Lucas Malet - "The Far Horizon"

Charles Asbury Stephens - "Left on Labrador"

Sir Rabindranath Tagore - "Glimpses of Bengal"

John Reed - "Ten Days That Shook the World"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Mermaid

L >> Lily Dougall >> The Mermaid




The provision made for the board and lodging of the new doctor was
explained to him. It was not considered safe for him to live with any of
the families of the island. A very small wooden building, originally
built as a stable, but never used, had been hastily remodelled into a
house for him. It was some way further down the winding road, within
sight of the house of Madame Le Maitre.

Caius was taken to this new abode, and found that it contained two
rooms, furnished with the necessities and many of the comforts of life.
The stove was good; abundance of fuel was stacked near the house; simple
cooking utensils hung in the outer room; adjoining it, or rather, in a
bit of the same building set apart, was a small stable, in which a very
good horse was standing. The horse was for his use. If he could be his
own bed-maker, cook, and groom, it was evident that he would lack for
nothing. A man whom Madame Le Maitre sent showed Caius his quarters, and
delivered to him the key; he also said that Madame Le Maitre would be
ready in an hour to ride over the island with him and introduce him to
all the houses in which there was illness.

Caius was left for the hour to look over his establishment and make
friends with his horse. It was all very surprising.




CHAPTER IX.

THE SICK AND THE DEAD.


The bit of road that lay between Madame Le Maitre's house and the house
allotted to Caius led, winding down a hill, through a stunted fir-wood.
The small firs held out gnarled and knotty branches towards the road;
their needles were a dark rich green.

Down this road Caius saw the lady come riding. Her horse was a beautiful
beast, hardly more than a colt, of light make and chestnut colour. She
herself was not becomingly attired; she wore just the same loose black
dress that she had worn in the house, and over the white cap a black
hood and cloak were muffled. No doubt in ancient times, before carriages
were in use, ladies rode in such feminine wrappings; but the taste of
Caius had been formed upon other models. He mounted his own horse and
joined her on the road without remark. He had found no saddle, only a
blanket with girths, and upon this he supposed he looked quite as
awkward as she did. The lady led, and they rode on across the island.

Caius knew that now it was the right time to tell Madame Le Maitre what
had occurred the night before, and the ill-usage he had suffered. As she
appeared to be the most important person on the island, it was right
that she should know of the mysterious band of bandits upon the
beach--if, indeed, she did not already know; perhaps it was by power of
these she reigned. He found himself able to conjecture almost anything.

When he had quickened his horse and come beside her for the purpose of
relating his adventure, she began to speak to him at once. She told him
what number of cases of illness were then on her list--six in all. She
told him the number who had already died; and then they came past the
cemetery upon the hillside, and she pointed out the new-made graves. It
appeared that, although at that time there was an abatement in the
number of cases, diphtheria had already made sad ravages among the
little population; and as the winter would cause the people to shut up
their houses more and more closely, it was certain to increase rather
than to diminish. Then Madame Le Maitre told him of one case, and of
another, in which the family bereavement seemed particularly sad. The
stories she told had great detail, but they were not tedious. Caius
listened, and forgot that her voice was musical or that her hood and
cloak were ugly; he only thought of the actors in the short sad idylls
of the island that she put before him.

When they entered the first house, he discovered that she herself had
been in the habit of visiting each of the sick every day as nurse, and,
as far as her simple skill could go, as doctor too. In this house it was
a little child that lay ill, and as soon as Caius saw it he ceased to
hope for its recovery. They used the new remedies that he had brought
with him, and when he looked round for someone who could continue to
apply them, he found that the mother was already dead, and the father
took no charge of the child--he was not there. A half-grown boy of about
fifteen was its only nurse, and he was not deft or wise, although love,
or a rude sense of conscience, had kept him from deserting his post.

"When we have visited the others, I will come back and remain," said
Madame Le Maitre.

So they rode on down the hill and along the shingled beach that edged a
lagoon. Here the sea lapped softly and they were sheltered from the
wind. Here, too, they saw the other islands lying in the crescent they
composed, and they saw the waves of the bay break on the sand-bank that
was the other arm of the lagoon. Still Caius did not tell about his
adventure of the night before. The lady looked preoccupied, as if she
was thinking about the Angel of Death that was hovering over the cottage
they had left.

