They Went by Norman Douglas

Author:Norman Douglas [Douglas, Norman]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781411443648
Publisher: Barnes & Noble
Published: 2017-02-06T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER X

KENWYN and his conductress were alone. Day drew to a close. Yet they lingered in that garden, loth to quit its ordered paths and flowers and strange inhabitants. On issuing at last, the princess said:

"Those animals have made me hungry. I must eat some plums, here——" pointing to a gaudy tavern hung with flags, which she entered in her free, democratic manner. The proprietor seemed to know her tastes, for a large basket of fruit was straightway set before her. She took one, and then another, and another, saying:

"I could live on such fare. Meat and wine—they are not for me. What makes men devour such things? . . . I taught these folks a good deal about plums and forced them to cultivate several new kinds on the plain yonder. The young trees of this plant were brought in their own earth from Susa; the fruit is smaller, you see, than the common kind, but far sweeter. Follow my example! Try one, or two, or three."

"Sweeter," he agreed.

"I reward the successful gardeners, and banish those that fail. It is a wonderful system. . . . We have now many kinds, black and red and yellow. We try to graft them on almonds. We have the Armenian plum, the best scented of all, and perdrigon and harvest and cherry plums, and those from Damascus with the large stone and little flesh. And now I hear of an Egyptian plum which ripens in winter, and whose leaves never fall off. Doubtless you know about it."

"I know nothing of such matters," said the preacher. "I wish I did," he added. He would have given much to fall in with her humour. She only laughed.

"You know nothing of painting. You know nothing of plums. Tell me, Kenwyn, what do you know?"

Now is the time, he thought, to speak of the Kingdom of Heaven.

Where was it gone, that old eloquence? Dried up; parched. He was mute; his very thoughts had strayed away and refused to be marshalled back into their order. In the fibre of her being lay something which filled him with horror. Her intelligence, which he could not but observe, was chained to the service of perverse ideals. Not an ounce of goodness—cruel, resourceful, aspiring! That mind of hers—he seemed to be looking into an abyss. Yet her form, her face . . . there rose up, before his eyes, memories of certain moments during those unregenerate days, moments of godless felicity, of contact with the flesh. Buried moments. What if they awoke from the dead?

He could only look on, meanwhile, as she devoured the fruit with childish glee.

"How many have I eaten?"

"Twenty-five," he replied, counting the stones. "And I thirteen."

"Enough," she said. Then, as they issued once more into the street:

"That horrid old predecessor of yours—he talked too much. And you, Kenwyn—you talk too little. What are you thinking of, so gravely?"

"I was thinking—I cannot tell you my thoughts. Why do you collect those animals?"

"For fun. It was not my idea.

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