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

Chapter 15

 

 

 

 

Nothing Was Happening. For The First Time Since Many Years,  The

Nepenthe Season Threatened To Be A Failure. It Was The Dullest Spring

On Record. And Yet There Was A Quality In That Heavy Atmosphere Which

Seemed To Threaten Mischief. Everybody Agreed That It Had Never Been

Quite So Bad As This. Meanwhile,  People Yawned. They Were Bored Stiff.

As A Source Of Gossip,  Those Two Burglaries Were A Negligible Quantity.

So Was The Little Accident Which Had Just Happened To Mr. Keith,  Who

Ruefully Declared He Had Done It On Purpose,  In Order To Liven Things

Up. No One Was Likely To Be Taken In By This Kind Of Talk,  Because The

Accident Was Of An Inglorious And Even Ludicrous Kind.

 

Being Very Short-Sighted He Had Managed To Stumble Backwards,  Somehow

Or Other,  Into A Large Receptacle Of Lime Which Was Being Slaked For

Patching Up A Wall. Lime,  In That Condition,  Is Boiling Hot. Mr.

Keith's Trousers Were Rather Badly Scalded. He Was Sensitive On That

Point. He Suffered A Good Deal. People Came To Express Their Sympathy.

The Pain Made Him More Tedious,  Long-Winded And Exhortatory Than Usual.

At That Particular Moment Denis Was Being Victimized. He Had

Thoughtlessly Called To Express His Sympathy,  To See Those Celebrated

Cannas,  And Because He Could Not Bear To Be Alone With His Thoughts

Just Then.

 

"Suffering!" Exclaimed Mr. Keith. "That Is What You Young Poets Want.

At Present You Are Too Unperplexed And Glib. Suffering! It Would

Enlarge Your Repertoire; It Would Make You More Human,  Individual,  And

Truthful. What Is The Unforgivable Sin In Poetry? Lack Of Candour. How

Shall There Be Candour If The Poet Lacks Worldly Experience? Suffering!

That Is What You People Want. It Would Make Men Of You."

 

Mr. Keith Was Considerably Denser Than Count Caloveglia. But Even He,

During This Oration,  Could Not Help Noticing That It Jarred On His

Listener's Nerves; There Was Something Wrong,  He Concluded.

 

Denis Had Not A Word To Say In Reply. As If Anyone Could Be More

Suffering Than Himself! He Was Full Of A Dumb Ache. He Marvelled At

Keith's Obtuseness.

 

"Come And See My Cannas," Said The Other With A Kind Of Brutal

Tactfulness. "There Is A Curious Story Attached To Them. I Must Tell It

To You One Of These Days. It Sounds Like A Fairy Tale. You Like Fairy

Tales?"

 

"I Do," Replied Denis.

 

"Then We Have One Point In Common. I Could Listen To Them For Hours.

There Is Something Eternal About Them. If You Ever Want To Get Anything

Out Of Me,  Denis,  Tell Me A Fairy Tale."

 

"I Must Remember That," Replied Denis With A Wan Smile. "There Is One

Thing I Should Very Much Like To Get Out Of You; The Secret Of Your

Zest In Life. You Have So Many Interests. How Do You Manage It?"

 

"Heredity,  I Suppose. It Has Given Me A Kind Of Violent Driving Power.

I Take Things By The Throat. Have You Ever Heard Of Thomas Keith,  A

Soldier In A Highland Regiment,  Who Became Governor Of The Holy City Of

Medina? No,  I Suppose You Have Not. And Yet He Must Have Been A

Remarkable Man,  To Obtain This Unique Position In The World. No

Interest In Arabian History? Why Not? Well,  Thomas Keith--That Is My

Stock. Pirates And Adventurers. Of Course I Live Sensibly. Shall I Give

You My Recipe For Happiness? I Find Everything Useful And Nothing

Indispensable. I Find Everything Wonderful And Nothing Miraculous. I

Reverence The Body. I Avoid First Causes Like The Plague. You Will Find

That A Pretty Good Recipe,  Denis."

 

The Young Man Wondered Whether The Prescription Would Be Of Any Avail

For His Particular Complaint.

 

Then They Went Into The Garden,  Mr. Keith Hobbling Painfully With Two

Sticks And Indulging In Very Bad Language. They Paused Awhile Under

Some Trellis Work Covered With A Profusion Of Japanese Convolvuluses,

Pale Blue,  Slate Colour,  Rose-Tinted,  Purple,  Deep Red,  With White And

Coloured Bands,  A Marvellous Display Of Fragile Beauty.

 

"I Have Never Seen Anything Like It!" Declared Denis.

