South Wind

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Edited by Charles Aldarondo Aldarondo@yahoo.com
Colin Choat CChoat@sanderson.net.au

SOUTH WIND

BY NORMAN DOUGLAS

AUTHOR OF 'OLD CALABRIA'

LONDON: MARTIN SECKER

First Published March 1917

CHAPTER I

The bishop was feeling rather sea-sick. Confoundedly sea-sick, in fact.

This annoyed him. For he disapproved of sickness in every shape or
form. His own state of body was far from satisfactory at that moment;
Africa--he was Bishop of Bampopo in the Equatorial Regions--had played
the devil with his lower gastric department and made him almost an
invalid; a circumstance of which he was nowise proud, seeing that
ill-health led to inefficiency in all walks of life. There was nothing
he despised more than inefficiency. Well or ill, he always insisted on
getting through his tasks in a businesslike fashion. That was the way
to live, he used to say. Get through with it. Be perfect of your kind,
whatever that kind may be. Hence his sneaking fondness for the
natives--they were such fine, healthy animals.

Fine, healthy animals; perfect of their kind! Africa liked them to "get
through with it" according to their own lights. But there was evidently
a little touch of spitefulness and malice about Africa; something
almost human. For when white people try to get through with it after
their particular fashion, she makes hay of their livers or something.
That is what had happened to Thomas Heard, D.D., Bishop of Bampopo. He
had been so perfect of his kind, such an exemplary pastor, that there
was small chance of a return to the scenes of his episcopal labours.
Anybody could have told him what would happen. He ought to have allowed
for a little human weakness, on the part of the Black Continent. It
could not be helped. For the rest, he was half inclined to give up the
Church and take to some educational work on his return to England.
Perhaps that was why he at present preferred to be known as "Mr.
Heard." It put people at their ease, and him too.

Whence now this novel and unpleasant sensation in the upper gastric
region? Most annoying! He had dined discreetly at his hotel the evening
before; had breakfasted with moderation. And had he not voyaged in many
parts of the world, in China Seas and round the Cape? Was he not even
then on his return journey from Zanzibar? No doubt. But the big liner
which deposited him yesterday at the thronged port was a different
concern from this wretched tub, reeking with indescribable odours as it
rolled in the oily swell of the past storm through which the MOZAMBIQUE
had ridden without a tremor. The benches, too, were frightfully
uncomfortable, and sticky with sirocco moisture under the breathless
awning. Above all, there was the unavoidable spectacle of the suffering
passengers, natives of the country; it infected him with misery. In
attitudes worthy of Michelangelo they sprawled about the deck, groaning
with anguish; huddled up in corners with a lemon-prophylactic against
sea-sickness, apparently-pressed to faces which, by some subtle process
of colour-adaptation, had acquired the complexion of the fruit;
tottering to the taffrail. . . .

There was a peasant woman dressed in black, holding an infant to her
breast. Both child and parent suffered to a distressing degree. By some
kindly dispensation of Providence they contrived to be ill in turns,
and the situation might have verged on the comical but for the fact
that blank despair was written on the face of the mother. She evidently
thought her last day had come, and still, in the convulsions of her
pain, tried to soothe the child. An ungainly creature, with a big scar
across one cheek. She suffered dumbly, like some poor animal. The
bishop's heart went out to her.

He took out his watch. Two more hours of discomfort to be gone through!
Then he looked over the water. The goal was far distant.

Viewed from the clammy deck on this bright morning, the island of
Nepenthe resembled a cloud. It was a silvery speck upon that limitless
expanse of blue sea and sky. A south wind breathed over the
Mediterranean waters, drawing up their moisture which lay couched in
thick mists abut its flanks and uplands. The comely outlines were
barely suggested through a veil of fog. An air of irreality hung about
the place. Could this be an island? A veritable island of rocks and
vineyards and houses--this pallid apparition? It looked like some snowy
sea-bird resting upon the waves; a sea-bird or a cloud; one of those
lonely clouds that stray from their fellows and drift about in wayward
fashion at the bidding of every breeze.

All the better-class natives had disappeared below save an unusually
fat young priest with a face like a full moon, who pretended to be
immersed in his breviary but was looking out of the corner of his eye
all the time at a pretty peasant girl reclining uncomfortably in a
corner. He rose and arranged the cushions to her liking. In doing so he
must have made some funny remark in her ear, for she smiled wanly as
she said:

"Grazie, Don Francesco."

