!6 JOURNEY WITHOUT MAPS

of leisure and a want of happiness. Quick, quick, you
are only on shore for half an hour, you are only
vigorous for a few more years, have another girl
before it's too late, you aren't happy with the one
you've got, try another. The women sold violets and
lilies and roses in the rain, the phallic hats dripped,
the touts couldn't understand that one didn't want
a girl just after breakfast on a wet day. There were
other ways of filling up time, one could drink sweet
wine at the Golden Gates, one could go back on
board and read Lady Eleanor Smith or Mr. Beverley
Nichols.

A young German artist and his wife came on board
at Funchal as deck passengers and were given the
little hospital to sleep in. He was a thick spotty man
in a velvet jacket; he had known D. H. Lawrence at
Taos and Mabel Dodge Luhan. It hadn't made any
difference, he wasn't going to write a book about it.
In the little hospital he put out his canvases, crude
realistic landscapes and die baked faces of Mexican
Indians; it grew dark; and everyone drank bad
Madeira out of the bottle and he talked about Art
and Sport and the Body Beautiful, and his wife, small
and curved and lovely and complaisant, was quiet
and seasick. He believed in Hitler and Nationalism
and swimming and love, he liked the pictures of
Orpen and De Lasdo, but Munke's pictures left him
dissatisfied. They left out the Soul, he said, they
were materialist; not that he disbelieved in the Body,
the Body Beautiful and in physical Love. He agreed
to come to Africa too, and illustrate this book; an
artist was at home anywhere—but after dinner he
changed his mind; and his sweet complaisant nubile