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

Creature Shivered And Collapsed At That Contact In The Most

Unnatural,  Unfishlike Manner; And Luigi Drew Up,  To His Amazement,  A

Fragment Of A Lady's Dress--To Wit,  A Short Length Of Sky-Blue Crepe De

Chine. Bitterly Disappointed,  He Nevertheless Took The Matter With The

Characteristic Southern Philosophy. "This Will Do For My Little

Annarella," He Decided. And Doubtless The Child,  Arrayed In These

Celestial Tints,  Would Have Been The Envy Of All Her Girl Companions At

The Next Festival Of The Patron Saint B For The Fact That Mr. Freddy

Parker Was Strolling On The Beach At The Very Moment Of The Man's

Return To Land. By A Rare Piece Of Good Luck,  As He Himself Phrased It,

His Eye Fell Upon The Dripping Fabric; By A Stroke Of Intuition Not

Rare But Unique,  He Divined Its Worth As A Sociological Document.

Promising The Man A Reasonable Sum Of Money (The Commissioner Happened

To Have No Loose Change In His Pocket Just Then) He Carried The

Incrimination Morsel In Triumph To The Residency,  Where It Was

Displayed By His Lady,  To All And Sundry,  In Corroboration Of Her

Theory.

 

"That Settles It," She Used To Say. "Unless Indeed He Dresses Up His

Cabin-Boy As A Girl,  And In That Case . . ."

 

Mr. Heard,  Reposing On The Rough Pumiceous Ground With His Eye Fixed

Upon The Naughty Flutterby Whose Virginal Whiteness,  With Declining

Day,  Had Assumed A Tell-Tale Crimson Blush,  Pieced Together These And

Sundry Other Little Bits Of Information. They Made Him More Than

Usually Thoughtful; They Chimed In With His Momentary Mood Of

Self-Analysis.

 

One Thing Was Dead Certain. To Circumnavigate The Globe In The Arms Of

A Dozen Chorus-Girls Was Not His Ideal. He Was Not Built On Those

Lines. He Purposed,  God Willing,  To Spend The Evening Of His Days In

Another And More Respectable Manner. A Vision Arose Before His

Imagination--A Vision Of A Peaceful Homestead Among The Green Lanes Of

England,  Where He Would Lead A Life Of Study And Of Kindly,

Unostentatious Acts,  With Family And Friends; Old Friends Of College

Days,  And London Days,  And African Days; New Friends From Among The

Rising Generation--Straightforward And Decent-Minded Youngsters,  Whom He

Would Take To His Heart Like A Father.

 

Why Could Not Van Koppen See The Beauty Of Such Dreamings?

 

And Yet,  He Argued,  If The Man Does Seclude Them In This

Fashion--Supposing They Really Exist--Who Can Blame Him? No Woman Is Safe

On Nepenthe With Persons Like Muhlen About. From Chance Meetings In The

Street,  From Stray Conversations Overheard,  He Had Been Led To Take An

Unreasoning Dislike To This Foreigner,  Whose Attitude Towards The

Gentle Sex Struck Him As That Of A Cur. Muhlen,  If The Yacht Were His,

Would Flaunt These Ladies About The Streets. The American,  In Keeping

Them Secluded On Board,  Betrayed A Sense Of Shame,  Almost Of Delicacy;

A Sense Of His Obligations Towards Society Which,  So Far As It Went,

Was Rather A Laudable Trait Of Character Than Otherwise.

 

And Then--The Difference Between Himself And The Millionaire In Life,

Training,  Antecedents! A Career Such As Van Koppen's Called For

Qualities Different,  Often Actually Antagonistic,  To His Own. You Could

Not Possibly Expect To Find In A Successful American Merchant Those

Features Which Go To Form A Successful English Ecclesiastic. Certain

Human Attributes Were Mutually Exclusive--Avarice And Generosity,  For

Instance; Others No Doubt Mysteriously But Inextricably Intertwined. A

Man Was An Individual; He Could Not Be Divided Or Taken To Pieces; He

Could Not Be Expected To Possess Virtues Incompatible With The Rest Of

His Mental Equipment,  However Desirable Such Virtues Might Be. Who

Knows? Van Koppen's Doubtful Acts Might Be An Unavoidable Expression Of

His Personality,  An Integral Part Of That Nature Under Whose Ferocious

Stimulus He Had Climbed To His Present Enviable Position. And Mr. Heard

Was Both Shocked And Amused To Reflect That But For The Co-Operation Of

Certain Coarse Organic Impulses To Which These Nepenthe Legends

Testified,  The Millionaire Might Never Have Been Able To Acquire The

Proud Title Of "Saviour Of His Country."

