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

And Not Her

Garments. A Tidy Little Income,  However,  Enabled Her To Eke Out Lack Of

Taste By Recklessness Of Expenditure. This Particular Hat,  It Was

Observed,  Must Have Cost A Fortune. And Yet It Was A Perfect Fright; It

Made Her Look Fifteen Years Older,  To The Delight Of All The Other

Women.

 

What Cared Madame Steynlin About Hats? Her Distressful Appearance Was

Not Feigned; She Was Truly Upset,  Though Not About The Death Of The

Commissioner's Lady. With An Effort Whose Violence Nobody But Herself

Could Appreciate She Had Managed To Extricate Herself From The

Lion--Like Embraces Of Peter The Great--To What Purpose? To Perform An

Odious Social Duty; To Waste A Fair Morning In Simulating Grief For The

Death Of A Woman Whom She Loathed Like Poison. Nobody Would Ever

Understand What A Trial In Altruism Had Been. Nobody,  In Fact,  Ever

Gave Her Credit For A Grain Of Self-Abnegation. And Yet She Was Always

Trying To Please People--Denying Herself This And That. How Harshly The

World Judged!

 

She Was Also Troubled In Mind,  Though In A Lesser Degree,  About The

Fate Of The Remainder Of The Russian Colony. Were They Not All Her

Brothers And Sisters--These Laughing,  Round-Cheeked Primitives? The

Magistrate,  That Caricature Of A Man,  That Vindictive And Corrupt

Atheist,  That Tiger In Human Form,  Was Doubtless Thirsting For The

Blood Of Those Still At Liberty On Nepenthe. How Much Longer Would

Peter Escape His Malice? The Dear Boy! Her Lambkin,  Her Little Soul--She

Had Learnt To Babble A Few Words Of Russian--Her Play For,  Harmless,

Ever-Hungry Peter! On This Lovely Island,  Where All Men Should Be At

Peace--How Harshly They Dealt With One Another!

 

The Rest Of The Foreign Colony,  Undisturbed By Such Bitter Personal

Reflections,  Appeared To Bear The Loss Of The Lady With Praiseworthy

Equanimity. They Were,  In Truth,  Considerably Relieved In Mind. Death

Is The Great Equalizer. In His Pale Presence They Forgot Their Old

Squabbles And Jealousies; They Forgot Their Numberless And Legitimate

Complaints Against This Woman. All Honoured The Defunct Who Had Now

Lost,  Presumably For Ever,  The Capacity Of Mischief-Making.

 

There Was Undisguised Sorrow Among The Trades-People And Residency

Servants. They Flocked To The Procession In Crowds,  Desiring By This

Last Mark Of Respect To Attract The Benevolent Notice Of The

Commissioner And To Be Remembered In The Event Of Some Future

Settling-Up Of Accounts. To Their Tear-Stained Eyes,  It Looked As If

This Happy Event Were Receding Further And Further Away Into The Dim

Distance. Hoping Against Hope,  They Mourned Sincerely. And None Wept

More Convincingly That The Little Maid Enrichetta,  An Orphan Of Tender

Years Whom The Lady Had Taken Into Her Service As An Act Of Charity And

Forthwith Set To Work Like A Galley-Slave. The Child Was Convulsed With

Sobs. She Foresaw,  With The Intuition Of Despair,  That Instead Of Being

Paid Her Miserable Wages For The Last Five Months She Would Have To

Content Herself With A Couple Of Her Deceased Mistress's Skirts,

Thirty-Eight Inches Too Wide Round The Waist.

 

There Were Wreaths--Abundance Of Wreaths. Noticeable Among Them Was An

Enormous Floral Tribute From The Owner Of The Flutterby. It Attracted

The Most Favourable Comment. People Said That Nobody But A

Multi-Multi-Multi-Millionaire Could Afford To Forgive An Affront Like

That Affair Of The Crepe De Chine. As A Matter Of Fact,  Old Koppen

Would Have Been The Last Person On Earth To Forgive An Injury Of This

Particular Kind. He Was A Good American; He Never Permitted Loose Talk

About Women,  Least Of All If They Were In Any Way Connected With

Himself; He Would Get Purple In The Face,  He Would Ramp And Rage And

Hop About Like A Veritable Sioux,  In The Face Of Any Suggestion Of

Improprieties On Board His Yacht. No,  Cornelius Van Koppen Had Acted In

All Innocence,  From Natural Kindliness Of Heart. The Legend Had Never

Reached His Hears,  Nobody (For A Wonder) Having Dared To Mention It To

Him.

