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

To Him,

Under The Seal Of Secrecy.

 

Mr. Samuel,  A Commercial Gentleman Who Had Got Stuck Somehow Or Other

At The Alpha And Omega Club,  Cast A Practised Eye Over The Wines,

Chaud-Froids,  Fruits,  Salads,  Ices,  The Lanterns And Other Joys Of The

Evening And Announced,  After A Rough Computation,  That Keith's Outlay

For That Little Show Must Have Run Well Into Three Figures. Mr. White

Agreed,  Adding That It Did One Good To Get A Mouthful Of Drinkable Fizz

After Parker's Poison.

 

"Ah,  But You Ought To Try The Punch."

 

"Come On Then," Said White.

 

They Moved Away And Soon Stumbled Upon A Cluster Of Bibulous Mortals In

Their Element. Miss Wilberforce Was There. She Liked To Linger Near The

Fountain-Head; The Fountain-Head,  On This Occasion,  Being A Cyclopean

Bowl Of Iced Punch. The Lady Was In Grand Condition; Festive,  Playful,

Positively Flirtatious. She Nibbled,  Between Her Libations,  At A

Savoury Biscuit (She Hated Solid Food,  As A Rule) In Order,  She Said,

To Staunch Her Thirst; She Told Everybody That It Was Her Birthday.

Yes,  Her Birthday! In Fact,  She Was Quite A Different Creature From The

Bashful Visitor At The Duchess's Entertainment; She Was Hardly Shy At

All.

 

"Punch And Moonlight!" She Was Saying. "It's All As Right As

Rain--Birthday Or No Birthday."

 

Miss Wilberforce Had About Forty Birthdays In The Year,  Each Of Them

Due To Be Worthily Celebrated Like This One.

 

It Was A Sad And Scandalous Business. Better Things Might Have Been

Expected Of Her. She Was So Obviously A Lady. She Had Been So Nicely

Brought Up. While There Was Still An English Church On The Island,  She

Never Failed To Attend Divine Service,  Despite Her Sunday Headache. She

Was Often The Only Member Of The Congregation--She And Mr. Freddy

Parker,  Whose Official Dignity And English Origin,  However Questionable

His Christianity,  Constrained Him To Put In An Appearance. Mortal

Enemies,  They Used To Sit On Opposite Pews,  Glaring Across The Vacant

Building To See If They Could Catch Each Other Asleep,  Responding At

Irregular Intervals Out Of Sheer Cussedness,  And Trying Vainly To Feel

More Charitable During Those Moments When The Scraggy Young

Curate--Generally Some Social Failure Who Raked Together A Few Pounds

From These Hazardous Continental Engagements--Recited The Gospel

According To Saint John. Those Days Were Over. She Was Definitely On

The Downward Grade. Three Members Of The Club And Two Russian Apostles

Were Even Then Engaged In Tossing Up Who Should Have The Privilege Of

Seeing Her Home. The Lot Fell To Mr. Richards,  The Excellent

Vice-President,  An Elderly Gentleman Whose Carefully Parted Hair And

Flowing Beard Made Him The Very Picture Of Respectability. To Look At

Him,  One Would Have Said That The Dear Lady Could Not Be In Better

Hands.

 

Mr. Keith Was A Perfect Host. He Had The Right Word For Everybody; His

Infectious Conviviality Made Them All Straightway At Their Ease. The

Overdressed Native Ladies,  The Priests And Officials Moving About In

Prim Little Circles,  Were Charmed With His Affable Manner "So Different

From Most Englishmen"; Likewise That Flock Of Gleeful Tourists Who Had

Suddenly Turned Up,  Craving For Admission Without A Single Letter Of

Introduction Between Them,  And Were Forthwith Welcomed On The Strength

Of The Fact That One Of Their Party Had Been To Easter Island. Even The

Parroco Could Not Help Laughing As Keith,  With Irresistible Good

Nature,  Seized Him By The Arm And Thrust A Marron Glace Between His

Lips. An Ideal Host! The "Falernian System" Was In Abeyance That Day.

It Was The One Evening In The Year When,  In The Interests Of His

Guests,  He Could Be Relied Upon To Remain Absolutely Sober To The Last

Moment; A State Of Affairs Which Doubtless Had Its Drawbacks,  Seeing

That It Made Him,  In Longer Conversational Efforts,  Rather More

Abstruse And Unintelligible Than Usual--"Blind Sober," As Don Francesco

Once Said. Even Sobriety Was Forgiven Him. He Took The Precaution,  Of

Course,  To Keep The House Locked And To Replace His Ordinary Services

Of Plate By Elkington; People Being Pardonably Fond Of Carrying Away

Memories Of So Enjoyable An Evening. Bottles,  Plates,  And Glasses Were

Smashed By The Dozen. He Liked To See Them Smashed. It Proved That

Everybody Was Having A Good Time.