 

"That's Queer," He Mused. "It Never Struck Me Before. Shows How Careful

One Must Be. Dear Me! Perhaps The Ladies Have Inevitable Organic

Impulses Of A Corresponding Kind. Decidedly Queer. H'm. Ha. Now I

Wonder. . . . And Perhaps,  If The Truth Were Known,  These Young Persons

Are Having Quite A Good Time Of It--"

 

He Paused Abruptly In His Reflections. He Had Caught Himself In The

Act; In The Very Act Of Condoning Vice. Mr. Thomas Heard Was Seriously

Concerned.

 

Something Was Wrong,  He Concluded. He Would Never Have Argued On

Similar Lines A Short Time Ago. This Downright Sympathy With Sinners,

What Did It Portend? Did It Betray A Lapse From His Old-Established

Principles,  A Waning Of His Respect For Traditional Morality? Was He

Becoming A Sinner Himself?

 

Thomas--The Doubting Apostle. He Wondered Whether There Was Anything In

A Name.

 

Then He Called To Mind How He Had Approved--Yes,  Almost Approved--Of Don

Francesco's Deplorable Act Of Familiarity Towards The Little Serving

Maid. An Absurdly Small Matter,  But Symptomatic. Things Like That Had

Happened In Africa Lately. He Remembered Various Instances Where He Had

Intervened On Behalf Of The Natives,  Despite The Murmured Protests Of

The Missionaries. They Were Such Laughing,  Good-Natured Animals--So Fine

And Healthy! What Was It,  This Excessive Love Of Erring Humanity,  And

Whither Trending? Mr. Heard Began To Vex His Soul To Stray About In A

Maze Of Doubts. It Was So Miserably Complex,  This Old,  Old Problem Of

Right And Wrong; So Unreasonably Many-Sided. Anon,  He Pulled Himself

Together With Characteristic Bluntness.

 

"The Whole Question," He Concluded,  "Is Plain As A Pikestaff. Am I

Becoming More Of A Christian,  Or Less?"

 

As Though To Learn An Answer To His Riddle He Gazed Fro He Eyrie Over

The Wide Horizon,  Upon Leagues Of Sea Rising Upward To Blend Their

Essence,  Under The Magic Touch Of Evening,  With The Purple Dome

Overhead.

 

The Elements,  As Is Their Wont Upon Such Occasions,  Gave Forth No Clear

Reply.

 

None The Less,  While The Moist South Wind,  Shorn Of The Sting Of

Midday,  Relaxed His Pores And Passed Over His Cheek Like A Warm Caress,

There Exhaled From Those Limitless Spaces A Sense Of Joyous

Amplitude--Of Freedom And Exhilaration.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 18

 

 

 

 

And Now,  In The Sunlit Hour Of Dawn,  He Was Bathing Again. An Excellent

Habit. It Did Him Good,  This Physical Contact With Nature. Africa Had

Weakened His Constitution. Nepenthe Made Him Feel Younger Once

More--Capable Of Fun And Mischief. The Muscles Were Acquiring A Fresh

Tone,  That Old Zest Of Life Was Coming Back To Him. His Health,  Without

A Shadow Of Doubt,  Had Greatly Improved.

 

While Disporting Himself In Amphibious Joy Among The Tepid Waves He

Seemed To Cast Off That Sense Of Unease Which Had Pursued Him Of Late.

It Was Good To Inhale The Harsh Salty Savour--To Submit Himself To These

Calming Voices--To Float,  Like A Careless Leviathan,  In The Blue

Immensity; Good To Be Alive,  Simply Alive.

 

Another Hot And Clammy Day Was In Store For The Island. No Matter. This

Sirocco,  Of Which Older Inhabitants Might Well Complain,  Had So Far

Exerted No Baleful Influence Upon Him. Quite The Reverse. Under Its

Tender Moistening Touch His Frame,  Desiccated In The Tropics,  Seemed To

Open Out,  Even As A Withered Flower Uncloses Its Petals In Water. In

Africa All This Thoughts And Energies Had Been Concentrated Upon A

Single Point. Here He Expanded. New Interests,  New Sensations,  Seemed

To Lie In Wait For Him. Never Had He Felt So Alert,  So Responsive To

Spiritual Impressions,  So Appreciative Of Natural Beauty.

 

Lying In Motionless Ecstasy On The Buoyant Element He Watched The Mists

Of Morning As They Soared Into The Air. Reluctantly,  With Imperceptible

Movement,  They Detached Themselves From Their Watery Home; They

Clambered Aloft In Spectral Companies,  Drawn Skyward,  As By Some

Beckoning Hand,  Under The Stealthy Compulsion Of The Sun. They Crept

Against The Tawny Precipices,  Clinging To Their Pinnacles Like Shreds

Of Pallid Gauze,  And Nestling Demurely Among Dank Clefts Where

Something Of The Mystery Of Night Still Lingered. It Was A Procession

Of Dainty Shapes Wreathing Themselves Into Gracious Attitudes;

Mounting--Ever Mounting. As He Beheld Their Filmy Draperies That Swayed

Phantom-Like Among The Crags Overhead,  He Understood Those Pagan Minds

Of Olden Days For Whom Such Wavering Exhalations Were None Other Than

Sea-Nymphs,  Atlantides,  Offspring Of Some Mild-Eyed God Of Ocean Rising

To Greet Their Playfellows,  The Oreads,  On The Hills.

