“Really, I never thought about it,” said Mr. Thinkwell. He was not quite sure that he liked this suave, talkative man. Of course one met him elsewhere; he was an eternal type; one had met him in ancient Greece and Rome, and one met him in Cambridge, in Oxford, in London; even, it has been said, in Manchester, if not in Glasgow, and on this island that they all persisted in calling Smith. There was something rather tiresome about Hindley, in spite of his intelligence and his bland charm.
“I suppose,” said Mr. Thinkwell, “that there must have been a good deal of writing here, as in other places.”
“Oh, yes. It is a disease which a great many of our young men and women pass through; fortunately they mostly come safely out on the other side. Probably you have only heard from my uncles of the official library—that queer collection of out-moded books which my grandparents thought fit to bring to this island when they began life here. No one nowadays pays any attention to those old books; we have our modern literature, most of which the last generation despises.”
“Indeed! I remember little mention of literature in Miss Smith’s journal.”
“No. My grandmamma regards modern literature as a vice. She used, in the days when she went about and cast her eye over all of us to see how we were behaving, to see some of us writing, but she called it wasting time, and said it was ridiculous to think that we could write anything with none of the great literary models before us. As to models—that was the sort of model she provided us with.” He pointed with his cane to the stalwart trunk of a banian tree, down which was carved three stanzas of poetry.
“There is a dreadful Hell,
And everlasting pains;
There sinners must with devils dwell,
In darkness, fire, and chains.
Can such a wretch as I
Escape this cursed end?
And may I hope, whene’er I die,
I shall to Heaven ascend?
Then will I read and pray,
While I have life and breath,
Lest I should be cut off to-day
And sent to eternal death.”
“That,” said Hindley, “is my worthy grandmamma’s idea of good verse. She says there are also the great English poets—Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, Gray, Dr. Akenside, Southey, Cowper, Mrs. Hemans, and Alfred Tennyson—but, beyond a little here and there, she didn’t know them by heart or make us acquainted with them. And, as she thinks Dr. Watts, the author of that poem, good, I dare say those others aren’t much better. So, you see, poets on this island have had to work on their own lines. Prose writers, too.”
“Have you much prose?”
“A good deal, yes. A long time ago a few people took to writing down the stories that were told in the evenings by the older people, and then to inventing others for themselves. Often they are about island life, often about what we imagine life in the wider world to be. You would find them great nonsense, no doubt. As to myself, I used, when I was young, to write a great deal of verse, but for some years now I have only written prose. I began once a kind of satiric history of Smith Island, which I occasionally write up to date, and which might amuse you. I have an idea that it may possibly interest the world at large, now that we are to leave the island.”
“I should say it certainly would. That, published in combination with Miss Smith’s journal, would make immensely interesting reading. Is much of the island literature preserved?”
“A good deal, and most of it not worth preserving. We write on skin or bark, you know. Of course there has always been a great quantity written and destroyed, or written on the sands, merely to pass the time. We have stories written that way, a piece every evening, for people to read, together with that ridiculous newspaper. But people are apt to preserve their own literary efforts so far as they can; we most of us have a curious tenderness for what we write. I am the island librarian, and take charge of such writings as are delivered to me. A great deal of it is sad rubbish, I fear.… Here we are in Hibernia. And there is my dear Peter, alone and looking a little cross. Perhaps he has had to extract a tooth. Shall we go and cheer him up by admiring his pictures? I can tell you that, whenever you see me looking sad, you can cheer me by reading, with suitable admiration, my works.… Well, Peter? How goes the world with you? I have brought Mr. Thinkwell, not to have his teeth out, but to see your pictures.”
Nogood Peter certainly did look sulky. He scarcely even brightened at the mention of his pictures. However, he got up from the rock where he had been sitting, and accompanied his uncle and Mr. Thinkwell to a small dwelling close by. A good-looking, dark-haired, blue-eyed woman of about Hindley’s age sat at the door idly, looking at the sea.
