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

Artfully Done To Death After Fiendish,  Lingering Agonies.

Father Capocchio,  Needless To Say,  Has Some Shocking Pages On This

Subject.

 

Mr. Eames,  Who Had Made A Careful Study Of Duke Alfred's Reign,  Came To

The Conclusion That Such Excesses Were Incompatible With The Character

Of A Ruler Whose Love Of Children Was One Of His Most Salient Traits.

In Regard To Those Other And Vaguer Accusations,  He Contended That The

Duke Was Too Jovial By Nature To Have Tortured Any Save Those Who,  In

His Opinion,  Thoroughly Deserved It. Indeed,  He Was Sceptical About The

Whole Thing. Monsignor Perrelli Might Have Told Us The Truth,  Had He

Cared To Do So. But,  For Reasons Which Will Appear Anon,  He Is

Remarkably Silent On All That Concerns The Reign Of His Great

Contemporary. He Says Nothing More Than This:

 

"His Highness Deigned,  During The Same Year,  To Restore,  And Put Into

Its Old Working Order,  The Decayed Heathen Rock-Chapel Vulgarly Known

As The Cave Of Mercury."

 

To Put Into Its Old Working Order; That Would Sound Rather Suspicious,

As Though To Contain A Veiled Accusation. We Must Remember,  However,

That The Historian Of Nepenthe Bore A Grudge Against His Prince (Of

Which Likewise More Anon),  A Grudge Which He Was Far Too Prudent To

Vent Openly; So Bitter And Personal A Grudge That He May Have Felt

Himself Justified In Making A Covert Innuendo Of This Kind Whenever He

Could Safely Risk It.

 

Meanwhile,  Everything Remained As Before--Shrouded In Mystery. Being

Doubly Haunted Now,  By The Duke's Victims And By Those Earlier Ones,

The Cave Fell Into Greater Neglect Than Ever. Simple Folk Avoided

Speaking Of The Place Save In A Hushed Whisper. It Became A Proverb

Among The Islanders When Speaking Of Something Outrageously Improbable:

"Don't Tell Me! Such Things Only Happen In The Cave Of Mercury." When

Someone Disappeared From His House Or Hotel Without Leaving Any Trace

Behind--It Happened Now And Then--Or When Anything Disreputable Happened

To Anyone,  They Always Said "Try The Cave," Or Simply "Try Mercury."

The Path Had Crumbled Away Long Ago. Nobody Went There,  Except In Broad

Daylight. It Was As Safe A Place As You Could Desire,  At Night-Time,

For A Murder Or A Love-Affair. Such Was The Cave Of Mercury.

 

Denis Had Gone To The Spot One Morning Not Long After His Arrival. He

Had Climbed Down The Slippery Stairs Through That Dank Couloir Or

Funnel In The Rock Overhung With Drooping Maidenhair And Ivy And

Umbrageous Carobs. He Had Rested On The Little Platform Outside The

Cavern's Vineyard Far Below,  And Upwards,  At The Narrow Ribbon Of Sky

Overhead. Then He Had Gone Within,  To Examine What Was Left Of The Old

Masonry,  The Phallic Column And Other Relics Of The Past. That Was Ten

Days Ago. Now He Meant To Follow Keith's Advice And Go There At

Midnight. The Moon Was Full.

 

"This Very Night I'll Go," He Thought.

 

All Was Not Well With Denis. And The Worst Of It Was,  He Had No Clear

Notion Of What Was The Matter. He Was Changing. The World Was Changing

Too. It Had Suddenly Expanded. He Felt That He,  Also,  Ought To Expand.

There Was So Much To Learn,  To See,  To Know--So Much,  That It Seemed To

Paralyse His Initiative. Could He Absorb All This? Would He Ever Get

Things In Order Once More,  And Recapture His Self-Possession? Would He

Ever Again Be Satisfied With Himself? It Was An Invasion Of His

Tranquillity,  From Within And Without. He Was Restless. Bright Ideas

Never Came To Him,  As Of Old; Or Else They Were The Ideas Of Other

People. A Miserable State Of Affairs! He Was Becoming An Automaton--An

Echo.

 

An Echo. . . . How Right Keith Had Been!

 

"It's Rotten," He Concluded. "I'm A Ludicrous Figure,  A Pathetic

Idiot."

 

The Novel Impressions Of Florence Had Helped In The Disintegration.

Nepenthe--It's Sunshine,  Its Relentless Paganism--Had Done The Rest. It

Shattered His Earlier Outlook And Gave Him Nothing In Exchange.

Nothing,  And Yet Everything. That Vision Of Angelina! It Filled His

Inner Being With Luxurious Content; Content And Uncertainty. It Was

There,  At The Back Of Every Dream,  Of Every Intimate Thought And Every

Little Worldly Phrase That He Uttered. He Was Like A Man Who,  Looking

Long At The Sun,  Sees Its Image Floating In Heaven,  On Earth--Wherever

He Casts His Eye. Angelina! Nothing Else Was Of Any Account. How Would

It All End? He Drifted Along In Blissful Apprehension Of What The Next

Day Might Bring. She Seemed To Have Become Genuinely Well-Disposed

Towards Him Of Late,  Though In Rather A Mocking,  Maternal Sort Of

Fashion.

