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

Heard About; Sadly Mutilated,

Alas!"

 

Before The Discovery Of The Locri Faun On This Site The Only Find Of

Any Value Had Been A Battered Head--A Demeter,  Presumably. It Was Sold

To A Paris Collection For A Few Thousand Francs,  And Had Thereafter

Attracted No Further Attention. It Was Not Worth Talking About.

 

Now,  When This Dazzling Faun Came To Light And Mr. Van Koppen Announced

His Intention Of Purchasing The Masterpiece For His Collection,  His

Art-Expert,  Sir Herbert Street--The Eminent Connoisseur Whom He Had

Filched Form The South Kensington Museum With The Bribe Of A Cabinet

Minister's Salary--Thought It His Duty To Compare The Disfigured Demeter

With This New And Marvelous Thing. Sir Herbert Street Was An

Inordinately Vain Man,  But Conscientious At The Same Time And,  In

Matters Of Art-Criticism,  Sufficiently Reliable. Not Every Art-Expert

Would Have Done What He Did. In The Interests Of His Employer He Took

The Trouble Of Journeying To Paris And Carefully Examining The Poor

Demeter Fragment. Then,  Viewing The Locri Faun At Nepenthe In The

Presence Of Count Caloveglia,  He Made Rather A Subtle Remark.

 

"Does It Not Strike You,  Count,  That There Is A Curious,  An Evasive

Kind Of Resemblance Between This Faun And The Demeter?"

 

The Old Man Beamed With Joy At These Words.

 

"My Dear Sir Herbert,  Allow Me To Congratulate You On Your Keen

Artistic Perception! I Believe You Are The Only Person,  Besides Myself,

Who Has Hitherto Been Struck By Those Definite But Undefinable Traits

Of Similarity. Mr. Van Koppen May Well Be Proud Of Your Penetration--"

 

"Thank You," Said The Other,  Immensely Flattered. "That Is What I Am

Paid For,  You Know. But Now,  How Do You Account For The Likeness?"

 

"I Will Tell You My Own Hypothesis. I Hold,  To Be Brief,  That They Both

Came From The Same Workshop."

 

"The Same Workshop! You Amaze Me."

 

"Yes,  Or At All Events From The Same School Of Craftsmen,  Or Some

Common Fountain Of Inspiration. We Know Lamentably Little Of The Art

History Of Even A Great Center Like Locri,  But,  Judging By The Hints Of

Pindar And Demosthenes,  I Think There May Well Have Been--There Must

Have Been--Consummate Local Masters,  Now Forgotten,  Who Propagated

Certain Methods Of Work,  Certain Fashions In Form And Feeling And

Treatment Which Ended,  Naturally Enough,  In A Kind Of Fixed Tradition.

This Would Suffice To Explain The Resemblance Which Your Sagacity Has

Enabled You To Detect Between These Two Pieces. That Is What I Mean By

Saying That They Came From The Same Workshop. What Do You Think Of My

Theory?"

 

"I Think It Accounts For The Fact In A Most Satisfactory Manner," The

Expert Had Replied,  Thoroughly Convinced.

 

Mr. Van Koppen Knew All This.

 

But He Only Believed Half Of It. . . .

 

"You Were Saying,  Count?"

 

The Italian Shifted His Glance From The Dainty Outlines Of The Locri

Faun And Smiled Upon His Interlocutor And Then Upon Mr. Heard,  Who Had

At Last Taken A Seat,  After Walking Approvingly Round And Round The

Statuette.

 

"I Was Going To Tell You Of Another Point Which Occurred Later On To

Sir Herbert; A Man,  By The Way,  Of Unusual Acumen. We Agreed That Locri

Was The Indubitable Place Of Origin Both Of The Demeter And Of The

Faun. 'Well,' Said He,  'Granting This--How Came They To Be Unearthed Up

In The Hills,  On Your Property,  Twenty-Five Miles Away?' I Confess I

Was At First Nonplussed By This Question. For,  To The Best Of My

Knowledge,  There Are No Indications Of Any Large Hellenic Settlement Up

There. But It Struck Me That There May Well Have Been A Villa Or

Two--Indeed,  There Must Have Been,  To Judge By The Miscellaneous Ancient

Material Found On My Little Place. This Is What Makes Me Think That

These Two Relics Were Deliberately Carried There."

 

"Carried?"

 

"Carried. For Although The Summer Season At Locri Was Undoubtedly More

Endurable Then Than It Now Is,  Yet The Town Must Have Been Sufficiently

Hot In The Dog-Days; Whereas My Vineyard Is Situated Among The Cool

Uplands--"

 

"A Kind Of Climatic Station,  You Mean?"

