At five-thirty zu Pfeiffer was stretched in the long Bombay chair in the
coolest portion of the screened verandah. On the table beside him was a
tall glass, a decanter of cognac and a box of cigars; and suspended from
the roof swung a canvas bag of water with a syphon attachment. A gape fly,
which somehow had gotten through the screen, hit the lieutenant’s
forehead, fell on to the book and whirred up against the wire.
“Ach, Gott verdammt!” exclaimed zu Pfeiffer irritably and shouted: “Ho,
Bakunja—la.” Instantly appeared the tall negro in white. “You son of a
god! Look at that!”
Bakunjala looked, leaped, and caught the fly in his hand.
“Ow!” he exclaimed as the hornet stung him.
“Ach, you woman of shame, catch it instantly!”
Without hesitation Bakunjala made another grab, and clutching the fly
tightly, made to open the screen door.
“Halt!” commanded the lieutenant.
Bakunjala obeyed.
Zu Pfeiffer regarded the man standing with the wasp sting buried in his
palm with a slight smile of amusement.
“It hurts?” he inquired amiably.
“Indio, Bwana!” asserted Bakunjala.
“Good! Now stop there.”
Motionless remained the negro. Zu Pfeiffer leisurely selected a fresh
cigar, lighted it, stoked it, and inhaling smoke stroked his left
moustache.
“It still hurts?”
“Indio, Bwana!” said Bakunjala with a high note in his voice.
“Splendid!” assured the lieutenant: and after a full minute added: “Now
you may go. And remember if you are frightened of a fly’s pain again I
will give you twenty lashes.”
“Indio, Bwana,” answered Bakunjala humbly and departed swiftly with the
hornet in his clenched fist. Zu Pfeiffer smiled, again stared reflectively
at the violet shadows creeping lazily across the square, sipped some
brandy and picking up his book, began to read.…
“Excellence!”
Zu Pfeiffer frowned and looked round. Outside the screen stood Sergeant
Schultz at the salute. Zu Pfeiffer nodded.
“Well?”
“Excellence,” said the sergeant at attention, “the Englishman is here.”
“Ach, tell him to go——” The lieutenant drew out his gold chronometer. “It
is my bath time. I cannot see him.”
“Ja, Excellence.”
“Wait.” Zu Pfeiffer withdrew his legs and rose. “Ach, tell the fool to
come over here and wait till I have had my bath.”
“Excellence!” agreed the sergeant and saluting, marched away. Zu Pfeiffer
entered the bungalow. Across the square came Birnier with the sergeant who
ushered him into the screened portion of the verandah.
“His Excellence gom bresently,” said the sergeant and left him.
Birnier put his Tirai hat on the table, and seeing no other, sat in the
Bombay chair; looked about him; idly examined the brand on the box of
cigars and smiled. “Makes himself mighty comfortable,” he remarked to
himself. “Pity he appears such a boor.” He glanced at the book on the
armchair. _Allgemeine Geschichte der Philosophie_ von Prof. Dr. Paul
Deussen. “And a philosopher, eh!” Having little German he turned away and
lighted his pipe. After a while he began to fidget, wondering how long he
was to be kept waiting. “Damn the fellow!” he muttered and picked up one
of the books on the table, _Les Ba-Rongas_, par A. Junod, opened it at
random and began to read.
The shadows of one bungalow reached the verandah on the opposite side of
the square. And still he read on, the dead pipe in his hand. Just as the
twilight was snuffed out like a candle, a sharp step heralded the arrival
of the lieutenant. Birnier rose, the book in his hand.
“Good evening, sir!”
“Good evening,” responded zu Pfeiffer, who was in an undress uniform of
white. “What is it that you require?”
“Well,” said Birnier, “first of all I must apologise for using your chair
and reading your book. Most interesting, by the way.”
“That is nothing,” said zu Pfeiffer as Bakunjala came in with a lamp and a
chair. “Please to be seated.”