 

The Poetic Vein Had Definitely Run Dry. Impossible To Make Things

Rhyme,  Somehow. Perhaps His Passion Was Too Strong For Technical

Restraints. He Tried His Hand At Prose:

 

"Your Eyes Bewilder Me. I Would Liken You To A Shaft Of Sunlight,  A

Withering Flame--A Black Flame,  If Such There Be--For Your Grace And

Ardour Is Even As A Flame. Your Step Is Laughter And Song. Your Hair Is

A Torrent Of Starless Night. The Sun Is Your Lover,  You God. He Takes

Joy In Your Perfection. Your Slender Body Palpitates With His

Imprisoned Beams. He Has Moulded Your Limbs And Kissed Your Smooth Skin

In The Days When You . . . Nevermore Will You Whiten Those Kisses. . . ."

 

"It Won't Do," He Sadly Reflected,  Laying Down The Pen. "The Adaptation

Is Too Palpable. Why Does Everybody Anticipate My Ideas? The Fact Is,  I

Have Nothing To Say. I Can Only Feel. Everything Went Right,  So Long As

I Was In Love With Myself. Now Everything Goes Wrong."

 

Then He Remembered Keith's Pompous Exhortation.

 

"Find Yourself! You Know The Cave Of Mercury! Climb Down,  One Night Of

Full Moon--"

 

"There Is Something In What He Says. This Very Night I'll Go."

 

It Was Particularly Hard For Him That Evening. The Duchess Was Dining

With A Party At Madame Steynlin's; It Was An Open Secret That The

Entertainment Would End In A Moonlight Excursion On The Water; She

Would Not Return Till Very Late. Angelina Would Be Alone,  Accessible.

It Was Her Duty To Guard The House In The Absence Of Its Mistress. He

Might Have Gone There On Some Pretext And Talked Awhile,  And Looked

Into Her Elvish Eyes And Listened To That Southern Voice,  Rich And

Clear As A Bell. Almost He Yielded. He Thought Of The Ineptitude Of The

Whole Undertaking And,  In Particular,  Of Those Slippery Stairs; One

Might Break One's Neck There At Such An Hour Of The Night. Unless One

Wore Tennis Shoes--

 

Well,  He Would Wear Them. He Would Resist The Temptation And Approve

Himself A Man. Everybody,  Even The Duchess,  Was Always Telling Him To

Be A Man. He Would Find Himself. Keith Was Right.

 

The Night Came.

 

He Descended Noiselessly Into The Cool And Dark Chasm,  Resting Awhile

On A Ledge About Half-Way Down,  To Drink In The Spirit Of The Place.

All Was Silent. Dim Masses Towered Overhead; Through Rifts In The Rocky

Fabric He Caught Glimmerings,  Strange And Yet Familiar,  Of The

Landscape Down Below. It Swam In The Milky Radiance Of A Full Moon

Whose Light Streamed Down From Some Undiscoverable Source Behind The

Mountain,  Suffusing The Distant Vineyards And Trees With A Ghostly

Tinge Of Green. Like Looking Into Another World,  He Though; A Poet's

World. Calmly It Lay There,  Full Of Splendour. How Well One Could

Understand,  In Such A Place,  The Glamour,  The Romance,  Of Night!

Romance. . . . What Was Left Of Life Without Romance? He Remembered His

Talk With Marten; He Thought Of The Scientists Crude Notions Of

Romance. He Pitied The Materialism Which Denied Him Joys Like These.

This Moonlit Landscape--How Full Of Suggestion! That Grotto Down

Below--What Tales It Could Unfold!

 

The Cave Of Mercury. . . .

 

How Had Mercury,  The Arch-Thief,  Come To Be Presiding Genius Here?

Denis Knew; His Friend Eames Had Explained Everything To Him. Mercury

Had Nothing Whatever To Do With The Site. That Name Had Been Proved By

The Bibliographer To Be The Invention Of Some Pedantic Monk Who Liked

To Display His Learning To A Generation Avid Of Antiquities,  A

Generation Which Insisted On Attaching A Roman Deity To Every Cavern.

It Was A Wilful Fabrication,  Made In The Infancy Of Archaeology When

Historical Criticism Was Non-Existent. And The Same With All Those

Stories About Human Sacrifices And Tortures. There Was Not A Word Of

Truth In Them. So Mr. Eames Had Decided,  After A Systematic

Investigation Of Both Of The Older Authorities And Of The Grotto

Itself. The Legends,  Too,  Were Simply Invented To Give A Zest To A

Locality Whose Original Antique Name Had Apparently Been Lost,  Though

He Had Not Yet Abandoned All Hope Of Stumbling Across It By One Of

Those Lucky Accidents Which Reward The Lover Of Old Parchments And

Title-Deeds. A Pure Invention. It Was Plain The Mr. Eames From What

Remained Of Ancient Symbols On The Spot,  That The Cave Had Been

Consecrated To Older And Worthier Rites--To Some Mysterious,  Primeval,

Fecund Mother Of Earth. Her Name,  Like That Of Her Habitation,  Had

Lapsed Into Oblivion.

