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

Managed To Get Such A

Sore Behind. Such Persons May Well Be Gladdened By The Approach Of

Death. It Is The Best Thing They Can Do--To Depart From World Which They

Call A Dark Hole,  A World Which Was Obviously Not Made For Them,  Seeing

That They Are Always Feeling Uncomfortable About One Thing Or Another.

Good Riddance To Them And Their Moral Stomach-Aches."

 

Mr. Keith Professed Never To Feel Uncomfortable. Oh,  No! He Had No

Moral Stomach-Aches. Unlike Other Folks,  He "Reacted To External

Stimuli In Appropriate Fashion," He Cultivated The "Function Of The

Real," He Always Knew How To "Dominate His Reflexes." His Neural

Currents Were "Duly Co-Ordinated." Mr. Keith Was In Love With Life. It

Dealt Fairly With Him. It Made Him Loth To Bid Farewell To This

Gracious Earth And The Blue Sky Overhead,  To His Cooks And His Books,

His Gardeners And Roses And Flaming Cannas; Loth To Exchange These

Things Of Love,  These Tangible Delights,  For A Hideous And Everlasting

Annihilation.

 

That Was Why,  Having Got Rid Of The Committee Of Exasperating Buffoons,

He Was Now Prolonging Breakfast Far Beyond The Usual Hour. The Meal Was

Over At Last; And Still He Felt Disinclined To Move. Those People Had

Disquieted His Composure With Their Mephitic Rant About Philanthropy;

They Had Almost Succeeded In Spoiling His Morning. And Now This

Funeral! Would He Go Into The House And Do Some Reading Or Write A Few

Letters? No. He Could Not Write Letters Just Them. He Was Not Feeling

Sufficiently Rabelaisian. Epicurus Was His God For The Moment. In A

Mood Of Heathen Wistfulness He Lit A Cigar And Leaned Back In The Chair

Trying To Recapture His Serenity.

 

It Was His Favourite Corner Of The Domain--A Kind Of Projecting Spur Or

Platform Shaded By A Few Grandiose Umbrella Pines. Near At Hand,  On A

Slightly Lower Level,  Rose A Group Of Flame--Like Cypresses Whose

Shapely Outlines Stood Out Against The Sea,  Shining Far Below Like A

Lake Of Pearl. The Milky Sheen Of Morning,  Soon To Be Dispelled By The

Breeze,  Still Hung About The Water And Distant Continent--It Trembled

Upon The Horizon In Bands Of Translucent Opal. His Eye Roved Round The

Undulating Garden,  Full Of Sunlight And Flowers And Buzzing Insects.

From A Verbena Hard By Came The Liquid Song Of A Blackcap. It Gave Him

Pleasure; He Encouraged The Blackcaps,  Delighting In Their Music And

Because They Destroyed The Spiders Whose Troublesome Webs Were Apt To

Come In Contact With His Spectacles. The Gardeners Had Severest

Instructions Not To Approach Their Nests. It Was One Of The Minor

Griefs Of His Life That,  Being So Short-Sighted,  He Could Never

Discover A Bird's Nest; No,  Not Even As A Child. Memories Of Boyhood

Began To Flit Through His Mind; They Curled Upwards In The Scented

Wreaths Of His Havana. . . .

 

The Golden Oriole's Flute-Like Whistle Poured Down From Some Leafy

Summit In A Sudden Stream Of Melody. A Hurried Note,  He Thought;

Expressed Without Much Feeling--From Duty Rather Than Inclination; Not

Like The Full-Throated Ease Of Other Orioles In Other Lands He Knew.

And So Were The Nightingales. They Profited By His Hospitality For A

Day Or Two And Then,  Uttering A Perfunctory Little Tune,  Some

Breathless And Insincere Word Of Thanks--Just Like Any Human

Visitor--Betook Themselves Elsewhere,  Northwards.

 

Northwards!

 

He Glanced Into The Mazy Foliage Of The Pine Tree Overhead,  Out Of

Which A Shower Of Aromatic Fragrance Was Descending To Mingle With The

Harsher Perfume Of The Cypress. How They Changed Their Faces,  The

Conifers--So Fervent And Friendly At This Hour,  So Forbidding At

Nighttime! Rifts Of Blue Sky Now Gleamed Through Its Network Of

Branches; Drenched In The Sunny Rays,  The Tree Seemed To Shudder And

Crackle With Warmth. He Listened. There Was Silence Among Those

Coralline Articulations. Soon It Would Be Broken. Soon The Cicada Would

Strike Up Its Note In The Labyrinth Of Needles--Annual Signal For His

Own Departure From Nepenthe. He Always Waited For The First Cicada.

 

Northwards!