“Thank you.”
Birnier took the small chair and the lieutenant the Bombay.
“I—er I—am sorry that I disturbed you this morning,” began Birnier
diffidently. “But I did not know——”
“That is nothing. It was the fault of the sentry. He should not have
allowed you to pass.”
“Regarding my application for the licence, Herr Lieutenant?”
“I regret,” said zu Pfeiffer coldly, using a cigar cutter, “that I am
unable to grant you the licence you ask.”
“You cannot grant me a trading or shooting licence?”
“I regret, no.”
Birnier stared.
“May I inquire why I am refused?”
“You may. We do not wish undesirables in the country.”
“Undesirables!” Birnier’s lips tightened. “I am afraid that I do not
understand you.” The lieutenant was engaged in carefully stoking his
cigar. “Will you kindly afford me a reason for—for such an insulting
remark?”
Zu Pfeiffer blew smoke luxuriously. Birnier stared for a moment, stuck his
pipe in his mouth and bit the stem; removed it and snapped:
“You can have no adequate reason for such action.… If you intend to
continue this ridiculous farce I shall be compelled to make a complaint
through Washington.”
“Washington?” Zu Pfeiffer removed one leg from the chair-rest and the
cigar from his mouth. “You are an American?”
“I am.”
“So? We understood that you were an English agent. You have papers?”
“Certainly. If you wish——”
“We do not demand. No. My agent was wrong. He shall be punished.” Then in
an amiable voice: “I, too, have been a long time in America. Please to
have a cigar, Mr. Birnier.”
Birnier hesitated, puzzled.
“Thank you,” he said diffidently, selected one, bit off the end and spat
it into the corner. Zu Pfeiffer shuddered delicately; but as Birnier
lighted his cigar he studied his face in the glow of the match; noted the
breadth of the jaw, the width between the eyes and the slightly hard line
at the corner of the mouth.
“And forgive me!” Zu Pfeiffer shouted to Bakunjala. “I presume that you
have been in Africa a long time,” he continued.
“Some ten years.”
“You do find the Wongolo country interesting?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You were there long?”
“No, I had been two years in the Congo and passed through on my way to
Uganda to refit.”
“Ach. You permit me? You are mining?”
“No.” Birnier smiled thinly. “I have a professorial job in the American
Museum of Natural History, Anthropological department.”
“Professor! Ach!” Zu Pfeiffer looked at him interestedly.
“Yes. That is why I was so absorbed in _Les Ba-Rongas_ which I found here.
You are interested in anthropology?”
“Ach, yes, I love to study the animals. I have a library—a small one,
here. You must see it.”
“Thank you.”
“You were studying the animals’ ways and how d’you call it?—das
Volkskündliches—in Wongolo?”
“Yes. I do nothing else.”
“So?” Bakunjala arrived with fresh glasses and vermouth. “Which do you
prefer, French or Italian, Herr Professor?”
“French, please.”
“You will dine with me, please?”
“That is very kind of you, Lieutenant.” Birnier gazed quizzically, rather
amused at the complete change of manner. Quite charming when he likes, he
reflected.
“From what part do you come, Herr Professor?” inquired zu Pfeiffer as he
set down his glass.
“Oh, I’m a Southerner. Louisiana. My name is French, you know.”
“Ach so? Che les aimes, les Français. Les femmes sont adorables!”
“Oui, je les trouve comme ça!” agreed Birnier, smiling. “Ma femme est
française.”
“So? … I, too, Professor, I am in love with a Française. She is wonderful!
superbe! Ach, ent zückend!” The lieutenant gazed into the warm darkness.
“Always I see her—in the darkness, the—chaleur—parmis les animaux.” In the
glow of the lamp, the blue eyes were soft, the feminine lips curved in a
tender smile as he murmured:
“Die Jahre kommen und gehen,
Geschlechter steigen ins Grab,
Doch nimmer vergeht die Liebe,
Die ich im Herzen hab!
