“I’d like to read you the third canto,” said Frith. “It has a lyrical quality that suits me. I think it’s about the best thing I’ve done. Do you know Portuguese?”
“No, I don’t.”
“That’s a pity. It’s almost a word for word translation. It would have amused you to see how closely I’ve managed to reproduce the rhythm and music, the feeling, in fact, everything that makes it a great poem. Of course you won’t hesitate to criticise, I’m only too willing to listen to anything you have to say, but I have no doubt in my own mind that this is the definitive translation. I can’t honestly believe that it will ever be superseded.”
He began to read. His voice had a pleasing quality. The poem was in ottava rima, and Frith laid an emphasis on the metre that was not ineffective. Dr. Saunders listened attentively. The version seemed fluent and easy, but he could not be sure how much this was due to the measured and stately elocution. Frith’s delivery was dramatic, but he put the drama into the sound, rather than the sense, so that the meaning of what he read tended to escape you. He stressed the rhyme so that it reminded Dr. Saunders of a slow train jogging over an ill-laid rail and his body felt a slight jolt as the expected sound at regular intervals fell upon his ear. He found his attention wandering. The rich, monotonous voice hammered on and he began to feel a little drowsy. He stared hard at the reader, but his eyes closed involuntarily; he opened them with a slight effort and frowned with the violence of his concentration. He gave a start, for his head fell suddenly towards his chest, and he realised that for a moment he had dozed. Frith read of gallant deeds and the great men that had made Portugal an empire. His voice rose when he read of high heroical things and trembled and fell when he read of death and untoward fate. Suddenly Dr. Saunders was conscious of silence. He opened his eyes. Frith was no longer there. Fred Blake was sitting in front of him, a roguish smile on his handsome face.
“Had a nice nap?”
“I haven’t been asleep.”
“You’ve been snoring your head off.”
“Where’s Frith?”
“He’s gone. We came back in the buggy and they’ve gone home to dinner. He said I wasn’t to disturb you.”
“I know what’s wrong with him now,” said the doctor. “He had a dream and it’s come true. What gives an ideal beauty is that it’s unattainable. The gods laugh when men get what they want.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Fred. “You’re half asleep still.”
“Let’s have a glass of beer. That at all events is real.”
xxiv
ROUND about ten o’clock that night the doctor and Captain Nichols were playing piquet in the sitting-room of the hotel. They had been driven indoors by the flying ants which the lamp on the verandah attracted. Erik Christessen came in.
“Where have you been all day?” asked the doctor.
“I had to visit a plantation we’ve got over at the other end of the island. I thought I’d be back earlier, but the manager’s just had a son and he was giving a feast. I had to stay for it.”
“Fred was looking for you. He wanted to go for a walk.”
“I wish I’d known. I’d have taken him with me.” He threw himself into a chair and called for beer. “I’ve had the best part of ten miles to walk and then we had to row back half-way round the island.”
“Like to play chouette?” asked the skipper, giving him his sharp, foxy look.
“No, I’m tired. Where’s Fred?”
“Courtin’, I expect.”
“Not much chance of that here,” said Erik, good-naturedly.
“Don’t you be too sure. Good-lookin’ young fellow, you know. The girls fall for ’im. At Merauke I ’ad a rare job keepin’ ’em away from ’im. Between you and me and the gate-post I should ’ave said ’e clicked good and proper last night.”
“Who with?”
“That girl up there.”
“Louise?”
Erik smiled. The idea was quite preposterous to him.
“Well, I don’t know. She come and ’ad a look at the boat with ’im this mornin’. And I know ’e dolled ’imself up somethin’ fierce to-night. Shaved ’imself. Brushed ’is ’air. Put on a clean suit. I ask ’im what it was all about and ’e tell me to mind me own bloody business.”
“Frith was down here this morning,” said Dr. Saunders. “It may be he asked Fred to go and have supper there again to-night.”
“He ’ad supper on the Fenton,” said Nichols.