The next house was a large one, and here two children were ill. They
were well cared for, for two of the young girls whom he had seen in
Madame Le Maitre's house were there for the time to nurse them.

They took one of these damsels with them when they went on. She was
willing to walk, but Caius set her upon his horse and led it; in this
way they made quicker progress. Up a hill they went, and over fields,
and in a small house upon a windy slope they found the mother of a
family lying very ill. Here, after Caius had said all that there was to
say, and Madame Le Maitre, with skilful hands, had done all that she
could do in a short time, they left the young girl.

At the next and last house of their round, where the day before one
child had been ill, they now found three tossing and crying with pain
and fever. When it was time for them to go, Caius saw his companion
silently wring her hands at the thought of leaving them, for the mother,
worn out and very ignorant, was the only nurse. It did not seem that it
could be helped. Caius went out to his horse, and Madame Le Maitre to
hers, but he saw her stand beside it as if too absent in mind to spring
to its back; her face was looking up into the blue above.

"You are greatly troubled," said Caius.

"Oh yes," her voice was low, but it came like the sound of a cry. "I do
not know what to do. All these months I have begged and entreated the
people to keep away from those houses where there was illness. It was
their only hope. And now that they begin to understand that, I cannot
bring the healthy to nurse the sick, even if they were willing to come.
They will take no precautions as we do. It is not safe; I have tried
it."

She did not look at Caius, she was looking at the blue that hung over
the sea which lay beneath them, but the weariness of a long long effort
was in her tone.

"Could we not manage to bring them all to one house that would serve as
a hospital?"

"Now that you have come, perhaps we can," she said, "but at present----"
She looked helplessly at the door of the house they had left.

"At present I will nurse these children," Caius said. "I do not need to
see the others again until evening."

He tied his horse in a shed, and nursed the children until the moon was
bright. Then, when he had left them as well as might be for the night,
he set out to return on his former track by memory. The island was very
peaceful; on field or hill or shore he met no one, except here and there
a plodding fisherman, who gave him "Good-evening" without apparently
knowing or caring who he was. The horse they knew, no doubt, that was
enough.

He made the same round as before, beginning at the other end. At the
house where the woman was ill the girl who was nursing her remained. At
the next house the young girl, who was dressed for the road, ingenuously
claimed his protection for her homeward way.

"I will go with you, monsieur, it will be more safe for me."

So he put her on his horse, but they did not talk to one another.

At the third house they found Madame Le Maitre weeping passionately over
a dead baby, and the lout of a boy weeping with her. It surprised Caius
to feel suddenly that he could almost have wept, too, and yet he
believed that the child was better dead.

Someone had been out into the winter fields and gathered the small white
everlasting flowers that were still waving there, and twined them in the
curls of the baby's hair, and strewed them upon the meagre gray sheet
that covered it.

When they rode down to the village they were all quite silent. Caius
felt as if he had lived a long time upon this island. His brain was full
of plans for a hospital and for disinfecting the furniture of the
houses.

He visited the good man in whose barn he had slept the preceding night.
He went to his little house and fed himself and his horse. He discovered
his portmanteaus that O'Shea had promised to deliver, and found that
their contents had not been tampered with; but even this did not bring
his mind back with great interest to the events of the former night. He
was thinking of other things, and yet he hardly knew of what he was
thinking.




CHAPTER X.

A LIGHT-GIVING WORD.


The next morning, before Caius went out, he wrote a short statement of
all that had occurred beside the quicksand. The motive that prompted him
to do this was the feeling that it would be difficult for him to make
the statement to Madame Le Maitre verbally. He began to realize that it
was not easy for him to choose the topics of conversation when they were
together.

She did not ride with him next day, as now he knew the road, but in the
course of the morning he saw her at the house where the three children
were ill, and she came out into the keen air with him to ask some
questions, and no doubt for the necessary refreshment of leaving the
close house, for she walked a little way on the dry, frozen grass.

