South Wind(Fiscle Part-3), Norman Douglas [most important books of all time .TXT] 📗

Sound Working

Condition,  The Plumbing,  The Gas,  The Woodwork,  The Paintings And

Repaintings,  The Tons Of Fuel,  The Lighting In Winter,  The Contrivances

Against Frost And Rain,  The Never-Ending Repairs To Houses,  The Daily

Polishings And Dustings And Scrubbings And Those Thousand Other

Impediments To The Life Of The Spirit! Half Of Them Are Non-Existent In

These Latitudes; Half The Vitality Expended Upon Them Could Therefore

Be Directed To Other Ends. At Close Of Day,  Your Northerner Is Pleased

With Himself. He Has Survived; He Has Even Prospered. His Family Is

Adequately Housed And Clothed. He Feels 'Presentable,' As He Calls It,

In The Eyes Of Those Who Share His Illusions. He Fancies He Has

Attained The Aim And Object Of Existence. He Is Too Dazed With The

Struggle To Perceive How Incongruous His Efforts Have Been. What Has He

Done? He Has Sacrificed Himself On The Altar Of A False Ideal. He Has

Not Touched The Fringe Of A Reasonable Life. He Has Performed Certain

Social And Political Duties--He Knows Nothing Of The Duties Towards

Himself. I Am Speaking Of Men From Whom Better Things Might Have Been

Expected. As For The Majority,  The Crowd,  The Herd--They Do Not Exist,

Neither Here Nor Anywhere Else. They Leave A Purely Physiological Mark

Upon Posterity; They Propagate The Species And Protect Their Offspring.

So Do Foxes. It Is Not Enough For Us. Living In Our Lands,  Men Would

Have Leisure To Cultivate Nobler Aspects Of Their Nature. They Would Be

Accessible To Purer Aspirations,  Worthier Delights. They Would Enjoy

The Happiness Of Sages. What Other Happiness Deserves The Name? In The

Mediterranean,  Mr. Heard,  Lies The Hope Of Humanity."

 

The Bishop Was Thoughtful. There Occurred To Him Various Objections To

This Rather Fanciful Argument. Still,  He Said Nothing. He Was Naturally

Chary Of Words; It Was So Interesting To Listen To Other People! And At

This Particular Period He Was More Than Usually Reflective And

Absorbent.

 

Happiness--An Honourable,  Justifiable Happiness--How Was It To Be

Attained? Not Otherwise,  He Used To Think,  Than Through The Twofold

Agency Of Christianity And Civilization. That Was His Old College

Attitude. Imperceptibly His Outlook Had Shifted Since Then. Something

Had Been Stirring Within Him; New Points Of View Had Floated Into His

Ken. He Was No Longer So Sure About Things. The Structure Of His Mind

Had Lost That Old Stability; Its Elements Seemed To Be Held In

Solution,  Ready To Form New Combinations. China Had Taught Him That Men

Can Be Happy And Virtuous While Lacking,  And Even Scorning The First Of

These Twin Blessings. Then Had Come Africa,  Where His Notions Had Been

Further Dislocated By Those Natives Who Derided Both The One And The

Other--Such Fine Healthy Animals,  All The Same! A Candid Soul,  He

Allowed His Natural Shrewdness And Logic To Play Freely With Memories

Of His Earlier Experiences Among The London Poor. Those Experiences Now

Became Fraught With A New Meaning. The Solemn Doctrines He Had Preached

In Those Days: Were They Really A Panacea For All The Ills Of The

Flesh? He Thought Upon The Gaunt Bodies,  Starved Souls,  And White

Faces--The Dirt,  The Squalor Of It! Was That Christianity,  Civilization?

 

The Count,  Pursuing Some Other Line Of Thought,  Broke Out Into A Kind

Of Delphic Rhapsody:

 

"Folly Of Men! The Wits Of Our People Have Been Blunted,  Their Habits

Bestialized,  Their Very Climate And Landscape Ruined. The Alert Genius

Of The Greeks Is Clogged By A Barbaric,  Leaden-Hued Religion--The

Fertile Plains Of Asia Minor And Spain Converted Into Deserts! We

Begin,  At Last,  To Apprehend The Mischief; We Know Who Is To Blame; We

Are Turning The Corner. Enclosed Within The Soft Imagination Of The

Homo Mediterraneus Lies A Kernel Of Hard Reason. We Have Reached That

Kernel. The Northerner's Hardness Is On The Surface; His Core,  His

Inner Being,  Is Apt To Quaver In A State Of Fluid Irresponsibility. Yet

There Must Be Reasonable Men Everywhere; Men Who Refuse To Wear Away

Their Faculties In A Degrading Effort To Plunder One Another,  Men Who

Are Tired Of Hustle And Strife. What,  Sir,  Would You Call The

Phenomenon Of To-Day? What Is The Outstanding Feature Of Modern Life?

