The Wind Bloweth Part 20

"Well, let me see," Arif said. "There is Hamadj's daughter, Fenzile."

"Is she young, Arif Bey?"

"Not so young, nineteen, but she is a mountain woman and lasts."

"Is she good-looking?"

"Yes, she is very good-looking."

"Is she kindly?"

"Yes, yes, I think so."

"Is she wild?"

"No, She is very docile."

"You trust me a lot, Arif Bey."

"Yes, we trust you much."

"And I trust you, Arif Bey.... Will Fenzile marry me?"

"Yes," Arif Bey decided, "Fenzile will marry you."

-- 8

It seemed to him, at thirty-five, that only now had he discovered the secret of living. Not until now had his choice and destiny come together to make this perfect equation of life. The work he loved of the bark _Queen Maeve_, with her beautiful sails like a racing yacht's, her white decks, her shining bra.s.s. The carrying of necessities from Britain to Syria, the land he loved, next to Ulster, his mother. And the carrying from Syria into harsh plain Britain of cargoes of beauty like those of Sheba's queen, on camels that bare spices, and very much gold and precious stones. And the great ancient city where he lived; not even Damascus, the pride of the world, exceeded it for beauty. Forward of ma.s.sed Lebanon, white with snow it lay, a welter of red roots and green foliage--the blue water, the garlanded acacias, the roses, the sally branches. Beauty! Beauty! The Arab shepherds in abbas of dark magenta, the black Greek priests, the green of a pilgrim's turban, the veiled women smoking narghiles and daintly sipping sherbet, pink and yellow and white. The cry of the donkey-boy, and the cry of the cameleer, and the cry of the muezzin from the mosque. The quaint salutations as he pa.s.sed along the staired streets: _Nahark.u.m Sayeed!_--May your day be blessed.

_Naharaka abyad!_--May your day be white. _Allah yahtik.u.m el afiyeh!_--G.o.d give health to you. They were chanted like a refrain of a song.

Beauty! Riot and slashing of color. Yet there was line here and ma.s.sive proportion. The sparkling, magenta city had been the theater of great marching hosts. The Phenicians had built it: "the root of life, the nurse of cities, the primitive queen of the world," they had named her.

And gone the Phenicians, and came the slim subtle Egyptians. And the ma.s.sive burly a.s.syrians came next: and now the memory of them was forgotten, also their love and their hatred and their envy was now perished. And then came the tramp of the Roman legions, Agrippa's men, and held the city for centuries. Justinian had one of his law schools there, until the earth quaked and the scholars dispersed. And then the Saracens held it until Baldwin, brother of G.o.dfrey de Bouillon, clashed into it with mailed crusaders; and Baldwin, overcome with the beauty of the land, took him a paynim queen. And then came the occult reign of the Druse. And then the Turk.

And St. George had killed the Dragon there, after the old monk's tale.

Shane Campbell was never weary of looking at the inscriptions on the great cliffs at the River of the Dog--the strange beauty of that name!

It was like the place-names of native Ulster--_Athbo_, the Ford of Cows, _Sraidcuacha_, the Cuckoo's Lane--one name sounded to the other like tuning-forks. And the sweet strange harmony of it filled his heart, so that he could understand the irresistible charm of Lebanon--the high clear note like a bird's song. Here was the sun and the dreams of mighty things, and the palpable proximity of G.o.d. Here was beauty native, to be picked like a nugget, not to be mined for in bitter hours of torment and distress.

High, clear, sustained, the note held. Arose the moon and the great stars like spangles. The slender acacias murmured. The pines _hush-hushed_. The _bronhaha_ of the cafes was like a considered counterpoint. Everywhere was harmony; beauty. And there would be no depression. It would last. There would be no ghosts. They were exorcised. For now there was Fenzile. How understandable everything was!

It must have been under a moon like this, under these Syrian stars, to the _hush-hush-hush_ of the pine and the rustle of willow branches, that Solomon the king sang his love-song. And it must have been to one whose body was white as Fenzile's, to eyes as emerald, to velvety lips, to slim hands with orange-tinted finger nails that he sang. Surely the Shulamite was not fairer than the Fenzile, daughter of Hamadj, a Druse emir!

How beautiful are thy feet with shoes, O prince's daughter!

The joints of thy thighs are like jewels, The work of the hands of a cunning workman.

Thy navel is like a round goblet, Which wanteth not liquor: Thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lilies.

Thy two b.r.e.a.s.t.s are like two young roes that are twins.

