over, after the first sense of imposition had passed away, and he
found himself with a week for consideration, he became more decided
than ever on his course of action. Mentally, he began many letters to
his brother, usually beginning, "I regret exceedingly," from which
beginning he launched out into well balanced, well phrased excuses, of
admirable logic, by means of which he proved the imperative necessity
of finding other anchorage for this stray and apparently very frail
bark. Of necessity these letters were vague, since he did not know
what particular form of frailty he had to contend with. Of one thing,
however, he was sure--the Colony offered opportunities for the
indulgence of every form known to man, with none of those nice
restrictions which are thrown round such opportunities in more
civilized parts of the globe. He would explain all this at length, as
soon as he knew upon which points to concentrate his argument. But,
take it by and large, there were no safeguards of any sort, and only
the strongest and most upright could walk uprightly amidst such
perils.
The coming of the next liner was awaited with much anxiety. The Bishop
had gone so far as to confide to a few friends that a young nephew
would arrive with her, for a week's stay--on his way elsewhere. He
remembered the boy, his namesake. Rather a handsome little chap as he
recalled him--perhaps under more auspicious circumstances it might
have been a pleasure to have had a visit from him. But this suddenly
becoming endowed with him for weeks or months--it might be years,
perhaps--quite another matter.
When the mailboat arrived one afternoon, the Bishop's rickshaw stood
at the jetty, while the Bishop himself, in his immaculate gaiters,
with his sash blowing in the soft wind, stood at the end of the jetty
anxiously regarding the tender making its way inshore. She was crowded
with a miscellaneous throng of passengers, among whom were many young
men, all strange, new, expectant young men coming out for the first
time, but among them he saw no face that resembled the one he was
searching for. Which might possibly be, he reflected, since the face,
as he recalled it at the time of their last meeting many years ago,
was very childish and immature. The tender made fast to the steps, and
amidst much luggage, much scrambling of coolies and general disorder,
the passengers came off. The Bishop standing on the steps scrutinised
each one carefully. Not there. Nor was there a second trip to the
liner, since the tender had fetched ashore all who were to disembark
at that port. The Bishop turned away with mingled feelings, part
relief, part indignation. Another week of suspense to be gone through
with, and after that, another week before he could release himself of
his burden. It was all exceedingly trying and unreasonable--the
feeling of irritation against his brother mounted higher--it was
outrageous, keeping him upset this way.
Then a thought suddenly came into his mind. That name on the passenger
list a week ago, the name slightly different yet curiously
alike--could it have been altered slightly on purpose? Ashamed to face
him, ashamed to come to him? Bundled off in disgrace from home,
willy-nilly, and now here,--hiding?
A wave of sick apprehension came over the Bishop. Agonising fear. He
must see Walker at once. Walker, his old friend, who would know what
to do, what to advise. If only he were in town.
Walker was in town as it happened, and the Bishop found him at his
hotel, and poured out to him all his wretched anxieties, the whole
miserable business, not sparing himself in describing his attitude of
unwelcome and unwillingness to receive the boy, and concluding with
his sick fears concerning his safety. Walker listened gravely and
attentively, and was troubled. It was very possible indeed--more than
possible. A search must be begun at once. Fortunately, in that small
community, it was not easy for a foreigner to disappear, and a
stranger could not go inland, into the interior, undetected.
Therefore, if he was here at all, he would soon be found--somewhere.
He would set in motion the machinery immediately. First the hotels;
that was easy. Then the other places. It would doubtless be necessary
to call in the police.
The Bishop begged for secrecy--no publicity. Walker promised. That,
too, would be easy. Leave it to him. The Bishop might rest easy on
that score--no publicity. Walker would do everything himself, as far
as possible. Only, he might have to send for the Bishop, if it became
necessary, to identify----
Two nights later, the Bishop was reclining on the long chair on his
verandah, while overhead the heavy punkah fans swayed to and fro,
stirring the moist, warm air. Out in the harbour the lights gleamed
fitfully, the lanterns on the bobbing sampans contrasting with the
steadier beams of the big ships anchored in the roadway. The ships of
the Orient, congregated from the Seven Seas, full of the mystery and
romance of the East. He had left it to Walker--as he had been told. In
the darkness, with one hand clasped behind his head and the other
holding a glowing cigar, he contemplated the scene, his favourite hour
of the day. Each moment another and another light flitted across the
heavy blackness, showing red or green, while the lights on the moving
sampans darted back and forth in the darkness, restless and alert. He
had left it to Walker. He had stopped thinking of his impending nephew
for a few moments, and his mind had relaxed, as the mind relaxes when
an evil has been postponed from time to time, and normal feeling
reasserts itself after the reprieve. There was a quiet footfall on the
verandah, and the Bishop was aroused from his meditations. His Chinese
servant approached deferentially. "Man want see Master," he explained
laconically, with the imperturbability of the East.
