‘It’s an enemy praying you to death.’
‘Don’t talk fool stuff, girlie,’ he said impatiently.
‘It’s truth. It’s God’s truth. That’s why the American doctor couldn’t do anything. Our people can do that. I’ve seen it done. I thought you were safe because you were a white man.’
‘I haven’t an enemy.’
‘Bananas.’
‘What’s he want to pray me to death for?’
‘You ought to have fired him before he had a chance.’
‘I guess if I ain’t got nothing more the matter with me than Bananas’ hoodoo I shall be sitting up and taking nourishment in a very few days.’
She was silent for a while and she looked at him intently.
‘Don’t you know you’re dying?’ she said to him at last.
That was what the two skippers had thought, but they hadn’t said it. A shiver passed across the captain’s wan face.
‘The doctor says there ain’t nothing really the matter with me. I’ve only to lie quiet for a bit and I shall be all right.’
She put her lips to his ear as if she were afraid that the air itself might hear.
‘You’re dying, dying, dying. You’ll pass out with the old moon.’
‘That’s something to know.’
‘You’ll pass out with the old moon unless Bananas dies before.’
He was not a timid man and he had recovered already from the shock her words, and still more her vehement, silent manner, had given him. Once more a smile flickered in his eyes.
‘I guess I’ll take my chance, girlie.’
‘There’s twelve days before the new moon.’
There was something in her tone that gave him an idea.
‘See here, my girl, this is all bunk. I don’t believe a word of it. But I don’t want you to try any of your monkey tricks with Bananas. He ain’t a beauty, but he’s a first-rate mate.’
He would have said a good deal more, but he was tired out. He suddenly felt very weak and faint. It was always at that hour that he felt worse. He closed his eyes. The girl watched him for a minute and then slipped out of the cabin. The moon, nearly full, made a silver pathway over the dark sea. It shone from an unclouded sky. She looked at it with terror, for she knew that with its death the man she loved would die. His life was in her hands. She could save him, she alone could save him, but the enemy was cunning, and she must be cunning too. She felt that someone was looking at her, and without turning, by the sudden fear that seized her, knew that from the shadow the burning eyes of the mate were fixed upon her. She did not know what he could do; if he could read her thoughts she was defeated already, and with a desperate effort she emptied her mind of all content. His death alone could save her lover, and she could bring his death about. She knew that if he could be brought to look into a calabash in which was water so that a reflection of him was made, and the reflection were broken by hurtling the water, he would die as though he had been struck by lightning; for the reflection was his soul. But none knew better than he the danger, and he could be made to look only by a guile which had lulled his least suspicion. He must never think that he had an enemy who was on the watch to cause his destruction. She knew what she had to do. But the time was short, the time was terribly short. Presently she realized that the mate had gone. She breathed more freely.
Two days later they sailed, and there were ten now before the new moon. Captain Butler was terrible to see. He was nothing but skin and bone, and he could not move without help. He could hardly speak. But she dared do nothing yet. She knew that she must be patient. The mate was cunning, cunning. They went to one of the smaller islands of the group and discharged cargo, and now there were only seven days more. The moment had come to start. She brought some things out of the cabin she shared with the captain and made them into a bundle. She put the bundle in the deck cabin where she and Bananas ate their meals, and at dinner time, when she went in, he turned quickly and she saw that he had been looking at it. Neither of them spoke, but she knew what he suspected. She was making her preparations to leave the ship. He looked at her mockingly. Gradually, as though to prevent the captain from knowing what she was about, she brought everything she owned into the cabin, and some of the captain’s clothes, and made them all into bundles. At last Bananas could keep silence no longer. He pointed to a suit of ducks.
‘What are you going to do with that?’ he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘I’m going back to my island.’
He gave a laugh that distorted his grim face. The captain was dying and she meant to get away with all she could lay hands on.
‘What’ll you do if I say you can’t take those things? They’re the captain’s.’
