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

Never Brought Himself To Accept A

Single One Of Several Hundred Offers Of Marriage Which Had Been More Or

Less Overtly Made To Him--To His Millions. He Loved The Sex,  As A Whole;

But Distrusted Them Individually. He Thought He Knew Exactly What They

Were After. Pearl Necklaces And Things. He Was A Good American; Fond Of

Bestowing Pearl Necklaces. But He Liked To Give Them When,  And To Whom,

He Fancied; He Meant To Be His Own Master And To Keep His Painfully

Gotten Millions Under His Own Control. All Of Which,  Far From

Extinguishing,  Actually Fostered That Queer Bachelor's Feeling Of

Reverential Awe For The Married State And Its Results. Every Form Of

Courage And Success Appealed To Van Koppen--None More Than The Reckless

Impetuosity Of A Man Who Speculates In Such A Delirious Lottery And

Sometimes Actually Draws A Prize. Such Had Been Count Caloveglia's

Portion. His Marriage Had Plainly Been A Love-Match; A Success; Its

Result,  This Offspring--A Daughter Of Whom Any Father Might Be Proud.

Mr. Van Koppen Thoroughly Understood The Count's Position. These

Italians Need Dowries For Their Girls. Well,  He Should Have One! What

Did It Signify? One Pearl Necklace The Less,  For Some Operatic Charmer.

Not Worth Talking About. Among All H Is Various Benefactions,  None Was

Ever Projected With A Lighter Heart,  With More Sincere Pleasure. It

Made Him Glad To Be A Millionaire.

 

All The Details Had Been Settled. The Flutterby Was Sailing In A Day Or

Two. The Relic Would Be Brought On Board,  At Dead Of Night,  By The

Faithful Andrea,  Who Would Return To The Count With A Cheque In His

Pocket. It Was A Considerable Sum; So Considerable That Caloveglia Had

Displayed Great Hesitation In Accepting It. But The Millionaire Pointed

Out That The Parties Must Be Guided By Sir Herbert's Opinion. What Was

The Good,  He Asked,  Of Employing A Specialist? Sir Herbert Street Had

Declared The Bronze To Be Priceless,  Unique. His Employer,  Therefore,

Insisted On Paying What The Other Had Called "An Adequate Amount,  If

The Value Of Such A Work Of Art Can Be Expressed In Monetary Figures At

All." There Was Nothing More To Be Said. The Count Gave Way,  With

Graceful Reluctance. A Sham Ancestry Having Been Manufactured For The

Masterpiece (It Was Proved To Come From Asia Minor) In Order To Elude

The Vigilance Of The Italian Government,  The Locri Faun Could

Thereafter Be Freely Displayed To The American Public,  And Sir Herbert

Street Was Probably Right In Foretelling That It Would Be The Show

Piece Of The Millionaire's Museum-Artists And Antiquarians Flocking To

See It From Every Part Of The World.

 

And Mr. Van Koppen,  As He Drove Along,  Was Thinking Of That Cheque; He

Was Converting The Dollars Into Francs. They Made Rather An Awkward

Sum. He Decided To Round It Off,  If Only For The Sake Of Appearances; A

Further Reason For Not Sending The Cheque Till The Last Moment,

Together With A Carefully Worded Letter To Allay The Count's Scruples.

The Old Fellow Might Otherwise Return The Balance,  In A Fit Of

Conscientiousness. Like Himself,  Count Caloveglia Was Infernally,  And

Very Properly,  Punctilious--In Small Matters.

 

Yes,  There Was Some Fun,  At Times,  In Being A Millionaire. Or A

Sculptor Either,  For That Matter! For It Evidently Took Some Doing--A

Little Thing Like That Locri Faun. It Took Some Doing. And It Was Worth

Doing: That Was The Main Point. A Man Who Could Bamboozle Sir Herbert

Street--Such A Man Deserved To Be Supported. And What If The Truth

Ultimately Leaked Out? Had He Not Acted With The Best Intentions,  Under

The Written Advice Of An Expert? Far From Feeling Uneasy,  Mr. Van

Koppen Smiled At The Thought Of How His Millions,  Backed By The Opinion

Of A Connoisseur Of International Reputation,  Had Enabled Him To Play

Yet One More Trick Upon That Great Republic Whose Fathomless

Gullibility No One Had Ever Exploited To A Better Purpose Than

Himself. . . .

 

Mr. Eames Was Waiting For The Bishop,  According To Appointment.

 

"How About Mrs. Meadows?" He At Once Began.

 

"She Was Out,  Invisible. I Waited Nearly Two Hours And Then Lunched

With Count Caloveglia. By The Way,  Have You Seen Anything Of Denis

Lately?"

 

"No. Why?"