 

A Person Unacquainted With Keith's Nature Could Never Have Guessed What

A Sacrifice This Entertainment Was To Him. He Was An Egoist,  A

Solitary,  In His Pleasures; He Used To Contend That No Garden On Earth,

However Spacious,  Was Large Enough For More Than One Man. And This

Little Nepenthe Domain,  Though He Saw It For Only A Few Weeks In The

Year,  Was The Apple Of His Eye. He Guarded It Jealously,  Troubled At

The Thought That Its Chaste Recesses Might Be Profaned,  If But For One

Day,  By The Presence Of A Motley Assemblage Of Nonentities. But A Man

Of His Income Is Expected To Do Something To Amuse His

Fellow-Creatures. One Owes Certain Duties To Society. Hence This

Gathering,  Which Had Become A Regular Feature In The Spring Calendar Of

The Island. Having Once Decided On The Step,  He Did Not Propose To Be

Bound By Conventionalities Which Were The Poison Of Rational Human

Intercourse. Unlike The Duchess And Mr. Parker,  He Refused To Draw The

Line At Russians; The Club,  Too,  Was Represented By Some Of Its Most

Characteristic Members. He Often Descanted On The Social Intolerance Of

Men,  Their Lack Of Graciousness And Generous Instincts; He Would Have

Made Room For The Devil Himself--At All Events In His "Outer Circle."

Such Being The Case,  It Stands To Reason That He Did Not Draw The Line

At Freethinkers. It Was Sometimes Rather Hard To Know Where He Did Draw

The Line.

 

The Red-Haired Judge,  With Straw Hat And Mephistophelean Limp,  Was

There,  Looking Like An Offenbach Villain Out For A Spree. After Being

Effusively Greeted By The Host--They Understood One Another

Perfectly--And Forced To Eat A Quantity Of Some Pink-Looking Stuff Which

He Could Not Resist Although Knowing It Would Disagree With Him,  His

Worship,  Left To His Own Devices,  Hobbled Along In Pursuit Of His New

Friend Muhlen. He Found Him,  And Was Soon Relating Succulent Anecdotes

Of His Summer Holidays--Anecdotes,  All About Women,  Which Muhlen Tried

To Cap With Experiences Of His Own. The Judge Always Went To The Same

Place--Salsomaggiore,  A Thermal Station Whose Waters Were Good For His

Sore Legs. He Described To Muhlen How,  In Jaunty Clothes And Shining

Shoes,  He Pottered About Its Trim Gardens,  Ogling The Ladies Who Always

Ogled Back; It Was The Best Fun In The World,  And Sometimes--! Mr.

Malipizzo,  For All His Incredible Repulsiveness,  Posed As An Ardent And

Successful Lover Of Women. No Doubt It Cost Money. But He Was Never At

A Loss For That Commodity; He Had Other Sources Of Revenue,  He Hinted,

Besides His Wretched Official Salary.

 

Wandering Along Arm In Arm,  They Passed Various Contingents Of The

Russians,  Male And Female,  Whose Scarlet Blouses Shone Brightly Under

The Variegated Globes Of Light. These Exotics Were Happy As Children,

Full Of Fun And Laughter; None More So Than The Young Giant

Krasnojabkin,  Whose Name Had Been Coupled By Scandalmongers With That

Of Madame Steynlin. An Admiring Audience Had Gathered Around Him While

He Performed A Frenzied Cancan In An Open Moonlit Space; He Always

Danced When He Had Enough To Drink. The Judge Looked On With Envy. It

Sickened Him To Realize That Those Far-Famed Luncheons And Dinners Of

Madame Steynlin Were Being Devoured By A Savage Like This. And The

Money He Doubtless Extracted From Her! Presently A Loud Guffaw From

Some Bosky Thicket Announced That The Friends Had Been Joined By The

Financial Commissioner For Nicaragua. The Trinity Was Complete. They

Were Always Together,  Those Three,  Playing Cards At The Club Or Sipping

Lemonade And Vermouth On The Terrace.

 

"Oh,  Mr. Keith," Said The Duchess In Her Sweetest Accents,  "Do You Know

Of What This Entertainment Makes Me Think?"

 

"Shall I Guess?"

 

"Nothing Of The Kind! It Makes Me Think That It Is Very,  Very Wrong Of

A Man Like You To Be A Bachelor. You Want A Wife."

 

"To Want A Wife,  Duchess,  Is Better Than To Need One. Especially If It

Happens To Be Only Your Neighbour's."

 

"I Am Sure That Means Something Dreadful!"

 

Don Francesco Broke In:

 

"Tell Me,  Keith,  How About Your Wives? What Have You Done With Them? Is

It True That You Sold Them At Various Oriental Ports?"

 

"They Got Mislaid Somehow. All That Was Before My Great Renunciation."

 

"Is It True That You Kept Them Locked Up In Different Parts Of London?"

 

"I Made It A Rule Never To Introduce My Lady-Friends To One Another.

They Are So Fond Of Comparing Notes. Novelists Try To Make Us Believe

That Women Delight In Men's Society. Rubbish! They Prefer That Of Their

Own Sex. But Please Didn't Refer To The Same Painful Period Of My

Life."

