South Wind(Fiscle Part-3) by Norman Douglas (great novels to read txt) 📖

A Human Life,  May Be Blown Away At Any Moment. Possibly

You Are Right. Perhaps We English Do Exaggerate Its Importance. They

Don't Take Much Account Of Life In My Part Of Africa."

 

"And Then,  I Disagree With What You Say About The Difficulty Of

Understanding The Laws Of Morality. Any Child Can Grasp The Morality Of

Its Period. Why Should I Pretend To Be Interested In What A Child Can

Grasp? If Is A Positive Strain To Keep One's Mind At That Low Level.

Why Should I Impose This Strain Upon Myself? When A Group-Up Man Shows

An Unfeigned Interest In Such Questions I Regard Him As A Case Of

Arrested Development. All Morality Is A Generalization,  And All

Generalizations Are Tedious. Why Should I Plague Myself With What Is

Tedious? Altogether The Question That Confronts Me Is Not Whether

Morality Is Worth Talking About,  But Whether It's Worth Laughing At.

Sometimes I Think It Is. It Reminds Me Of Those Old Pantomime Jokes

That Make One Quite Sad,  At First,  With Their Heart-Breaking Vulgarity;

Those Jokes,  You Know,  That Have To Be Well Rubbed In Before We Begin

To See How Really Funny They Are. And,  By Jove,  They Do Rub This One

In,  Don't They? You Must Talk To Don Francesco About These Things. You

Will Find Him Sound,  Though He Does Not Push His Conclusions As Far As

I Do--Not In Public,  At Least. Or To Count Caloveglia. He Is A

Remarkable Latin,  That Old Man. Why Don't You Drive Up One Day And Have

A Look At His Locri Faun? Street,  The South Kensington Man,  Thinks Very

Highly Of It."

 

"I Would Like To Listen To You Just Now. I Am Listening,  And Thinking.

Please Go On. I'll Preach You My Sermon Some Other Day."

 

"Will You? I Wonder! I Don't Believe,  Heard,  That You Will Preach

Another Sermon In Your Life. I Don't Think You Will Ever Go Back To

Africa,  Or To Any Other Episcopal Work. I Think You Have Reached A

Turning Point."

 

The Bishop Was Thoughtful For A Moment. Those Words Went Home. Then He

Said Lightly:

 

"You Are In Better Vein Than You Were A Short While Ago."

 

"That Story Of The Botanist Has Revived Me. He Tells It Rather Well,

Doesn't He? It Is Good To Inhabit A World Where Such Things Can Still

Happen. I Feel As If Life Were Worth Living. I Feel As If I Could

Discuss Anything. What Were You Going To Say About The American

Millionaire?"

 

"Ah Yes," Replied Mr. Heard. "I Wondered,  Supposing These Reports About

The Ladies Are True,  How Far You And I,  For Example,  Should Condone His

Vices."

 

"Vices. My Dear Bishop! Under A Sky Like This. Have A Good Look At It;

Do."

 

Mr. Heard,  Barely Conscious Of What He Was Doing,  Obeyed The Counsel.

Raising His Hand,  He Pushed The Silken Awning To One Side. Then He

Peered Skyward,  Into The Noonday Zenith; Into An Ocean Of Blue,

Immeasurable. There Was No End To This Azure Liquid. Gazing Thus,  His

Intelligence Became Aware Of The Fact That There Are Skies Of Different

Kinds. This One Was Not Quite Like His Native Firmament. Here Was No

Suggestion Of A Level Space Overhead,  Remote,  But Still Conceivable--A

Space Whereon Some God Might Have Sat Enthroned,  Note-Book In Hand,

Jotting Down Men's Virtues,  And Vices,  And What Not. A Sky Of This Kind

Was Obviously Not Built To Accommodate Deities In A Sitting Posture.

 

Instead Of Commenting On This Simple Observation He Remarked:

 

"I Mean,  Whether One Should Publicly Approve Of Van Koppen's Ladies,

Supposing They Exist."

 

"Why Should I Approve Or Disapprove? Old Koppen's Activities Do Not

Impinge On Mine. Like A Sensible Fellow He Cultivates A Hobby. He

Indulges Himself. Why Interfere? Tell Me,  Why Should I Disapprove Of

Things?"

 

"Look Here,  Keith! Not Long Ago You Were Disapproving Of Vertical

Gods."

 

"That Is Different. They Do Impinge On My Activities."

 

"Are The Peculiar Hobbies Of Their Votaries Distasteful To You?"