 

"There Is Something Grand In This Old Animistic Conception," Eames Had

Said. "Later On,  Under The Romans,  The Place Seems To Have Been

Dedicated To Priapic Rites. That Is Rather A Depreciation,  Isn't It? It

Brings Us Down From Fruitfulness To Mere Lasciviousness. But Where Are

You Going To Draw The Line? Everything Tends To Lose Its Hallowed

Meaning; It Becomes Degraded,  Bestialized. Still,  The Roots Of The Idea

Are Sound. In Giving Sensual Attributes To A Garden God The Ancients

Had In Mind The Recklessness,  The Spendthrift Abundance,  Of All

Nature--Not Excluding Our Own. They Tried To Explain How It Came About

That The Sanest Man Is Liable,  Under The Stress Of Desire,  To Acts Of

Which He Vainly Repents At Leisure. I Don't Suppose They Meant To

Justify Those Acts. If They Had,  They Would Have Given A Less Equivocal

Position To Priapus In Their Celestial Hierarchy. Priapus,  You Know,

Was Not Wholly Divine. I Think They Only Wanted To Make It Quite Clear

That We Cannot Drive Out Nature With A Fork. I Wish We Could," He

Added.

 

And Then He Sighed. The Poor Fellow Was Thinking At That Moment,  Of

Balloons.

 

Denis Remembered This Conversation. Earth-Worship: The Cult Of Those

Generative Forces Which Weld Together In One Mighty Instinct The

Highest And Lowliest Of Terrestrial Creatures. . . . The Unalienable

Right Of Man And Beast To Enact That Which Shall Confound Death,  And

Replenish The Land With Youth,  And Joy,  And Teeming Life. The Right

Which Priestly Castes Of Every Age Have Striven To Repress,  Which

Triumphs Over Every Obstacle And Sanctifies,  By Its Fruits,  The Wildest

Impulses Of Man. The Right To Love!

 

Musing Thus,  He Began To Understand Why Men Of Old,  Who Looked Things

Squarely In The Face,  Should Have Deified This Friendly,  All-Compelling

Passion. He Reverenced The Fierce Necessity Which Drives The Living

World To Its Fairest And Sole Enduring Effort. Be Fruitful And

Multiply. He Recognized For The Firs Ttime That He Was Not A Lonely

Figure On Earth,  But Absorbed Into A Solemn And Eternal Movement; Bound

Close To The Throbbing Heart Of The Universe. There Was Grandeur,  There

Was Repose,  In Being Able To Regard Himself As An Integral Part Of

Nature,  Destined To Create And Leave His Mark. He Felt That He Was

Growing Into Harmony With Permanent Things--Finding Himself. He Realized

Now What Keith Had Meant.

 

It Cost Him Quite An Effort To Tear Himself Away From That Ledge. He

Began To Descend Once More.

 

Near The Entrance Of The Cave He Paused Abruptly. It Seemed As If A

Sound Had Issued From The Interior Of The Rock. He Listened. It Came

Again--A Human Sound,  Unquestionably,  And Within A Few Yards Of His

Face. A Whisper. There Was Something Going On--Earth-Worship. . . .

 

Suddenly A Succession Of Words Broke Upon The Stillness--Breathless

Words,  Spoken In A Language Which Not Everybody Could Have Translated.

He Recognized The Voice. It Said:

 

"Ego Te Amare Tantum! Non Volere? Non Piacere? Non Capire? O Lord,

Can't You Understand?"

 

It Was Mr. Marten's Voice. Mr. Marten Was Being Romantic. No Answer

Came To His Fervent Pleadings. Perhaps They Were Not Coherent Enough.

He Began Again,  Tremolo Agitato,  Con Molto Sentimento:

 

"O Ego Te Amare Tantum! Nemo Sapit Nihil. Duchessa In Barca Aquatica

Cum Magna Compania. Redibit Tardissimo. Niente Timor. Amare Multissimo!

Ego Morire Fine Te. Morire. Moriturus. Capito? Non Capire? Oh,  Capire

Be Blowed!"

 

There Was A Short Pause. The Language Seems To Have Been Understood

This Time. For,  Amid A Ripple Of Laughter,  A Rich Southern Voice Was

Heard To Say With A Sigh Of Mock Resignation:

 

"Sia Fatta La Volonta Di Dio!"

 

Then Silence. . . .

 

Denis Turned. He Walked Up The Steps As In A Dream,  Neither Slowly Nor

Fast. No One Was Ever More Unhappy,  Though He Scarcely Felt As Yet The

Depths Of His Own Humiliation. It Was More Like A Stab--A Numbing

Assassin-Like Stab. He Could Hear The Beatings Of