 

"The Old Man Seemed To Be Concerned About Him. He Asked Me To Make

Enquiries. Van Koppen Thought That He Might Have Got Into Trouble With

Some Girl. But That Strikes Me As Very Unlikely. He May Be A Little

Homesick And Lonely,  So Far From His Mother."

 

The Bibliographer Said:

 

"I Understand Mr. Van Koppen Is Quite An Authority On Girls. As To

Denis,  I Saw Him Last--When Was It? Oh,  Not So Very Long Ago. The Day

All Those Funny Things Happened; Those Portents. We Walked Up And Down

Together On This Very Terrace. Perhaps He Has Left The Island,  Like

That Wretched Mineralogist Who Promised Me--Never Mind! He Seemed All

Right Then. A Little Depressed,  Perhaps. Yes; A Little Depressed,  No I

Come To Think Of It. But The Count Need Not Be Anxious. This Island Is

A Great Place For Scares And Rumours."

 

Mr. Heard Was Not Satisfied.

 

"Do You Believe The Influence Of Nepenthe Can Make Northern People

Irresponsible For Their Actions? Keith Does. Or How About The Sirocco?

Can It Upset Their Nerves To Such An Extent?"

 

"Not My Nerves. I Have Heard Of People Making Fools Of Themselves And

Then Blaming The Creator. Often! And Of Course,  If One Begins To Brood

Over Accidentals Like The Weather,  One Is Sure To Become A Lunatic

Sooner Or Later. Weather Was Not Made For That Purpose. If You Come To

Think Of It,  How Few Days There Are When A Man Can Honestly Say That

The Weather Is Quite To His Liking! It Is Nearly Always Too Hot Or Too

Cold Or Too Wet Or Too Dry Or Too Windy. I Don't Trouble Myself About

Sirocco. Why Should Denis? He Is Not Nearly As Much Of A Fool As Many

People Look. And I Would Not Listen To Keith. He Moves Among

Hyperbolas."

 

Mr. Heard Felt Slightly Relieved. What A Sensible Fellow This Was; So

Matter-Of-Fact And Sure Of His Ground. The Ideal Scholar. Sirocco Did

Not Exist For Him. He Stood Aloof From Human Passions And Infirmities.

 

It Was Plain That The Bishop Had Never Heard That Story About The

Ballon Captif.

 

"For My Part," He Said,  "I Am Beginning To Object To This South Wind. I

Never Felt It Worse Than To-Day. Phew! Stifling! One Can Hardly

Breathe. My Shirt Is Sticking To My Back. Suppose We Sit Down

Somewhere?"

 

They Found A Bench,  In View Of The Sea And The Volcano. The Population

Moved Sedately Up And Down Before Their Eyes.

 

"Is It Always Like This?" Enquired Mr. Heard.

 

"Spring Is A Little Warmer Than Usual. Or Perhaps One Should Say That

Summer Has Begun Earlier. The Sirocco Is The Same,  Year After Year,

Although There Is A Kind Of Conspiracy Among The Foreign Residents To

Say That It Happens To Be Worse Than Usual That Particular Season. It

Never Varies."

 

"What Does Your Perrelli Say On The Subject?"

 

Mr. Eames Glanced At Him Distrustfully.

 

"You Are Trying To Chaff Me," He Said. "Serves Me Right For Talking So

Much This Morning. I Am Afraid I Bored You Dreadfully."

 

The Bishop Wanted To Know.

 

"Then I May Tell You That Monsignor Perrelli Does Not So Much As

Mention The South Wind. He Names All The Others And Has Come Capital

Observations On The Anchorages Of The Island As Adapted To Different

Winds And Seasons. He Has Also Extracted From Old Chronicles The

Records Of The Great Storms Of 1136,  1342,  1373,  1460,  And So On; But

Never Discloses The Fact That They All Blew From The South. He Says The

Air Is Pleasant,  Tempered By Gentle Breezes From The Sea. The Word

Sirocco Does Not Occur In His Pages Save Once,  When He Laments Its

Prevalence On The Mainland."

 

"The Old Humbug!"

 

A Little Shiver Ran Through Mr. Eames. Then He Observed,  In A Suave

Tone Of Voice:

 

"He Was An Historian Of The Period,  An Agreeable Gentleman Telling

Others Of His Kind What He Knows Will Be Of Interest To Them. That Is

What Makes His Work Attractive To Me: The Personality Of The Writer.

The Facts That He Records,  Taken In Conjunction With Those He Slurs

Over Or Omits--They Give One Such An Insight Into Changing Human Nature!

You Can Construct The Character Of A Man And His Age Not Only From What

He Does And Says,  But From What He Fails To Say And Do."

 

"Modern Historians Are Not Like That," Said Mr. Heard. "They Give You

The Truth To The Best Of Their Ability. It Is Rather Dry Reading

Sometimes. I Would Like To Borrow Your Perrelli For A Day Or Two,  If

You Don't Mind."

