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

Heard.

 

"How Shall A Plant Survive,  Save By Withering Now And Then? If The

Ancients Had Not Exhausted Themselves With Homer,  The Soil Might Not

Have Been Ready For Our Renaissance. A Bad Sign? Who Can Tell! Good And

Bad--I Question Whether These Are Respectable Words To Use."

 

"You Are Content,  As You Observed Before,  To Establish A Fact?"

 

"Amply Content. I Leave The Rest To The Academicians. And The Only Fact

We Seem To Have Established Is That Your Notions Of Morality Resemble

My Notions Of Beauty In This One Point: Neither Of Them Are Up To Date.

You Will Have Be Admire A Steam-Engine. Why? Because Of Its Delicately

Adjusted Mechanism,  Its Perfect Adaptation To Modern Needs. So Be It. I

Will Modify My Conception Of What Is Fair In Appearance. I Will Admire

Your Steam-Engine,  And Thereby Bring My Ideals Of Beauty Up To Date.

Will You Modify Your Conception Of What Is Fair In Conduct? Will You

Admire Something More Adapted To Modern Needs Than Those Intemperate

Hebrew Doctrines; Something With More Delicately Adjusted Mechanism?

The Mendicant Friar,  That Flower Of Oriental Ethics--He Is Not Up To

Date. He Resembles All Semites. He Lacks Self-Respect. He Apologizes

For Being Alive. It Is Not Pretty--To Apologize For Being Alive!"

 

The American Observed:

 

"I Should Say That Even Our Greatest Bigots,  Nowadays,  Don't Take Those

Old Doctrines As Seriously As You Seem To Think."

 

"I Daresay They Don't. But They Profess To Reproach Themselves For Not

Doing So. And This Is More Contemptible. It Adds Insincerity To

Imbecility."

 

A Sunny Smile Played About His Face As He Spoke These Words. It Was

Evident That His Thoughts Were Already Far Away. The Bishop,  Following

The Direction Of His Glance,  Saw That It Rested Upon The Statuette Of

The Faun Whose Head And Shoulders Were Now Enveloped In A Warm Beam Of

Light. Under That Genial Touch The Old Relic Seemed To Have Woke Up

From Its Slumber. Blood Was Throbbing In Its Veins. It Was Inn

Movement; It Dominated The Scene In Its Emphatic Affirmation Of Joy.

 

Mr. Heard,  His Eyes Fixed Upon The Statuette,  Now Realized The

Significance Of What Had Been Said. He Began To See More Clearly. Soon

It Dawned Upon Him That Not Joy Alone Was Expressed By The Figure.

Another Quality,  More Evasive Yet More Compelling,  Resided In Its

Subtle Grace: The Element Of Mystery. There,  Emprisoned In The Bronze,

Dwelt Some Benignant Oracle.

 

Puzzle As He Would,  That Oracle Refused To Clothe Itself In Words.

 

What Could It Be?

 

A Message Of Universal Application,  "Loving And Enigmatical," As The

Old Man Had Called It. True! It Was A Greeting From An Unknown Friend

In An Unknown Land; Something Familiar From The Dim Past Or Distant

Future; Something That Spoke Of Well-Being--Plain To Behold,  Hard To

Expound,  Like The Dawning Smile Of Childhood.

 

Chapter 31

 

 

 

 

 

Towards Evening,  Mr. Van Koppen Drove The Bishop Down In The Carriage

Which He Usually Hired For The Whole Of His Stay On Nepenthe. They Said

Little,  Having Talked Themselves Out With The Count. The American

Seemed To Be Thinking About Something. Mr. Heard's Eye Roamed Over The

Landscape,  Rather Anxiously.

 

"I Don't Like That New Cloud Above The Volcano," He Observed.

 

"Looks Like Ashes. Looks As If It Might Drift In Our Direction,  Doesn't

It,  If The Wind Were Strong Enough To Move It? Do You See Much Of The

Count?" He Enquired.

 

"Not As Much As I Should Like. What Excellent Veal Cutlets Those Were!

So White And Tender. Quite Different From The Veal We Get In England.

And That Aromatic Wine Went Uncommonly Well With Them. It Was His Own

Growth,  I Suppose."

 

"Very Likely. From That Little Vineyard Which Produces So Many Good

Things." He Chuckled Softly. "As To English Veal--I Never Yet Tasted Any

Worth Eating. If You Don't Slaughter A Calf Till It's Grown Into A

Cow--Why,  You're Not Likely To Get Anything But Beef."

 

"They Say The English Cannot Cook,  In Spite Of The Excellence Of Their

Prime Materials."