‘They’re no use to you,’ she said.
There was a calabash hanging on the wall. It was the very calabash I had seen when I came into the cabin and which we had talked about. She took it down. It was all dusty, so she poured water into it from the water-bottle, and rinsed it with her fingers.
‘What are you doing with that?’
‘I can sell it for fifty dollars,’ she said.
‘If you want to take it you’ll have to pay me.’
‘What d’you want?’
‘You know what I want.’
She allowed a fleeting smile to play on her lips. She flashed a quick look at him and quickly turned away. He gave a gasp of desire. She raised her shoulders in a little shrug. With a savage bound he sprang upon her and seized her in his arms. Then she laughed. She put her arms, her soft, round arms, about his neck, and surrendered herself to him voluptuously.
When the morning came she roused him out of a deep sleep. The early rays of the sun slanted into the cabin. He pressed her to his heart. Then he told her that the captain could not last more than a day or two, and the owner wouldn’t so easily find another white man to command the ship. If Bananas offered to take less money he would get the job and the girl could stay with him. He looked at her with love-sick eyes. She nestled up against him. She kissed his lips, in the foreign way, in the way the captain had taught her to kiss. And she promised to stay. Bananas was drunk with happiness.
It was now or never.
She got up and went to the table to arrange her hair. There was no mirror and she looked into the calabash, seeking for her reflection. She tidied her beautiful hair. Then she beckoned to Bananas to come to her. She pointed to the calabash.
‘There’s something in the bottom of it,’ she said.
Instinctively, without suspecting anything, Bananas looked full into the water. His face was reflected in it. In a flash she beat upon it violently, with both her hands, so that they pounded on the bottom and the water splashed up. The reflection was broken in pieces. Bananas started back with a sudden hoarse cry and he looked at the girl. She was standing there with a look of triumphant hatred on her face. A horror came into his eyes. His heavy features were twisted in agony, and with a thud, as though he had taken a violent poison, he crumpled up on the ground. A great shudder passed through his body and he was still. She leaned over him callously. She put her hand on his heart and then she pulled down his lower eye-lid. He was quite dead.
She went into the cabin in which lay Captain Butler. There was a faint colour in his cheeks and he looked at her in a startled way.
‘What’s happened?’ he whispered.
They were the first words he had spoken for forty-eight hours.
‘Nothing’s happened,’ she said.
‘I feel all funny.’
Then his eyes closed and he fell asleep. He slept for a day and a night, and when he awoke he asked for food. In a fortnight he was well.
It was past midnight when Winter and I rowed back to shore and we had drunk innumerable whiskies and sodas.
‘What do you think of it all?’ asked Winter.
‘What a question! If you mean, have I any explanation to suggest, I haven’t.’
‘The captain believes every word of
it.’
‘That’s obvious; but, you know, that’s not the part that interests me most: whether it’s true or not, and what it all means; the part that interests me is that such things should happen to such people. I wonder what there is in that common-place little man to arouse such a passion in that lovely creature. As I watched her, asleep there, while he was telling the story I had some fantastic idea about the power of love being able to work miracles.’
‘But that’s not the girl,’ said Winter.
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Didn’t you notice the cook?’
‘Of course I did. He’s the ugliest man I ever saw.’
‘That’s why Butler took him. The girl ran away with the Chinese cook last year. This is a new one. He’s only had her there about two months.’
‘Well, I’m hanged.’
‘He thinks this cook is safe. But I wouldn’t be too sure in his place. There’s something about a Chink, when he lays himself out to please a woman she can’t resist him.’
The luncheon
I CAUGHT SIGHT of her at the play and in answer to her beckoning I went over during the interval and sat down beside her. It was long since I had last seen her and if someone had not mentioned her name I hardly think I would have recognized her. She addressed me brightly.
‘Well, it’s many years since we first met. How time does fly! We’re none of us getting any younger. Do you remember the first time I saw you? You asked me to luncheon.’
