Part 23 (1/2)

”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 s.h.i.+ps; 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p'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 s.h.i.+ps 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 lords.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p.

Of course it must. That was civilization.