"Means thank you, I suppose," thought the Bishop. "But why is he a
don?"

Of the other alien travellers, those charming but rather metallic
American ladies had retired to the cabin; so had the English family; so
had everybody, in fact. On deck there remained of the foreign
contingent nobody but himself and Mr. Muhlen, a flashy over-dressed
personage who seemed to relish the state of affairs. He paced up and
down, cool as a cucumber, trying to walk like a sailor, and blandly
indifferent to the agonized fellow-creatures whom the movements of the
vessel caused him to touch, every now and then, with the point of his
patent-leather boots. Patent-leather boots. That alone classes him,
thought Mr. Heard. Once he paused and remarked, in his horrible
pronunciation of English:

"That woman over there with the child! I wonder what I would do in her
place? Throw it into the water, I fancy. It's often the only way of
getting rid of a nuisance."

"Rather a violent measure," replied the Bishop politely.

"You're not feeling very well, sir?" he continued, with a fine
assumption of affability. "I am so sorry. As for me, I like a little
movement of the boat. You know our proverb? Weeds don't spoil. I'm
alluding to myself, of course!"

Weeds don't spoil. . . .

Yes, he was a weed. Mr. Heard had not taken kindly to him; he hoped
they would not see too much of each other on Nepenthe, which he
understood to be rather a small place. A few words of civility over the
table d'hote had led to an exchange of cards--a continental custom which
Mr. Heard always resented. It could not easily be avoided in the
present case. They had talked of Nepenthe, or rather Mr. Muhlen had
talked; the bishop, as usual, preferring to listen and to learn. Like
himself, Mr. Muhlen had never before set foot on the place. To be sure,
he had visited other Mediterranean islands; he knew Sicily fairly well
and had once spent a pleasant fortnight on Capri. But Nepenthe was
different. The proximity to Africa, you know; the volcanic soil. Oh
yes! It was obviously quite another sort of island. Business? No! He
was not bound on any errand of business; not on any errand at all. Just
a little pleasure trip. One owes something to one's self: N'EST-CE-PAS?
And this early summer was certainly the best time for travelling. One
could count on good weather; one could sleep in the afternoon, if the
heat were excessive. He had telegraphed for a couple of rooms in what
was described as the best hotel--he hoped the visitors staying there
would be to his liking. Unfortunately--so he gathered--the local society
was a little mixed, a little--how shall we say?--ultra-cosmopolitan. The
geographical situation of the island, lying near the converging point
of many trade-routes, might account for this. And then its beauty and
historical associations: they attracted strange tourists from every
part of the world. Queer types! Types to be avoided, perhaps. But what
did it matter, after all? It was one of the advantages of being a man,
a civilized man, that you could amuse yourself among any class of
society. As for himself, he liked the common people, the peasants and
fishermen; he felt at home among them; they were so genuine, so
refreshingly different.

To suchlike ingratiating and rather obvious remarks the bishop had
listened, over the dinner table, with urbane acquiescence and growing
distrust. Peasants and fisher folks! This fellow did not look as if he
cared for such company. He was probably a fraud.

They had met again in the evening, and taken a short stroll along the
quay where a noisy band was discoursing operatic airs. The performance
elicited from Mr. Muhlen some caustic comments on Latin music as
contrasted with that of Russia and other countries. He evidently knew
the subject. Mr. Heard, to whom music was Greek, soon found himself out
of his depths. Later on, in the smoking-room, they had indulged in a
game of cards--the bishop being of that broadminded variety which has
not the slightest objection to a gentlemanly gamble. Once more his
companion had revealed himself as an accomplished amateur.

No; it was something else that annoyed him about the man--certain almost
contemptuous remarks he had dropped in the course of the evening on the
subject of the female sex; not any particular member of it, but the sex
in general. Mr. Heard was sensitive on that point. He was not
disheartened by experience. He had never allowed his judgment to be
warped by those degrading aspects of womanhood which he had encountered
ruing his work among the London poor, and more recently in Africa,
where women are treated as the veriest beasts. He kept his ideals
bright. He would tolerate no flippant allusions to the sex. Muhlen's
talk had left a bad taste in his mouth.

And here he was, prancing up and down, sublimely pleased with himself.
Mr. Heard watched his perambulations with mixed feelings--moral
disapproval combining with a small grain of envy at the fellow's
conspicuous immunity from the prevailing sea-sickness.

A weed; unquestionably a weed.

