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

Chapter 17

 

Decidedly,  Things Were Happening,  As Mr. Heard Would Have Said.

 

Strange To Say That Gentleman Himself Was Probably The Only Person On

Nepenthe Who Still Remained In Ignorance Of All These Praeternatural

Occurrences. In The Early Morning,  After Admiring The Sea Overhung By A

Cloudless Sky And Once More Thanking The Duchess In His Heart For Such

A Delightful Residence When He Might Have Been Boxed Up In Some Stuffy

Hotel Bedroom,  He Descended To The Beach For His Morning Bathe. Such

Was His Custom. The Swim Did Him Good,  It Freshened Him Up.

 

Then Back To Breakfast And A Busy Morning's Work,  To Settle Up Arrears

Of Correspondence. He Wrote To Various Friends In England; He Wrote A

Long Letter--The Third Since His Arrival--To His Mother,  Telling Her Of

All Such Things As Might Interest Her; A Nice Gossipy Letter,  Full Of

Information About The Entertainments Of The Foreigners On Nepenthe,

About The Obliging Natives,  The Russian Colony,  The Persistent Sirocco,

His Own Domestic Life,  His Improved Health. Much As He Liked The Place

And People,  He Said,  He Expected To Be Leaving In A Week Or So. He

Concluded With Two Pages Describing His Last Visit To His Cousin. She

Was Rather Poorly Or Troubled In Mind,  He Thought; He Would See Her

Again Ere Long.

 

And That Reminded Him--He Would Write To Mrs. Meadows As Well. He Did

So,  Enquiring After Her Health,  Asking Whether He Could Be Of Any

Assistance,  And Promising To Call Again Shortly. "Rather A Formal

Epistle," He Concluded,  On Reading It Through. He Was Unable To Force

The Note: He Could Never Write Or Talk Otherwise Than He Felt,  And This

Cousin,  After All,  Was Rather Remote,  Self-Centred,  And Difficult Of

Comprehension. "It Must Go As It Is," He Decided. "To Be Quite Frank,

She's Not Exactly Encouraging Either. Asks Such Queer Questions. What

On Earth Did She Mean By That Conundrum About Illegitimacy,  I Wonder?"

 

Then Luncheon; Then A Long Sleep Till Tea-Time. Everyone Slept At This

Hour During The Days Of Sirocco-Heat. What Else Was There To Do? He Had

Already Learned To Look Forward To That Calm Post-Prandial Hour Of

Slumber. One Owes Something To Oneself,  N'est Ce Pas? As Muhlen Had

Said.

 

On Waking He Bethought Him Of An Invitation To Tea With Madame

Steynlin. He Would Have Listened Gladly To Her Music And Her

Instructive And Charitable Talk About Nepenthe And Its Inhabitants. But

He Was Afraid Of Meeting Russians There. The Lady Seemed To Be

Specializing In Muscovites Just Then,  And Mr. Heard Was Not In The

Russian Mood. He Would Take What He Called "A Day Off" From Social

Duties.

 

Slipping His Field Glasses Into His Pocket,  He Rambled Upwards By Now

Familiar Paths,  Past White Farmhouses Nestling In A Riot Of Greenery;

Till He Reached The Barer Regions. The Vines Were More Sparsely

Cultivated Here,  And Soon All Trace Of Human Handcraft Was At An End.

He Found Himself On A Little Plateau Of Volcanic Cinders And

Lava-Blocks. The Spare Grasses And Flowers That Grew Between Fuliginous

Masses Of Stone Were Already Losing Their Bright Enamel Under The

Withering Heat; A Peculiar Odour,  Acrid But Stimulating To The

Nostrils,  Rose From The Parched Ground. Here He Rested Awhile. He

Scanned The Landscape Through His Glasses--A Wine-Coloured Sea At His

Feet,  Flecked With Sailing Boats Innumerable; Confronting Him From The

Volcano Whose Playful Antics Were Even Then Attracting The Attention Of

A Crowded Piazza. And His Eye Roved Along The Serrated Contours Of The

Mainland,  Its Undulating Shore-Line,  Its Distant Peaks Throbbing In The

Sunset Glow; They Rested Upon Many Villages,  Coral-Tinted Specks Of

Light,  So Far Away They Seemed To Belong To Another World. It Was A

Pleasure To Breathe On These Aerial Heights,  Surrounded By Sky And Sea;

To Survey The World As A Bird Might Survey It. Like Floating In Air. .

. .

 

He Sat And Smoked And Pondered. He Tried To Get Himself Into

Perspective. "I Must Straighten Myself Out," He Thought. Assuredly It

Was A Restful Place,  This Nepenthe,  Abounding In Kindly People; His

Affection For It Grew With Every Day. Rest Without; But Where Was That

Old Rest Within,  That Sense Of Plain Tasks Plainly To Be Performed,  Of

Tangible Duty? Whither Had It Gone? Alien Influences Were At Work Upon

Him. Something New Had Insinuated Itself Into His Blood,  Some Demon Of

Doubt And Disquiet Which Threatened His Old-Established Conceptions.