Nur einmal noch möcht ich dich sehen,
Und sinken vor dir aufs Knie
Und sterbend zu dir sprechen:
‘Madam, ich liebe Sie!’ ”
“Thank you,” said Birnier quietly. “I, too, would say that.”
“Ach, sprechen Sie Deutsch?” demanded zu Pfeiffer quickly.
“No, unfortunately I don’t speak it, but I understand a little; and
particularly Heine.”
“Ach, Gott!”
The note was of satisfaction. A gong sounded. Zu Pfeiffer turned sharply:
“Come, Herr Professor, let us go to dinner. You would wish to wash?”
The bungalow, unusually lofty, was divided into three compartments. The
ceiling, made of stout white calico, to shelter from snakes and the
continual dust from the wood borers, was suspended from the rafters like
the roof of a marquee tent. The centre room was furnished with cane lounge
chairs like a smoking-room and decorated with skins, native musical
instruments, spears and shields; drums served as small tables with
elephant’s toe-nails for ash trays.
In the bedroom was a brass bedstead and mosquito net. Behind was a
bathroom having a corrugated cistern upon the cross beams which gave force
for a shower. The towels and appointments were specklessly clean. When
Birnier appeared he found zu Pfeiffer sprawled in the lounge. On a red
lacquer tray upon a great war drum, covered with the striped skin of a
zebra, was a crystal liqueur set and a large silver box of Egyptian
cigarettes.
“Ach, Professor,” said he, “it is good to speak to a white man again” (by
which he meant an equal). “Please be seated, I beg you. A little liqueur
is good for the aperitif and a cigarette; for there is no time for another
cigar.”
As Birnier sat he remarked the blonde head of the lieutenant in his
meticulous uniform touched with gold and caught a glimpse of the jewelled
bracelet of ivory and the Chinese finger-nail.
Another summons of the gong brought zu Pfeiffer to his feet. As he led his
guest out through the side verandah along a screened porch to the mess
room, built away from the main building to keep away the plague of flies,
a native girl whose close-wrapped white robes revealed a lithe figure,
flitted through a doorway. The table was set in immaculate linen, aglitter
with glass and decorated with a profusion of wild orchids. Behind the
chairs stood two negroes in spotless white, immobile. On each plate were
hors d’œuvres of anchovy and cheese upon a patterned piece of toast.
Salted almonds, sweets, and olives were in green china; wine glasses of
three kinds. Broiled fish followed the soup.
“So, Professor,” remarked the lieutenant, “you will go back some day to
Wongolo?”
“Yes, I—unless I discover some tribe who have a more interesting system
of—er—theology.”
“They are a powerful tribe, nicht wahr?”
“Oh yes, very. Their system ensures unity which provides for concerted
action. Here I believe it is different.”
“Yes, yes; they are poor here. Each village was at war with the
other—before we came. Their superstitions are not—how would you say it?”
“Systematised?”
“Yes. They have neither any supreme chief nor god. There you see,” he
added, smiling, “that autocracy is the only form of government.
Democracy—pah! … I apologise, Professor!”
“Please don’t,” replied Birnier, “although of course I cannot agree with
you.”
“But the Wongolo, they have a god and king?”
“Yes, the King-Priest system. One of the most interesting I have ever
encountered or read of.”
“You did see the King-God, MFunya MPopo?”
“Oh no. He is forbidden to be seen by a foreigner—a similar law to that of
the Medes; only by the witch-doctors—and by the people once a year at a
harvest festival. That is why I intend to go back. It is impossible to
procure reliable statistics of their customs, practices and real beliefs
without—without winning their confidence. That is my mission.”
“I do not longer wonder, Herr Professor, that you were most justly
annoyed. Ach, yes. But please do not worry about your ridiculous licence.
It is not necessary in my jurisdiction, I assure you. You may come and go
as you please, shoot what you wish. I will always be so glad to help so
distinguished a professor.”