Meanwhile, the mainland slowly receded. Morning wore on, and under the
fierce attraction of the sun the fogs were drawn upwards. Nepenthe
became tangible--an authentic island. It gleamed with golden rocks and
emerald patches of culture. A cluster of white houses, some town or
village, lay perched on the middle heights where a playful sunbeam had
struck a pathway through the vapours. The curtain was lifted. Half
lifted; for the volcanic peaks and ravines overhead were still shrouded
in pearly mystery.

The fat priest looked up from his breviary and smiled in friendly
fashion.

"I heard you speak English to that person," he began, with hardly a
trace of foreign accent. "You will pardon me. I see you are unwell. May
I get you a lemon? Or perhaps a glass of cognac?"

"I am feeling better, thank you. It must have been the sight of those
poor people that upset me. They seem to suffer horribly. I suppose I
have got used to it."

"They do suffer. And they get used to it too. I often wonder whether
they are as susceptible to pain and discomfort as the rich with their
finer nervous structure. Who can say? Animals also have their
sufferings, but they are not encouraged to tell us about them. Perhaps
that is why God made them dumb. Zola, in one of his novels, speaks of a
sea-sick donkey."

"Dear me!" said Mr. Heard. It was an old-fashioned trick he had got
from his mother. "Dear me!"

He wondered what this youthful ecclesiastic was doing with Zola. In
fact, he was slightly shocked. But he never allowed such a state of
affairs to be noticed.

"You like Zola?" he queried.

"Not much. He is rather a dirty dog, and his technique is so
ridiculously transparent. But one can't help respecting the man. If I
were to read this class of literature for my own amusement I would
prefer, I think, Catulle Mendes. But I don't. I read it, you
understand, in order to be able to penetrate into the minds of my
penitents, many of whom refuse to deprive themselves of such books.
Women are so influenced by what they read! Personally, I am not very
fond of improper writers. And yet they sometimes make one laugh in
spite of one's self, don't they? I perceive you are feeling better."

Mr. Heard could not help saying:

"You express yourself very well in English."

"Oh, passably! I have preached to large congregations of Catholics in
the United States. In England, too. My mother was English. The Vatican
has been pleased to reward the poor labours of my tongue by the title
of Monsignor."

"My congratulations. You are rather young for a Monsignor, are you not?
We are apt to associate that distinction with snuff-boxes and gout
and--"

"Thirty-nine. It is a good age. One begins to appreciate things at
their true value. Your collar! Might I enquire--"

"Ah, my collar; the last vestige. . . . Yes, I am a bishop. Bishop of
Bampopo in Central Africa."

"You are rather young, surely, for a bishop?"

Mr. Heard smiled.

"The youngest on the list, I believe. There were not many applicants
for the place; the distance from England, the hard work, and the
climate, you know--"

"A bishop. Indeed!"

He waxed thoughtful. Probably he imagined that his companion was
telling him some traveller's tale.

"Yes," continued Mr. Heard. "I am what we call a 'Returned Empty.' It
is a phrase we apply in England to Colonial bishops who come back from
their dioceses."

"Returned Empty! That sounds like beer."

The priest was looking perplexed, as though uncertain of the other's
state of mind. Southern politeness, or curiosity, overcame his fears.
Perhaps this foreigner was fond of joking. Well, he would humour him.

"You will see our bishop to-morrow," he pursued blandly. "He comes over
for the feast of the patron saint; you are lucky in witnessing it. The
whole island is decorated. There will be music and fireworks and a
grand procession. Our bishop is a dear old man, though not exactly what
you would call a liberal," he added, with a laugh. "That is as it
should be, is it not? We like our elders to be conservative. They
counteract the often violent modernism of the youngsters. Is this your
first visit to Nepenthe?"

"It is. I have heard much about the beauty of the place."

"You will like it. The people are intelligent. There is good food and
wine. Our lobsters are celebrated. You will find compatriots on the
island, some ladies among them; the Duchess of San Martino, for
instance, who happens to be an American; some delightful ladies! And
the country girls, too, are worthy of a benevolent glance--"

"That procession is sure to interest me. What is the name of your
patron?"

"Saint Dodekanus. He has a wonderful history. There is an Englishman on
Nepenthe, Mr. Earnest Eames, a student, who will tell you all about it.
He knows more about the saint than I do; one would think he dined with
him every evening. But he is a great hermit--Mr. Eames, I mean. And it
is so good of our old bishop to come over," he pursued with a shade of
emphasis. "His work keeps him mostly on the mainland. He has a large
see--nearly thirty square miles. How large, by the way, is your
diocese?"