Whence Came It? The Effect Of Changed Environment--New Friends,  New

Food,  New Habits? The Unaccustomed Leisure Which Gave Him,  For The

First Time,  A Chance Of Thinking About Non-Professional Matters? The

South Wind Acting On His Still Weakened Health? All These Together? Or

Had He Reached An Epoch In His Development,  The Termination Of One Of

Those Definite Life--Periods When All Men Worthy Of The Name Pass

Through Some Cleansing Process Of Spiritual Desquamation,  And Slip

Their Outworn Weeds Of Thought And Feeling?

 

Whatever It Was He Seemed To Be No Longer His Own Master,  As In Former

Days. Fate Had Caused His Feet To Stray Towards Something New--Something

Alarming. He Was Poised,  As It Were,  On The Brink Of A Gulf. Or Rather,

It Was As If That Old Mind Of His,  Like A Boat Sailing Hitherto Briskly

Before The Wind,  Had Suddenly Encountered A Bank Of Calm,  Of Utter And

Ominous Calm; It Was A Thing Spell-Bound; A Toy Of Circumstances Beyond

Human Control. The Canvas Hung In The Stagnant Air. From Which Quarter

Would The Quickening Breeze Arrive? Whither Would It Bring Him?

 

And His Glance Fell Upon A Slender Coquettish Vessel,  A New-Comer,

Lying In The Sunny Harbour Under The Cliff. He Knew It From Hearsay. It

Was The Flutterby,  Van Koppen's Yacht. He Recollected All He Had Ever

Heard About The Millionaire; He Tried To Conjure Up Some Idea Of His

Features And Habits From Gossip Overheard At Odd Moments.

 

This Man,  He Concluded,  Must Be Intelligent Beyond Ordinary Standards.

It Would Be Worth While Making His Acquaintance. America Is Notoriously

The Land Of Youthful Precocity. But It Is Not Every American Who,  As A

Stripling Of Fourteen Summers,  Puzzling In Callow Boyish Perplexity

Upon The Thousand Ills That Afflict Mankind And Burning With Desire For

Their Betterment,  Makes A Discovery In Malthusian Methods Destined To

Convulse The Trade And The Social Life Of A Continent. Not Everybody Is

Like Young Koppen--He Attached A Van To His Name On Reaching His

Seventy-Fifth Million--Who,  Possessed At That Time Of Barely Three

Dollars In The World And Not Even The Shadow Of A Moustache,  Had Both

The Wit To Realize The Hygienic Importance Of A Certain Type Of Goods

And The Pertinacity To Insist On Cheapening Their Price,  In The

Interest Of Public Health,  To Such An Extent That--To Quote From

Subsequent Advertisements--They Should Be "Within Reach Of The Humblest

Home." It Is Not Everybody--No,  Not Every American--Who,  After

Revolutionizing The Technique Of Manufacture And Shattering The Paris

Monopoly,  Dares Boldly To Advertise The Improved Article Across The

Length And Breadth Of The Land,  And To Thrust His Commodity Upon A

Reluctant Market In The Teeth Of Popular Prejudice And Commercial

Rivalry. Van Koppen Had Done All This. And It Was Noted That He Had

Done It Without Ever For A Moment Losing Sight Of His Dual

Aim--Mercantile And Philanthropic; For If He Was A Humanitarian By

Natural Disposition,  He Became What He Called "A Tradesman By Force Of

Circumstance"--And Not A Bad Tradesman,  Either. He Had Done All This And

More. Unlike Most Self-Made Men Who Remain Yoked Like Oxen To Their

Sordid Affairs (In Harness,  They Aptly Call It) He Had Been Shrewd

Enough To Retire From Business In The Heyday Of His Age,  On A

Relatively Modest Competence Of Fifteen Million Dollars A Year. He Was

Spending His Time At Present In The Gratification Of Personal Whims,

And Leaving The Remaining Millions To Be Picked Up By Whoever Cared To

Take The Trouble. Manifestly An Unusual Type Of Millionaire--This Man

Who Had Lived Down Half A Century Of Obloquy And Was Now Hailed,  In

Well-Informed Circles,  As The Saviour Of His Country.

 

Nor Was This All. Van Koppen Was Described As A Brisk,  Genial,

Talkative Old Fellow,  Rather Fat,  With A Clear Complexion,  Sound Teeth,

Shrubby Grey Beard,  A Twang Barely Sufficient To Authenticate His

Transatlantic Descent,  And The Digestion Of A Boa-Constrictor. He Was

Tremendously Fond Of Buttered Tea-Cakes--So The Duchess Said; A Man Who,

In The Words Of Madame Steynlin,  "Really Appreciated Good Music" And

Who,  As The Parroco Never Ceased To Declare,  Could Be Relied On To Give

A Handsome Contribution Towards The Funds For Supporting The Poor And

Repairing A Decrepit Parish Organ. (The Parish Poor Were Never In Such

Dire Distress,  The Parish Organ Never So Hopelessly Deranged,  As During

That Annual Week When The Flutterby Rode At Anchor.)