"What like man?" enquired the Bishop, in pidgin English. "China man,"
came the response. "Must see Master. All belong velly important."
A quick foreboding possessed the Bishop, even in this hour of his
tranquillity.
"Show him here," he replied, after a second's consideration. A tall
figure appeared before him, bowing. A lean, very dirty Chinese, who
bowed repeatedly. In spite of the Oriental repression of feeling, it
was plain that he was troubled. He extended a lean, claw-like hand,
with a long and very dirty nail on the little finger, and offered a
soiled letter to the Bishop.
"Velly important. All belong much tlouble," he explained, and tucked
his hands well inside his long blue sleeves, and stood by impassively,
while the Bishop received the letter, crumpled and soiled, as if
carried for a long time in a pocket. He turned it over and found it
addressed to himself. There was no stamp. The handwriting was
Walker's. The Bishop started erect in his long chair, and then sprang
up, straddling it as usual.
"Where get this?" he asked excitedly. The impassive Chinese bowed once
more.
"Say come quick. Letter velly important. Letter belong you. No police.
My savee you want letter now." He backed away, still bowing. With a
sweep of his arm he indicated the dark night outside.
"You come quick," he repeated, "or call police." By the light of a
lamp which his obsequious but curious Chinese servant carried in, the
Bishop tore open Walker's letter, read it, then crushed it hurriedly
into his pocket.
"Come quick," reiterated the unknown Chinese, "I got lickshaw." The
Bishop strode forward across the verandah, snatching at his hat as he
went, and then hastened across the lawn with hurried steps, followed
by the Chinese pacing rapidly behind him. Two rickshaws were waiting
under the street lamp, two shabby rickshaws. Yet somehow, the Bishop
did not care for his own private conveyance at this moment, did not
wish the sharp, inquisitive eyes of his runners to follow him just
then. He mounted hastily, and the coolies started off with a will, the
Chinese leading the way. Even in that moment of anxiety, the Bishop
was aware that the Chinese was leading the way, was conscious that the
place of honour was not his--for the first time in his life, his
vehicle followed, second place, a rickshaw that carried a Chinese.
The distance seemed interminable. Fortunately, at that hour few of his
acquaintances were abroad, but in the anxiety which possessed him, he
scarcely realised it. He was conscious of passing through crowded
streets, the quarter of the Mohammedans, where incense pots were
alight, scenting the warm air. Then the vile-smelling bazaar, crowded
with buyers, bargaining and shouting under the swaying torches. Then
they passed the European section of the town, where the streets were
wide, clean and deserted. They must be going back of the quais now,
for the air was heavy with the acrid scent of rubber. Then they turned
into a narrow, wildly tumultuous street full of Chinese, scattered all
over the road and sidewalk, shouting, calling, beating drums, yelling
wares for sale, the babel of the Chinese quarter, only such as the
Bishop had never seen it. The rickshaws turned many times, up narrow
lanes and alleys, across wider thoroughfares, and finally halted
before a dingy house of many storeys, a foreign-style house, converted
to native uses. They stopped before a red painted door, a double door,
in two halves, like a saloon door. Over the entrance hung a sign,
black and white, in large, sprawling Chinese characters.
Subconsciously, he was aware that he had passed such signs, in such
characters, many times before. A curious and large crowd gathered
before the house parted at their approach, and the filthy Chinese led
the way, followed by the Bishop in his immaculate garb. As they passed
in and the swing doors closed behind them, a throng of yellow faces
peered down and looked under the door, which was hung high. And all
the while, the low, insistent shuffling noises of the crowd outside
penetrated into the dark, dimly lit room in which the Bishop and his
companion found themselves.