Heavy as was the material of her cloak and hood, the strong wind toyed
with its outer parts as with muslin, but it could not lift the
closely-tied folds that surrounded her face and heavily draped her
figure. Caius stood with her on the frozen slope. Beneath them they
could see the whole stretch of the shining sand-dune that led to the
next island, the calm lagoon and the rough water in the bay beyond. It
did not seem a likely place for outlaws to hide in; the sun poured down
on every hill and hollow of the sand.

Caius explained then that his portmanteaus, with the stores, had arrived
safely; but that he had reason to think that the man O'Shea was not
trusty, that, either out of malice or fear of the companions among whom
he found himself, he had threatened his, Dr. Simpson's, life in the most
unwarrantable manner. He then presented the statement which he had drawn
up, and commended it to her attention.

Madame Le Maitre had listened to his words without obvious interest; in
fact, he doubted if she had got her mind off the sick children before
she opened the paper. He would have liked to go away now, leaving the
paper with her, but she did not give him that opportunity.

"Ah! this is----" Then, more understandingly, "This is an account you
have written of your journey hither?"

Caius intimated that it was merely a complaint against O'Shea. Yet he
felt sure, while she was reading it, that, if she had any liveliness of
fancy, she must be interested in its contents, and if she had proper
appreciation, she must know that he had expressed himself well. When she
had finished, however, instead of coveting the possession of the
document, she gently gave it back to him.

"I am sorry," she said sincerely, "that you were put to inconvenience.
It was so kind of you to come, that I had hoped to make your journey as
comfortable as possible; but the sands are very treacherous, not because
the quicksands are large or deep, but because they shift in stormy
weather, sometimes appearing in one place, and sometimes in another. It
has been explained"--she was looking at him now, quite interested in
what she was saying--"by men who have visited these islands, that this
is to be accounted for by the beds of gypsum that lie under the sand,
for under some conditions the gypsum will dissolve."

The explanation concerning the gypsum was certainly interesting, but the
nature of the quicksand was not the point which Caius had brought
forward.

"It is this fact, that one cannot tell where the sand will be soft, that
makes it necessary to have a guide in travelling over the beach. The
people here become accustomed to the appearance of the soft places, but
it seems that O'Shea must have been deceived by the moonlight."

"I do not blame him for the accident," said Caius, "but for what
happened afterwards."

Her slight French accent gave to each of her words a quaint, distinct
form of its own. "O'Shea is--he is what you might call _funny_ in his
way of looking at things." She paused a moment, as if entirely conscious
of the inadequacy of the explanation. "I do not think," she continued,
as if in perplexity, "that I can explain this matter any more; but if
you will talk to O'Shea----"

"Madam," burst out Caius, "can it be that there is a large band of
lawless men who have their haunts so near this island, and you do not
know of it? That," he added, with emphatic reproach, "is impossible."

"I never heard of any such band of men."

Madame Le Maitre spoke gently, and the dignity of her gentleness was
such that Caius was ashamed of his vehemence and his reproach. What he
wondered at, what he chafed at, was, that she showed no wonder
concerning an incident which her last statement made all the more
remarkable. She began to turn to go towards the house, and the mind of
Caius hit upon the one weak point in her own acknowledged view of the
matter.

"You have said that it is not safe for a stranger to walk upon the sands
without a guide; if you doubt my statement that these men threatened my
life, it yet remains that I was left to finish my journey alone. I do
not believe that there was danger myself. I do not believe that a man
would sink over his head in these holes; but according to their belief
and yours, madam----"

He stopped, for she had turned round with a distinct flash of
disapproval in her eyes.

"I do not doubt your statement." She paused, and he knew that his
accusation had been rude. "It would not occur to me"--there was still
the slight quaintness of one unaccustomed to English--"that you could do
anything unworthy of a gentleman." Another pause, and Caius knew that he
was bound over to keep the peace. "I think O'Shea got himself into
trouble, and that he did the best he could for you; but O'Shea lives not
far from your own house. He is not my servant, except that he rents my
husband's land." She paused again.