“I thank you very much.”
“It is nothing. And perhaps when you are there, you will be so kind as to
write to me? To tell me things that are not known—so that I may, too,
continue to study the animals—again what is it? das Volkskündliches?”
“Folk-lore, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Please to have some more wine, Herr Professor. Please, I insist. It
is the real Mumm. That is a promise? I thank you. And if—— Were there any
others—whites—when you were there?”
“Only one.”
“Where was he, I wonder?”
“On the southern boundary.”
“Near lake Kivu?”
“Yes.”
“Saunders,” muttered zu Pfeiffer.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It was nothing, but I do not like to have—aliens in my province. They
are—missionaries and traders—spies.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes, it is always so. Herr Professor, I ask you a favour. Will you be so
kind as to write to me if some other white comes into the Wongolo
country?”
“I shall be delighted,” said Birnier.… “Do you intend to come there some
day, Herr Lieutenant?”
“Ach, no, it is not—not our territory; although I should very much like to
see it and to shoot. There is much elephant there?”
“Oh yes, quantities.”
“Please to try some of this curried egg, Herr Professor. It is excellent,
I assure you. I thank you.… And rubber, is there much rubber there?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Now I wonder if you noticed whether it was tree or vine?”
“I really couldn’t say.” Birnier smiled thinly. “I am not interested in
such things.”
Zu Pfeiffer glanced at him keenly and changed the subject. When they had
finished the best boned chicken that Birnier had ever tasted in Africa, zu
Pfeiffer rose.
“Let us go to my study, Herr Professor, if you so permit, for some coffee
and a little good port—and I will have the pleasure to show you my little
library.”
“I should be delighted,” assented Birnier willingly.
Around the white walls of the cool room which was zu Pfeiffer’s study, ran
low bookshelves made of native wood, containing some hundreds of volumes
which had been carried five hundred miles on the heads of porters. Grass
mats and leopard skins were upon the floor. In the centre, upon a heavy
table, was a green shaded lamp set in a silver-mounted elephant’s foot.
Upon the bookcases were various odd curios, and a coffee service in
copper; and from opposite sides, marbles of Bismarck and Voltaire stared
into each other’s eyes. On the south wall was a large oil of Kaiser
Wilhelm II; and in the centre of the other wall a photograph of a woman
set in an ivory frame made from a section of a tusk.
Zu Pfeiffer strove to be more agreeable than ever. They talked mythology
and folklore. With the port, zu Pfeiffer rose, an erect martial figure
above the glow of the lamp.
“Herr Professor!” he remarked. “I beg you.”
Slightly bewildered, Birnier rose, too, glass in hand. Wheeling with
military precision zu Pfeiffer raised his glass to the great portrait on
the wall.
“Ihre Hochheit!”
Politely Birnier followed suit, his democratic ideas slightly astonished
at the veneration of the kingly office; almost, he reflected, as curious
as the native superstition of the King-God. Then zu Pfeiffer turned to the
left and lifting his glass to the portrait in the ivory frame, drank
silently.
“I was wondering, Professor,” remarked he, as he resumed his seat without
explanation, “from what college—you call it?—you come?”
“Harvard,” said Birnier, rather amused and noticing that as a true
connoisseur, zu Pfeiffer refrained from smoking while drinking his port.
“I have met many of the Harvard men—at Washington.”
“Ah, you know Washington?”
“Yes, I was there nearly two years.”
Zu Pfeiffer drained his port, selected a cigar, lighted it and gazed
abstractedly towards the ivory frame. The lips softened and he smiled
gently.
“Do you know many people there?”
“Oh, a few.”
“Ach … I wonder.… You must know that I met her there, my divine Lucille!”
“Lucille! How strange! That is my wife’s name too.”