 

"They Die Away In Winter. I Get Fresh Seeds Every Year From Japan,  The

Latest Varieties. How They Cling For Support To The Wooden Framework!

How Delicate And Fair! One Hardly Dares To Touch Them. Are You Always

Going To Be A Convolvulus,  Denis?"

 

"Me? Oh,  I See What You Mean. Were You Never A Convolvulus,  Mr. Keith?"

 

His Friend Laughed.

 

"It Must Have Been A Good While Ago. You Don't Like Advice,  Do You?

Have You Ever Heard Of That Sparker Affair?"

 

"You Don't Mean To Say--"

 

"Yes. That Was Me. That Was My Little Contribution To The Gaiety Of

University Life. So You See I Am In The Position To Give Advice To

People Like Yourself. I Think You Should Cultivate The Function Of The

Real,  And Try To Remain In Contact With Phenomena. Noumena Are Bad For

A Youngster. But Perhaps You Are Not Interested In Psychology?"

 

"Not Exactly,  I'm Afraid," Replied Denis,  Who Was More Anxious To See

Those Cannas.

 

"So I Perceive. Wouldn't You Get More Fun Out Of Life If You Were? I Am

Nearly Done With Psychology Now," He Added. "It Was The Greek

Philosophers Before Then. When I Take Up A Subject This Is What I Do. I

Don't Ask What Are Aristotle's Teachings Or Relations To His Age Or To

Humanity. That Would Lead Me Too Far. I Ask Myself: What Has This

Fellow Got To Say To Me? To Me,  You Understand. To Me."

 

"That Must Simplify Matters."

 

"It Does," Replied Keith,  Quite Unaware Of The Faint Tinge Of College

Irony In The Other's Words. "Direct Experience Comes Only From Life.

But You Can Get A Kind Of Substitute Out Of Books. Perhaps You Are

Afraid Of Them? Take The Fellows By The Throat! See What They Have To

Say. Make Them Disgorge. Get At Their Facts. Pull Them To Pieces. I

Tell You What,  Denis. You Must Go Through A Course Of Samuel Butler.

You Are Moving In The Same Direction; Perhaps He May Be A Warning To

You. I Took Him Up,  I Remember,  During My Biological Period. He Was

Exactly Like Yourself--Bewildered By Phenomena."

 

Denis,  Meekly Resigned,  Enquired:

 

"Was He?"

 

"I Spent Nearly A Week Over Butler. I Found Him Interesting Not For

What He Writes,  But For What He Is. A Landmark. Think Of When He Wrote.

It Was An Age Of Giants--Darwin And The Rest Of Them. Their Facts Were

Too Much For Him; They Impinged On Some Obscure Old Prejudices Of His.

They Drove Him Into A Clever Perversity Of Humour. They Account For His

Cat-Like Touches,  His Contrariness,  His Fondness For Scoring Off

Everybody From The Deity Downwards,  His Premeditated

Irresponsibilities,  His--"

 

"Did He Not Prove That The Odyssey Was Written By A Woman?"

 

"He Did. Anything To Escape From Realities--That Was His Maxim. He

Puzzled His Contemporaries. But We Can Now Locate Him With Absolute

Certainty. He Personifies The Revolt From Reason. Surtout,  Mon Ami,

Point De Zele. He Talks About The Scylla Of Atheism And The Charybdis

Of Christianity--A State Of Mind Which,  By The Way,  Is Not Conducive To

Bold Navigation. He Was Always Wavering Between The Two In An Attitude

Of Suburban Defiance,  Reconciling What Is Irreconcilable By Extracting

Funny Analogies All Round For The Edification Of "Nice People" Like

Himself. Oh,  Very English! He Did Not Lack Candour Or Intelligence. Nor

Do You. He Understood The Teachings Of The Giants. So Do You. But They

Irked Him. To Revenge Himself He Laid Penny Crackers Under Their

Pedestals. His Whole Intellectual Fortune Was Spent In Buying Penny

Crackers. There Was Something Cheeky And Pre-Adolescent About Him--A

Kind Of Virginal Ferocity. That Iridescent Charm Of Sexlessness Which

Somebody,  One Of These Days,  Must Be Good Enough To Analyse For Us! He

Lacked The Male Attributes Of Humility,  Reverence And Sense Of

Proportion."

 

Mr. Keith Paused,  But It Was Only To Take Breath.

