The Wind Bloweth Part 23

"No, I never knew."

"She used to cry when the leaves fell from the trees.... You didn't know your wife well?"

"No, sir, I did not."

"Well, she is gone, Zan.... Where, one doesn't know.... What will become of her, one doesn't know. Destiny is like a blind camel. He doesn't know against what he stumbles. We do not see him come.... Only when the harm is done, do we say: We might have listened for the tinkle of his bell.... Eh, one is young and does everything and sees nothing. One is old and sees everything and does nothing. There is no mystery ... only ignorance...."

"You say she was very tender-hearted, my uncle. I didn't know.... I thought of her as something else...."

"Son Zan, you had better forget her in another woman. Listen son, I will give you Aziyed in marriage, my own daughter. She is just as pretty and younger and not so foolish as Fenzile."

"Oh, no, sir. No!"

"Well, I don't blame you."

"It isn't that, Arif Bey. It isn't that. I'm very beholden to you ...

for your kindness ... and your patience.... I didn't know.... And I thought I knew everything nearly, and am so ignorant.... Why until now I didn't know even this--the sun shone so brightly, and life was so pleasant, I thought that was the way of life.... But I was in love with Fenzile.... And that was what made everything so wonderful ... in love with the wife you gave me ... head over heels, sir ... just simply--head over heels...."

PART FIVE

THE VALLEY OF THE BLACK PIG

-- 1

To him, for a long time now, the sea had been only water. All the immense pelagic plain, dotted with ships; with bergs of ice, like cathedrals; with waves that curled or swept in huge rhythms; with currents defined in lines and whorls; with gulls that mewed and whales that blew like pretty fountains; with the little Portuguese men-of-war; with the cleaving of flying fish and the tumbling of dolphins, all this was water. All this joyous green, this laughing white, the deep reflective blue, the somber exquisite gray, was water. An infinity of barrels of water, immense vats of water, water, wet water....

To him, for a long time now, a ship had been a means of keeping afloat on water, of going from place to place. All its brave strakes, its plunging bows, its healing beams, were wood, such as one makes a house of, or a tinker's cart. All the miracle of sails; the steady foresail; the sensitive jibs; the press canvas delicate as bubbles; the reliable main; the bluff topsails; topgallants like eager horses; the impertinent skysails; the jaunty moonraker, were just canvas stretched on poles. All the pyramidal wonder of them, fore, main, and mizzen, were not like a good rider's hands to a horse; compelling, coaxing, curbing the wind, they were utilities. The spinning wheel was a mechanical device. Port was left, and starboard only the right hand. The chiming of the ship's bell was not an old sweet ceremony but a fallible thing, not exact as the ticking of a cheap watch. And "The lights are burning bright, sir," was not a paean of comfort, but a mechanical artisans'

phrase....

To him, for a long time now, they who went down to the sea in ships were men only; men such as sell things in shops or scrub poorhouse floors, or dig tracks for a railroad. The slovenly Achill man, who would face death with a grin, the shambling Highlander who on occasion could spring to the shrouds like a cat; the old bos'un who had been for years a castaway on Tierra del Fuego; the wizened chantey-man with his melodeon, who could put new vigor into tired backs, with his long-drag chanteys, like "Blow the Man Down," and "Dead Horse," and "Whisky Johnnie," and short-drags like "Paddy Doyle" and "Haul the Bowline," and capstans like "Homeward Bound" and "Wide Missouri," and pumping chanteys like "Storm Along"; the keen men at the wheel and the hawk-eyed lookout; the sailor swinging the lead in the bows, with a wrist and forearm of steel--all these were only men, following the sea because they knew no better. And the mate who would wade into a mob of twenty with swinging fists, and the navigator who could calculate to a hair's-breadth where they were by observing the unimaginable stars--they were not of the craft of Noah, they were men who knew their job ... just men ... as a ticket-clerk on a railroad is a man....