Around three sides of this room, which was narrow, ran a wide bench
covered with dirty matting. Lying at intervals in pairs all along the
bench, were two coolies in a little pen, with a lamp between them,
separated by a narrow ridge from the pen adjoining, which held two
more ragged smokers. The Bishop beheld rows of them, haggard, pallid
rows. A horn lantern was suspended from the ceiling, and the air was
unstirred by punkah, the heavy, foul air reeking with the sickening,
pungent fumes of opium. As he passed, the smokers raised themselves on
their elbows and gazed at him with glazed, dull eyes. The sight of a
Bishop in a low class opium den was unusual, and the dimmed brains of
the smokers dimly recognised the distraction. Then, as he moved on,
they sank down again upon their wooden pillows, and with slow,
infinite pains, set themselves to roll their bits of opium, to cook it
over the dim lamps that dotted the murky atmosphere with glints of
light, and to resume their occupations.
At the back of the room, the proprietor paused before a part of the
bench where the pen was occupied by one smoker only, a foreigner. The
foreigner lay stretched out in an awkward attitude, knees drawn up,
his head sliding off the wooden block, most uncomfortable. A candle
was thrust into the Bishop's unsteady hand.
"Looksee," whispered a voice. The Bishop looked. "All lite?"
questioned the anxious voice of the proprietor, "Die lil' while ago.
No can smoke like China boys. No can do."
The Bishop continued to look at the beautiful, disdainful head of the
young foreigner, sliding limply off its wooden pillow.
"All lite?" continued the whining voice insistently. "My got money.
Have got watch. No steal." A skinny hand with filthy fingernails crept
forth and thrust itself into the pockets of the limp waistcoat,
crumpled so pitifully upon the thin, young figure, and presently a
gold watch was drawn forth. The watch was slowly waved before the
Bishop's eyes, and the case snapped open, so that he could read the
name engraved within. After which the Bishop continued to gaze fixedly
upon the dead youth, lying disgraced upon a bench in one of the lowest
opium dives in the Colony.
"Smoke here week," went on the insistent voice of the proprietor, "all
time smoke. No go out. No eat. Smoke all same China-boy. No same
China-boy. No can do."
There was a slight movement at the back of the room, and an object was
passed from hand to hand and finally held for inspection under the
Bishop's nose. In a grimy frame, protected by a square of fly-brown
glass, was a square, official-looking bit of paper. Of value
evidently, since much care had been taken to preserve it.
"License," went on the explanatory voice. "Gov'ment license. All samee
Gov'ment license. Pay heap money. No can help if man die. Plenty
China-boy die too. This velly lespectable place."
The Bishop recalled himself as from a dream. During the few moments he
had spent looking down upon the huddled figure, he seemed to have
grown older, to have shrunken down, to have lost something of his
fine, arrogant hearing and conscious superiority.
"All lite?" whined the voice insistently. "All lite?" "Yes," said the
Bishop shortly, "it's all right." He strode rapidly through the foul
room, through the heavy, tainted, pungent air. Outside, the dense
crowd pressed closely about the swinging doors scattered widely as he
approached. Two policemen were coming down the street, attracted by
the excitement of the crowd. The Bishop got into a rickshaw and drove
homewards. A heavy weight seemed to have been lifted from his mind.
Through the oppressive, hot night air the Canterbury chimes pealed
their mellow notes.
"Thank God," said the Bishop fervently, "it was not _my_ nephew."
UNDER A WINEGLASS
VIII
UNDER A WINEGLASS
A little coasting steamer dropped anchor at dawn at the mouth of
Chanta-Boun creek, and through the long, hot hours she lay there,
gently stirring with the sluggish tide, waiting for the passage-junk
to come down from Chanta-Boun town, twelve miles further up the river.
It was stifling hot on the steamer, and from side to side, whichever
side one walked to, came no breeze at all. Only the warm, enveloping,
moist heat closed down, stifling. Very quiet it was, with no noises or
voices from the after deck, where under the awning lay the languid
deck passengers, sleeping on their bedding rolls. Very quiet it was
ashore, so still and quiet that one could hear the bubbling, sucking
noises of the large land-crabs, pattering over the black, oozy mud, or
the sound of a lean pig scratching himself against the piles of a
native hut, the clustered huts, mounted on stilts, of the village at
the mouth of the creek.