Caius would have urged that he had understood otherwise, or that
hitherto he had not found O'Shea either civil or communicative; but it
appeared that the lady had something more to say after her emphasis of
pause, and when she said it Caius bid her good-day without making
further excuse or justification. She said:

"I did not understand from O'Shea that he allowed you to walk on the
sands without some one who would have warned you if there had been
danger."

When Caius was riding on his way, he experienced something of that
feeling of exaltation that he had felt in the presence of his
inexplicable lady-love. Had he not proof at least now that she was no
dream or phantasy, and more than that, that she inhabited the same small
land with him? These people knew her; nay (his mind worked quickly), was
it not evident that she had been the link of connection between them and
himself? She knew him, then--his home, his circumstances, his address.
(His horse was going now where and how it would; the man's mind was
confounded by the questions that came upon it pell-mell, none waiting
for an answer.) In that other time when she had lived in the sea, and he
had seen her from the desolate bit of coast, who was she? Where had she
really lived? In what way could she have gained her information
concerning him? What could have tempted her to play the part of a fishy
thing? He remembered the monstrous skin that had covered her; he
remembered her motion in the water. Then he thought of her in the gray
homespun dress, such as a maid might trip her garden in, as he had seen
her travelling between the surf and the dune in the winter blast. Well,
he lived in an enchanted land; he had to deal with men and women of no
ordinary stuff and make, but they acknowledged their connection with
her. He was sure that she must be near him. The explanation must
come--of that, burning with curiosity as he was, he recked little. A
meeting must come; all his pulses tingled with the thought. It was a
thought of such a high sort of bliss to him that it seemed to wrap and
enfold his other thoughts; and when he remembered again to guide his
horse--all that day as he went about his work--he lived in it and worked
in it.

He went that evening to visit O'Shea, who lived in a good-sized house
half a mile or so from his own. From this interview, and from the clue
which Madame Le Maitre had given, he began strongly to suspect that, for
some reason unknown, O'Shea's threatenings were to be remembered more in
the light of a practical joke than as serious. As to where the men had
come from who had played their part, as to where the boy had gone to, or
whether the boy and the lady were one--on these heads he got no light.
The farmer affected stupidity--affected not to understand his questions,
or answered them with such whimsical information on the wrong point that
little was revealed. Yet Caius did not quarrel with O'Shea. Was it not
possible that he, rude, whimsical man that he was, might have influence
with the sea-maid of the laughing face?

Next morning Caius received a formal message--the compliments of Madame
Le Maitre, and she would be glad if he would call upon her before he
went elsewhere. He passed again between the growling mastiffs, and found
the lady with her maidens engaged in the simple household tasks that
were necessary before they went to their work of mercy. Madame Le Maitre
stood as she spoke to him:

"When I wrote to you I said that if you came to us you would have no
chance of returning until the spring. I find that that is not true. Our
winter has held off so long that another vessel from the mainland has
called--you can see her lying in the bay. She will be returning to
Picton to-morrow. I think it right to tell you this; not that we do not
need you now as much as we did at first; not but that my hope and
courage would falter if you went; but now that you have seen the need
for yourself, how great or how little it is, just as you may think, you
ought to reconsider, and decide whether you will stay or not."

Caius spoke hastily:

"I will stay."

"Think! it is for four months of snow and ice, and you will receive no
letters, see no one that you could call a friend."

"I will stay."

"You have already taught me much; with the skill that you have imparted
and the stores that you have brought, which I will pay for, we should be
much better off than if you had not come. We should still feel only
gratitude to you."

"I have no thought of leaving."

"Remember, you think now that you have come that it is only a handful of
people that you can benefit, and they will not comprehend the sacrifice
that you have made, or be very grateful."

"Yes, I think that," replied Caius, admitting her insight. "At the same
time, I will remain."

She sighed, and her sigh was explained by her next words:

"Yet you do not remain for love of the work or the people."

Caius felt that his steady assertion that he would remain had perhaps
appeared to vaunt a heroism that was not true. He supposed that she had
seen his selfishness of motive, and that it was her time now to let him
see that she had not much admiration for him, so that he might make his
choice without bias.

"It is true that I do not love the people, but I will pass the winter
here."

