South Wind

by Norman Douglas

  The sound must have reached Heaven, at last, for a miracle occurred. The gloom decreased in density. Men looked up and beheld a sickly radiance overhead—it was the sun, ever so far away; it shone as when seen through thickly smoked glasses. Then a veil seemed to be withdrawn. The light grew clearer—the song of the penitents jubilant with hope. Sullen gleams, now, pierced the murky air. Outlines of trees and houses crept furtively into their old places. The fall of ashes had almost ceased. With a wrench, as it seemed, the final covering was drawn away. The land lay flooded in daylight.

  That paean of joy and thanksgiving which ought to have greeted this divine largesse, died on the lips of the beholders when they saw the state of their island. Nepenthe was hardly recognizable. The Saint had lifted a mantle from Heaven only to reveal the desolation on earth. Ashes everywhere. Trees, houses, the fertile fields, the mountain slopes—all were smothered under a layer of monotonous pallor. They knew what it meant. It meant ruin to their crops and vineyards. None the less, they raised a shout, a half-hearted shout, of praise. For Nepentheans are born politicians and courteous by nature. It is their heritage from the Good Duke Alfred to “keep smiling.” A shout was expected of them under the circumstances; it costs nothing and may even do good, inasmuch as Saint Dodekanus could remove the ashes as easily as he had sent them. Why not shout?

  “A miracle, a miracle!” the cry went up. “Long life to our patron!”

  A poor tribute; but the Saint took note of it. Half an hour had barely passed ere the sky grew cloudy. Moist drops began to fall. It was the first rain for many weeks, and foreign visitors, accustomed to think of Nepenthe as a rainless land, were almost as interested in the watery shower as in that of the ashes. Mud, such mud as the oldest midwife could not remember, encumbered the roofs, the fields, the roadways. It looked as if the whole island were plastered over with a coating of liquid chocolate. Now, if the shower would only continue—

  Suddenly it ceased. The sky grew clear.

  Saint Dodekanus had often been accused of possessing a grain of malice. Some went so far as to say he had the Evil Eye. It was by no means the first time in his long career that the natives had found cause to complain of a certain rancour in his temperament—of certain spiteful viperish acts to which the priests, and they alone, were able to give a benevolent interpretation. Now their wrath blazed out against the celestial Patron. “He’s not fit for his job,” said some; “let’s get a new saint! The ruffian, the son of an impure mother—up to his tricks, was he? Ah, the cut-throat, the Saracen, the old paederast: into the ditch with him!”

  During a brief moment his fate hung in the balance. For it was plain that the ashes, if unwetted, might ultimately have been blown away by the wind. But what was going to happen when all this mud, baked by the sun into the hardness of brick, covered the island?

  Perhaps the Saint was only putting their tempers to the test. The experiment of another shout was worth trying. One could always punish him later on.

  So feeble was the noise that Saint Dodekanus must have had uncommonly good ears. He had. And soon showed his real feelings. Rain fell once more. Instead of diminishing it grew more violent, accompanied by warm blasts of wind. There was sunshine overhead, but the peaks were shrouded in scudding vapours, trees bent under the force of the wind; the sea, a welter of light and shade, was dappled with silvery patches under the swiftly careering clouds. Soon there came a blinding downpour. Gullies were blocked up with mud; rills carried tons of it into the sea. Then the gale died down; the sun beamed out of a bright evening sky. The miraculous shower was over.

  Men walked abroad and recognized their beloved Nepenthe once more. It glowed in the tenderest hues. The events of morning and midday were like a bad dream. Everything sparkled with unaccustomed brilliance; the land was refreshed—swept clean; the sea alone remained discoloured to a dingy brown. Truly, as the Commissioner—once more a sound Protestant—remarked in later years: “The old rotter came up to the scratch that time.” So clear and pleasant was the air that it seemed as if the wind had actually veered to the north. But no. It still blew from the other quarter—the old familiar sirocco. Which proved that the shower of ashes had not been “carried elsewhere,” as the youthful teacher of mathematics had prognosticated. It had not been carried anywhere. It simply ceased to fall, the volcano having momentarily run out of its stock of objectionable materials.