 

"Not At All. Their Hobbies Do Not Clash With Mine. To Feel Righteous,

Or To Feel Sinful,  Is Quite An Innocent Form Of Self-Indulgence--"

 

"Innocent Self-Indulgence? Dear Me! You Seem To Be Taking Morality By

The Throat For A Change. Is That Your Conception Of Sin? How Should

Moses Have Come To Inscribe Some Particular Form Of Wrong-Doing Into

His Code,  If It Had Not Proved Harmful To The Community At Large?"

 

His Friend Paused Before Replying. He Took Out Another Cigar,  Bit Off

Its End,  And Lighted It. Then He Sent A Few Fragrant Whiffs Over The

Sea. At Last He Said:

 

"Moses! I Have A Clear Portrait Of Moses In My Mind; A Clear And

Favourable Portrait. I Imagine Him Gentle,  Wise,  And Tolerant. Picture

To Yourself Such A Man. He Is Drawing Up A Preliminary List Of The More

Noteworthy Forms Of Misconduct,  With A View To Submitting It For Divine

Approval,  To Be Welded Later Into The So-Called Ten Commandments. He Is

Still Puzzling,  You Perceive,  Which Sins Ought To Be Included And Which

Left Out. Now That Particular Offence Of Which Our Millionaire Is

Accused Happens To Have Been Left Out Of Consideration So Far."

 

"Why Has It Been Left Out?" Enquired The Bishop.

 

"Nomadic Habits. And Besides--Moses,  Don't Forget,  Is A Kindly Old

Fellow,  Who Likes People To Have As Much Harmless Amusement As

Possible; He Is Not Always Sniffing About To Discover Evil. But Aaron,

Or Some Other Old Family Friend Of His,  Thinks Differently. He Is A

Person Such As We All Know--A Sour-Faced Puritan Who Has Lost The Vigour

Which People,  Rightly Or Wrongly,  Attribute To Van Koppen. This Man

Forgets What He Used To Do In His Own Youthful Days; He Comes Up To

Moses,  Professing To Be Horrified At This Particular Offence. 'These

Young People,' He Says,  'The Way They Go On! It's A Sin,  That's What It

Is. And You,  Moses,  I'm Ashamed Of You. This Sort Of Thing Ought To Be

Stopped. It Ought To Be Publicly Reprimanded In Those Blessed Tables Of

Yours.' 'A Sin?' Says Gentle Moses. 'You Surprise Me,  Aaron. I Confess

It Never Struck Me In That Light Before. But I Think I See Your Point.

We Have A Conference To-Night On The Holy Mountain; I May Be Able To

Get A Clause Inserted--' 'Do,  There's A Good Fellow,' Says The Other.

'But Aren't You A Little Hard On The Youngsters?' Asks Moses. 'You

Wouldn't Believe It,  But I Was A Boy Myself Once And I Should Have Got

Into A Lot Of Rows If Such An Enactment Had Been In Existence Then.

Moreover (And Here His Eyes Assume A Rapt,  Prophetic Look) I Seem To

See,  Rising Out Of The Distant Future,  A Personage Of Royal Line,

Beloved Of God--One David Who,  If Your Proposal Were To Come Into Force,

Would Be Classed As A Pretty Hot Sinner,' 'Oh,  Bother David! Look Here,

I'm Not Asking For A Loan Of Money,  Old Man. Just See To It That My New

Sin Is Inscribed On The Tables. Hang It All! What's That,  To A Man Of

Your Influence Up There? You Can't Think How It Annoys Me Nowadays To

See All These Young People--All These Young People--Need I Go Into

Particulars?' 'You Needn't. I'm Not Altogether A Fool,' Says Gentle

Moses. 'And I'll See What I Can Do To Oblige You,  If Only For The Sake

Of Your Dear Mother.'"

 

The Bishop,  At The End Of This Narration,  Could Not Help Smiling.

 

"That," Continued Keith,  "Is How Moses Gets Talked Over By The

Pharisees. That Is How Sins Are Manufactured And Classified. And From

That Preposterous Old Hebrew System Of Right And Wrong They Jump

Straight Into Our English Penal Code. And There They Sit Tight," He

Added.

 

"Is That Your Quarrel With What You Call The Upstairs God System?"

 

"Precisely! It Affects Me By Its Unsanitary Tendency To Multiply Sins;

That Is To Say,  When It Transforms Those Sins Into Legal Crimes. How

Would You Like To Be Haled Before A Court Of Law For Some Ridiculous

Trifle,  Which Became A Crime Only Because It Used To Be A Sin,  And

Became A Sin Only Because Some Dyspeptic Old Antediluvian Was Envious

Of His Neighbour's Pleasure? Our Statute-Book Reeks Of Discarded

Theories Of Conduct; The Serpent's Trail Of The Theologian,  Of The

Reactionary,  Is Over All."