To him, for a long time now, ports were ports, only places whither one went to get or deliver cargo. Baltimore, like some sweet old lady; Para, heavy, sinister with rain; Rio, like some sparkling jewel; Belfast, dour, efficient, sincere; Hamburg, dignified, _gemutlich_; Lisbon, quiet as a cathedral--they were not ent.i.ties, they were just collections of houses covering men and women. And men were either fools or crooks, and women were either ugly bores or pretty--b.i.t.c.hes.... Men and women, they were born crudely, as a calf is born of a cow, they lived foolishly or meanly, and they died.... And they were hustled out of the house quickly.... They thought themselves so important, and they lacked the faithfulness of the dog, the cleanliness of wild animals, the strength of horses, the beauty of tropic birds, the mathematical science of the spider, the swiftness of fishes.... And they grew old abominably, the women's b.r.e.a.s.t.s falling, the men getting pot-bellies.... How the devil had they ever arrogated to themselves the lordship of created things?

To him, for a long time now, the world had been, was, one mean street....

-- 2

Of all cities, none was better calculated to foster this mood of his than the one to which his business now brought him--Buenos Aires on the Plate. Leaving Liverpool with steel and cotton, there was an immensity of ocean to be traversed, until one came to the river mouth. Then fifty leagues of hard sailing to the abominable anchorage....

Here now was a city growing rich, ungracefully--a city of arrogant Spanish colonists, of poverty-stricken immigrants, of down-trodden lower cla.s.ses ... a city of riches ... a city of blood.... Here mud, here money....

Into a city half mud hovels, half marble-fronted houses, gauchos drove herd upon herd of cattle, baffled, afraid. Here Irish drove streams of gray bleating sheep. Here ungreased bullock carts screamed. From the blue-gra.s.s pampas they drove them, where the birds sang, and water rippled, where was the gentleness of summer rain, where was the majesty of great storms, clouds magnificently black and jagged lightning, where were great white moons and life-giving suns, where was the serpent in the gra.s.s, and the unique tree, where were swift horses.... Beeves that had once been red awkward calves, and then sullen, stupid little bullocks, and then proud young bulls, with graceful horns.... Such as earnest Christians believed had lowed at the manger of Christ born in Bethlehem.... And stupid, suspicious sheep, that had once been white gamboling lambs, playful as pups, and so ridiculously innocent looking!--didn't they call their Lord _Agnus Dei_, Lamb of G.o.d?--and gentle ewes and young truculent rams, like red-headed schoolboys, eager for a fray, and shamefaced wethers.... And by their thousands and their tens of thousands they drove them into Buenos Aires, and slew them for their hides....

But this was sentimental, Shane said. Bullocks and sheep must die, and the knife is merciful as any death. But oughtn't these things be done by night, privily, as they should bury the dead? Must they drive down these infinities of creatures, and slaughter them openly and callously, until the air was salt with blood, until the carrion crows hovered over the city in battalions? Had they no feeling, had they no shame? Must the pitiful machinery of life be exposed so airily?

Of course it must, he knew. These things had to be done in bulk. Now weren't the middle ages when one killed a cow because one had to eat: one killed a sheep because the winter was coming when woolens were needed. All Europe needed shoes, saddles, combs, anti-maca.s.sars, afghans--what not? And Europe was a big place, so in bulk they must bellow and bleat and die, and have their hides torn from their pitiful bodies, salted, and chucked in the hold of a ship.

Of course it must. That was civilization.

-- 3

From long ago, from far away, came the chime of old romance, but very thin, like the note of a warm silver bell, that could not hold its own against this blatancy. Came ancient immortal names--Magellan, that hound of the world, whining fiercely, nosing for openings that he might encircle the globe, he had been up the silver river. Sebastian Cabot, too, the grim marauder, seeking to plunder the slender Indians, he had been here. It was he had christened the great stream--Rio de la Plata, the river where silver is. And Pedro Gomez, who headed the greatest expedition the Argentine ever saw, and founded and named the city. And fighting Beresford, the British general who took it from Spain, and Whitelock who lost it again.... Campbell could see his bluff grenadiers, their faces blackened with powder, their backs to the wall, a strange land, a strange enemy, and blessed England so far away.... And the last of the Spanish viceroys, with a name like an organ peal, Baltazar Hidalgo de Cisneros y Latorre--a great gentleman, he had been wounded fighting Nelson off Cape Trafalgar. Campbell could almost see his white Spanish face, his pointed fingers, his pointed beard, his pontifical walk.... And of them nothing remained. Nothing of Magellan, nothing of Cabot, nothing of Gomez, nothing of staunch Beresford, or bluff John Whitlock, or of the great hidalgo.... _Stat magni nominis umbra?_ ...