 

The Priest Insisted:

 

"Is It True That You Gave The Plumpest Of Them To The Sultan Of

Colambang In Exchange For The Recipe Of Some Wonderful Sauce? Is It

True That You Used To Be Known As The Lightning Lover? Is It True That

You Used To Say,  In Your London Days,  That No Season Was Complete

Without A Ruined Home?"

 

"She Exaggerates A Good Deal,  That Lady."

 

"Is It True That You Once Got So Drunk That You Mistook One Of Those

Red-Coated Chelsea Pensioners For A Pillar-Box And Tried To Post A

Letter In His Stomach?"

 

"I'm Very Short-Sighted,  Don Francesco. Besides,  All That Was In A

Previous Incarnation. Do Come And Listen To The Music! May I Offer You

My Arm,  Duchess? I Have A Surprise For You."

 

"You Have A Surprise For Us Every Year,  You Bad Man," She Said. "Now Do

Try And See If You Can't Get Married. It Makes One Feel So Good."

 

Keith Had A Peculiar Habit Of Vanishing For A Day Or Two To The

Mainland,  And Returning With Some Rare Orchid From The Hills,  A Piece

Of Greek Statuary,  A New Gardener,  Or Something. Sowing His Wild Oats,

He Called It. During This Last Visit He Had Come Across The Tracks Of

An Almost Extinct Tribe Of Gipsies That Roamed Up And Down The Glens Of

Those Mysterious Mountains Whose Purple Summits Were Visible,  On Clear

Days,  From His Own Windows. After Complex And Costly Negotiations They

Had Allowed Themselves To Be Embarked,  For This One Night Only,  In A

Capacious Sailing Boat To Nepenthe,  In Order To Pleasure Mr. Keith's

Guests. And Here They Sat,  Huddled Together In Dignified Repose And

Abashed,  As It Seemed,  By The Strangeness Of Their Surroundings; A

Bizarre Group Stained To An Almost Negro Tint By Exposure To Sun And

Winds And Rain.

 

Here They Sat--Gnarled Old Men And Sinewy Fathers Of Families,  With

Streaming Black Hair,  Golden Earrings,  Hooded Cloaks Of Wood And

Sandals Bound With Leathern Thongs. Mothers Were There,  Shapeless

Bundles Of Rags,  Nursing Infants At The Breast. The Girls Were Draped

In Gaudy Hues,  And Ablaze With Metal Charms And Ornaments On Forehead

And Arms And Ankles. They Showed Their Flashing Teeth And Smiled From

Time To Time In Frank Wonder,  Whereas The Boys,  Superbly Savage,  Like

Young Panthers Caught In A Trap,  Kept Their Eyes Downcast Or Threw

Distrustful,  Defiant Glances Round Them. Here They Sat In Silence,

Smoking Tobacco And Taking Deep Draughts Out Of A Pitcher Of Milk Which

Was Handed Round From One To The Other. Occasionally The Older People

Would Pick Up Their Instruments--Bagpipes Of Sheepskin,  Small Drums And

Gourd-Like Mandolines--And Draw From Them Strange Dronings,  Gurglings,

Thrummings,  Twangings; Soon A Group Of Youngsters Would Rise Gravely

From The Ground And,  Without Any Preconcerted Signal,  Begin To Move In

A Dance--A Formal And Intricate Measure,  Such As Had Never Yet Been

Witnessed On Nepenthe.

 

Something Inhuman And Yet Troublingly Personal Lay In The Performance;

It Invaded The Onlookers With A Sense Of Disquietude. There Was

Primeval Ecstasy In Those Strains And Gestures. Giant Moths,  Meanwhile,

Fluttered Overhead,  Rattling Their Frail Wings Against The Framework Of

The Paper Lanterns; The South Wind Passed Through The Garden Like The

Breath Of A Friend,  Bearing The Aromatic Burden Of A Thousand

Night-Blooming Shrubs And Flowers. Young People,  Meeting Here,  Would

Greet One Another Shyly,  With Unfamiliar Ceremoniousness,  And Then,

After Listening Awhile To The Music And Exchanging A Few Awkward

Phrases,  Wander Away As If By Common Consent--Further Away From This

Crowd And Garish Brilliance,  Far Away,  Into Some Fragrant Cell,  Where

The Light Was Dim.

 

"What Do You Make Of It?" Asked Keith Of Madame Steynlin,  Who Was

Listening Intently. "Is This Music? If So,  I Begin To Understand Its

Laws. They Are Physical. I Seem To Feel The Effect Of It In The Lower

Part Of My Chest. Perhaps That Is The Region Which Musical People Call

Their Ear. Tell Me,  Madame Steynlin,  What Is Music?"

 

"That's A Puzzle," Said The Bishop,  Greatly Interested.

 

"How Can I Explain It To You? It Is So Complicated,  And You Have So

Many Guests This Evening. You Are Coming To My Picnic After The

Festival Of Saint Eulalia? Yes? Well,  I