“Good-evening, Cathy,” Hindley said. “We are come to see Peter’s pictures. Let me introduce to you Mr. Thinkwell. My sister, Mrs. Michael Conolly.”
Mrs. Michael Conolly nodded to Mr. Thinkwell.
“It’s fortunate,” she said, “that you are come at last to rescue us. Fortunate for the Smith family, as well as for the Orphans.”
There was something bitter and grim in her voice and face, and, meeting her strange bright blue eyes, Mr. Thinkwell remembered that she was a Smith-Rimski, the daughter of a Pole, and therefore probably rebellious against the established order. She had, anyhow, married—or not married—a rebel. And her husband worked in ropes at Convict Cove.
“No politics now, my dear Cathy,” her brother blandly intervened. “This evening we are interested only in art. The paintings, Peter, please. Bring them out here, where the light is good.”
The young man went into the house, and came out shortly with a pile of fine stretched skins and smooth pieces of wood. He laid them on the ground, and Mr. Thinkwell looked at them. The paintings on them were mostly of island scenes; seascapes and landscapes painted in bright, pure colours, crudely and simply drawn, primitive and naïve, but with some force. Mr. Thinkwell did not know whether the painting was good, as painting; he was no art critic, and, further, he was, philosophically, something of a nihilist as regards the meaning of the words “good” and “bad” in any sphere. What he did know was that this painting would, in England, have a tremendous and immediate success. Its very naïvété and originality, its break with tradition, would make an appeal, and European critics, for ever falling for new things, would fall most certainly for this. Mr. Thinkwell perceived that young Conolly need have no fears for his future: his success as an artist was sure. He would, no doubt, start a whole school of foolish imitators.
Mr. Thinkwell looked at the paintings one by one, in silence. He was a man of few words. All he said, when he had finished, was “Very interesting indeed. Very attractive.”
“I thought you would find them so,” Hindley said. “Will they be a success in England, should you say?”
Mr. Thinkwell did not care for talking of art (or anything else) in terms of success, and merely replied that, whether or no, they were uncommonly interesting. He took them up again in turn, and looked at them more closely, spending, indeed, such a great while over them that Mr. Smith-Rimski became a little bored, for he wanted Mr. Thinkwell to come to his house and admire his writings.
“Delightful, aren’t they,” he said, switching his cane about. “How do they compare, pray, with modern European art?” (Hindley showed a less Britannic tendency than most of the islanders, by speaking less of England and more of Europe.)
“Very different, so far as I can judge,” said Mr. Thinkwell. The range of colours is small, of course.… But there is no object in making comparisons. I hope,” he said to Peter, “that you will go on, and do a great deal more.”
Peter looked only moderately pleased. He had hoped for more admiration. He had hoped that Mr. Thinkwell would have told him he would be a great artist in England, and that he could have repeated this to Flora.
“Yes,” he said, rather moodily, “I shall go on. It’s what I like doing.”
“He’s always at it,” said his mother, also moodily. “Thinks of nothing else. I shoul
d like him to speak and write about the wicked laws and oppressions, that his father gave his freedom for—but Peter’s not interested in anything but paint.”
“There, Cathy,” her brother soothed her. “Michael will soon be free now, you know.”
“Will he? How do I know they won’t put him in prison in England?”
“As he has committed no crime against English law,” said Mr. Thinkwell, “that is most improbable.”
Her uncomfortably brilliant blue eyes burned on his face. She looked white and frail, and too young to be the mother of Nogood Peter.
“Well now,” said Hindley, “do you want to call on any one else in Hibernia, Mr. Thinkwell, or would you care to walk with me to my little place and see some of our literature? I have quite a library there. This isn’t a good hour for visiting, because most people who aren’t out fishing are on the shore over there watching that absurd news come out. I imagine you’ll agree with me that we can dispense with that. A very stupid, tedious, vulgar performance.”
“Yes,” Mr. Thinkwell agreed. “I have enough of that at home. By all means I will come and see your library.”