Did I remember?
It was twenty years ago and I was living in Paris. I had a tiny apartment in the Latin Quarter overlooking a cemetery and I was earning barely enough money to keep body and soul together. She had read a book of mine and had written to me about it. I answered, thanking her, and presently I received from her another letter saying that she was passing through Paris and would like to have a chat with me; but her time was limited and the only free moment she had was on the following Thursday; she was spending the morning at the Luxembourg and would I give her a little luncheon at Foyot’s afterwards? Foyot’s is a restaurant at which the French senators eat and it was so far beyond my means that I had never even thought of going there. But I was flattered and I was too young to have learned to say no to a woman. (Few men, I may add, learn this until they are too old to make it of any consequence to a woman what they say.) I had eighty francs (gold francs) to last me the rest of the month and a modest luncheon should not cost more than fifteen. If I cut out coffee for the next two weeks I could manage well enough.
I answered that I would meet my friend – by correspondence – at Foyot’s on Thursday at half past twelve. She was not so young as I expected and in appearance imposing rather than attractive. She was in fact a woman of forty (a charming age, but not one that excites a sudden and devastating passion at first sight), and she gave me the impression of having more teeth, white and large and even, than were necessary for any practical purpose. She was talkative, but since she seemed inclined to talk about me I was prepared to be an attentive listener.
I was startled when the bill of fare was brought, for the prices were a great deal higher than I had anticipated. But she reassured me.
‘I never eat anything for luncheon,’ she said.
‘Oh, don’t say that!’ I answered generously.
‘I never eat more than one thing. I think people eat far too much nowadays. A little fish, perhaps. I wonder if they have any salmon.’
Well, it was early in the year for salmon and it was not on the bill of fare, but I asked the waiter if there was any. Yes, a beautiful salmon had just come in, it was the first they had had. I ordered it for my guest. The waiter asked her if she would have something while it was being cooked.
‘No,’ she answered, ‘I never eat more than one thing. Unless you had a little caviare. I never mind caviare.’
My heart sank a little. I knew I could not afford caviare, but I could not very well tell her that. I told the waiter by all means to bring caviare. For myself I chose the cheapest dish on the menu and that was a mutton chop.
‘I think you’re unwise to eat meat,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how you can expect to work after eating heavy things like chops. I don’t believe in overloading my stomach.’
Then came the question of drink.
‘I never drink anything for luncheon,’ she said.
‘Neither do I,’ I answered promptly.
‘Except white wine,’ she proceeded as though I had not spoken. ‘These French white wines are so light. They’re wonderful for the digestion.’
‘What would you like?’ I asked, hospitable still, but not exactly effusive.
She gave me a bright and amicable flash of her white teeth.
‘My doctor won’t let me drink anything but champagne.’
I fancy I turned a trifle pale. I ordered half a bottle. I mentioned casually that my doctor had absolutely forbidden me to drink champagne.
‘What are you going to drink, then?’
‘Water.’
She ate the caviare and she ate the salmon. She talked gaily of art and literature and music. But I wondered what the bill would come to. When my mutton chop arrived she took me quite seriously to task.
‘I see that you’re in the habit of eating a heavy luncheon. I’m sure it’s a mistake. Why don’t you follow my example and just eat one thing? I’m sure you’d feel ever so much better for it.’
‘I am only going to eat one thing,’ I said, as the waiter came again with the bill of fare.
She waved him aside with an airy gesture.
‘No, no, I never eat anything for luncheon. Just a bite, I never want more than that, and I eat that more as an excuse for conversation than anything else. I couldn’t possibly eat anything more – unless they had some of those giant asparagus. I should be sorry to leave Paris without having some of them.’
My heart sank. I had seen them in the shops and I knew that they were horribly expensive. My mouth had often watered at the sight of them.
‘Madame wants to know if you have any of those giant asparagus,’ I asked the waiter.