 

"Did He?" Enquired Denis. "The Sense Of Proportion--"

 

"The Tail Of A Cow Was Just As Important To Him As The Tail Of A Comet;

More Important,  If It Could Be Turned Into A Joke. Look At The Back Of

His Mind And You Will Always See The Same Thing: Horror Of A Fact. That

Is What Lies Before You,  Denis,  If,  In A World Of Facts,  You Refuse To

Assimilate Them. They Will Disagree With You,  As They Disagreed With

Butler. They Will Drive You Where They Drove Him--Into Abstractions.

Others Went The Same Way. The Painter Watts,  For Instance. He Also

Suffered Under The Reign Of Giants. He Also Took Refuge In

Abstractions. Faith Leading Hope Towards Despair. Why Don't You Write A

Book About These Things,  Denis?"

 

"I Am Going To Be An Artist."

 

"An Artist? That Is Better Than A Poet. Verse-Making Is A Little Out Of

Date,  Is It Not? It Corresponds To Juvenile Stages Of Human

Development. Poets Are A Case Of Genepistasis. If They Would At Least

Get A New Stock Of Ideas! Their Demonology Is So Hopelessly Threadbare.

But Why An Artist? I Think You Were Made For A Bank Manager,  Denis.

Don't Look So Surprised. Everybody Grows Up,  You Know. Shelley,  If He

Had Lived Long Enough,  Would Have Become A Passable Gentleman Farmer.

You Can Take My Word For That."

 

"I Suppose I Shall Have To," Replied The Young Man.

 

"Don't Take Mr. Keith's Word For Anything!" Said A Voice Behind His

Shoulder.

 

It Was Don Francesco,  Who Had Come Upon Them Unawares. He Now Removed

His Hat And Began To Mop His Forehead And Various Double Chins With A

Many-Tinted Handkerchief As Large As A Tablecloth.

 

"My Dear Don Francesco!" Said Keith. "You Always Interrupt Me In The

Middle Of My Sermons. What Shall We Do With You?"

 

"Give Me Something To Drink," Replied The Priest. "Else I Shall

Evaporate,  Leaving Nothing But A Grease Stain On This Beautiful Garden

Path."

 

"To Evaporate," Said Keith,  With A Tinge Of Sadness In His Voice. "What

An Ideal Resolution!"

 

"I'll Get Some Wine Out Of The House," Suggested Denis Politely. "But

First Of All Tell Me This. Mr. Keith Has Been Giving Me His Recipe For

Happiness. What Is Yours?"

 

"Happiness Is A Question Of Age. The Bachelor Of Forty--He Is The Happy

Man."

 

"That Does Not Help Me Much," Said Denis. "But I'll Get Your Wine,  All

The Same."

 

He Went.

 

"A Nice Young Fellow," Observed The Priest. "This Little Accident Of

Yours," He Continued,  "Does Not Reflect Itself On Your Face. You Always

Look Like A Baby,  Keith. What Is Your Secret? I Believe You Have

Concluded A Pact With The Devil For Your Soul."

 

"To Tell You The Truth,  Don Francesco,  He Never Made Me An Offer For

It."

 

"Sensible Devil! He Knows He Will Get It Sooner Or Later For Nothing."

 

They Conversed Awhile Till Denis Returned,  Bearing Sundry Bottles And

Glasses On A Tray. The Priest Smiled At The Sight. Light-Hearted

Allusions To Ganymede Rose To His Lips,  But Were Suppressed. He

Swallowed Down The Rising Inclination To Be Classical At The Expense Of

Good Taste,  And Engulfed,  On The Top Of It,  As A Kind Of Paperweight,  A

Vast Tumblerful Of Red Nepenthe Wine. The Draught Instead Of Cheering

Seemed To Make Him Suddenly Despondent. He Wiped His Lips And Remarked,

In A Grave And Almost Conscience-Stricken Manner:

 

"I Have Some Unpleasant News For You,  Gentlemen. The Fountain Of Saint

Elias Has Ceased To Flow. We Heard It This Morning From A Sailor,  An

Unusually Trustworthy Person--A Man,  I Mean,  Who Can Be Relied Upon To

Tell The Truth When There Is Nothing To Be Gained By Concealing Or

Distorting It. The Thing Must Have Happened Last Night. Yes,  It Has

Dried Up Altogether. What Is To Be Done?"

 

"You Don't Say So," Remarked Keith. "This Is Really Interesting! I

Thought Something Was Going To Happen. I Suppose Your People Are Rather

Alarmed?"

 

Denis Interrupted:

 

"I Don't Understand What You Are Talking About. Why Should Not A

Fountain Dry Up If It Wants To? And What Does It Matter To Anybody?"

 

"What Does It Matter?" Echoed The Priest. "This Is No Ordinary

Fountain,  I Am Sorry To Say. Have You Never Heard Of Beelzebub?"