  The Clubmen therefore, calling to mind the discussion of the morning, were led to revise their opinion as to that gentleman’s intelligence. They remembered one or two things. They remembered that even when Heavenly Powers are not known to be directly interested in the event, eruptions now and then come to an end quite irrespective of the wind—a contingency which had not been foreseen in the acute young Scandinavian’s computations.

  “That comes,” they said, “of studying the higher mathematics….”

  For their miraculous deliverance from a shower of volcanic ashes the islanders gave all credit, as might have been expected, to their Patron Saint. And this proves how inadequately causes and effects are understood, here on earth. For the priests, the most intelligent section of the populace, knew perfectly well that but for the orders of the parroco no procession could have taken place. The Saint would have remained locked up in his musty shrine, without the faintest chance of performing a miracle of any kind. They argued, consequently, that Saint Dodekanus got the credit for what was really the parroco’s notion. And Torquemada, thinking over the day’s proceedings, was driven to confess that he was indebted for the suggestion to the fertile brain of the Nicaraguan Representative; in other words that he, the parroco, was praised for what was really the Commissioner’s idea. And it is evident that if Mr. Parker’s lady had not died from the effects of a mosquito-sting, that gentleman would never have been in such a complex funk as to suggest a procession to the worthy priest.

  Thus it came about that the Commissioner, the Parish Priest, and the Patron Saint got the credit for what was really an insect’s work.

  Which shows how a mosquito can cure an eruption.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Everybody was drunk that night in honour of the Saint’s bounty, though Miss Wilberforce reached the climax of her activities at the early hour of 4 p.m.—during the torchlight procession.

  An uproar had been generated at the Club; chairs were broken, bottles smashed, and sporting prints kicked about—all on account of a comical but rather scurrilous speech contrasting Europe with Australasia by a new-comer, a member of the New Zealand House of Representatives, who limped home not long afterwards with a damaged shinbone and black eye. The more violent parties had been ejected during that incident, or carried to their lodgings. Only about half the usual number was left—all moderates, so far as drinking was concerned, but all more or less screwed that day as befitted the occasion. There was the card-table group, where Mr. Muhlen, with heightened colour in his cheeks, was losing money in so brilliant a fashion that everyone swore he must be on the verge of coming into a legacy or making some COUP with a rich woman. In another room the so-called bawdy section, presided over by the dubious Mr. Hopkins, were discussing topics not adapted to polite ears. The artistic group, sadly thinned by the ejection of four of its more imaginative and virile members who had distinguished themselves in the fray, now consisted solely of two youngsters, a black-and-white man and a literary critic; they sat in a corner by themselves, talking about colour-values in maudlin strains.

  The ordinary club-group had, as usual, installed themselves in the most comfortable chairs on the balcony. They were boozing steadily, like gentlemen, and having no end of fun with the poor little Norwegian professor and his miscalculations. One of them—a venerable toper of Anacreontic youthfulness known as Charlie who turned up on Nepenthe at odd intervals and whom the oldest inhabitant of the place had never seen otherwise than in a state of benevolent fuddle—was saying to him:

  “Instead of filling yourself up with whisky in that disgusting fashion, my friend, you o
ught to travel. Then you wouldn’t make such an exhibition of yourself as you did this afternoon over those ashes. Talk about volcanoes! Ever seen the Lake of Pitch in Trinidad? Queer place, Trinidad. You never know where you are. Though I can’t say I saw much of it myself. I was asleep most of the time, gentlemen, and often tight. Mostly both. All angles and things, as you sail along. To get an idea of that place, you must take a banana, for instance, and cut it in half, and cut that in half again, and that half in half again—the banana, mind you, must always remain the same size—or suppose you keep peeling a potato, and peeling, and peeling—well, Mr. Professor, what are you laughing at now?”