He dealt the cards. The players went on with their game. Erik smoking a big Dutch cigar watched them and sipped his beer. Now and again the skipper gave him that sidelong glance of his in which there was something so unpleasant that it sent a shiver down your spine. His little close-set eyes glittered with malicious amusement. After a while Erik looked at his watch.
“I’ll go down to the Fenton. Maybe Fred’d like to come fishing with me to-morrow morning.”
“You won’t find ’im,” said the skipper.
“Why not? He wouldn’t be at Swan’s as late as this.”
“Don’t you be too sure.”
“They go to bed at ten and it’s past eleven now.”
“Maybe ’e’s gone to bed, too.”
“Rot.”
“Well, if you ask me I think that girl looked as though she knew a thing or two. It wouldn’t surprise me if they was comfortably tucked up together at this very minute. And very nice too. I wish I was in ’is place.”
Erik was standing up. With his great height he towered over the two men seated at the table. His face grew pale, and he clenched his fists. For a moment it looked as though he would hit the skipper. He gave an inarticulate cry of rage. The skipper looked up at him and grinned. Dr. Saunders could not but see that he was not in the least frightened. A blow from that great fist would certainly have knocked him out. He was a mean skunk, but he had pluck. The doctor saw with what a tremendous effort Erik controlled himself.
“It’s not a bad plan to judge others by oneself,” he said, his voice trembling, “but not if one’s a mangy cur.”
“ ’ave I said anythin’ to offend you?” asked the skipper. “I didn’t know the lady was a friend of yours.”
Erik stared at him for a moment. His face showed the disgust he felt for the man, and his withering contempt. He turned on his heel and walked heavily out of the hotel.
“Wanting to commit suicide, skipper?” asked the doctor dryly.
“I known a lot of them big fellows. Sentimental, that’s what they are. Never ’it a chap smaller than yourself. Their minds don’t work quick, you know. A bit stupid, generally.”
The doctor chuckled. It diverted him to think of that rascal making shrewd use of the decent feelings of others to go his crooked, nasty way.
“You took a risk. If he hadn’t had himself well in hand he might have hit you before he knew what he was doing.”
“What was ’e upset about? Sweet on the girl ’imself?”
Dr. Saunders thought it unnecessary to tell him that Erik was engaged to Louise Frith.
“There are men who object to hearing their girl friends spoken of in that way,” he answered.
“Come off it, doc. Don’t pull that stuff on me. It don’t go with you at all. If a girl’s easy a chap likes to know. If someone else ’as been there, well, there’s a chance for ’im, ain’t there? Stands to reason.”
“You know, you’re one of the dirtiest tykes I’ve ever met, skipper,” said the doctor in his detached manner.
“That’s a compliment in its way, ain’t it? Funny part is, you don’t like me any the less if I am. Seems to me to prove you ain’t exactly a saint yourself. And I don’t mind tellin’ you I’ve ’eard as much in various quarters.”
Dr. Saunders’ eyes twinkled.
“Digestion troubling you to-night, skipper?”
“I ain’t exactly comfortable, and it would be a lie if I said I was. I don’t say I’m in pain, mind you, but I just ain’t comfortable.
”
“It’s a long business. You can’t expect to be able to digest a pound of lead after a week’s treatment.”
“I don’t want to digest a pound of lead, doc, and I don’t pretend for a minute I do. Mind you, I ain’t complaining. I don’t say you ain’t done me good. You ’ave. But I got a long way to go yet.”
“Well, I’ve told you, have your teeth out. They’re no use to you, and God knows, they don’t add to your beauty.”
“I will. I give you me word of honour. The minute I’m through with the cruise. I don’t see why we can’t pop over to Singapore. Sure to be a good American dentist there. The kid wants to go to Batavia now.”
“Does he?”
“Yes, ’e got a cable this mornin’. I don’t know what it was all about, but ’e’s all for stoppin’ on ’ere a bit and then goin’ to Batavia.”
“How d’you know he got a cable?”