If the lady had had the hard thought of him that he attributed to her,
there was no further sign of it, for she thanked him now with a
gratitude so great that silent tears trembled in her eyes.




CHAPTER XI.

THE LADY'S HUSBAND.


It was impossible but that Caius should take a keen interest in his
medical work. It was the first time that he had stood alone to fight
disease, and the weight of the responsibility added zest to his care of
each particular case. It was, however, natural to him to be more
interested in the general weal than in the individual, more interested
in a theoretical problem than in its practical working. His mind was
concerned now as to where and how the contagion hid itself, reappearing
as it had done, again and again in unlikely places; for there could be
assuredly no home for it in air, or sea, or land. Nor could drains be at
fault, for there were none. Next to this, the subject most constantly in
his mind was the plan of the hospital.

Madame Le Maitre had said to him: "I have tried to persuade the people
to bring their sick to beds in my house, where we would nurse them, but
they will not. It is because they are angry to think that the sick from
different families would be put together and treated alike. They have
great notions of the differences between themselves, and they cannot
realize the danger, or believe that this plan would avert it; but now
that you have come, no doubt you will be able to explain to them more
clearly. Perhaps they will listen to you, because you are a man and a
doctor. Also, what I have said will have had time to work. You may reap
where I have sown."

She had looked upon him encouragingly, and Caius had felt encouraged;
but when he began to talk to the people, both courage and patience
quickly ebbed. He could not countenance the plan of bringing the sick
into the house where Madame Le Maitre and the young girls lived. He
wanted the men who were idle in the winter time to build a temporary
shed of pine-wood, which would have been easy enough, but the men
laughed at him. The only reason that Caius did not give them back scorn
for scorn and anger for their lazy indifference was the reason that
formed his third and greatest interest in his work; this was his desire
to please Madame Le Maitre.

If he had never known and loved the lady of the sea, he thought that his
desire to please Madame Le Maitre would have been almost the same. She
exercised over him an inexplicable influence, and he would have felt
almost superstitious at being under this spell if he had not observed
that everyone who came much in contact with her, and who was able to
appreciate her, was ruled also, and that, not by any claim of authority
she put forth, but just because it seemed to happen so. She was more
unconscious of this influence than anyone. Those under her rule
comprised one or two of the better men of the island, many of the poor
women, the girls in her house, and O'Shea. With regard to himself, Caius
knew that her influence, if not augmented, was supplemented, by his
belief that in pleasing her he was making his best appeal to the favour
of the woman he loved.

He never from the first day forgot his love in his work. His business
was to do all that he could to serve Madame Le Maitre, whose heart was
in the healing of the people, but his business also was to find out the
answer to the riddle in which his own heart was bound up. The first step
in this, obviously, was to know more about Madame Le Maitre and O'Shea.
The lady he dared not question; the man he questioned with persistency
and with what art he could command.

It was one night, not a week after his advent, that he had so far come
to terms with O'Shea that he sat by the stove in the latter's house, and
did what he could to keep up conversation with little aid from his host.

O'Shea sat on one wooden chair, with his stockinged feet crossed upon
another, and his legs forming a bridge between. He was smoking, and in
the lamplight his smooth, queer face looked like a brown apple that had
begun to shrivel--just begun, for O'Shea was not old, and only a little
wrinkled.

His wife came often into the room, and stood looking with interest at
Caius. She was a fair woman, with a broad tranquil face and much light
hair that was brushed smoothly.

Caius talked of the weather, for the snow was falling. Then, after
awhile:

"By the way, O'Shea, _who_ is Madame Le Maitre?"

The other had not spoken for a long time; now he took his clay pipe out
of his mouth, and answered promptly:

"An angel from heaven."

"Ah, yes; that, of course."

Caius stroked his moustache with the action habitual to drawing-room
gallantry; then, instead of persisting, he formed his question a little
differently:

"Who is Mr. Le Maitre?"

"Sea-captain," said O'Shea.

"Oh! then _where_ is he?"

"Don't know."

"Isn't that rather strange, that his wife should be here, and that you
should not know where the husband is?"

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