  “I was thinking what an interesting map one could draw of Trinidad if it’s like that.”

  “Interesting? That’s not the word. It’s Hell. I wouldn’t care to take on that job, not even to oblige my poor old mother who died fifty years ago. Ever been to Trinidad, Mr. Richards? Or you, Mr. White? Or anybody? What, has nobody been to Trinidad? You ought to travel more, gentlemen. How about you, Mr. Samuel?”

  “Never further West than the Marble Arch. But a friend of mine kept a ranch somewhere down there. One day he shot a skunk. Yes, Mr. White, a skunk.”

  “A skunk? I’m blowed. What on earth ever for did he do that? What did he want with a skunk? I thought they were protected by law to keep down rattlesnakes. That’s so, isn’t it, Charlie?”

  “Snakes. You should see them in Trinidad. Snakes. Great Scot! It’s a queer place, is Trinidad. All angles and things—”

  “I don’t think one can talk about a place being all angles and things, unless—”

  “Tell me, Charlie, what did the fellow on the ranch want to do with that rattlesnake?”

  “Couldn’t say, my son. Maybe he thought of sending it to his mother. Or perhaps he didn’t want the skunk to get hold of its tail: see?”

  “I see.”

  “They’re very sensitive about their tails. As ticklish as any young girl, I’m told.”

  “As bad as all that, are they?”

  “I don’t think one can talk about angles when describing an island or even a continent, except in a figurative and flowery fashion. As a teacher of geometry, it is my business to dwell among angles; and the thirty-five boys in my class will bear witness to the fact that my relations with angles, great and small, are above reproach. I admit that there are angles everywhere, and that a man who really likes their company will stumble against them in the most unexpected places. But they are sometimes hard to see, unless one deliberately looks for them. I think Charlie must have been looking for them in Trinidad.”

  “I said angles AND THINGS, and I always stick to what I say. AND THINGS. You will be good enough, Mr. Professor, to draw your map accordingly.”

  “Gentlemen! I rise to a point of order. Our Indian friend here is greatly annoyed. He has been accused of wearing stays. At his urgent request I have convinced myself, by personal inspection, that he wears nothing of the kind. He is naturally slim-waisted, as befits a worthy representative of the noble Hairyan race. It has also been suggested that he loses caste by his present mode of conduct. He begs me to say that, being a Jamshi-worshipper, he doesn’t care a brass farthing about caste. Thirdly, he has been blamed in certain quarters for his immoderate indulgence in Parker’s poison. Let me tell you, gentlemen, in my capacity as Vice-President, that for the last four thousand years his family has enjoyed a special dispensation from the Great Mogul, authorizing the eldest son to drink whatever he damn well pleases. Our friend here happens to be the third son. But that is obviously not his fault. If it were, he would have come forward with an apology long ago. Gentlemen! I can’t speak fairer than that. Whoever says I’m not a gentleman—why, he isn’t one either.”

  “Hear, hear! I never knew you were an ornithologist, Richards.”

  “Nor did I—not till this moment. But when it’s a question of defending the honour of a Club-member I always rise to the occasion. Some things—they simply make my blood boil. Look at this REFEREE: two weeks out of date! How the blazes is a man—”

  “I say, Charlie, what did the fellow on the ranch want to do with that skunk? Something about tickling, wasn’t it?”

  “Hush, my boy. We can’t talk about it here. You’re not old enough yet. I don’t think I ought to tell you. It’s too funny for words….”