“Really?” Zu Pfeiffer still peered dreamily at the corner. He gathered up
his legs and rose like an eager boy. “Permit me, Herr Professor, she is
so—so——” He bent over the portrait and struck a match. Politely Birnier
stooped to look. He saw a portrait of a French woman in an evening gown, a
woman of charm with the vivacious eyes and tempting mouth of the coquette.
“My God!”
Birnier bent closer and stared intently. Across the corner of the
photograph were written in ink in familiar characters the words: ‘à toi,
Lucille.’
“Lucille!” he gasped. “Lu—Good God!” He stood up abruptly. “I—What in
God’s name—who is this woman?”
The match fell to the floor. He was vaguely conscious of the tall white
figure stiffening as a dog does.
“That lady is my fiancée.”
“Fiancée! She—Good God, you’re mad! She is my wife!”
“Wife!… Gott verdampf, der Teufel solls holen! Das ist der Schweinhünd!”
The gutturals exploded from zu Pfeiffer. The sleeve of his white jacket
quivered, the arm came up to the gold braided chest and jerked out a
silver whistle. He hesitated, glaring at the astonished figure of Birnier.
Suddenly zu Pfeiffer sat down by the table. His blue eyes were as hard as
malachite.
“Sit down!” he commanded harshly.
Birnier did not appear to notice him. He struck a match and bent over the
photograph again.
“Good God!” he muttered. “I—I—don’t understand—O God!”
“Sit down!” shouted zu Pfeiffer. Birnier merely blinked at him.
“Would you mind explaining?” demanded Birnier.
“Explain!… Is your wife Mademoiselle Lucille Charltrain?”
“Why, of course. That is her professional name. But how on earth has this
mistake happened? I—I—that is her writing—but it can’t be. I mean it’s
impossible.…” Birnier put his hand to his head. “I—God, it can’t be! I or
you must be mad! Which is——”
A prolonged whistle startled him. He saw the whistle at zu Pfeiffer’s
lips, but the act conveyed no meaning. He turned away, struck another
match and peered again at the photograph.
“Lucille! Lucille!” he whispered. “What on earth——”
A powerful clutch closed upon his arm. He was whirled backwards into a
chair. For a moment he was too dazed to grasp what had happened. He saw zu
Pfeiffer’s face. The sentries over his moustaches quivered like a row of
fixed bayonets. The eyes seemed needle points. Then the fact of the
assault penetrated beyond the unprecedented incident of finding his wife’s
photograph in another man’s room. The ugly line about the mouth hardened.
He rose slowly.
“Am I to understand that you have laid your hands upon your guest?” he
began, stuttering over the choice of words. “I am—I am——”
The scuffle of many feet interrupted him. Into the room rushed Sergeant
Schultz and several soldiers. Zu Pfeiffer stood up and pointed.
“Sergeant, arrest that man!” he barked.
“Ja, Excellence!”
The sergeant saluted and barked at the askaris. Birnier gazed stupidly at
the uniforms around him as if unable to comprehend. He looked at zu
Pfeiffer who stood erect, his face lost in shadow above the lamp, and back
at the soldiers.
“Is this a joke, Lieutenant—or are you mad?” he demanded angrily.
“Sergeant, put that man in the guard-room,” zu Pfeiffer commanded.
Zu Pfeiffer sat down with his back to Birnier and facing the photograph.
Birnier’s face twitched; he raised his arm. The sergeant barked and the
line of bayonets lowered menacingly.
“You gom with me, Herr American,” ordered the sergeant.
Birnier controlled himself.
“One moment, sergeant, please! Herr Lieutenant, on what charge do you
arrest me?” The perfect lines of the white-clad back did not quiver. “Very
good! I give you warning, Herr Lieutenant, that you have committed an
assault upon an American citizen.”
“Gom! Gom!” insisted the sergeant impatiently.
Birnier raised his head and walked as indicated by the sergeant. As the
footsteps plodded across the square zu Pfeiffer turned to the table,
examining his left hand.
“Ach!” he growled gutturally, “the dirty pig has broken my nail!”