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

Will Try To Explain It

Then"--And Her Eye Turned,  With A Kind Of Maternal Solicitude,  Down The

Pathway To Where,  In That Patch Of Bright Moonshine,  Her Young Friend

Krasnojabkin,  Gloriously Indifferent To Gipsies And Everything Else,

Was Astounding People By The Audacity Of His Terpsichorean Antics.

 

"Let That Be A Promise," Keith Replied. "Ah,  Count Caloveglia! How Good

Of You To Come. I Would Not Have Asked You To Such A Worldly Function

Had I Not Thought That This Dancing Might Interest You."

 

"It Does,  It Does!" Said The Old Aristocrat,  Thoughtfully Sipping

Champagne Out Of An Enormous Goblet Which He Carried In His Hand. "It

Makes Me Dream Of That East Which It Has Never Been My Fortune,  Alas,

To Behold. What A Flawless Group! There Is Something Archaic,  Oriental,

In Their Attitudes; They Seem To Be Fraught With All The Mystery,  The

Sadness,  Of Life That Is Past--Of Things Remote From Ourselves."

 

"My Gipsies," Said Keith,  "Are Not Everybody's Gipsies."

 

"I Think They Despise Us! And This Austere Regularity In The Steps Of

The Dancers,  This Vibrating Accompaniment That Dwells Persistently On

One Note--How Primitive,  How Scornfully Unintellectual! It Is Like A

Passionate Lover Knocking To Gain An Entrance Into Our Hearts. And He

Succeeds. He Breaks Down The Barrier By The Oldest And Best Of Lovers'

Expedients--Sheer Reiteration Of Monotony. A Lover Who Reasons Is No

Lover."

 

"How True That Is," Remarked Madame Steynlin.

 

"Sheer Monotony," Repeated The Count. "And It Is The Same With Their

Pictorial Art. We Blame The Orientals For Their Chill Cult Of Geometric

Designs,  Their Purely Stylistic Decoration,  Their Endless Repetitions,

As Opposed To Our Variety And Love Of Floral,  Human,  Or Other

Naturalistic Motives. But By This Simple Means They Attain Their End--A

Direct Appeal. Their Art,  Like Their Music,  Goes Straight To The

Senses; It Is Not Deflected Or Disturbed By Any Intervening Medium.

Colour Plays Its Part; The Sombre,  Throbbing Sounds Of These

Instruments--The Glowing Tints Of Their Carpets And Tapestries. Talking

Of Gipsies,  Do You Know Whether Our Friend Van Koppen Has Arrived?"

 

"Koppen? A Very Up-To-Date Nomad,  Who Takes The Whole World For His

Camping-Ground. No,  Not Yet. But He'll Turn Up In A Day Or Two."

 

Count Caloveglia Was Concerned,  Just Then,  About Mr. Van Koppen. He Had

A Little Business To Transact With Him--He Fervently Hoped That The

Millionaire Would Not Forgo His Annual Visit To Nepenthe.

 

"I Shall Be Glad To Meet Him Again," He Remarked Carelessly. Then

Looking Up He Saw Denis,  Who Moved Under The Trees Alone. Observing

That He Seemed Rather Disconsolate,  He Walked Up To Him And Said In A

Fatherly Tone: "Will You Confer A Favour,  Mr. Denis,  On An Old Man Who

Lives Much Alone? Will You Come And See Me,  As You Promised? My

Daughter Is Away Just Now And Will Not Be Back Till Midsummer. I Wish

You Could Have Met Her. Meanwhile,  I Am A Little Solitary. I Have Also

A Few Antiquities That Might Interest You."

 

While Denis,  Slightly Embarrassed,  Was Uttering Some Appropriate Words,

The Bishop Suddenly Asked:

 

"Where Is Mrs. Meadows? Wasn't She Coming Down To-Night?"

 

"Of Course She Was," Said Keith. "Isn't She Here? What Can This Mean?

Your Cousin Is A Particular Friend Of Mine,  Heard,  Though I Have Not

Seen Her For The Last Six Days Or So. Something Must Be Wrong. That

Baby,  I Expect."

 

"I Missed Her Once Already," Said Heard. "I'll Write And Make An

Appointment,  Or Go Up Again. By The Way,  Count--You Remember Our

Conversation? Wel,  I Have Thought Of An Insuperable Objection To Your

Mediterranean Theory. The Sirocco. You Will Never Change The Sirocco.

The Elect Of The Earth Will Never Endure It All Their Lives."

 

"I Think We Can Change The Sirocco," Replied The Count,  Meditatively.

"We Can Tame It,  At All Events. I Do Not Know Much About Its History;

You Must Ask Mr. Eames--"

 

"Who Is At Home," Interrupted Keith,  "Closeted With His Perrelli."

 

"What Has Been,  May Be," Continued The Old Man,  Oracularly. "I Question

Whether The Sirocco Was As Obnoxious In Olden Days As Now,  Otherwise

The Ancients,  Who Had Absurdly Sensitive Skins,  Would Have Complained

Of It More Frequently. The Deforestation Of Northern Africa,  I Suspect,

Has Much To Do With It. Frenchmen Are Now Trying To Revive Those

Prosperous Conditions Which Mohammedanism Has Destroyed. Oh,  Yes! I

Don't Despair Of Muzzling The Sirocco,  Even As We Are Muzzling That

Often Mediterranean Pest,  The Malaria."