“I found it in the pocket of ’is pants. He put on a clean suit to go ashore in, and ’e left his pants lyin’ about. Untidy little blighter. That shows you ’e’s not a sailor. A sailorman’s always tidy. Has to be. It was all Greek to me. The cable, I mean. In cypher.”
“I suppose you didn’t notice that it was addressed to me?”
“You? No, I can’t say I did.”
“Well, have another look at it. I just gave it to Fred to decode.”
The doctor found it highly diverting thus to throw Captain Nichols off the scent.
“Then what’s the reason of all this changin’ around? He was always for keepin’ away from big places. Naturally, I thought it was on account of the cops. Anyhow, I mean to get to Singapore or sink the ruddy boat in the attempt.” Captain Nichols leaned over impressively and looked with deep emotion into the doctor’s eyes. “I wonder if you realise what it means to a chap not to ’ave ’ad a beefsteak and kidney puddin’ for ten years. Talk of girls. You can ’ave all the girls in the world you like. There’s not one I wouldn’t give if I could only eat a suet puddin’ with plenty of treacle and a good wallop of cream all over it. That’s my idea of ’eaven and you can put your golden ’arps where the monkey put the nuts.”
xxv
ERIK, with his deliberate stride that seemed to measure the earth as a man might measure a cricket pitch, walked down to the beach. He was unmoved. He dismissed the skipper’s shameless innuendo from his mind. It had left a nasty taste in his mouth and as though he had drunk a nauseous draught, he spat. But he was not devoid of humour and he gave a little low chuckle as he thought of the innuendo’s absurdity. Fred was just a boy. He could not imagine that any woman would look at him twice; and he knew Louise much too well to suppose even for an instant that she could give him even a thought.
The beach was deserted. Everyone slept. He walked along the pier and hailed the Fenton. She was anchored a hundred yards out. Her light shone like a little steady eye on the smooth surface of the water. He shouted again. There was no answer. But a muffled, sleepy voice rose from below him. It was the blackfellow in the dinghy waiting for Captain Nichols. Erik went down the steps and found it tied to the bottom rung of the rail. The man was still half asleep. He yawned noisily as he stirred himself.
“Is that the Fenton’s dinghy?”
“Ye’. What you want?”
The blackfellow thought it might be the skipper or Fred Blake, but seeing his mistake was irritable and suspicious.
“Just row me on board. I want to see Fred Blake.”
“He ain’t on board.”
“Sure?”
“If he ain’t swum.”
“Oh, all right. Good night.”
The man gave a discontented grunt and settled down again to sleep. Erik walked back along the silent road. He thought that Fred had gone to the bungalow and Frith had kept him talking. He smiled as he wondered what the boy would make of the Englishman’s mystical discourse. Something. He had taken to Fred. Beneath his pretence of worldly wisdom, and behind all that idle chatter about racing and cricketing, dancing and prizefighting, you could not but be conscious of a pleasant and simple nature. Erik was not altogether unaware of the lad’s feelings towards himself. Hero-worship. Oh, well, there was no great harm in that. It would pass. He was a decent kid. One might make something of him if one had the chance. It was nice to talk to him and feel that, even if it was all strange to him, he was trying to understand. It might be that if you cast a seed on that grateful soil a fair plant would spring up. Erik tramped on, hoping to meet Fred; they would walk back together, they might go on to his house, and they could rout themselves out some cheese and biscuits and have a bottle of beer. He did not feel at all sleepy. He had not many people to talk to on the island, with Frith and old Swan he had mostly to listen, it was good to talk deep into the night.
“Had tired the sun with talking,” he quoted to himself, “and sent him down the sky.”
Erik was reticent about his private affairs, but he made up his mind to tell Fred of his engagement to Louise. He would like him to know. He had a great desire to talk about her that night. Sometimes love so possessed him that he felt if he did not tell somebody about it his heart would break. The doctor was old and could not understand; he could say things to Fred that it would have embarrassed him to say to a grown man.
