eulalia's Festival. It Bore The Objectionable

Title The Dipping Of The Duchess And Had Presumably Been Indited By

Some Wag At The Alpha And Omega Club Who Disapproved Of Water In Every

Shape,  Even For Baptismal Purposes. The Stuff Was Printed On The Sly

And Hastily Circulated About The Island--Some People Maintained That Mr.

Richards,  The Respectable Vice-President Of That Institution,  Was Its

Author. It Was A Scurrilous Anti-Catholic Leaflet,  Grossly Personal And

Savouring Of Atheism. The Duchess,  On Hearing Of It--Everything Got

About On Nepenthe--Was So Distressed That She Decided To Cancel,  Or At

Least Postpone,  The Ceremony Of Her Public Conversion. At A Meeting Of

Urgency Convened By The Priests,  Who Were Bitterly Disappointed At Her

Attitude,  It Was Agreed That This Was No Time For Half-Measures. A

Round Sum Of Money Was Voted Wherewith To Buy Back The Pernicious

Pamphlet From Its Respective Owners With A View To Its Destruction.

 

In The Space Of A Single Day Every Copy Vanished From The Island--Every

Copy Save One,  Which Had Found Its Way Into Mr. Eames' Collection. He

Meant To Keep That Copy. He Would Have Died Sooner Than Yield It Up.

When The Clerical Deputation Arrived At His Villa With Soft Words And

Promises Of More Solid Lucre,  He Professed The Uttermost Amazement At

Their Quest. Mr. Eames,  The Soul Of Honesty,  The Scorner Of All

Subterfuge And Crooked Dealing,  Put On A New Character. He Lied Like A

Trooper. He Lied Better Than A Trooper; That Is To Say,  Not Only

Forcefully But Convincingly. He Lied As Only A Lover Of Bibliographical

Curios Can Lie,  In Defence Of His Treasure. He Thanked Them For Their

Courteous Visit And Bade Them Keep Their Gold. He Professed Himself A

Poor Recluse Innocent Of The World's Ways And Undesirous Of Riches,

Adding,  As A Mere Afterthought,  That He Had Not So Much As Heard Of The

Noxious Broadsheet In Question. There Must Be Some Mistake. Society

People Might Know Something About It; That Gentleman Who Called Himself

A Bishop For Example,  That Sallow Gentleman From Africa,  Who Spent So

Much Of His Time In Social Gaieties--He Might Very Likely Have Received

A Copy. If They Wished,  He Would Gladly Make Enquiries,  Discreet

Enquiries,  About The Matter.

 

It Was Mr. Eames' Second Lapse From Grace. Gentlemen Do Not Tell

Falsehoods. He Did Not Want To Be A Gentleman Just Then. He Wanted That

Pamphlet.

 

The Reverend Visitors Withdrew Convinced,  Amid Showers Of Compliments

And Apologies. After Seeing Them Safely Off The Premises And Even,  For

Greater Security,  Half-Way Down The Hill,  Mr. Eames Returned,  Drew Out

The Jewel From Where It Lay In A Secret Hiding-Place Among Others Of

Its Kind,  And Hugged It To His Heart. He Purposed To Reproduce The

Pamphlet In Extenso,  In That Particular Appendix To His Edition Of

Perrelli's Antiquities Which Dealt With "Contemporary Social History."

. . .

 

Mr. Heard Knew Nothing Of All This As,  Jostled Among The Crowd,  He

Watched The Procession On That Bright Morning. It Reminded Him Of The

Feast Of Saint Dodekanus Which He Had Witnessed Twelve Days Earlier; It

Was Even More Extravagant. But He Now Felt Himself Seasoned To This

Kind Of Display. Besides,  He Had Seen Funnier Things In Africa; Though

Not Much Funnier. Once More His Thoughts Went Back To Those Laughing

Black People,  He Remembered All Of Them--The Wabitembes,  The M'tezo,  The

Kizibubi--What A Set Of Jovial Ruffians! How They Would Have Enjoyed

This Sunshiny Nonsense. And The Bulangas. Really,  Those Bulangas--

 

There Was A Light Touch On His Shoulder. He Turned,  And Found Himself

Face To Face With Mrs. Meadows. She Was Smiling And Looking Ever So

Happy.

 

"Well,  Tommy!" She Said. "You Don't Seem To Be Very Pleased To See Me.

Why Haven't You Come To Tea Lately? And Why Are You Looking So Glum?

He's Got His Leave,  After All. I Had A Cable Two Days Ago. He'll Pick

Me Up Here In A Fortnight Or Three Weeks. Aren't You Glad You Needn't

Escort Me To England?"

 

"Awfully Glad!" He Replied,  Trying To Be Jocular. The Words Stuck In

His Throat. He Had Expected To Meet--If He Met Her At All--A Skulking

Contrite Criminal. This Woman Was Jubilant. An Amazing,  Terrifying

State Of Affairs.

 

"There Is Something The Matter With You,  Tommy. Perhaps You Have Caught

My Headache. You Remember How Inquisitive You Were? And How You

Complained Of The Roses? If You Come Up Now You Will Find Fresh Ones

Waiting For You."