 

Keith Observed:

 

"Petronius,  I Remember,  Speaks Of The North Wind Being The Mistress Of

The Tyrrhenian. He Would Not Use Such Language Nowadays,  Unless

Alluding To Its Violence Rather Than Its Prevalence. Once I Thought Of

Translating Petronius. But I Discovered Certain Passages In The Book

Which Are Almost Improper. I Don't Think The Public Ought To Be Put

Into Possession Of Such Stuff. I Am Rather Sorry; I Like Petronius--The

Poetical Fragments,  I Mean; They Make Me Regret That I Was Not Born

Under The Roman Empire. People Are Leaving," He Added. "I Have Said

Good-Bye To About Fifty. I Shall Be Able To Get A Drink Soon."

 

"So You Were Born Out Of Time And Out Of Place,  Like Many Of Us,"

Laughed The Bishop.

 

Count Caloveglia Said:

 

"It Is An Academic Problem,  And Therefore A Problem Which Does Not

Exist For Me,  And Therefore A Problem Dear To Your Own Metaphysical

Heart,  To Enquire Whether A Man Is Ever Born At An Inopportune Moment.

We Use The Phrase. If We Took Thought We Would Discard It. For What Is

The Truth Of The Matter? The Truth Is That A Man,  Of Whom We Say This,

Is Born At Exactly The Right Moment; That Those With Whose Customs And

Aspirations He Seems To Be In Discord Have Urgent Need Of Him At That

Particular Time. No Great Man Is Ever Born Too Soon Or Too Late. When

We Say That The Time Is Not Ripe For This Or That Celebrity,  We Confess

By Implication That This Very Man,  And No Other,  Is Required. Was

Giordano Bruno,  Or Edgar Poe,  Born Out Of Time? Surely No Generation

Needed Them More Imperiously Than Their Own. Only Fools Are Born Out Of

Time. And Yet--No; Not Even They. For Where Should We Be Without Them?"

 

He Smiles Suavely,  As Though Some Pleasant Thought Was Passing Through

His Mind.

 

"At Any Rate A Good Many People Die Too Soon Or Too Late," Said Mr.

Edgar Marten Who,  After Doing Full Justice To The Food And Drinks,  Had

Suddenly Appeared On The Scene. "Often Too Late," He Added.

 

Keith,  Despite His Professions Of Sanity And Reason,  Had An

Inexplicable,  Invincible Horror Of Death; He Quailed At The Mere

Mention Of The Black Phantom. The Subject Being Not At All To His

Taste,  He Promptly Remarked:

 

"The Scholar Grosseteste Was Unquestionably Born Too Soon. And I Know

One Man Who Is Born Too Late. Who? Yourself,  Count. You Were Made For

The Periclean Epoch."

 

"Thank You," Said That Gentleman With A Gracious Wave Of His Hand. "But

Forgive Me For Disagreeing With You. Had I Lived In That Age,  I Should

Be Lacking In Reverence For What It Accomplished. I Should Be Too Near

To Its Life; Unable,  As You Say,  To See The Forest For The Trees. I

Should Be Like Thucydides,  A Most Sensible Person Who,  If I Recollect

Aright,  Barely Mentions Ictinus And The Rest Of Them. How Came It

About? This Admirable Writer Imagined They Were Building A Temple For

Greece; He Lacked The Interval Of Centuries Which Has Allowed Mankind

To See Their Work In Its True Perspective. He Possessed Traditional

Moral Standards Whereby To Judge The Actions Of Historical

Contemporaries; He Could Praise Or Blame His Politicians With A Good

Conscience. For The Parthenon Creators He Had No Sure Norm. The

Standards Were Not Yet Evolved. Pheidias Was A Talented

Fellow-Citizen--A Hewer In Stone By Profession: What Could He Know Of

The Relations Of Pheidias To Posterity? Great Things Can Only Be Seen

At A Proper Distance. Pheidias,  To Him,  May Have Been Little More Than

An Amateur,  Struggling With Brute Material In The Infancy Of His Trade

Or Calling. No,  My Friend! I Am Glad Not To Be Coeval With Pericles. I

Am Glad To Recognize Hellenic Achievements At Their True Worth. I Am

Glad To Profit By That Wedge Of Time Which Has Enabled Me To Reverence

Things Fair And Eternal."

 

"Things Fair And Eternal," Echoed Keith,  Who Was Getting Too Thirsty

And Restless To Discuss Art-Matters. "Come With Me! I Will Show You

Things Fair And Eternal."