The Bankruptcy,  The Proven Fatuity,  Of Everything That Is Bound Up

Under The Name Of Western Civilization. Men Are Perceiving,  I Think,

The Baseness Of Mercantile And Military Ideals,  The Loftiness Of Those

Older Ones. They Will Band Together,  The Elect Of Every Nation,  In

God-Favoured Regions Round The Inland Sea,  Thee To Lead Serener Lives.

To Those How Have Hitherto Preached Indecorous Maxims Of Conduct They

Will Say: 'What Is All This Ferocious Nonsense About Strenuousness? An

Unbecoming Fluster. And Who Are You,  To Dictate How We Shall Order Our

Day? Go! Shiver And Struggle In Your Hyperborean Dens. Trample About

Those Misty Rain-Sodden Fields,  And Hack Each Other's Eyes Out With

Antideluvian Bayonets. Or Career Up And Down The Ocean,  In Your Absurd

Ships,  To Pick The Pockets Of Men Better Than Yourselves. That Is You

Mode Of Self-Expression. It Is Not Ours.' And Mediterranean People Will

Lead The Way. They Have Suffered More Than All From The Imbecilities Of

Kinds And Priests And Soldiers And Politicians. They Now Make An End Of

This Neurasthenic Gadding And Getting. They Focus Themselves Anew And

Regain Their Lost Dignity. That Ancient Individualistic Tone Reasserts

Itself. Man Becomes A Personality Once More--"

 

He Continued For Some Time In This Prophetic Strain,  The Bishop

Listening With Considerable Approbation Though,  At A Certain Point Of

The Discourse,  He Would Have Liked To Drop A Word About Thermopylae And

Marathon. He Also Knew Something Of The Evils Of Northern

Industrialism--How It Stunts The Body And Warps The Mind.

 

"What A Charming Dreamer!" He Thought.

 

It Was Rather Convenient For The Count To Be Able To Pass,  Just Then,

For A Dreamer.

 

As A Matter Of Fact,  He Was An Extremely Practical Old Gentleman.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8

 

 

 

 

 

"Sanidin?" Queried Denis Almost Flippantly,  As He Held Up A Fragment Of

Rock.

 

He Was Not Particularly Eager To Hear Marten's Answer. He Had Thought,

Only A Few Days Ago,  That He Would Like To Be A Geologist; Marten Had

Inspired Him With A Fancy For That Science. The Fit Was Already

Passing.

 

How Quickly This Geological Mood Had Evaporated. How Quickly Everything

Evaporated,  Nowadays.

 

All Was Not Well With Denis. Early That Morning He Had Tried His Hand

At Poetry Once More,  After A Long Interval. Four Words--That Was All The

Inspiration Which Had Come To Him.

 

"Or Vine-Wreathed Tuscany. . . ."

 

A Pretty Turn,  In The Earlier Manner Of Keats. It Looked Well On The

Snowy Paper. "Or Vine-Wreathed Tuscany." He Was Content With That

Phrase,  So Far As It Went. But Where Was The Rest Of The Stanza?

 

How Easily,  A Year Or Two Ago,  Could He Have Fashioned The Whole Verse.

How Easily Everything Was Accomplished In Those Days. To Be A Poet:

That Was A Fixed Point On His Horizon. Any Number Of Joyous Lyrics,  As

Well As Three Plays Not Intended For The Stage,  Had Already Dropped

From His Pen. He Was An Extraordinary Success Among His College

Friends; Everybody Liked Him; He Could Say And Do What He Pleased. Was

He Not The Idol Of A Select Group Who Admired Not Only One Another But

Also The Satanism Of Baudelaire,  The Hieratic Obscenities Of Beardsley,

The Mustiest Persian Sage,  The Modernest American Ballad-Monger? He Was

Full Of Gay Irresponsibility. Ever Since,  On Returning To His Rooms

After Some Tedious Lecture,  He Announced To His Friends That He Had

Lost An Umbrella But Preserved,  Thank God,  His Honour,  They Augured A

Brilliant Future For Him. So,  For Other But No Less Cogent Reasons,  Did

His Doting,  Misguided Mother.

