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

The Rest Of Them,  To His

Complete Satisfaction,  In A Couple Of Months; At Present He Was Up To

The Ears In Psychology,  And His Talk Bristled With Phrases About The

"Function Of The Real," About Reactions,  Reflexes,  Adjustments And

Stimuli. For All His Complexity There Was Something So Childlike In His

Nature That He Never Realized What An Infliction He Was,  Nor How

Tiresome His Conversation Could Become To People Who Were Not Quite So

Avid Of "Disinterested Thought." Living Alone And Spending Too Much

Time In Unprofitable Studies,  His Language Was Apt To Be Professionally

Devoid Of Humour--A Defect He Made Heroic Efforts To Remedy By What He

Called The "Falernian System." It Was The Fault Of His Mother,  He Said;

She Was A Painfully Conscientious Woman. A Man's Worst Enemies Are His

Parents,  He Would Add.

 

So Far As Was Known,  Mr. Keith Had Never Written A Book,  A Pamphlet,  Or

Even A Letter To The Newspapers. He Maintained A Good Deal Of

Correspondence,  However,  In Different Parts Of The World,  And The Wiser

Of Those Who Were Favoured With His Epistles Preserved Them As Literary

Curiosities,  Under Lock And Key,  By Reason Of The Writer's Rare Faculty

Of Expressing The Most Atrocious Things In Correct And Even Admirable

English. Chaster Than Snow As A Conversationalist,  He Prostituted His

Mother-Tongue,  In Letter-Writing,  To The Vilest Of Uses. Friends Of

Long Standing Called Him An Obscene Old Man. When Taxed With This

Failing--By Mr. Eames,  For Instance,  Who Shivered At What He Called

Praetextata Verba--He Would Hint That He Could Afford To Pay For His

Little Whims,  Meaning,  Presumably,  That A Rich Man Is Not To Be Judged

By Common Standards Of Propriety. Such Language Was Particularly

Galling To Mr. Eames,  Who Held That The Possession Of Wealth Entails

Not Only Privileges But Obligations,  And That The Rich Man Should Set

The Example Of Purity In Words And Deeds,  Etc.,  Etc.,  Etc.

 

They Were Always Disagreeing,  Anyhow.

 

"You Exalt Purity To A Bad Eminence," Keith Would Remark. "What Did You

Say About The Book I Lent You The Other Day? You Said It Was Morbid And

Indecent; You Said That No Clean-Minded Person Would Car To Read It.

And Yet,  After An Unnecessary Amount Of Arguing,  You Were Forced To

Admit That The Subject Was Interesting And That The Writer Dealt With

It In An Interesting Manner. What More Can You Expect From An Author?

Believe Me,  This Hankering After Purity,  This Hypersensitiveness As To

What Is Morbid Or Immoral,  Is By No Means A Good Sign. A Healthy Man

Refuses To Be Hampered By Preconceived Notions Of What Is Wrong Or

Ugly. When He Reads A Book Like That The Either Yawns Or Laughs. That

Is Because He Is Sure Of Himself. I Could Give You A Long List Of

Celebrated Statesmen,  Princes,  Philosophers And Prelates Of The Church

Who Take Pleasure,  In Their Moments Of Relaxation,  In What You Would

Call Improper Conversation,  Literature Or Correspondence. They Feel The

Strain Of Being Continually Pure; They Realize That All Strains Are

Pernicious,  And That There Is No Action Without Its Reaction. They

Unbend. Only Inveterate Folks Do Not Unbend. They Dare Not,  Because

They Have No Backbone. They Know That If They Once Unbent,  They Could

Not Straighten Themselves Out Again. They Make A Virtue Of Their Own

Organic Defect. They Explain Their Natural Imperfection By Calling

Themselves Pure. If You Had A Little Money--"

 

"You Are Always Harking Back To That Point. What Has Money To Do With

It?"

 

"Poverty Is Like Rain. It Drops Down Ceaselessly,  Disintegrating The

Finer Tissues Of A Man,  His Recent,  Delicate Adjustments,  And Leaving

Nothing But The Bleak And Gaunt Framework. A Poor Man Is A Wintry

Tree--Alive,  But Stripped Of Its Shining Splendour. He Is Always Denying

Himself This Or That. One By One,  His Humane Instincts,  His Elegant

Desires,  Are Starved Away By Stress Of Circumstances. The Charming

Diversity Of Life Ceases To Have Any Meaning For Him. To Console

Himself,  He Sets Up Perverse Canons Of Right And Wrong. What The Rich

Do,  That Is Wrong. Why? Because He Does Not Do It. Why Not? Because He

Has No Money. A Poor Man Is Forced Into A Hypocritical Attitude Towards

Life--Debarred From Being Intellectually Honest. He Cannot Pay For The

Necessary Experience."