The Captain came down from the narrow bridge into the narrow saloon.
He was clad in yellow pajamas, his bare feet in native sandals, and
held a well pipeclayed topee in one hand. Impatient he was at the
delay of the passage-junk coming down from up-river, with her possible
trifling cargo, and possible trifling deck-passengers, of which the
little steamer already carried enough.
"This long wait--it is very annoying," he commented, sitting upon the
worn leather cushions of the saloon bench. "And I had wished for time
enough to stop to see the lonely man. I have made good time on this
trip--all things considered. With time to spare, to make that call,
out of our way. And now the good hours go by, while we wait here,
uselessly."
"The lonely man?" asked the passenger, who was not a deck-passenger.
He was the only saloon passenger, and because of that, he slept first
in one, then in the other of the two small cabins, alternating
according to which side the wind blew from.
"You would not mind, perhaps," continued the Captain, "if, after
all--in spite of this long delay--we still found time for the lonely
man? An unscheduled call, much out of our way--oh, a day's sail from
here, and we, as you know, go slowly----"
"Three days from now--four days from now--it matters little to me when
we reach Bangkok," said the passenger largely, "but tell me of this
man."
Upon the sideboard, under an inverted wineglass, sat a small gilt
Buddha, placed there by the China-boys. The Captain fixed his eyes
upon the Buddha.
"Like that. Immovable and covered in close, sitting still in a small
space. Covered in. Some one turned a wineglass over on him, long ago,
and now he sits, still and immovable like that. It makes my heart
ache."
"Tell me. While we are waiting."
"Three years ago," began the Captain dreamily, still looking at the
tiny gilt Buddha in its inverted wineglass, "he came aboard. Bound for
nowhere in particular--to Bangkok, perhaps, since we were going that
way. Or to any other port he fancied along the coast, since we were
stopping all along the coast. He wanted to lose himself, he said. And,
as you have seen, we stop at many remote, lonely villages, such as
this one. And we have seen many lonely men, foreigners, isolated in
villages such as this one, unknown, removed, forgotten. But none of
them suited him. He had been looking for the proper spot for many
years. Wandering up and down the coast, in cargo-boats, in little
coasting vessels, in sailing vessels, sometimes in native junks,
stopping here and there, looking for a place where he could go off and
live by himself. He wanted to be quite, absolutely, to himself. He
said he should know the place immediately, if he saw it--recognise it
at once. He said he could find himself if he could get quite
absolutely away. Find himself, that is, recover himself--something, a
part of him which he had lost. Just temporarily lost. He was very
wistful and very eager, and said I must not think him a fool, or
demented. He said he only wanted to be by himself, in the right spot,
to accomplish his purpose. He would accomplish his purpose and then
return.
"Can you see him, the lonely man, obsessed, going up and down the
China Coast, shipping at distant ports, one after another, on
fruitless quests, looking for a place to disembark. The proper place
to disembark, the place which he should recognise, should know for his
own place, which would answer the longing in him which had sent him
searching round the world, over the Seven Seas of the world. The spot
in which he could find himself again and regain what he had lost.
"There are many islands hereabouts," went on the Captain. "Hundreds.
Desert. He thought one would suit him. So I put him down on one, going
out of my way to find it for him. He leaned over the rail of the
bridge, and said to me 'We are getting nearer.' Then he said that he
saw it. So I stopped the ship and put him down. He was very grateful.
He said he liked to be in the Gulf of Siam. That the name had a
picturesque sound, the Pirate Islands. He would live all by himself on
one of the Pirate Islands, in the Gulf of Siam. Isolated and remote,
but over one way was the coast of Indo-China, and over the other way
was the coast of Malay. Neighbourly, but not too near. He should
always feel that he could get away when he was ready, what with so
much traffic through the Gulf, and the native boats now and then. He
was mistaken about the traffic, but I did not tell him so. I knew
where he was and could watch him. I placed a cross on the chart, on
his island, so that I might know where I had left him. And I promised
myself to call upon him, from time to time--to see when he should be
ready to face the world again."