 

To His Little Place In The Highlands,  At First. The Meager Soil And

Parsimonious Culture,  The Reasonable Discourse Of The People,  Their

Wholesome Disputatiousness,  Acted As A Kind Of Purge Or Tonic After All

This Southern Exuberance. Scotland Chastened Him; Its Rocks And Tawny

Glinting Waters And Bleak Purple Uplands Rectified His Perspective. He

Called To Mind The Sensuous Melancholy Of The Birches,  The Foxgloves,

The Hedgerows Smothered In Dog-Roses; He Remembered The Nights,  Full Of

Fairy-Like Suggestion And Odours Of Earth And Budding Leaves--Those

Wonderful Nights With Their Silvery Radiance,  Calm And Benignant,

Streaming Upwards Form The Luminous North.

 

Then,  After Strolling Aimlessly Elsewhere,  On Sea Or Land,  Visiting

Friends--No Matter Whom Or Where--He Would Return To Nepenthe To Indulge

His Genius To The Full In The Vintage Bacchanals. He Owned A Small

Plantation That Lay High Up,  Among The Easterly Cliffs Of The Island.

It Produced That Mountain Wine Which Was Held To Be The Best On

Nepenthe. The Vines Grew Upon A Natural Platform,  Surrounded By Rugged

Lava Crags That Overhung The Sea.

 

Hither He Was Wont To Repair With Certain Of His Domestic Staff And

Three Or Four Friends From Out Of His "Inner Circle," To Superintend

The Pressing Of The Grapes. There Was A Rude Structure Of Masonry On

The Spot--A Vaulted Chamber Containing Winepress And Vats And Hoes And

Other Implements Of The Husbandman's Time-Honoured Craft; A Few Chairs

And A Table Completed The Furniture. Nobody Knew Exactly What Happened

Up Here. People Talked Of Wild And Shameless Carousals; The Rocks Were

Said To Resound With Ribald Laughter While Mr. Keith,  Oozing Paganism

At Every Pore,  Danced Faun-Like Measures To The Sound Of Rustic Flutes.

Certain It Was That The Party Often Got Riotously Tipsy.

 

So Tipsy That Sometimes Their Host Was Unable To Be Moved Down To His

Villa. On Such Days He Was Put To Bed On The Floor Between Two Wine

Barrels,  And The Chef Hastily Advised To Come Up With Some Food And A

Portable Kitchen Range. In Earliest Morning He Would Insist Upon

Tottering Forth To Watch The Sun As It Rose Behind The Peaks Of The

Distant Mainland,  Flooding The Sea With Golden Radiance And Causing The

Precipices To Glitter Like Burnished Bronze. He Loved The Sunrise--He

Saw It So Seldom. Then Breakfast; A Rather Simple Breakfast By Way Of A

Change. It Was On One Of These Occasions That The Chef Made A Mistake

Which His Master Was Slow To Forgive. He Prepared For That Critical

Meal A Dish Of Poached Eggs,  The Sight Of Which Threw Mr. Keith Into An

Incomprehensible Fit Of Rage.

 

"Take Those Damned Things Away,  Quickly!" He Commanded. It Was The

Celebrated Artist's One And Only Lache.

 

As A Rule,  However,  He Did Not Sleep On The Spot. Peasants,  Climbing To

Their Work On The Hillsides In The Twilit Hour Of Dawn,  Were Wont To

Encounter That Staggering Procession Headed By Mr. Keith Who,  With

Spectacles All Awry And Crooning Softly To Himself,  Was Carried Round

The More Perilous Turnings By A Contingent Of His Devoted Retainers.

 

He Found It Pleasant To Live Like This. And Now Another Spring Was

Nearing To Its End. For How Many More Years,  He Wondered. . . . That

Confounded Funeral. . . .

 

There Was A Rustle At His Back. The Southerly Breeze Had Struck

Nepenthe On Its Morning Ripple Over The Tyrrhenian,  Setting Things

Astir; It Searched A Passage Through Those Mighty Canes Which Sprouted

In A Dank Hollow Where The Rains Of Winter Commingled Their Waters. The

Leaves Grew Vocal With A Sound Like The Splash Of A Rivulet. Often Had

He Listened Joyfully To That Melody Which Compensated,  To Some Small

Degree,  For The Lack Of The Old Duke's Twenty-Four Fountains. Legendary

Music! Now It Made Him Sad. What Was Its Burden? Midas Had Asses' Ears.

Midas,  The Fabled King,  Whose Touch Turned Everything To Gold. And

Gold,  And Jewels--Of What Avail Were These Against The Spectre?