  “You’re a black-and-white man and I’m a writer, and really, you know, we’re a cut above all those sots on the balcony. Now just be reasonable for a moment. Look here. Have you ever thought about the impossibility of realizing colour description in landscape? It’s struck me a good deal lately, here, with this blue sea, and those orange tints on the mountain, and all the rest of it. Take any page by a well-known writer—take a description of a sunset by Symonds, for example. Well, he names all the gorgeous colours, the yellow and red and violet, or whatever it may be, as he saw them. But he can’t make you see them—damned if he can. He can only throw words at your head. I’m very much afraid, my dear fellow, that humanity will never get its colour-values straightened out by means of verbal symbols.”

  “I always know when a man is drunk, even when I’m drunk myself.”

  “When?”

  “When he talks about colour-values.”

  “I believe you’re right. I’m feeling a bit muzzy about the legs, as if I couldn’t move. A bit fuzzy—”

  “Muzzy, I think you said.”

  “Fuzzy.”

  “Muzzy. But we needn’t quarrel about it, need we? I shall be sick in a minute, old man.”

  “It’s rather hard on a fellow to be always misunderstood. However, as I was saying when you interrupted me, I am feeling slightly wobblish in the peripatetic or ambulatorial department. But my head’s all right. Now do be serious, for a change. You don’t seem to catch my drift. This blue sea, and those orange tints on the mountains, I mean to say—how are they going to be held fast by the optic apparatus? The lens, you understand. I want to be able to shove them into a sketch-book, like you fellows. Well, how? That’s what I want to know. How to turn my retina into a canvas.”

  “Rot, my good sir.”

  “It may be rot to you, but it strikes me as rather unfortunate, all the same, when you come to think of it. This blue sea, I mean, and those orange tints and all that, you know. Take a sunrise by John Addington. Of course, as a matter of fact, we ought both to have been born in another age—an age of sinecures. Why are sinecures extinct? I feel as if I could be Governor of Madagascar at this moment.”

  “I feel as if you were getting slightly intoxicated.”

  “That’s me. But it’s only my legs. My head is astonishingly clear. And I do wish you would try, just for once in a way, to follow my meaning. Be reasonable, for a change! I mean to say that a man has talents for all sorts of things. I, for example, have pronounced views upon agriculture. But what’s the use of farming without capital? What I mean to say is this: we see the blue sea and the orange tints on the mountains, and all that, I mean, and we don’t seem to realize, I mean, that we may die at any moment and never see them again. How few people grasp that simple fact! It’s enough to make one sick. Or do you think it’s a laughing matter?”

  “Bally rotten, I call it. You’re quite right. People don’t realize things the way they ought, except in a few selected moments. They live like animals. I shall be sick in a minute, old man.”

  “Like animals. Good Lord! You’ve hit the nail on the head this time. How true that is. Like animals. Like animals. Like animals.”

  “I know what we want. We want fresh air. No more Parker’s poison for me. Let’s take a stroll.”

  “I would if I could. But I can’t get off this chair, damn it. I shall fall down if I move an inch. I can hardly turn my head round, as it is. Awfully sorry. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Gad! That’s awkward. Couldn’t we take your chair along with us, somehow? I’m going to be sick, I tell you, this very minute.”

  “Not here, not here! Third on the left. But
surely, my dear fellow, you can put it off a little longer? Can’t you be reasonable, for once in your life? Just for once in your life? Do listen to what those inebriated lunatics are saying on the balcony….”

  “What did you do to that skunk, Charlie?”

  “Not if I know it, young man. I promised my mother I’d never tell. Another day, perhaps, when I’ve got a little whiskey inside me. It’s too funny for words.”

  “You oughtn’t to go tickling young girls, Charlie. It’s not polite, at your age….”

  They all cleared out, as it seemed, after midnight; some on all fours, many of them fairly perpendicular. But when the serving lad entered the premises in the sober light of morning, to clear up the debris, he was surprised to perceive a human form reclining under a table. It was the young Norwegian professor. He lay there wide awake, with disheveled hair and an inspired gleam in his eye, tracing on the floor, with the point of a corkscrew, what looked like a tangle of parallelograms and conic sections. He said it was a map of Trinidad.