"I cannot give you the exact figures," Mr. Heard replied. "It has often
taken me three weeks to travel from one end to the other. It is
probably not much smaller than the kingdom of Italy."

"The kingdom of Italy. Indeed!"

That settled it. The conversation died abruptly; the friendly priest
relapsed into silence. He looked hurt and disappointed. This was more
than a joke. He had done his best to be civil to a suffering foreigner,
and this was his reward--to be fooled with the grossest of fables. Maybe
he remembered other occasions when Englishmen had developed a queer
sense of humour which he utterly failed to appreciate. A liar. Or
possibly a lunatic; one of those harmless enthusiasts who go about the
world imagining themselves to be the Pope or the Archangel Gabriel.
However that might be, he said not another word, but took to reading
his breviary in good earnest, for the first time.

The boat anchored. Natives poured out in a stream. Mr. Muhlen drove up
alone, presumably to his sumptuous hotel. The bishop, having gathered
his luggage together, followed in another carriage. He enjoyed the
drive along that winding upward track; he admired the festal
decorations of the houses, the gardens and vineyards, the many-tinted
rock scenery overhead, the smiling sunburnt peasantry. There was an air
of contentment and well-being about the place; something joyful,
opulent, almost dramatic.

"I like it," he concluded.

And he wondered how long it would be before he met his cousin, Mrs.
Meadows, on whose account he had undertaken to break the journey to
England.

Don Francesco, the smiling priest, soon outstripped both of them, in
spite of a ten minutes' conversation on the quay with the pretty
peasant girl of the steamer. He had engaged the fastest driver on the
island, and was now tearing frantically up the road, determined to be
the first to apprise the Duchess of the lunatic's arrival.

CHAPTER II

The Duchess of San Martino, a kind-hearted and imposing lady of mature
age who, under favourable atmospheric conditions (in winter-time, for
instance, when the powder was not so likely to run down her face),
might have passed, so far as profile was concerned, for a faded French
beauty of bygone centuries--the Duchess was no exception to the rule.

It was an old rule. Nobody knew when it first came into vogue. Mr.
Eames, bibliographer of Nepenthe, had traced it down to the second
Phoenician period, but saw no reason why the Phoenicians, more than
anybody else, should have established the precedent. On the contrary,
he was inclined to think that it dated from yet earlier days; days when
the Troglodytes, Manigones, Septocardes, Merdones, Anthropophagoi and
other hairy aboriginals used to paddle across, in crazy canoes, to
barter the produce of their savage African glens-serpent-skins, and
gums, and gazelle horns, and ostrich eggs--for those super-excellent
lobsters and peasant girls for which Nepenthe had been renowned from
time immemorial. He based this scholarly conjecture on the fact that a
gazelle horn, identified as belonging to a now extinct Tripolitan
species, was actually discovered on the island, while an adolescent
female skull of the hypo-dolichocephalous (Nepenthean) type had come to
light in some excavations at Benghazi.

It was a pleasant rule. It ran to the effect that in the course of the
forenoon all the inhabitants of Nepenthe, of whatever age, sex, or
condition, should endeavour to find themselves in the market-place or
piazza--a charming square, surrounded on three sides by the principal
buildings of the town and open, on the fourth, to a lovely prospect
over land and sea. They were to meet on this spot; here to exchange
gossip, make appointments for the evening, and watch the arrival of
new-comers to their island. An admirable rule! For it effectively
prevented everybody from doing any kind of work in the morning; and
after luncheon, of course, you went to sleep. It was delightful to be
obliged, by iron convention, to stroll about in the bright sunshine,
greeting your friends, imbibing iced drinks, and letting your eye stray
down to the lower level of the island with its farmhouses embowered in
vineyards; or across the glittering water towards the distant coastline
and its volcano; or upwards, into those pinnacles of the higher region
against whose craggy ramparts, nearly always, a fleet of snowy
sirocco-clouds was anchored. For Nepenthe was famous not only for its
girls and lobsters, but also for its south wind.

As usual at this hour the market-place was crowded with folks. It was a
gay throng. Priests and curly-haired children, farmers, fishermen,
citizens, a municipal policeman or two, brightly dressed women of all
ages, foreigners in abundance--they moved up and down, talking,
laughing, gesticulating. Nobody had anything particular to do; such was
the rule.