 

Her Glance Was Unclouded. No Human Being Ever Looked Less

Conscience-Stricken. It Was As Though She Had Convinced Herself Of The

Righteousness Of Her Deed,  And Thereafter Dismissed It From Her Mind As

Something Not Worth Bothering About. Blithe As A Bird! If He Had Not

Seen With His Own Eyes--

 

"Has It Gone,  Your Headache?" He Enquired,  Not Knowing What To Say.

 

"Gone Away Altogether. I Have Heard So Much About This Procession That

I Thought I Would Drive Down And Have A Look At It. I Missed The Last

One,  You Know. Besides,  I Wanted To See Some Friends Here Whom I've

Been Neglecting Lately. I Feel Quite Guilty About It," She Added.

 

He Couldn't Help Saying:

 

"You Don't Look Guilty."

 

"Ah,  But You Mustn't Judge By Appearances!"

 

"You Blamed The Sirocco,  I Remember."

 

"I Don't Blame It Any Longer. Surely A Woman Can Change Her Mind? But

What Is The Matter With You?"

 

"Perhaps The South Wind," He Ventured.

 

She Remarked Laughingly:

 

"I Don't Believe The Wind Is In The South At All. But You Always Were A

Funny Boy,  Tommy. If You Are Very Good You Will See Some Pretty

Fireworks Presently. As For Myself,  I Shall Have To Drive Home For

Baby's Early Dinner."

 

"Fireworks In Broad Daylight?" He Asked. "That Is Something New."

 

"In Broad Daylight! Aren't They Queer People? They Can't Wait Till It

Gets Dark,  I Suppose."

 

At That Moment They Were Joined By Keith And Three Or Four Others. He

Had No More Chance Of Speaking To Her Alone; She Drove Away,  Not Long

Afterwards,  Waving Her Parasol At Him And Leaving Him In A State Of

Dazed Perplexity.

 

He Had Been Thinking Night And Day About His Cousin,  Certain Of Her

Criminality And Profoundly Convinced Of Her Moral Rectitude. What Had

Muhlen Done? He Had Probably Threatened Her With Some Exposure. He Was

Her Legal Husband--He Could Make Himself Abominable To Her And To

Meadows. The Future Of The Child,  Too,  Was Imperiled. He Might Be Able

To Claim It; Or If Not That--The Bishop's Notions Of Bastardy Laws Were

Not Very Clear--He Could Certainly Rely Upon His Friend The Magistrate

To Take The Child Out Of The Mother's Custody Or Do Something Horrible

Of That Kind. The Happiness Of That Whole Family Was At His Mercy. She

Had Been Goaded To Desperation. Mr. Heard Began To Understand. To

Understand--That Was Not Enough. Anybody Could Understand.

 

Keith Took His Arm And Remarked:

 

"Come And See My Cannas! They Are Prefect Just Now. I Must Tell You A

Story About Them--It's The Wildest Romance. I Am The Only Person In

Europe Who Understands The Proper Cultivation Of Cannas. I Shall Have

Scented Ones Soon."

 

"Don't They Smell?" Enquired The Bishop Absent-Mindedly.

 

"Not Yet. You Are Looking A Little Tired,  Heard,  As If You Had Not

Slept Well Lately. Perhaps You Would Like To Sit Down? We Can Watch The

Fireworks From The Terrace. You Ought To Read Pepys' Diary. That Is

What I Have Been Doing. I Am Also Rather Low-Spirited Just Now. The End

Of Another Spring,  You Know--It Always Makes Me Feel Sad. Pepys Is The

Antidote. He Is A Tonic. Every Englishman Ought To Be Compelled,  For

The Good Of His Soul,  To Go Through Pepys Once In Three Years."

 

"I Must Read Him Again," Said The Bishop Who Was Not Particularly

Interested In The Diarist Just Then.

 

"His Universal Zest! It Seems To Be Extinct Nowadays; It Is A Charm

That I Have Not Discovered In Any Living Englishman. What A Healthy

Outlook! Not A Trace Of Straining Anywhere. He Took Life With Both

Hands. How He Threw Himself Into His Work,  His Amusements,  His Clothes

And Women And Politics And Food And Theatres And Pictures. Warm Heart,

Cool Head. So Childlike,  And Yet So Wise. There's Only One Thing That

Troubles Me About Him--His Love Of Music. It Was So Obviously Sincere.

He Not Only Liked It; He Actually Understood It. Music,  To Me,  Is A

Succession Of Sounds More Or Less Painful. I Can't Even Whistle. It's

Too Bad."

 

The Bishop Said:

 

"If The Lives Of All Of Us Were Written Down With The Same Remorseless

Candour,  How Few Would Stand The Test."

 

He Was Thinking Of The Devil's Rock.

 

"I Don't Trouble About Tests," Replied Keith. "The Whole Herd Of

Humanity Adapts Its Pace To That Of The Weakest Lamb. The Capacity Of

The Weakest Lamb--That Is The Test. I Don't Consider Myself Bound To

Such A Vulgar Standard. And How Spectacular We Are,  In Matters Of

So-Called