 

Another Wreath,  From Count Caloveglia--An Uncommonly Pretty One,  With A

Simple But Heartfelt Inscription--Created Legitimate Surprise. Those

White Camellias,  People Reckoned,  Could Not Have Cost Less Than Twenty

Francs,  And Everybody Knew That The Dear Old Boy Was As Poor As A

Church Mouse And That,  Moreover,  He Had Enjoyed Nothing But A Bowing

Acquaintance With The Deceased Lady. He Had Indeed Only Spoken To Her

Once In His Life. But Her Face--Her Face Had Left An Indelible

Impression On His Sensitive And Artistic Mind.

 

There Was Something Greek About Count Caloveglia. His Pedigree,

Uncontaminated By Moor Or Spaniard,  Went Back To Hoariest Antiquity.

Many People Said He Was A Reincarnation Of Old Hellas. Elbowing His Way

Through Crowded Cities Or Chatting With Sunburnt Peasant-Lads Among The

Vineyards,  He Received Thrills Of Pleasurable Inspiration--Thrills To

Which Grosser Natures Are Inaccessible. He Loved To Watch The Bodily

Movements Of His Fellow-Creatures And All The Eloquent Gestures Of

Southern Life--The Lingering Smile,  The Sullen Stare Of Anger,  The Firm

Or Flaccid Step. Within This World Of Humdrum Happenings He Created A

World Of His Own,  A Sculptor's Paradise. Colour Said Little To Him. He

Was Enamoured Of Form,  The Lively Passion Of The Flesh,  The Tremulous

Play Of Nerve And Muscle. A Connoisseur Of Pose And Expression,  He

Looked At Mankind From The Plastic Point Of View,  Peering Through

Accidentals Into What Was Spiritual,  Pre-Ordained,  Inevitable; Striving

To Interpret--To Waylay And Hold Fast--That Divinity,  Fair Or Foul,  Which

Resides Within One And All Of Us. How Would This One Look,  Divested Of

Ephemeral Appurtenances And Standing There,  In Bronze Or Marble; What

Were The Essential Qualities Of Those Features--Their Aesthetic Mission

To Men Like Himself; To What Type Or Relic Of The Classic Age Might

They Be Assimilated? He Was For Ever Disentangling The Eternal From

Mundane Accessories. And There Was An Element Of The Eternal,  He Used

To Declare,  In Every Creature Of Earth.

 

His Was An Enviable Life. He Dwelt Among Masterpieces. They Were His

Beacons,  His Comrades,  His Realities. As For Other Things--The Social

Accidents Of Time And Place,  His Cares And His Poverty--He Wore Them

Lightly; They Sat Upon His Shoulders With Easy Grace,  Like His Own

Threadbare Coat. When He Walked Among Men He Could Not Help Contriving

Imaginary Statuary In His Head,  Historical Portraits Or Legendary

Groups; The Faces And Attitudes Of Those He Encountered--Each One Found

A Place In The Teeming Realm Of His Creative Phantasy,  Each One

Beckoned To Him,  From Afar,  As A Joyous And Necessary Revelation.

 

An Enviable Life; And Never More Enviable Than On The Occasion When He

Was Introduced,  At Some Absurd Tea-Party To The Lady Known As The

Commissioner's Stepsister. The Face! It Took Possession Of Him. It

Haunted His Artistic Dreamings From The Same Day Onwards. He Had Always

Cherished Ambitious Designs--None More Ambitious Than A Certain Piece Of

Work Conceived In The Bold Pergamese Manner,  A Noble Cluster Of Women

To Be Entitled "The Eumenides." . . . Her Face! That Wonderful Face

Proclaimed Itself The Keynote Of The Group. If He Lived A Thousand

Years He Would Never Behold Its Like Again. What Would He Not Have

Given To Model The Lady,  Then And There!

 

But Modeling Was Out Of The Question For The Present. It Must Never Be

Known That He Was Still Capable Of Such An Effort; It Might Spoil All

His Chances For The Business In Hand. He Must Continue To Pose As

Heretofore For A Harmless Antiquarian,  A Dreamer. Nobody,  Save Old

Andrea The Servant,  Must Know The Secret Of His Life. Yet He Was Not

Without Hopes Of Being Able To Reveal Himself Ere Long In His True

Character Of Creator. The Day Was Perhaps Not Far Distant When A

Pecuniary Transaction Between Himself And His Respected American

Friend,  Mr. Van Koppen,  Would Ease The Burdensome Poverty Of His Life.