 

The Wildest Stretch Of Nepenthe Coast-Line Lay Before Him. Its Profile

Suggested Not So Much The Operation Of Terrestrial Forces As A

Convulses And Calcined Lunar Landscape--The Handiwork Of Some Demon In

Delirium. Gazing Landwards,  Nothing Met His Eye Save Jagged Precipices

Of Fearful Height,  Tormented Rifts And Gulleys Scorched By Fires Of Old

Into Fantastic Shapes,  And Descending Confusedly To Where The Water

Slept In Monster-Haunted Caverns.

 

Not A Sign Of Humanity Was Visible Save One White Villa,  Far Away. It

Was Perched On A Promontory Of Heliotrope-Tinted Trachyte; Struck By

The Morning Beams It Flashed And Glowed Like A Jewel In The Sunshine.

He Knew The Place: Madame Steynlin's Abode. The Sight Of It Reminded

Him Of A Promise To Attend Her Picnic Next Week; All Nepenthe Would Be

Invited,  After The Feast Of Saint Eulalia. And Hard By The Shore,  At

Its Foot,  He Discerned Certain Minute Scarlet Specks.

 

What Could They Be?

 

Why,  Of Course! They Were Recognizable,  Even At This Distance,  As The

Blouses Of The Sacred Sixty-Three,  Who Frequented This Somewhat Public

Spot For Bathing Purposes,  Blandly Indifferent,  Or Resigned,  To The

Gaze Of Inquisitive Onlookers. Mr. Heard,  Among Others,  Had Witnessed

Their Aquatic Diversions.

 

The Messiah Was Hindered By Age And Growing Infirmities From Taking

Part In The Proceedings; Moreover,  He Had Been Sickening Lately,  It Was

Said,  For Some New Revelation--A Revelation Of Which The Island Was To

Become Cognizant That Very Morning. But Others Of The Muscovite Band

Were Fond Of Congregating At This Spot And Hour For Their Lustral

Summer Rites--White-Skinned Lads And Lasses,  Matrons And Reverent

Elders,  All In A State Of Adamitic Nudity,  Splashing About The Water Of

This Sunny Cover,  Devouring Raw Fish And Crabs After The Manner Of The

Fabled Ichthyophagi,  Laughing,  Kissing,  Saying Nice Things About God,

And Combing Out Each Other's Long Tow-Coloured Hair. Madame Steynlin,  A

Spectator By Necessity If Not Deliberate Choice Of These Patriarchal

Frolics,  Disdained To Controvert Certain Frivolous Folk Who Resorted To

The Same Beach To Gratify A Morbid Curiosity,  Under The Pretext That It

Was A Delectable Entertainment And One Of The Sights Of Nepenthe. She

Disdained,  Nowadays. It Had Not Ever Been Thus. Things Were Different

Before Peter The Great Came Upon The Scene. In Those Unregenerate Times

Her Lutheran Upbringing Condemned,  In No Measured Terms,  This Frank

Exhibition Of Animal Nature. A Warm Friendship With The Good-Looking

Apostle Had Now Opened Her Eyes To The Mystic Sense Of What Went On.

Earthly Love Had Given An Unearthly Tinge To Her Mind. The Veil Had

Fallen; She Saw Through External Appearances Into The Symbolic Beyond.

Deeply Penetrated Of Its Inner Meaning,  She Would Say That The

Spectacle Called Up Visions Of The Age Of Innocence,  When The World Was

Young. . . .

 

An Elegant Rowing-Boat Suddenly Swept Into Mr. Heard's Field Of Vision.

It Had Approached From Round The Entrance Of The Small Bay And Was

Already Within A Few Yards Ere He Caught Sight Of It. He Dived

Skilfully,  And On Returning To The Surface Beheld Mr. Keith Smiling

Upon Him,  With Owlish Benevolence,  Through His Spectacles.

 

"How Pretty You Look," He Said. "Just Like A Mermaid That's Lost Its

Tail."

 

"You Flatter Me!"

 

"Not At All. Climb In And I'll Take You For A Row."

 

"Hadn't I Better Get Some Clothes On?"

 

"As You Please. We Can Take You Off That Boulder If You Want To Dress."

 

"You're Very Kind."

 

Kind Indeed. To Admit A Friend Into One Of His Yachts Or Rowing-Boats

Was An Act Of Rare Self-Sacrifice On The Part Of Mr. Keith,  Who

Maintained That No Vessel,  Not Even An Atlantic Liner,  Was Large Enough

For More Than One Passenger.

 

"You Are Comfortable In Here," The Bishop Remarked,  As He Presently

Stepped On Board And Looked Around Him. "Cleopatra's Barge Must Have

Been Something Like This."

 

"There Will Be No Breeze Worth