No, not even that. The shadows of the great names had gone. The dim chime of a silver bell drowned by the lowing of dying cattle, by the screech of bullock-carts, by the haggling of merchants over the price of hides....

But he could not remain on board ship in port. Ships, he had enough of them! There was nothing to do but go ash.o.r.e, landing at high tide at one of the two lugubrious piers, and make his way toward the squares ...

past the blazing water-front where the prost.i.tutes chanted like demented savages, past the saloons where the sailors drank until they dropped, or were knifed, or robbed, or crimped. Down the ill-lit streets, which must be trodden carefully, lest one should stumble into a heap of refuse.

Down to the Plaza Victoria, with its dim arcades, or to the 25 de Mayo, with its cathedral, its stunted paradise trees. And from the houses came shafts of light, and the sound of voices, thump of guitars like little drums, high arguments, shuffle of cards.... Dark shadows and lonely immigrants, and the plea of some light woman's bully--"_cosa occulta_...." A dim watery moon, the portico of the cathedral, a woman exaggerating her walk.... Pah!... immigrants fearful of the coming snow.... A vigilante strutting like a colonel.... Mournful pampa winds....

The theaters? Sugary Italian opera; a stark Spanish drama, too intense for any but Latins, foreign; debauched vaudeville, incredibly vulgar; or at the concert-hall, sentimental Teutonic and Anglo-Saxon songs, with an audience of grave uncritical exiles--a little pathetic. No!

The clubs? Oh, d.a.m.n the clubs! A blaze of light and raucous voices, ships' masters, ships' chandlers, merchants, discussing the riddle of local politics, and the simony of office; or the price of hides, and freight charges; how a ship's master could turn a pretty penny in bringing out shoddy clothes, or pianos--Jesus! they were crazy for pianos here! Rattle of gla.s.ses and striking of matches. Bluff, ceremonious salutations.

"Well, captain, what kind of a trip did you make out?"

"Pretty fair, captain."

"Will you have a little snifter, captain?"

"Well, captain, seeing that it's you--"

"Paddy, a little of what ails him for the captain--"

And after a while the whisky would dissolve the ceremony, and would come nauseating intimacies.

"We shipped a stewardess in Hull--" or "There was an Irish girl in the steerage, a raving beauty, and when I saw her, I said: Wait. So--"

They were all the same. Give them whisky and time and the talk would come around to easy money and easy women. All were the same, bluff, sentimental, animal, all but the one or two hawk-eyed, close-lipped men who came and went silently, who drank little and drank by themselves.

These men made the really big money, but it wasn't easy; they took a chance with their lives, smuggling slaves from Africa for the Argentine plantations, or silver from Chile and Peru. But as for the rest, easy money, easy women!

Well, what was Campbell fussing about? Wasn't he too making easy money, bringing agricultural steel and cotton goods here and taking away his tally of hides?

And as to easy women, wasn't there Hedda Hagen?

-- 4

A ship's master had introduced him to her at a band concert in one of the public squares--a tall Amazonian woman with her hair white as corn, and eyes the strange light blue of ice. Her head was uptilted--a brave woman. The introduction had a smirking ceremony about it that defined Froken Hagen's position as though in so many words. Her bow was as distant to Shane as his salutation was curt to her. Shane was suddenly annoyed.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The captain of the American boat talked incessantly while the band blared on. Strolling Argentines eyed the woman's blond beauty at a respectful distance. They trotted to and fro. They loped. They postured.

She paid no attention. To her they were nonexistent. To the American skipper's conversation she replied only with a flicker of the eyelids, a fleeting smile of her lips. Shane she seemed to ignore. She was so clean, so cool, so d.a.m.nably self-possessed.