Before leaving Hibernia they went down to its shore, where a small knot of persons was assembled, closely grouped round one who was writing on the sand with a stick.
“One of the unofficial journals that comes out in the evenings,” said Hindley. “Dull stuff. Nearly as tedious as the official news. It is mainly a catalogue of grievances, together with rousing addresses to the Orphans to withstand the Smith tyrannies.”
“What we call Red journalism.”
“Do you? I don’t know why you call it that; but I have no doubt it thrives in all countries. On the other part of the island there are plenty of unofficial journals too; they are more amusing, but also more vulgar. Particularly on Sundays, when all the scandals, both among Smiths and Orphans, are chronicled. People seem to require particularly spicy literature on Sundays—I suppose from lack of other occupation. Are your Sunday journals like that?”
“I have never noticed it,” said Mr. Thinkwell, who saw the Observer and the Sunday Times, and did not know much about other Sunday papers.
“My house,” said Mr. Smith-Rimski.
2
The house of Mr. Smith-Rimski was a small, elegant building, its wooden walls tastefully plastered with oyster shells. Inside it was carpeted with plaited palm, and on the walls hung paintings. A table stood at one side, holding bowls of brilliant flowers and a chess-board with roughly-cut wooden pieces.
“I must,” said Hindley, “have beauty about me. Also chess-men. Do you play? You must have a game with me some time. But now for this literature.” He gave Mr. Thinkwell a chair, and produced delicious drinks and the curious island cigars.
“Would you care to chew a nut?” he asked. “They have a stimulating and soothing quality all their own, these nuts. It is forbidden to sell them or possess them, but all these little difficulties are easily surmounted. You won’t? But you won’t mind if I do, I’m sure.” He took a long-shaped brown nut. like an almond, out of a box, and put it in his mouth.
“And now for the literature.”
He opened a mahogany cupboard, which contained shelves stacked with sheets of skin and bark. He took down a bundle of these and laid them on the table.
“These are my own little attempts, including the history. You’ll find a good number of early poetic effusions among them. This kind of thing.” He handed Mr. Thinkwell a poem called Wakefulness, which began,—
“I wake and hear the amorous tortoise cry;
The ripe nuts tumble thudding from the tree;
I watch the moon, an evil golden eye,
Stare wanly at me o’er the purple sea.”
It had eight stanzas. Mr. Thinkwell read it through, and laid it down without comment.
“An early effort,” said Hindley, “and probably written after an evening of intemperance. A little morbid, you are thinking.”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Thinkwell. “A little commonplace, perhaps, as young people’s verse is apt to be. I am very much interested to see it.”
Slightly nettled, but still bland and well bred, Hindley gave him some of his own essays to read. These Mr. Thinkwell found better. Hindley had a gay, amusing pen; his descriptions were entertaining and his comments apt. A tendency to a rather Petronian wit was held in check by a natural well-bred discretion. The same qualities marked the Satiric History, in which Mr. Thinkwell found a good deal of entertainment and interest. Decidedly Hindley Smith-Rimski had talent, for all his foppish airs.
Mr. Thinkwell’s pleasure in his prose consoled the author for his lack of appreciation of his verse, and put him in a very good humour over supper, which they had before Mr. Thinkwell went on to read the other literature in the library. After the elegant and delicious repast had been consumed, and its indications removed by a beautifully trained young Zachary Macaulay, host and guest settled down to smoke, sip a very pleasant liquor, and read.
The literature was a miscellaneous collection of short and long stories, verse (for the most part either merely conventional or shockingly bad, but here and there having originality and occasionally some beauty or charm), and long or short prose essays. There were some political writings. One revolutionary poem, dated 1910 and signed” Michael Conolly,” began—“Orphans, arise! throw off the tyrants’ yoke,” and ended—“To that great day when Smiths shall be no more.”