 

The Gardeners,  Moving With Bare Feet Among The Sinuous Paths,  Were

Quick To Perceive That A Cloud Had Fallen Upon His Spirit. They Divined

His Moods With The Tactfulness Of Natural Sympathy. On Some

Horticultural Pretext One Of Them Drew Near And Craftily Engaged His

Thoughts And Conversation. At Last He Said Something That Made Him

Smile. One Or Two More Appeared Upon The Scene,  As If By Accident. It

Was Evident That The Master Needed Cheering Up. They Began To Tell Him

The Fairy-Tales He Loved; Tales Of Robbers And Witches And

Pirates--Grand Old Tales That Never Wearied Him. To Arouse His Interest

They Joked Among Themselves,  As Though Unaware Of His Existence. One Of

Them,  And Then Another,  Sang Some Wild Song Of Love And War Which He

Had Picked Up While Wandering With His Flocks Among The Craggy Hills Of

Yonder Mainland. He Was Laughing Now; Outdoing Their Songs And Stories.

It Kept Him Young--To Unbend,  To Play The Fool In Company Such As Theirs

And Relax The Fibres Stiffened By Conventionality; It Refreshed Him To

Exchange The Ephemeral For The Eternal,  The Tomfoolery Of Social Life

For Theocritus And His Deathless Creatures. How Fair It Was,  This

Smiling Earth! How Blithely The Young Voices Went Aloft!

 

They Failed To Drown Those Other Strains,  Vagrant Wraiths That Now

Floated Upwards Over Fields And Houses On The Tepid Wings Of The

Sirocco--Fragmentary Snatches,  Torn From The Brazen Measure Of The

Municipal Band As It Marched With The Funeral Procession. He Cursed The

Sounds From The Bottom Of His Heart. They Reminded Him Of That Infamous

Apparition,  Of All He Most Ardently Desired To Forget. His Laughter

Died Down. Wanly He Looked At His Mirthful Pagans,  The Embodiment Of

Joys. Yes; These Were His Distractions,  His Playmates,  His Elixir Of

Life,  His Antidote Against The Only Disease,  The Only Sin,  Crime,  Vice

Which He Recognized On Earth--A Vice None The Less,  Because It Happened

To Be The Inevitable--The Vice Of Old Age. And All The Time That Pallid

Swarm Came Crowding On: Messengers From The Inexorable Spectre. He Felt

Them Creeping About With Ghostly Tread,  Blighting The Radiance Of His

Life,  Tainting The Very Air He Breathed. Hateful Intruders! They Wailed

Among His Lilies. The Garden Was Full Of Their Horrid Footsteps.

 

In Their Presence Mr. Keith Began To Experience An Uncomfortable

Sensation,  A Kind Of Chill--As Though Something Evil Had Stepped Between

Himself And The Brave Light Of The Sun. It Was A Fleeting Feeling Which

He Would Have Diagnosed,  In Other People,  As Perilously Akin To A Moral

Stomach-Ache.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 29

 

 

 

Only One Other Person On Nepenthe Found Cause To Complain Of The

Municipal Music. It Was Mr. Heard. Altogether,  He Was Not Greatly

Edified By This,  The First Funeral Of Its Kind He Had Ever Witnessed. A

Rowdy-Dowdy Business,  He Called It. The Music Was Too Lively And

Blatant For So Solemn An Occasion; The Gorgeous Vestments Of The

Clergy,  The Loud Chattering Among The Mourners,  The Violent Gestures

That Accompanied Torquemada's Well-Meant And Carefully Prepared Oration

(Don Francesco,  A Born Speaker,  Would Have Done It Better,  But The

Defunct Was No Friend Or Even Client Of His)--All These Things Savoured

Slightly Of Irreverence. Everyone Was Talking And Laughing As They

Marched Along. It Was More Like A Polonaise Than A Funeral. In His

African Period The Sight Of Such A Burial Would Have Affected Him

Unpleasantly. But Mr. Heard Was Changing,  Widening Out.

 

"These People Live Gaily," He Said To Himself. "Why Not? A Funeral Is

Supposed To Be Nothing But A Friendly Leave-Taking. Why Not Be Cheerful

About It? We Are All Going To See Each Other Again,  Sometime,

Somewhere. I Suppose. . . ."

 

The Problem Gave Him No Trouble Whatever.

 

He Found Himself Walking Side By Side With Mr. Eames Who Ventured To

Remark,  In A Seemly Whisper,  That He Attended The Funeral Not So Much

Out Of Respect For The Lamented Lady--Every Cloud,  He Fancied,  Had A

Silver Lining--As Because He Hoped To Gather,  From Among So

Representative A Concourse Of Natives And Foreigners,  The "Popular

Impression" Of Yesterday's Eruption,  With A View To Utilizing It In

This Appendix On Recent Volcanic Phenomena Of Nepenthe.

 

"Really?" Replied The Bishop. "A Chapter On Volcanic Phenomena? It Is

Sure To Be Interesting."

 

Mr. Eames Warmed To His Subject.

 

It