 

"There Is Something In What You Say," Eames Would Assent. "But I Fear

You Are Overstating Your Case."

 

"So Did Demosthenes And Jesus Christ,  And Likewise Cicero And Julius

Caesar. Everybody Overstates His Case,  Particularly When He Is Anxious

To Do Something Which He Considers Useful. I Regard It As A Real

Grievance,  Eames,  Not To Be Allowed To Assist You Financially. Having

Never Done A Stroke Of Work In My Life,  I Can Talk Freely About My

Money. My Grandfather Was A Pirate And Slave-Dealer. To My Certain

Knowledge,  Not A Penny Of His Wealth Was Honestly Come By. That Ought

To Allay Your Scruples About Accepting It. Non Olet,  You Know. Let Me

Write You Out A Cheque For Five Hundred,  There's A Good Fellow. Solely

As A Means Of Smoothing Over The Anfractuosities Of Life And Squeezing

All The Possible Pleasure Out Of It! What Else Is Money Made For? They

Say You Live On Milk And Salad. Why The Hell--"

 

"Thanks! I Have All I Want; Sufficient To Pay For The Minor Pleasures

Of Life."

 

"Such As?"

 

"A Clean Handkerchief Now And Then. I See No Harm In Dying Poor."

 

"Where Would I Be,  If My Grandfather Had Seen No Harm In It? Don't You

Really Believe That Money Sweetens All Things,  As Pepys Says?"

 

The Diarist Was One Of Keith's Favourite Authors. He Called Him A

Representative Englishman And Regretted That The Type Was Becoming

Extinct. Eames Would Reply:

 

"Your Pepys Was A Disgusting Climber. He Makes Me Ill With His

Snobbishness And Silver Plate And Monthly Gloatings Over His Gains. I

Wonder You Can Read The Man. He May Have Been A Capable Official,  But

He Was Not A Gentleman."

 

"Have You Ever Seen A Gentleman,  Except On A Tailor's Fashion-Plate?"

 

"Yes. One,  At All Events; My Father. However,  We Won't Labour That

Point; We Have Discussed It Before,  Haven't We? Your Money Would

Sweeten Nothing For Me. It Would Procure Me Neither Health Of Body Nor

Peace Of Mind. Thanks All The Same."

 

Mr. Keith,  True To His Ancestral Tenacity,  Was Not Easily Put Off. He

Would Begin Again:

 

"George Gissing Was A Scholar And A Man Of Refinement,  Like Yourself.

You Know What He Says? 'Put Money In Thy Purse,  For To Lack The Current

Coin Of The Realm Is To Lack The Privileges Of Humanity.' The

Privileges Of Humanity: You Understand,  Eames?"

 

"Does He Say That? Well,  I Am Not Surprised. I Have Sometimes Noticed

Gross,  Unhealthy Streaks In Gissing."

 

"I Will Tell You What Is Unhealthy,  Eames. Your Own State Of Mind. You

Derive A Morbid Pleasure From Denying Yourself The Common Emoluments Of

Life. It's A Form Of Self-Indulgence. I Wish You Would Open Your

Windows And Let The Sun In. You Are Living By Candlelight. If You

Analysed Yourself Closely--"

 

"I Don't Analyse Myself Closely. I Call It A Mistake. I Try To See

Soberly. I Try To Think Logically. I Try To Live Becomingly."

 

"I Am Glad You Don't Always Succeed," Keith Would Reply,  With A

Horrible Accent On The Word "Always." "Heaven Shield Me From A

Clean-Minded Man!"

 

"We Have Touched On That Subject Once Or Twice Already,  Have We Not?

Your Arguments Will Never Entangle Me,  Though I Think I Can Be Fair To

Them. Money Enables You To Multiply Your Sensations--To Travel About,

And So Forth. In Doing So,  You Multiply Your Personality,  As It Were;