Then--Then He Would Return To The Gold Projects Of His Youth; To The

"Eumenides," First Of All. Light-Hearted With Bright Expectancy,  He Saw

The Financial Deal Well-Nigh Concluded; The Cheque Might Be In His

Pocket Within A Week; And Now Already He Saw Himself,  In Imagination,

Donning His Faded Frock-Coat And Wending His Way Down To The Residency

To Lay The Foundations Of His Heart's Desire. He Would Broach The

Subject With That Insinuating Southern Graciousness Which Was Part And

Parcel Of His Nature; The Lady's Vanity Could Be Trusted To Do The

Rest. He Knew Of Old That No Woman,  However Chaste And Winsome,  Can

Resist The Temptation Of Sitting As Model To A Genuine Count--And Such A

Handsome Old Count,  Into The Bargain.

 

And Now Suddenly She Had Died--Died,  It Might Be,  Only A Few Days Too

Soon. That Face,  That Peerless Face,  Was Lost For Ever To The World Of

Art--His Ideal Snatched Away By The Relentless Hand Of Fate. He Mourned

As Only A Sculptor Can Mourn. Thus It Came About That Something

Stronger Than Himself Impelled Him To Manifest His Grief. Despite

Andrea's Respectful But Insistent Remonstrances As To The Appalling

Outlay,  The Wreath Of Camellias Was Ordered And Dispatched. An Artist's

Tribute. . . .

 

It Created Both Surprise And A Most Excellent Impression. What A

Gentleman He Was! Always Doing The Right Thing. How Splendid Of Him. So

They Reasoned,  Though The Wiser Ones Added That If He Had Known The

Deceased Lady A Little Better He Might Have Hit Upon A More Sensible

Way Of Spending His Money.

 

The Fact That There Was A Good Deal Of Social Gossip Like This,  That

Appointments For Picnics And Other Functions Were Being Made,  Would Go

Alone To Prove The Advantages Of A Funeral Of This Kind,  Quite Apart

From The Universal Relief Experienced When The Coffin Was Lowered Into

The Earth,  And Bystanders Realized That The Lady Was At Last Definitely

Transferred Into Abraham's Bosom.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 28

 

 

 

 

 

All Nepenthe Had Stood By The Side Of The Grave--All,  Save Only Mr.

Keith. He Remained At Home. And This Was Rather Odd,  For It Is The

Right Thing To Attend People's Funerals,  And Mr. Keith Prided Himself

Upon Always Doing The Right Thing. It Was His Boast To Pass For A

Typical Anglo-Saxon,  The Finest Race On Earth,  When All Is Said And

Done; And He Used To Point Out That You Could Not Be A Typical

Anglo-Saxon Unless You Respected Yourself,  And You Could Not Respect

Yourself Unless You Respected Simultaneously Your Neighbours And Their

Habits,  However Perverse They Might Sometimes Appear. Now A Funeral,

Being Unavoidable,  Cannot By An Prestidigitations Of Logic Be Called

Perverse. All The More Reason For Being Present. But For A Strange

Twist Or Kink In His Nature,  Therefore,  He Would Have Been On The Spot.

He Would Have Turned Up In The Market-Place To The Minute,  Since He

Prided Himself Likewise Upon His Love Of Punctuality,  Declaring That It

Was One Of The Many Virtues He Possessed In Common With Her Majesty

Queen Victoria.

 

He Disliked Funerals. For All His Open Mind And Open Bowels,  Mr. Keith

Displayed An Unreasoning Hatred Of Death And,  What Was Still More

Remarkable,  Not The Least Shame In Confessing It.

 

"The Next Interment I Purpose To Attend," He Would Say,  "Will Be My

Own. May If Be Far Off! No; I Don't Care About Funerals And The

Suggestion They Convey. A Cowardly Attitude? I Think Not. The Coward

Refuses To Face A Fact. Death Is A Fact. I Have Often Faced Him. He Is

Not A Pretty Fellow. Most Men Only Give Him A Shy Glance Out Of A

Corner Of Their Eye. It Scares Them Out Of Their Wits And Makes Them

Say All Sorts Of Snobbishly Respectful Things About Him. Sheer

Flummery! It Is With Death As It Is With God--We Call Them Good Because

We Are Afraid Of What They Can Do To Us. That Accounts For Our

Politeness. Death,  Universal And Inevitable,  Is None The Less A

Villainous Institution. Every Other Antagonist Can Be Ignored Or Bribed

Or Circumvented Or Crushed Outright. But Here Is A Damnable Spectre Who

Knocks At The Door And Does Not Wait To Hear You Say,  'Come In.'

Hateful! If Other People Think Differently It Is Because They Live

Differently. How Do They Live? Like A Cow That Has Stumbled Into A Dark

Hole,  And Now Spends Its Time Wondering How It