 

"Precisely. Don't You Think That Richer People Had Domiciles In Both

Places? The Ancients,  You Know,  Were So Sensitive In The Matter Of

Temperatures That In Summer Time They Traveled Only By Night And Some

Of Their Toughest Generals Had Underground Chambers Built For Them

During Their Campaigns. I Can Imagine,  For Instance,  Some Young And

Ardent Lover Of Art,  In The Days When Pythagoras Taught Under Those

Glittering Colonnades Of Croton,  When The Fleets Of Metapontum Swept

The Blue Ionian And Sybaris Taught The World How To Live A Life Of

Ease--I Can Almost See This Youth," He Pursued Enthusiastically,

"Flitting From A Hot Palace On The Plain Towards Those Breezy Heights

And,  Inflamed With An All-Absorbing Passion For The Beautiful,  Carrying

Up With Him One Or Two,  Just One Or Two,  Of Those Beloved Bronzes From

Which He Could Not,  And Would Not,  Be Parted--No,  Not Even For A Short

Summer Month--To Be A Joy To His Eyes And An Inspiration To H Is Soul

Among The Mountain Solitudes. These Men,  I Take It,  Had A Sense In

Which We Their Descendants Are Wholly Deficient--The Sense Of The

Solace,  Of The Pleasurable Companionship,  To Be Derived From Works Of

Art. That Sense Has Been Destroyed. The Japanese Alone,  Of All Moderns,

Still Foster An Ingenuous Affection Which Prompts Them To Cling Closely

To These Things Of Beauty,  To Press Them To Their Hearts As Loving

Friends; The Rest Of Us,  Surrounded By A World Of Sordid Ugliness,  Have

Become Positively Afraid Of Their Fair But Reproachful Shapes. Ah,  Mr.

Van Koppen,  That Was The Age Of True Refinement,  The Age Of Gold!

Nowadays--Nowadays We Only Carry Our Troubles About With Us."

 

The Bishop Was Touched By These Moving Words.

 

Mr. Van Koppen,  Wearing A Benevolent Twinkle In His Eye,  Said To

Himself:

 

"What A Lordly Liar! Almost As Good As Myself."

 

Luncheon Was Announced.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 30

 

"You Are Quite Right," The Count Was Saying To Mr. Heard. "The Ideal

Cuisine Should Display An Individual Character; It Should Offer A Menu

Judiciously Chosen From The Kitchen-Workshops Of The Most Diverse Lands

And Peoples-A Menu Reflecting The Master's Alert And Fastidious Taste.

Is There Anything Better,  For Instance,  Than A Genuine Turkish Pilaf?

The Poles And Spaniards,  Too,  Have Some Notable Culinary Creations. And

If I Were Able To Carry Out My Ideas On This Point I Would Certainly

Add To My List Of Dishes A Few Of Those Strange Oriental Confections

Which Mr. Keith Has Successfully Taught His Italian Chef. There Is

Suggestion About Them; They Conjure Up Visions Of That Rich And Glowing

East Which I Would Give Many Years Of My Remaining Life To See."

 

"Then Why Not Do What I Have Proposed Several Times Already?" Queried

The Millionaire. "I Am In The East Every Winter; We Reckon This Year To

Reach Bangkok The First Fortnight In November. We Can Find Room For You

On Board. We'll Make Room! Your Company Would Give Me More Pleasure

Than I Can Say."

 

Count Caloveglia Was Probably The Only Male Person On Earth To Whom The

Owner Of The Flutterby Would Have Extended Such An Invitation.

 

"My Dear Friend!" Replied The Other. "I Shall Never Be Able To Repay

Your Kindness,  As It Is. Alas,  It Cannot Be Done,  Not Now. And Don't

You Think," He Went On,  Reverting To His Theme,  "That We Might Revive A

Few Of Those Forgotten Recipes Of The Past? Not Their Over-Spiced

Entremets,  I Mean--Their Gross Joints And Pasties,  Their Swans And

Peacocks--But Those Which Deal,  For Example,  With The Preparation Of

Fresh-Water Fishes? A Pike,  To My Way Of Thinking,  Is A Coarse,

Mud-Born Creature. But If You Will Take The Trouble,  As I Once Did,  To

Dress A Pike According To The Complicated Instructions Of Some Obsolete

Cookery-Book,  You Will Find Him Sufficiently Palatable,  By Way Of A

Change."

 

"You Would Make An Excellent Chef!"

 

"It Is Plain," Added Mr. Heard,  "That The Count Does Not Disdain To

Practise His Skill Upon The Most Ancient And Honourable Of Domestic

Arts."