You Lengthen Your Days,  Figuratively Speaking; You Come In Contact With

More Diversified Aspects Of Life Than A Person Of My Limited Means Can

Afford To Do. The Body,  You Say,  Is A Subtle Instrument To Be Played

Upon In Every Variety Of Manner And Rendered Above All Things As

Sensitive As Possible To Pleasurable Impressions. In Fact,  You Want To

Be A Kind Of Aeolian Harp. I Admit That This Is More Than A String Of

Sophisms; You May Call It A Philosophy Of Life. But It Is Not My

Philosophy. It Does Not Appeal To Me In The Least. You Will Get No

Satisfaction Out Of Me,  Keith,  With Your Hedonism. You Are Up Against A

Brick Wall. You Speak Of My Deliberately Closing Up Avenues Of

Pleasure. They Ought To Be Closed Up,  I Say,  If A Man Is To Respect

Himself. I Do Not Call My Body A Subtle Instrument; I Call It A Damned

Nuisance. I Don't Want To Be An Aeolian Harp. I Don't Want My Sensations

Multiplied; I Don't Want My Personality Extended; I Don't Want My

Outlook Widened; I Don't Want Money; I Don't Want Aspects Of Life. I'm

Positive,  I'm Literal. I Know Exactly What I Want. I Want To Concern

Myself With What Lies Under My Hand. I Want To Be Allowed To Get On

With My Work. I Want To Bring Old Perrelli Up To Date."

 

"My Dear Fellow! We All Love You For That. And I Am Delighted To Think

You Are Not Really Clean-Minded,  In Spite Of All These Lofty

Protestations. Because You Aren't,  Are You?"

 

If,  After Such Discourse,  The Bibliographer Still Remained Mulishly

Clean-Minded,  Keith Would Return To The Psychological Necessity Of

"Appropriate Reaction" And Cite An Endless List Of Sovereigns,  Popes,

And Other Heroes Who,  In Their Moments Of Leisure,  Were Wise Enough To

React Against The Persistent Strain Of Purity. Then,  Via Alexander Of

Macedon,  "One Of The Greatest Sons Of Earth," As Bishop Thirlwall Had

Called Him--Alexander,  With Whose Deplorable Capacity For "Unbending" A

Scholar Like Eames Was Perfectly Familiar--He Would Switch The

Conversation Into Realms Of Military Science,  And Begin To Expatiate

Upon The Wonderful Advance Which Has Been Made Since Those Days In The

Arts Of Defensive And Offensive Warfare--The Decline Of The Phalanx,  The

Rise Of Artillery,  The Changed System Of Fortifications,  Those Modern

Inventions In The Department Of Land Defences,  Sea Defences And,  Above

All,  Aerial Defences,  Parachutes,  Hydroplanes. . . .

 

Whereupon A Curious Change Would Creep Over The Bibliographer's Honest

Face. He Knew What This Talk Portended. His Features Would Assume An

Air Of Strained But Polite Attention,  And He Generally Broke Off The

Conversation And Took His Departure At The Earliest Moment Consistent

With Ordinary Civility. On Such Occasions He Was Wont To Think His

Friend Keith An Offensive Cad. Sadly Shaking His Head,  He Would Say To

Himself:

 

"Nihil Quod Tetigit Non Inquinavit."

Chapter 10

 

 

 

 

Mr. Keith Was Apt To Be A Bore,  But He Could Do Things Properly When He

Wanted,  As For Example On The Occasion Of His Annual Bean-Feast. There

Were No Two Opinions About That. The Trees,  Arbours,  And Winding Ways

Of His Garden Were Festooned That Evening With Hundreds Of Chinese

Lamps Whose Multi-Coloured Light Mingled Pleasantly With The Purer

Radiance Of The Moon,  Shining Directly Overhead. It Was Like Fairyland,

The Duchess Was Wont To Declare,  Year After Year. And Don Francesco

Who,  On This Particular Night,  Clung Closely To Her Skirts In View Of

That Impending Conversion To The Roman Church,  Replied Laughingly:

 

"If Fairyland Is Anything Like This,  I Would Not Object To Living

There. Provided Always,  Dear Lady,  That You Are To Be Found Somewhere

On The Premises. What Do You Say,  Mr. Heard?"

 

"I Will Gladly Join Your Party,  If You Will Allow Me," Replied The

Bishop. "This Aspic Could Not Be Better. It Seems To Open Up A New

World Of Delights. Dear Me. I Fear I Am Becoming A Gourmand,  Like

Lucullus. Though Lucullus,  To Be Sure,  Was A Temperate Man. No,  Thank

You,  Don Francesco; Not A Drop More! My Liver,  You Know. I Declare It's

Making Me Feel Quite Dizzy."

 

As Marten Had Foretold,  The Wine Flowed In Torrents. There Was A

Bewildering Display Of Cool Dishes,  Too,  Prepared Under The Personal

Supervision Of The Chef--That Celebrated Artist Whom Keith Had Inveigled

Out Of The Service Of A Life-Loving Old Ambassador By The Threat Of

Disclosing To The Police Some Hideously Disreputable Action In The

Man's Past Life Which His Excellently Had Artlessly Confided