 

In Fact There Was No Doubt About It: Van Koppen Had The Gifts Of Making

Himself Beloved. But Nobody's Company Was More Markedly To His Taste

Than That Of Count Caloveglia. The Two Old Men Spent Hours Together In

Caloveglia's Shady Courtyard,  Eating Candied Fruits,  Sipping Home-Made

Liqueurs Of Peaches Or Mountain-Herbs And Talking--Ever Talking. Between

Them There Existed Some Strong And Strange Bond Of Friendship Or

Interest. Speculation Was Rife As To Its Origin,  Its Meaning,  Its End.

 

What Was All The Talk About?

 

Andrea,  The Devoted Retainer,  However Artfully Approached On The

Subject,  Was Ambiguous To A Distressing Degree. It Was Understood,  None

The Less,  That Count Caloveglia Was Perhaps Of Use To The Other In The

Accumulation Of Classical Relics Which--The Italian Government

Forbidding The Export Of Antique Works Of Art--Were Smuggled At

Night-Time On Board The Flutterby To Be Incorporated In A Magnificent

Museum Somewhere Out West,  A Museum Which Was Destined To Be Presented

By Van Koppen As A Gift To The Great American People. Again,  It Might

Be Inferred That These Two Elderly Gentlemen,  Choice Representatives Of

Two Conflicting Civilizations,  Widely Experienced And Profoundly

Versed,  Each In His Own Way,  In The Knowledge Of Mankind,  Took A

Sincere And Childlike Pleasure In One Another's Society,  Going Over

Past Times And Anxious,  To The Very End Of Life,  To Add Something Fresh

To Their Store Of Learning.

 

Both These Explanations Were Sufficiently Plausible To Be Straightway

Dismissed By The Majority As Inadequate To Account For The Phenomenon.

They Inclined,  Rather,  To Adopt An Alternative And Alluring Theory

Propounded By The Commissioner's Lady. This Theory Laid It Down That

The American Was Bargaining For The Count's Daughter,  A Pretty Girl

Whom The Old Ruffian Had Shut Up In A Convent Somewhere In Anticipation

Of The Day When A Purchaser,  Rich Enough To Content His Inordinate Lust

For Gold,  Should Present Himself. Van Koppen Was That Purchaser. They

Had Now Been Haggling,  She Said,  For Two Or Three Years; A Denouement

Might Be Expected At Any Moment. If The Count's Avarice Could Be

Appeased The Unhappy Child Might Expect To Find Herself,  With As Little

Delay As Possible,  An Inmate Of The Floating Harem On Board The

Flutterby.

 

No Visitor Was Safe From Her Lively Tongue,  And Alas,  Certain Little

Details,  Insignificant In Themselves,  Gave Ground For The Ungenerous

Hypothesis That Van Koppen,  Like All The Rest Of Them,  Had A Cloven

Hoof. There Was The Usual "Dark Side" To This Otherwise Charming And

Profitable Stranger,  The Usual Mystery,  The Usual Fly In The Ointment.

In The First Place It Was A Singular Fact,  Much Commented On,  That

Nobody Had Ever Been Invited On Board The Yacht. That Alone Was

Suspicious. If You Want To Get Anything Out Of Old Koppen--So Ran A

Local Saying--Don't Propose A Visit To The Flutterby. More Curious Still

Was The Circumstance That Nobody,  Save The Owner And Certain Bearded

Venerables Of The Crew,  Had Ever Been Known To Land On The Island. How

About The Other Passengers? Who Were They? The Millionaire Never So

Much As Mentioned Their Existence. It Was Surmised,  Accordingly,  That

He Voyaged Over The Seas With A Bevy Of Light-Hearted Nymphs; A

Disreputable Mode Of Conduct For A Man Of His Advanced Years,  And All

The More Aggravating To Other People Since,  Like A Crafty And Jealous

Old Sultan,  He Screened Them From Public View. Impropriety Could Be

Overlooked--It Could Pass,  Where A Millionaire Was Concerned,  Under The

Heading Of Unconventionality; But Such Glaring Selfishness Might End In

Being Fatal To His Reputation.

 

Confirmatory Evidence Of This Scandalous State Of Affairs Was Obtained,

One Sunny Morning,  In The Most Unexpected Fashion. A Fisherman Named

Luigi,  Paddling About The Stern Of The Flutterby Where,  In Consequence

Of The Kitchen Refuse Thrown Overboard,  Marine Beasts Of Every Shape

And Kind Were Wont To Congregate,  Cast Down His Spear At What Looked

Like A Splendid Caerulean Flat-Fish Of Uncommon Size And Brilliance.

The