 

He Led The Way To A Distant Arbour,  Overhung With A Canopy Of Blood-Red

Passion-Flowers And Girt About By Design Dangled From The Clustering

Foliage In Its Roof. Within,  Directly Under The Beams,  All By Itself,

On An Upright Chair Beside A Small Table,  Sat An Incongruous,

Startling,  Awe-Inspiring Apparition--A Grimy Old Man Of Mongolian

Aspect. He Might Have Been Frozen To Stone,  So Immobile,  So Lifeless

Were His Features. Belated Visitors Passed Near The Entrance Of The

Shrine,  Peered Within As At Some Outlandish And Sinister Freak Of

Nature,  And Moved On With Jocular Words. Nobody Ventured To Overstep

The Threshold,  Whether From Religious Fear Or Because Of Something

Repellent,  Something Almost Putrescent,  Which Radiated From His Person.

A Contingent Of Little White Cows,  A Kind Of Bodyguard,  Stood At A

Respectful Distance Beyond,  Intent Upon His Every Movement. The Master

Never Stirred. He Sat There To Be Looked At--Accustomed To Homage Almost

Divine; Beatifically Inane. Like The Christians Of Old,  He Wore No Hat.

The Head Was Nearly Bald. A Long Cloak,  Glistening With Grease Stains,

Swathed His Limbs And Portly Belly,  On Which One Suspected

Multitudinous Wrinkles Of Fat. Two Filmy Lidless Eyes,  Bulging On A

Level With His Forehead,  Stared Into Vacuity; His Snub Nose Grew Out Of

A Flattened Face Whose Pallor Was Accentuated By The Reflection Of The

Glittering Leaves--It Looked Faded And Sodden,  Like Blotting-Paper That

Has Been Left Out All Night In The Rain. Sporadic Greenish-Grey Hairs

Were Scattered About His Chin. The Mouth Was Agape.

 

On Mr. Keith's Appearance He Made No Sign Of Recognition. Presently,

However,  His Lips Seemed To Get Out Of Control. They Moved; They Began

To Chatter And To Mumble,  In Childish Fashion,  The Inarticulate

Yearnings Of Eld. Keith Said,  As Though Displaying Some Museum

Curiosity:

 

"Mine Is The Only House On Nepenthe Which The Master Still Deigns To

Enter. I'm Afraid He Has Grown Very Groggy On His Pins Of Late; If He

Sat On Any By A Straight-Backed Chair They Would Never Get Him Up

Again. To Think That Was Once A Pretty Little Boy . . . Poor Old

Fellow! I Know What He Wants. They've Been Neglecting Him,  Those Young

Idiots."

 

He Departed,  And Soon Returned With A Tumbler Full Of Raw Whisky Which

He Placed On The Table Within Reach Of The Arm. A Flaccid,

Unwholesome-Looking Hand Was Raised Slowly,  In A Kind Of Deprecatory

Gesture; Then Allowed To Fall Again Upon The Belly Where It Lay,  With

The Five Fingers,  Round And Chalky-White,  Extended Like The Rays Of A

Starfish. Nothing More Happened.

 

"We Must Go Away For A While," Said Keith,  "Or Else He Won't Touch It.

He Does Not Object To Alcohol,  You Know. Whisky Has Not Come Out Of A

Warm-Blooded Beast. But It's Going Into One. A Kind Of Asiatic

Socrates,  Don't You Think?"

 

"A Buddha," Suggested The Count. "A Buddha In Second-Rate Alabaster. A

Chinese Buddha Of A Bad,  Realistic Period."

 

"It's Odd," Remarked Mr. Heard. "He Reminds Me Of A Dead Fish.

Something Ancient And Fishlike--It's That Mouth--"

 

"He's A Beauty!" Interrupted Edgar Marten,  Sniffing With Disgust. "Eyes

Like A Boiled Haddock. And That Thing Has The Cheek To Call Itself A

Messiah. Thank God I'm A Jew; It's Not Business Of Mine. But If I Were

A Christian,  I'd Bash His Blooming Head In. Damned If I Wouldn't. The

Frowsy,  Fetid,  Flow-Blown Fraud. Or What's The Matter With The Dog's

Home?"

 

"Come,  Come," Said Mr. Heard,  Who Had Taken Rather A Liking To This

Violent Youngster And Was Feeling More Than Usually Indulgent That

Evening. "Come! He Can't Help His Face,  I Fancy. Have You No Room In

Your Heart For An Original? And Don't You Think--Quite Apart From

Questions Of Religion--That We Tourists Ought To Be Grateful To These

People For Diversifying The Landscape With Their Picturesque Red

Blouses And Things?"

 

"I Have No Eye For Landscape,  Mr. Heard,  Save In So Far As It Indicates

Strata And Faults And Other Geological Points. The Picturesque Don't

Interest Me. I Am Full Of Old Testamentary Strains; I Can't Help

Looking At Men From The Ethical Point Of View. And What Have People's

Clothes To Do With Their Religion? He Can't Help His Face,  You Say.

Well,  If He Can't Help That Greasy Old Mackintosh,  I'll Eat My Hat.

Can't A Fellow Be A Messiah Without Sporting A Pink Shirt Or Fancy

Dressing-Gown Or Blue Pyjamas Or Something? But There You Are! I Defy

You To Name Me A Single-Barrelled Crank. If A Man Is