I tried with all my might to will him to say no. A happy smile spread over his broad, priest-like face, and he assured me that they had some so large, so splendid, so tender, that it was a marvel.
‘I’m not in the least hungry,’ my guest sighed, ‘but if you insist I don’t mind having some asparagus.’
I ordered them.
‘Aren’t you going to have any?’
‘No, I never eat asparagus.’
‘I know there are people who don’t like them. The fact is, you ruin your palate by all the meat you eat.’
We waited for the asparagus to be cooked. Panic seized me. It was not a question now how much money I should have left over for the rest of the month, but whether I had enough to pay the bill. It would be mortifying to find myself ten francs short and be obliged to borrow from my guest. I could not bring myself to do that. I knew exactly how much I had and if the bill came to more I made up my mind that I would put my hand in my pocket and with a dramatic cry start up and say it had been picked. Of course it would be awkward if she had not money enough either to pay the bill. Then the only thing would be to leave my watch and say I would come back and pay later.
The asparagus appeared. They were enormous, succulent, and appetizing. The smell of the melted butter tickled my nostrils as the nostrils of Jehovah were tickled by the burned offerings of the virtuous Semites. I watched the abandoned woman thrust them down her throat in large voluptuous mouthfuls and in my polite way I discoursed on the condition of the drama in the Balkans. At last she finished.
‘Coffee?’ I said.
‘Yes, just an ice-cream and coffee,’ she answered.
I was past caring now, so I ordered coffee for myself and an ice-cream and coffee for her.
‘You know, there’s one thing I thoroughly believe in,’ she said, as she ate the ice-cream. ‘One should always get up from a meal feeling one could
eat a little more.’
‘Are you still hungry?’ I asked faintly.
‘Oh, no, I’m not hungry; you see, I don’t eat luncheon. I have a cup of coffee in the morning and then dinner, but I never eat more than one thing for luncheon. I was speaking for you.’
‘Oh, I see!’
Then a terrible thing happened. While we were waiting for the coffee, the head waiter, with an ingratiating smile on his false face, came up to us bearing a large basket full of huge peaches. They had the blush of an innocent girl; they had the rich tone of an Italian landscape. But surely peaches were not in season then? Lord knew what they cost. I knew too – a little later, for my guest, going on with her conversation, absentmindedly took one.
‘You see, you’ve filled your stomach with a lot of meat’ – my one miserable little chop – ‘and you can’t eat any more. But I’ve just had a snack and I shall enjoy a peach.’
The bill came and when I paid it I found that I had only enough for a quite inadequate tip. Her eyes rested for an instant on the three francs I left for the waiter and I knew that she thought me mean. But when I walked out of the restaurant I had the whole month before me and not a penny in my pocket.
‘Follow my example,’ she said as we shook hands, ‘and never eat more than one thing for luncheon.’
‘I’ll do better than that,’ I retorted. ‘I’ll eat nothing for dinner tonight.’
‘Humorist!’ she cried gaily, jumping into a cab. ‘You’re quite a humorist!’
But I have had my revenge at last. I do not believe that I am a vindictive man, but when the immortal gods take a hand in the matter it is pardonable to observe the result with complacency. Today she weighs twenty-one stone.
The ant and the grasshopper
WHEN I WAS a very small boy I was made to learn by heart certain of the fables of La Fontaine, and the moral of each was carefully explained to me. Among those I learnt was The Ant and The Grasshopper, which is devised to bring home to the young the useful lesson that in an imperfect world industry is rewarded and giddiness punished. In this admirable fable (I apologize for telling something which everyone is politely, but inexactly, supposed to know) the ant spends a laborious summer gathering its winter store, while the grasshopper sits on a blade of grass singing to the sun. Winter comes and the ant is comfortably provided for, but the grasshopper has an empty larder: he goes to the ant and begs for a little food. Then the ant gives him her classic answer:
Collected Short Stories: Volume 1 Page 12