Thy neck is like a tower of ivory: Thine eyes like the fishpools in Heshbon, By the gate of Bath-rabbim: Thy nose is as the tower of Lebanon which looketh toward Damascus.

Thine head upon thee is like Carmel, And the hair of thine head like purple; The king is held in the galleries.

How fair and pleasant art thou, O love, for delights!

This thy stature is like to a palm tree.

And thy b.r.e.a.s.t.s to cl.u.s.ters of grapes.

I said, I will go up to the palm tree.

I will take hold of the boughs thereof: Now also thy b.r.e.a.s.t.s shall be as cl.u.s.ters of the vine, And the smell of thy nose like apples; And the roof of thy mouth like the best wine for my beloved, That goeth down sweetly, Causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak....

-- 9

Where before he had made his mistake with women was allowing them to become spiritually important. His mother had been important; he had suffered from the sense of her lack of heart to him. His wife had been important; they hadn't understood life together, he made no attempt to.... They were so young.... And Claire-Anne had become spiritually important to him. So that when she was gone, it was h.e.l.l.

If he had treated his mother casually, depending on his uncles, it would have been all right. If he had discerned--and he had discerned, though he knew not how to act--that his wife and he would forever be inharmonious, it would not have been a scar on his youth. If he had gone for instance to Alan Donn and said, "Uncle Alan, I'm afeared there's a mistake been made. And what are we going to do about this woman o'

Louth?" And Alan would have said: "I ken't well you were a d.a.m.ned young fool. Ah, well, gang off aboard your boatie, and I'll see to her." Alan would have ditched her and her mother mercilessly, and there would have been no scar on his youth....

And Claire-Anne, had he only taken her as he should have taken her, as a light love, easily gotten, to be taken easily, instead of tragedizing until his fingers were scarlet.... G.o.d!... Yes, where before he had made his mistakes with women was allowing them to become spiritually important.

Well, he wouldn't do that with Fenzile. He knew better now. Keep the heart free. Let there be beauty and graciousness and kindliness, but keep the heart free, and ask for no heart. All tragedies were internal, all the outward deeds being only as sounds. Keep the heart free.

There were so many aspects to her. She was like a bird about the house, gaily colored, of bright song. He loved to see her move here and there, with movements as of music. And she was like a child at times, as she solemnly made sherbets--very like a child she was, intense, simple. And she was like a young relative; there was emptiness in the house as she went, and when she came back it was like a bird singing.

And she was so beautiful about the place, with her eyes green of the sea, her dusky velvet lips, her slim cinnamon hands, with the dramatic orange tinting on the nails. Always was some new beauty in her, a tilt of the head, a sudden gracious pose. She was like some piece of warm statuary. From any angle came beauty, shining as the sun.

And in the dusk when his arms were about her, she was no longer child, relative, or statue. She was woman, vibrant woman. Tensed muscles and a little stifled moan. And an emotional sob, maybe, or a tear glistening on her cheek. Relaxation, and a strange, easy dignity. With her arms about her white knees, her little head upraised, thoughts seemed to be going and coming from her like bees in and out of their straw skep. And often he was tempted to ask her what she was thinking of. But he stopped himself in time. Of course she was thinking of nothing at all, barring possibly a new sherbet to be made, or whether, if they sold Fatima, the Abyssinian cook, who was becoming garrulous, would Fatima have a good home. Trifles! What was the use of asking her? And here was another possibility. She might--anything was possible--be in some deep subtle thought, into which, if he asked, he might get enmeshed, or be trapped emotionally. Better not ask. He wanted to know nothing of her heart, and to keep his.

He loved her in a happy guarded way. And she loved him. When he came back after a voyage she looked at him with an amazed joy. "O Zan! Zan, dear! Is it you? Is it really you?" She would rush and hold him. What amazing strength her little arms had! And she would stand back and look at him again. "O Zan! Zan!" And she would bury her perfumed head in his shoulder to hide the glad tears. "O Zan!"

"Do you know why I love you so much, Zan dear?" she once said.

"Why, Fenzile?"

"Because you are so big, and yet you are so gentle. And you wouldn't do a little thing, my Zan."

"Don't be foolish, Fenzile!"

"I am not foolish."

Only once she asked him how he loved her.

"I wonder--how much do you love me, my Zan?"

"Oh, lots, Fenzile. A terrible lot." And he smiled.

"As much as you do your ship?"

"Yes, as much as I do my ship."

"That is a lot, Zan.... Zan, would you miss me, if I should die?"

"I should miss you terribly."