“My unfortunate brother-in-law,” said Hindley, “was always rather a politician than a poet—though not very successful even in that capacity, as you know.… See, here are some samples of our most modern verse—the kind the young men and women are writing to-day.”
The most modern verse had a good deal of swing and tune about it, and less of the moralising of much of the earlier poetry, which was still under the influence of Dr. Watts. Its most marked characteristic was a peculiar habit of ending in the middle of a sentence, “so as to avoid the obvious,” Hindley explained. “Do young English poets adopt that device? Your son Charles is a poet, I hear. I am anxious to make his acquaintance.”
“Yes, I believe Charles writes verse, among other things. I read very little modern verse, but I fancy it is not, for the most part, much like this. Charles will be able to tell you better as to that.… Have you, by the way, that curious branch of literature, the novel?”
“Nothing so long as to be called that, if Wuthering Heights is the standard. There are difficulties as to writing materials, you see. The serial stories written daily on the shore are pretty long sometimes, but they are rubbed out when read.”
“An excellent idea, indeed. Sand is a most appropriate material, and should be more widely used.”
“Have you many novels?”
“I believe a very great many indeed.”
“And are they good reading?”
“Roughly speaking, no. But no worse, I imagine, than most short stories, verse, or plays.”
“Ah, plays we don’t have here. My old grandmamma has always forbidden them, on moral grounds.”
“Moral? Why so?”
“Oh, I can’t explain grandmamma’s notions. The old lady has always been rather mad, I fancy. Anyhow, plays are wicked, and players worse, so we have had no drama in our island home. We amuse ourselves in the evening by dancing, or games, or telling stories. Perhaps, if you feel you have sampled enough of our literature for the moment, you would like to stroll out and watch some of these innocent entertainments.”
3
They strolled out into the dark, warm, close-growing woods, into which the low moon scarcely looked. They followed the thin path until they came out on to the open glade which ran round the wood’s edge above the shore. Here lights burned, and people sat about in groups, talking and playing games or telling stories. The largest group sat round a little old Jewess; her cracked voice rose high and excited, her withered hands gesticulated as she told her tale, which seemed to be of the penny dreadful type.
“A great story-teller, old Leah,” Hindley said. “Look, there is your son, with Flora.”
True enough, Flora and Charles sat together on the edge of the group round Leah.
“Peter will be jealous,” said Hindley, “if your Charles steals his Flora from him like this. They’ve been together all day, those two.”
Charles looked round and saw his father.
“Where are William and Rosamond, Charles?”
“Gone out spearing fish in the lagoon, with a fisherman they’ve picked up with. You should come and listen to this; it’s worth it.”
Mr. Thinkwell stood and listened. Hindley strolled away.
The high old voice rose and fell, cracked and quavered and shrilled, above the murmur of the sea and the soft ruffle of the wind in the palms.
Chapter XX
ISLAND DAYS
1
To Nogood Peter Conolly, apathetically working in his dentist’s tent, fiercely painting pictures, patiently searching for new colours in shells and flowers and shrubs, these days after the landing of the Thinkwells became gradually filled with an odd, new, and very bitter pain, a pain which seared even the joyful prospect of the new life which had so suddenly and amazingly opened before him; a pain which deepened and intensified day by day, and to which he foresaw no end.
Flora had left him for Charles Thinkwell: that was how it appeared to him. She was with Charles Thinkwell all day, every day; that he loved her any one could see; that she, if she did not love him (and whom, thought Peter bitterly, did Flora love, beyond herself?) meant to have him, seemed only too likely. She was caught, he supposed, by the novelty of Charles, by the glamour of strangeness he carried, the romantic aroma of Europe and London; she, who was sick of the tediousness of island life, and had always longed for the world beyond, might well be ensnared by these. No doubt, too, she would like the position he could offer her; like to appear in London town as the affianced wife of a fashionable young Londoner. Yet was Charles fashionable? After all, thought Peter sulkily, he was but a writer, and writing, Rosamond had said, was not very Smith.
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