The Captain spread a chart upon the table.
"Six degrees north latitude," he remarked, "Ten thousand miles
from----"
"Greenwich," supplied the passenger, anxious to show that he knew.
"From Her," corrected the Captain.
"He told me about her a little. I added the rest, from what he
omitted. It all happened quite a long time ago, which was the bother
of it. And because it had taken place so long ago, and had endured for
so long a time, it made it more difficult for him to recover himself
again. Do you think people ever recover themselves again? When the
precious thing in them, the spirit of them has been overlaid and
overlaid, covered deep with artificial layers----?
"The marvel was that he wanted to regain it--wanted to break through.
Most don't. The other thing is so easy. Money--of course. She had it,
and he loved her. He had none, and she loved him. She had had money
always, had lived with it, lived on it, it got into her very bones.
And he had not two shillings to rub together, but he possessed the
gift--genius. But they met somewhere, and fell in love with each
other, and that ended him. She took him, you see, and gave him all she
had. It was marvellous to do it, for she loved him so. Took him from
his four shilling attic into luxury. Out of his shabby, poor, worn
clothes into the best there were. From a penny 'bus into superb
motors. With all the rest of it to match. And he accepted it all
because he loved her, and it was the easiest way. Besides, just before
she had come into his life, he had written--well, whatever it
was--however, they all praised him, the critics and reviewers, and
called him the coming man, and he was very happy about it, and she
seemed to come into his life right at the top of his happiness over
his work. And sapped it. Didn't mean to, but did. Cut his genius down
at the root. Said his beginning fame was quite enough--quite enough
for her, for her friends, for the society into which she took him.
They all praised him without understanding how great he was, or
considering his future. They took him at her valuation, which was
great enough. But she thought he had achieved the summit. Did not
know, you see, that there was anything more.
"He was so sure of himself, too, during those first few years. Young
and confident, conscious of his power. Drifting would not matter for a
while. He could afford to drift. His genius would ripen, he told
himself, and time was on his side. So he drifted, very happy and
content, ripening. And being overlaid all the time, deeper and
thicker, with this intangible, transparent, strong wall, hemming him
in, shutting in the gold, just like that little joss there under the
wineglass.
"She lavished on him everything, without measure. But she had no
knowledge of him, really. Just another toy he was, the best of all, in
her luxurious equipment. So he travelled the world with her, and dined
at the Embassies of the world, East and West, in all the capitals of
Europe and of Asia. Getting restive finally, however, as the years
wore on. Feeling the wineglass, as it were, although he could not see
it. Looking through its clear transparency, but feeling pressed,
somehow, conscious of the closeness. But he continued to sit still,
not much wishing to move, to stretch himself.
"Then sounds from the other side began to filter in, echoing largely
in his restricted space, making within it reverberations that carried
vague uneasiness, producing restlessness. He shifted himself within
his space, and grew conscious of limitations. From without came the
voices, insistent, asking what he was doing now? Meaning, what thing
was he writing now, for a long time had passed since he had written
that which called forth the praise of men. There came to him, within
his wineglass, these demands from the outside. Therefore he grew very
uneasy, and tried to rise, and just then it was that he began to feel
how close the crystal walls surrounded him. He even wanted to break
them, but a pang at heart told him that was ingratitude. For he loved
her, you see. Never forget that.
"Now you see how it all came about. He was conscious of himself, of
his power. And while for the first years he had drifted, he was always
conscious of his power. Knew that he had but to rise, to assume
gigantic stature. And then, just because he was very stiff, and the
pain of stiffness and stretching made him uncouth, he grew angry. He
resented his captivity, chafed at his being limited like that, did not
understand how it had come about. It had come about through love.
Through sheer, sheltering love. The equivalent of his for her. She had
placed a crystal cup above him, to keep him safe. And he had sat safe
beneath it all these years, fearing to stir, because she liked him so.
"It came to a choice at last. His life of happiness with her--or his
work. Poor fool, to have made the choice at that late day. So he broke
his wineglass, and his heart and her heart too, and came away. And
then he found that he could not work, after all. Years of sitting
still had done it.