 

"I Think The Prime Materials Are At Fault. They Sacrifice Everything To

Size. It's Barbaric. Those Greasy Southdown Sheep! It's The Same With

Their Fowls; They're Large,  But Insipid--Very Different From The Little

Things You Get Down Here. Now A Goose Is Capital Fodder. But If You

Grow Him Only For His Weight,  You Destroy His Quality And Flavour; You

Get A Lump Of Blubber Instead Of A Bird."

 

"Apple Sauce?"

 

"I Don't Like Apples In Any Shape. A Sour Kind Of Potato,  I Call Them.

They Eat An Awful Lot Of Apples In Our Country. That Is What Makes So

Many Of Our Women As Flat As Boards,  In Front And Behind--Especially In

The Eastern States. It's Apple-Eating. Apples Ought To Be Taxed. They

Ruin The Female Figure. I'm Not Sure That They Don't Sour The Character

As Well."

 

"Don't You Care About Our English Vegetables?"

 

"Can't Say I'm Much In Love With Them,  Mr. Heard. Brussels Sprouts,  For

Instance--I'm Very Partial To Brussels Sprouts. But The Things They Give

You Over There Are The Size Of A Bath Sponge,  And Much The Same Taste,

I Reckon. And The Carrots! A Carrot Ought To Be Small And Round And

Yellow,  It Ought To Melt In The Mouth Like A Plum. Those Carrots Aren't

Carrots At All. They're Walking Sticks. And The Peas! No,  I Don't Care

About English Peas. Too Large And Too Lively For Me."

 

"Lively?"

 

"That's It. Lively. I Shall Never Forget My First Experience Of Them,"

He Went On,  Laughing. "There Were Two Or Three In The Dish; Just Two Or

Three; Filled It Up Nicely. Looked Like Cannon-Balls. What Do They

Expect Me To Do With These Things? I Wondered. I Didn't Like To Ask The

Waiter. One Doesn't Care To Be Taken For An Ignorant Stranger. Well,  I

Landed One On My Plate And Began Carving At It,  To See If There Was

Anything Eatable Inside The Shell,  When The Durned Thing Slipped Away

From My Knife And Crashed On To The Floor. Bounced Up Like A Marble. I

Called For A Nutcracker--'I Shall Want The Largest You've Got,' I Said.

They Couldn't Find One. Now I'm Not The Sort Of Man,  Mr. Heard,  To Be

Beaten By A Vegetable,  If It Really Was A Vegetable. Because,  You See,

It Behaved More Like A Blamed Mineral. I Sent For The Head Waiter,  And

Took Him Into My Confidence. I Tried To Talk English,  Like I'm Talking

To You. 'What D'ye Call These Things?' I Asked. 'Marrowfats,  Sir.' 'Ah,

I Thought They Weren't Peas. You've Got Petits Pois Down On The Bill Of

Fare. Better Get That Put Right. And Now,  How D'ye Eat Them?' 'You Bite

Them!' That's What He Said. 'You Bite Them.' Of Course I Didn't Believe

Him. I Thought It Was Just A Bit Of English Humour,  Especially As The

Other Waiter Was Looking The Opposite Way All The Time. Well,  Like A

Fool,  I Said To Myself: 'No Harm In Trying!' I've Got Pretty Sharp

Teeth,  You Know,  For A Boy Of My Age. That's How I Managed To Do What A

Lot Of You Younger Fellows Couldn't Have Done. I Got Them Fixed Into

The Softest Of That Bunch Of Marrowfats. But As To Pulling Them Out

Again! The Head Waiter,  You Bet,  Had Disappeared. And The Other Fellow

Was Standing At The Window With His Back To Me. Looking Up The Street,

I Should Say,  To See If It Was Going To Rain."

 

After This Little Outburst,  The Millionaire Seemed To Have Nothing More

To Say.

 

He Was Thinking. . . .

 

Cornelius Van Koppen Loved A Good Liar. He Knew Something About The

Gentle Art. It Was An Art,  He Used To Say,  Which No Fool Should Be

Allowed To Cultivate. There Were Too Many Amateurs Knocking About.

These Bunglers Spoiled The Trade. Without Doing Any Good To Themselves,

They Roused Distrust; They Rubbed The Fine Bloom Off Human Credulity.