It was three miles to the plantation, but his thoughts so absorbed him that he did not notice the distance. He was quite surprised when he arrived. It was funny that he had not met Fred. Then it occurred to him that Fred must have gone in to the hotel during the time he had gone down to the beach. How stupid of him not to think of that! Oh, well, there was nothing to be done about it. Now that he was there he might just as well go in and sit down for a bit. Of course, they’d all be asleep, but he wouldn’t disturb anyone. He often did that, went up to the bungalow after they’d gone to bed and sat there thinking. There was a chair in the garden, below the verandah, in which old Swan sometimes rested in the cool of the evening. It was in front of Louise’s room and it reposed him strangely to sit there quite quiet and look at her window and think of her sleeping so peacefully under her mosquito curtain. Her lovely ash-blond hair was spread on the pillow and she lay on her side, her young breast rising and falling softly in deep slumber. The emotion that filled his heart when he thus pictured her was angel-pure. Sometimes he was a little sad when he thought that this virginal grace must perish and that slim and lovely body at last lie still in death. It was dreadful that a being so beautiful should die. He sat there sometimes till a faint chill in the balmy air, the rustle of the pigeons in the trees, warned him that day was at hand. They were hours of peace and of enchanting serenity. Once he had seen the shutter softly open, and Louise stepped out. Perhaps the heat oppressed her or a dream had awakened her and she wanted a breath of air. On her bare feet she walked across the verandah and with her hands on the rail stood looking at the starry night. She wore a sarong round her loins, but the upper part of her body was naked. She raised her hands and shook out her pale hair over her shoulders. Her body was silhouetted in wan silver against the darkness of the house. She did not look a woman of flesh and blood. She was like a spirit-maiden and Erik, his mind full of the old Danish stories, almost expected her to change into a lovely white bird and fly away to the fabled lands of the sunrise. He sat very still. He was hidden by the darkness. It was so silent that when she gave a little sigh he heard it as though he held her in his arms and her heart were pressed to his. She turned round and went back into her room. She drew the shutter to.
Erik walked up the earth road that led to the house and sat down in the chair that faced Louise’s room. The house was dark. It was wrapped in a silence so profound that you might have thought its inmates were not asleep but dead. But there was no fear in the silence. It had an exquisite peace. It reassured you. It was comfortable, like the feel of a girl’s smooth skin. Erik gave a little sigh of content. A sadness, but a sadness in which there was anguish no longer, befell him because dear Catherine Frith was there no more. He hoped that he woul
d never forget the kindness she had shown him when, a shy and callow boy, he had first come to the island. He had worshipped her. She was then a woman of forty-five, but neither hard work nor child-bearing had had any effect on her powerful physique. She was tall and full-breasted, with magnificent golden hair, and she held herself proudly. You would have thought she would live to be a hundred. She took the place for him of the mother, a woman of character and of courage too, that he had left in a farmhouse in Denmark, and she loved in him the sons that had been born to her years before and of whom death had robbed her. But he felt that the relation between them was more intimate than it ever could have been if they had been mother and son. They could never have talked to one another so openly. Perhaps it could never have been such a tranquil satisfaction just to be in one another’s company. He loved her and admired her and it made him very happy to be so sure that she loved him. Even then he had an inkling that the love he might one day feel for a girl would never have exactly the restful and comforting quality that he found in his very pure affection for Catherine Frith. She was a woman who had never read much, but she had a vast fund of knowledge, lying there like an un-worked mine, gathered, you would have said, through innumerable generations out of the timeless experience of the race, so that she could cope with your book-learning and meet you on level terms. She was one of those persons who made you feel as though you were saying wonderful things, and when you talked to her thoughts came to you that you had never dreamt you were capable of. She was of a practical turn and she had a canny sense of humour; she was quick to ridicule absurdity, but the kindness of her heart was such that if she laughed at you, it was so tenderly that you loved her for it. It seemed to Erik that her most wonderful trait was a sincerity so perfect that it glowed all about her with a light that shone into the heart of all that had communication with her.
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