The Russian sect was well represented. They were religious enthusiasts,
ever increasing in numbers and led by their Master, the divinely
inspired Bazhakuloff, who was then living in almost complete seclusion
on the island. They called themselves the "Little White Cows," to mark
their innocence of worldly affairs, and their scarlet blouses, fair
hair, and wondering blue eyes were quite a feature of the place.
Overhead, fluttering flags and wreaths of flowers, and bunting, and
brightly tinted paper festoons--an orgy of colour, in honour of the
saint's festival on the morrow.

The Duchess, attired in black, with a black and white sunshade, and a
string of preposterous amethysts nestling in the imitation Val of her
bosom, was leaning on the arm of an absurdly good-looking youth whom
she addressed as Denis. Everyone called him Denis or Mr. Denis. People
used his surname as little as possible. It was Phipps.

With a smile for everyone, she moved more deliberately than the rest,
and used her fan rather more frequently. She knew that the sirocco was
making stealthy inroads upon her carefully powdered cheeks; she wanted
to look her best on the arrival of Don Francesco, who was to bring some
important message from the clerical authorities of the mainland anent
her forthcoming reception into the Roman Catholic Church. He was her
friend. Soon he would be her confessor.

Wordly-wise, indolent, good-natured and, like most Southerners, a
thorough-going pagan, Don Francesco was deservedly popular as
ecclesiastic. Women adored him; he adored women. He passed for an
unrivalled preacher; his golden eloquence made converts everywhere,
greatly to the annoyance of the parroco, the parish priest, who was
doubtless sounder on the Trinity but a shocking bad orator and
altogether deficient in humanity, and who nearly had a fit, they said,
when the other was created Monsignor. Don Francesco was a fisher of
men, and of women. He fished AD MAIOREM DEI GLORIAM, and for the fun of
the thing. It was his way of taking exercise, he once confessed to his
friend Keith; he was too fat to run about like other people--he could
only talk. He fished among natives, and among foreigners.

Foreigners were hard to catch, on Nepenthe. They came and went in such
breathless succession. Of the permanent residents only the Duchess,
always of High Church leanings, had of late yielded to his
blandishments. She was fairly hooked. Madame Steynlin, a lady of Dutch
extraction whose hats were proverbial, was uncompromisingly Lutheran.
The men were past redemption, all save the Commissioner who, however,
was under bad influences and an incurable wobbler, anyhow. Eames, the
scholar, cared for nothing but his books. Keith, a rich eccentric who
owned one of the finest villas and gardens on the place, only came to
the island for a few weeks every year. He knew too much, and had
travelled too far, to be anything but a hopeless unbeliever; besides,
he was a particular friend of his, with whom he agreed, in his heart of
hearts, on every subject. The frequenters of the Club were mostly
drunkards, derelicts, crooks, or faddist--not worth catching.

Arriages began to arrive on the scene. That of Don Francesco drove up
first of all. He stepped out and sailed across the piazza like a
schooner before the wind. But his discourse, usually ample and florid
as befitted both his person and his calling, was couched on this
occasion in Tacitean brevity.

"We have landed a queer fish, Duchess," he remarked. "He calls himself
Bishop of Bim-Bam-Bum, and resembles a broken-down matrimonial agent.
So lean! So yellow! His face all furrowed! He has lived very viciously,
that man. Perhaps he is mad. In every case, look to your purse, Mr.
Denis. He'll be here in a minute."

"That's quite right," said the young man. "The Bishop of Bampopo. It's
in the NEW YORK HERALD. Sailing by the MOZAMBIQUE. But they didn't say
he was coming to the island. I wonder what he wants here?"

Don Francesco was aghast.

"Indeed?" he asked. "A bishop, and so yellow! He must have thought me
very rude," he added.

"You couldn't be rude if you tried," said the Duchess, giving him a
playful slap with her fan.

She was burning with ardour to be the first to introduce such a lion to
the local society. But fearful of making a FAUX PAS, she said:

"You'll go and speak to him, Denis. Find out if it's the right one--the
one you read about in the paper, I mean. Then come and tell me."

"Good Lord, Duchess, don't ask me to do that! I couldn't tackle a
bishop. Not an African. Not unless he has a proper apron on."

"Be a man, Denis. He won't bite a pretty boy like you."

"What nice things the lady is saying to you," observed Don Francesco.

"She always does," he laughed, "when she wants me to do something for
her. I haven't been on this island long, but I have already found out
the Duchess! You do it, Don Francesco. He is sure to be the right one.
They get yellow, out there. Sometimes green."

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