 

"I'll Send It Round,  Together With Some Old Prints Of This Island And

Modern Photographs. You Will Then See What I Mean. The Prints Are Not

Exactly True To Nature; These People Did Not Want To Be True To Nature.

And Yet They Convey A Better Impression Of The Place Than The Modern

Pictures. Perhaps There Are Two Truths: The Truth Of Fact And That Of

Suggestion. Perrelli Is Very Suggestive; Romance Grafted Upon

Erudition,  And Blossoming Out Of It! So Imaginative! He Has A

Dissertation On The Fishes Of Nepenthe--It Reads Like A Poem And Is Yet

Full Of Practical Gastronomic Hints. Can You Picture Virgil

Collaborating With Apicius?"

 

The Bishop Said:

 

"Horace Might Have Got On Better With That Old Bon-Vivant."

 

"Horace Could Never Have Had A Hand In This Chapter. He Lacks The

Idealistic Tinge. He Could Never Have Written About Red Mullets As

Perrelli Writes When He Compares Their Skin To The Fiery Waves Of

Phelgethon,  To The Mantle Of Rosy-Fingered Dawn,  To The Blush Of A

Maiden Surprised In Her Bath,  And Then Goes On To Tell You How To Cook

The B East In Thirty Different Ways And How To Spit Out The Bones In

The Most Noiseless,  Genteel Fashion. That Is Perrelli--So Original,  So

Leisurely. Always Himself! He Smiled As He Wrote; There Is Not A Shadow

Of Doubt About It. In Another Section,  On The Fountains Of The Island,

He Deliberately Indulges In The Humour Of Some Old Mediaeval Schoolman.

Then There Is A Chapter On The Ecclesiastical Conditions Of The Place

Under Florizel The Fat--It Is Full Of Veiled Attacks On The Religious

Orders Of His Own Day; I Suspect It Got Him Into Trouble,  That Chapter.

I Am Sorry To Say There Is A Good Deal Of Loose Talk Scattered About

His Pages. I Fear He Was Not Altogether A Pure-Minded Man. But I Cannot

Bring Myself To Despise Him. What Do You Think? Certain Problems Are

Always Cropping Up,  Aren't They?"

 

Mr. Eames Suddenly Looked Quite Troubled.

 

"They Are," Replied The Bishop,  Who Was Not In A Mood To Discuss Ethics

Just Then. "What Are You Going To Do About It?" He Added.

 

"About What?"

 

"This Poetic Omission On The Part Of Perrelli To Mention The Sirocco?"

 

"It Has Given Me A Deal Of Extra Work,  I Can Assure You. I Have Had To

Go Into The Whole Question. I Have Tabulated No Less Than Fifty-Seven

Varieties Of Sirocco. Sailors' Words,  Most Of Them; Together With A

Handful Of Antiquated Terms. Fifty-Seven Varieties. Twenty-Three

Thousand Words,  Up To The Present,  Dealing The With South Wind."

 

"That Is A Fair-Sized Foot-Note," Laughed The Bishop. "A Good Slice Of

A Book,  I Should Call It."

 

"My Foot-Notes Are To Be Printed In Small Type. In Fact,  I Am Thinking

Of Casting The Whole Of This Sirocco--Material Into An Appendix. Too

Much,  You Think? Surely The Number Of Words Is Not Disproportionate To

The Subject? The South Wind Is A Good Slice Of Nepenthe,  Is It Not? . . .

Look! That Cloud Has Made Up Its Mind To Come Our Way After All.

There Will Be Another Shower Of Ashes. Sirocco,  You Observe. . . ."

 

The Terrace,  Meanwhile,  Had Become Crowded. Already The Evening Sun Was

Slightly Obscured Behind A Brown Haze. Ashes Were Traveling Fast. They

Began To Fall,  Softly.

 

What Was To Be Done? Everybody,  Mindful Of The Previous Experience,  Was

In Favour Of A Second Procession To Take Place Immediately. The Parroco

Held The Same Opinion. For Form's Sake,  However,  He Dispatched A

Confidential Messenger To Learn The Views Of Mr. Parker,  Who Was

Sitting Dejectedly In His Study With The Incomplete Financial Report

Still Staring Him In The Face. The Commissioner Pulled Himself Together

With Praiseworthy Alacrity And Gave His Whole Mind To The Question.

 

No. On Due Consideration,  He Was Opposed To The Idea Of A Procession.

Having Enjoyed,  In Various Continents And Various Capacities,  Some

Experience Of Backing The Same Horse Twice Over,  Mr. Parker Was Not In

Favour Of Demanding A Second Largesse From The Saint. It Might Spoil

Everything,  He Said. Let Them Wait Till Next Morning. If There Was A

Deep Fall Like Last Time,  The Experiment Might Be Worth Trying.