His Puritan Conscience Was Enraged At Petty Thefts,  Petty Forgeries,

Petty Larcenies. That Was Why He Despised That Otherwise Excellent

Person,  The Financial Commissioner For Nicaragua,  Whose Wildest Flights

Of Embezzlement Never Exceeded A Few Hundred Dollars. He Respected A

Man Who,  Like Himself,  Could Work In The Grand Style. To Play Upon The

Credulity Of A Continent--It Was Napoleonic,  It Was Like Stealing A

Kingdom; It Was Not Stealing At All. This,  He Shrewdly Suspected,  Was

What His Good Friend The Count Was Engaged Upon. That Delightful Old

Man Was Working In The Grand Style.

 

Bronzes,  Ancient Or Modern,  Were Greek To Mr. Van Koppen. He Could Not

Tell The Difference Between The Art Of Clodion And Of Myron--Had,  In

Fact,  Never Heard The Names Of These Good People And Did Not

Particularly Care To Hear Them; He Paid Sir Herbert Street For That

Part Of The Business. But He Had Picked Up,  In The Course Of His Long

Humanitarian Career,  A Good Deal Of General Knowledge. Old Koppen Was

No Fool. He Was Intelligent; Intelligence,  As The Count Had Said,  Being

Perfectly Compatible With Progress. The Millionaire Could Put Two And

Two Together As Fast As Most Men; He Was Celebrated,  Even Among His

Quick-Witted Compatriots,  For An Uncanny Faculty Of Walking Round

People Without Getting Off His Chair. Common Sense,  He Called It.

 

Many A Time He Had Listened To Count Caloveglia's Rounded Periods Anent

The Locri Faun. Taking His Own Personal Experience As A Guide,  He Had

Come To The Conclusion That A Man Does Not Explain Things Quite So

Satisfactorily,  Unless He Has Some Business In Hand. Everything Fitted

Into A Hypothesis Which Had Been Slowly Maturing In His Mind,  Namely,

That He Was Confronted By A Fraud,  A Really Noble Fraud,  A Fraud After

His Own Heart,  A Fraud Deserving The Fullest Support Of Every Sensible

Man And Woman.

 

That Vineyard,  For Instance,  With Those Antiquities. A Good Many

Friends Of His In The States Had Made Their Pile Out Of Salted Gold

Mines. Why Not Salt A Vineyard? Oh Yes; Everything Fitted In

Beautifully. The Remoteness Of That Vineyard . . . A Town Like Locri

Was Obviously Unsafe,  Too Public A Place For Such Important

Discoveries. The Conscientious Sir Herbert Would Certainly Want To Make

Enquiries On The Spot--Enquiries Which Would Prove That No Faun Had Ever

Been Found There. And That Would Ruin Everything. Therefore The Statue

Had Been "Carried" To The Vineyard In Ancient Times By "Some Young And

Ardent Lover Of Art." Carried,  Ha,  Ha! His Knowledge Of Human Nature

Made Him Doubt Whether The Locri Faun Had Ever In Its Life Made A

Further Journey Than To Caloveglia's Shady Courtyard From That

Mysterious,  Dusty Shed At The Back Of His House. Or The Demeter Either.

That "Sadly Mutilated Head" Was A Feeler--A Rehearsal. They Both Came

"From The Same Workshop." Excellent! That Shed Was The Workshop--The

Birthplace Of These Two Antiques; The Count Himself Their Old Hellenic

Creator.

 

Andrea,  No Doubt,  Was The Secret.

 

These Art Experts! Here Was Street,  One Of The Best Of Them,  A Man Of

Celebrity In His Department,  Solemnly Pronouncing For The Authenticity

Of The Fake--In The Full And Innocent Conviction That It Was Really

Authentic. A Sucking Babe. This Man,  He Could See By His Simple Society

Face,  Had Not Even Made An Arrangement With The Count As To A

Commission For Himself In The Event Of A Purchase Being Concluded. He

Was Satisfied With His Salary. These Experts--What A Crowd Of Fools They

Were! Especially The Honest Ones.

 

None The Less,  He Was Delighted With Sir Herbert's Opinion. It Was

Exactly What He Wanted. For He Meant To Help The County Who,  He Was

Sure,  Would Never Accept A Cent From Him Save Under A Pretext Like That

Of The Sale Of The Faun. He Loved Old Caloveglia. There Was Something

Clean And Purposeful About Him. His Friendship With Such A Man Filled

Up What He Knew To Be A Void In His Own Equipment As Citizen Of The

World. And The Count Was Working--Was Lying--For A Worthy Purpose: A

Daughter's Dowry. For That Reason Alone He Was Deserving Of Assistance.

 

Mr. Van Koppen Was Unmarried. Knowing Life As He Did,  From Its More

Seamy Or Mercenary Side,  He Had