 

"Indeed I Don't. I Would Cook Con Amore If I Had Leisure And Materials.

All Culinary Tasks Should Be Performed With Reverential Love,  Don't You

Think So? To Say That A Cook Must Possess The Requisite Outfit Of

Culinary Skill And Temperament--That Is Hardly More Than Saying That A

Soldier Must Appear In Uniform. You Can Have A Bad Soldier In Uniform.

The True Cook Must Have Not Only Those Externals,  But A Large Dose Of

General Worldly Experience. He Is The Perfect Blend,  The Only Perfect

Blend,  Of Artist And Philosopher. He Knows His Worth: He Holds In His

Palm The Happiness Of Mankind,  The Welfare Of Generations Yet Unborn.

That Is Why You Will Never Obtain Adequate Human Nourishment From A

Young Girl Or Boy. Such Persons May Do For Housework,  But Not In The

Kitchen. Never In The Kitchen! No One Can Aspire To Be A Philosopher

Who Is In An Incomplete State Of Physical Development. The True Cook

Must Be Mature; She Must Know The World Form Her Social Point Of View,

However Humble It Be; She Must Have Pondered Concerning Good And Evil,

In However Lowly And Incongruous A Fashion; She Must Have Passed

Through The Crucible Of Sin And Suffering Or,  At The Very Least--It Is

Often The Same Thing--Of Married Life. Best Of All,  She Should Have A

Lover,  A Fierce And Brutal Lover Who Beats And Caresses Her In Turns;

For Every Woman Worthy Of The Name Is Subject And Entitled To

Fluctuating Psychic Needs--Needs Which Must Be Satisfied To The Very

Core,  If The Master Is To Enjoy Sound,  Healthy Fare."

 

"We Don't Always Allow Them To Fulfil That Last Condition," Observed

Mr. Heard.

 

"I Know We Don't. That Is Precisely Why We Are So Often Poisoned Or

Starved,  Instead Of Being Cheered With Wholesome Food."

 

"You Were Speaking Of Woman-Cooks?" Asked Van Koppen.

 

"I Was. But It Stands To Reason That No Woman Can Be Trusted With So

Responsible A Task--So Sacred A Mission,  I Ought To Call It--In Regions

South Of Bordeaux Or East Of Vienna. Among Many Other Reasons The Whole

Sex Is Too Drowsy,  Outside That Radius. And If She Drinks A Little--"

 

"Drinks A Little?"

 

"If She Drinks A Little,  Why It Is All To The Good. It Shows That She

Is Fully Equipped On The Other Side Of Her Dual Nature. It Proves That

She Possesses The Prime Requisite Of The Artist; Sensitiveness And A

Capacity For Enthusiasm. Indeed,  I Often Doubt Whether You Will Ever

Derive Well-Flavoured Victuals From The Atelier Of An Individual Who

Honestly Despises Or Fears--It Is The Same Thing--The Choicest Gift Of

God. Andrea,  My Man Here,  Is Abstemious To The Last Degree; Not,  I Am

Glad To Say,  From Conviction Or Ill-Health--It Is The Same Thing--But

Because He Is Incurably Desirous Of Saving My Money. What Is The

Consequence? You Can Taste His Self-Imposed Asceticism In The Very

Zabbaglione,  For Which I Must Really Apologize! It Speaks To The Eye,

But Not To The Heart. Let Us Hope The Coffee Will Be More Harmonious."

 

"Would You Not Include Some Of Our American Dishes In Your Bill Of

Fare?"

 

"To Be Sure I Would; A Fine Selection. I Have Most Pleasant

Recollections Of The Cuisine Of Baltimore."

 

"You Can Get All Those Things In New York."

 

"No Doubt; No Doubt. But One Thing Invariably Distresses Me In

Transatlantic Dinners: The Unseemly Haste In Rising. One Might Really

Think The Company Were Ashamed Of So Natural And Jovial A Function As

That To Which A Dining-Room Is Consecrated. And Then,  Have You Not

Noticed That,  Sitting At Table,  A Certain Intellectual Tone,  An

Atmosphere Of A Definite Kind,  Is Insensibly Generated Among The

Guests,  Whatever The Subject Of Conversation May Be? They Are Often

Quite Unaware Of Its Existence,  But It Hangs None The Less About The

Room And Binds The Inmates Together For The Time Being. Suddenly We Are

Bidden To Rise And Betake Ourselves Elsewhere; To Sit On Other Chairs

In A Different Temperature Among Different Surroundings. It Is A

Wrench. That Peculiar Atmosphere Is Dissipated; The Genius Of The

Earlier Moment Driven Out Beyond Recapture; We Must Adapt Ourselves To

Other Conditions