 

Both Were Disappointed. Those Sprightly Sallies Became Rarer; Epigrams

Died,  Still-Born,  On His Lips. He Lost His Sense Of Humour; Grew

Mirthless,  Fretful,  Self-Conscious. He Suddenly Realized The Existence

Of A World Beyond His College Walls; It Made Him Feel Like A Hot-House

Flower Exposed To The Blustering Winds Of March. Life Was No Longer A

Hurdle In A Steeple-Chase To Be Taken At A Gallop; It Was A Tangle Of

Beastly Facts That Stared You In The Face And Refused To Get Out Of The

Way. With Growing Years,  During Vacation,  He Came In Contact With A New

Set Of People; Men Who Smiled Indulgently At Mention Of All He Held

Most Sacred--Art,  Classics,  Literature; Men Who Were Plainly Not Insane

And Yet Took Up Incomprehensible Professions Of One Kind Or

Another--Took Them Up With Open Eyes And Unfeigned Zest,  And Actually

Prospered At Them In A Crude Worldly Fashion.

 

He Shrank At First From Their Society,  Consoling Himself With The

Reflection That,  Being Bounders,  It Did Not Matter Whether They

Succeeded Or Not. But This Explanation Did Not Hold Good For Long. They

Were Not Bounders--Not All Of Them. People Not Only Dined With Them:

They Asked Them To Dinner. Quite Decent Fellows,  In Fact. Nothing Was

Wrong With Them,  Save That They Held A Point Of View Which Was At

Variance With His Own.

 

It Was A Rude Awakening. Every Moment He Was Up Against Something New.

There Were Quite A Lot Of Things,  He Discovered,  Which A Fellow Ought

To Know,  And Doesn't. Too Many Of Them To Assimilate With Comfort. They

Crowded In Upon Him And Unsettled His Mind. He Kept Up A Brave

Exterior,  But His Inner Core Was Suffering; He Was No Longer Certain Of

Himself. He Became Easily Swayed And Changeful In His Moods. That Sure

Touch In Lyrics,  As In Daily Life,  Was Deserting Him. His Dreams Were

Not Coming True. He Was Not Going To Set The Thames On Fire With Poetry

Or Anything Else. He Would Probably Be A Failure. Aware Of This

Weakness,  He Looked Up To What Was Strong. Everything Was Different

From Himself,  Everything Forceful,  Emphatic And Clear-Cut,  Exercised A

Fascination Upon Him. He Tried In An Honest,  Groping Fashion,  To Learn

What It Was All About. That Was Why He Had Taken To Edgar Marten,  The

Antithesis Of Himself,  Bright But Dogmatic,  A Slovenly Little Plebeian

But A Man Who After All Had A Determined,  Definite Point Of View.

 

Denis Repeated:

 

"Sanidin?"

 

"Let's Have A Look At It Then," Said Marten Condescendingly,  "Though I

Can't Say I'm In A Geological Temper This Morning. The South Wind Seems

To Rot One's Intelligence Somehow. Hand It Here. Sanidin Be Blowed!

It's Specular Iron. Now I Wonder Why You Should Hit Upon Sanidin? Why?"

 

He,  Too,  Did Not Pause For A Reply. He Turned His Glance Once More Down

The Steep Hill-Side Which They Had Climbed With A View To Exploring

Some Instructive Exposure Of The Rock. Marten Intended To Utilize The

Site As A Text For A Lay Sermon. Arrived On The Spot They Had Sat Down.

As If By Common Consent,  Geology Was Forgotten. To Outward Appearances

They Were Absorbed In The Beauties Of Nature. Sirocco Mists Rose

Upwards,  Clustering Thickly Overhead And Rolling In Billowy Formations

Among The Dales. Sometimes A Breath Of Wind Would Convulse Their Ranks,

Causing Them To Trail In Long Silvery Pennants Across The Sky And,

Opening A Rift In Their Gossamer Texture,  Would Reveal,  Far Down Below,

A Glimmer Of Olives Shining In The Sunlight Or A Patch Of Blue Sea,

Framed In An Aureole Of Peacock Hues. Stones And Grass Were Clammy With

Warm Moisture.

 

"It's A Funny Thing," Said Marten,  After A Long Pause. "I've Often

Noticed It. When I'm Not Actually At Work,  I'm Always Thinking About

Girls. I Wish I Could Talk Better Latin,  Or Italian. Not That I Should

Be Running After Them All Day Long. I've Got Other Fish To Fry. I've

Got To Catalogue My Minerals,  And I'm Only Half-Way Through. For The

Matter Of That,  I Haven't Come Across Half As Many Nice Ones Here As I

Thought I Would."

 

"Minerals?"

 

"Girls. I Don't Seem To Take To These Foreigners. But There's One--"

 

"Go On."

 

"You're A Queer Fellow,  Phipps. Don't You Ever Look At Women? I Believe

You Have The Making Of A Saint In You. Fight Against It. A Fellow Can't

Live Without Vices. Here You Are,  With Lots Of Money,  Stewing In A Back

Bedroom Of A Second-Class Hotel And Getting Up Every Morning At Five

O'clock