 

"It Never Struck Me In That Light Before," Said Mr. Heard.

 

"No? Our Reverence For Inspired Idiots: Has It Never Struck You? Don't

You Realize That We Are Still In The Stage Of That Enfant Terrible Of

Christianity,  Paul Of Tarsus,  And His Gift Of Tongues? In The Stage Of

These Russians Here,  With Their Decayed Messiah? What Do You Think Of

Them?"

 

"I Must Say They Look Pretty,  All Bathing Together. Rather Improper.

But Decidedly Apostolic. You Know I Am Not Easily Shocked In Such

Matters. When You Have Lived In Africa Among The M'tezo! Lovely

Fellows. I Assure You They Could Give Points To Anyone On This Island.

And Your Friends The Bulanga! To Think That I Once Baptized Three

Hundred Of Them In One Day. And The Very Next Week They Ate Up Old Mrs.

Richardson,  Our Best Lady Preacher. The Poor Dear! We Buried Her Riding

Boots,  I Remember. There Was Nothing Else To Bury. . . . It's Getting

Warm,  Isn't It? Makes One Feel Sleepy."

 

"Sleepy? I Don't Agree With You At All. That Russian Sect,  Heard,  Had

Between Two And Three Million Followers Out There. But I Fancy Our

Little Contingent Will Not Be On This Island Much Longer. The Judge

Tells Me That He Means To Make Short Work Of Them When He Gets A

Chance. If The Militia Have Really Been Called Out,  I Should Not Be

Surprised To Learn That The Messiah Has Been Up To Some New

Tomfoolery."

 

"Really? H'm. The Militia. . . . I Find It Very Warm All Of A Sudden."

 

Mr. Heard Had Listened Enough For The Time Being. Now He Leaned Back

And Rested.

 

But Keith Was Wide Awake.

 

"You Are A Disappointing Person,  Mr. Heard. First You Inveigle Me Into

A Religious Discussion And Then,  When I Begin To Wake Up,  You Go To

Sleep."

 

"I Didn't Want To Argue,  My Dear Fellow. It's Too Hot To Argue. I

Wanted To Hear Your Opinion."

 

"My Opinion? Listen,  Heard. All Mankind Is At The Mercy Of A Handful Of

Neurotics. Neurotics And Their Catchwords. Catchwords Like Duty,

Charity,  Purity,  Sobriety. Sobriety! In Order That Miss Wilberforce May

Not Come Home Drunk--Listen,  Heard!--All We Other Lunatics Forgo The

Pleasure Of A Pint Of Beer After Ten O'clock. How We Love Tormenting

Ourselves! Listen,  Heard. I'll Tell You What It Is. We Are Ripe For A

New Messiah,  Like These Russians. We Are Not Europeans. We Are Indian

Fakirs,  Self-Torturers. We Are A Pack Of Masochists. That Is What

Upstairs Gods Have Done For Us. Listen,  Heard!"

 

The Bishop Failed To Catch The Import Of This Peroration. Its Sound

Alone Reached Him Like An Echo From Far Away. He Was Unaccountably

Drowsy.

 

"Fakirs. I Quite Understand--"

 

The Boat Seemed To Move More Slowly Than Before. Perhaps The Oarsmen

Were Weary,  Or Suffering From The Heat. The Glare Pierced The Awning.

Mr. Heard,  As He Reclined About His Cushions,  Felt The Perspiration

Gathering On His Forehead. A Spell Had Fallen Upon Him--The Spell Of A

Southern Noon. It Lulled His Senses. It Laid Chains Upon His Thoughts.

 

There Was A Long Silence,  Broken Only By The Splash Of The Oars And By

A Steady Flow Of Conversation On The Part Of The Two Greek Genii,  Who

Seemed Impervious To The Midday Beams And Entirely Absorbed In One

Another. Mr. Heard Opened His Drooping Eyelids From Time To Time To

Take Pleasure In Their Merry Play Of Feature,  Wondering Dreamily What

Could Be The Subject-Matter Of This Endless Polite Conversation.

 

Chapter 21

 

 

 

 

Both The Old Boatman And Mr. Keith Were Correct In Their Surmises.

There Was Trouble In The Market-Place,  Serious Trouble; So Serious That

For The First Time In Five Years--Ever Since That Deplorable Scandal Of

The Irish Lady And The Poodle--The Militia Were Being Called Out. And It

Was Entirely The Fault Of The Sacred Sixty-Three.

 

The Messiah,  Personally,  Was Not