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

Peculiar College Aroma Which The Most Heroic Efforts Of

A Lifetime Often Fail To Dissipate. Then,  He Had Said Something About

Florence,  And Cinque-Cento,  And Jacopo Bellini. The Bishop,  A Practical

Man,  Had Not Much Use For Jacopo Bellini Or For People Who Talked About

Him. None The Less,  While Making Himself Useful With Unpacking And

Arranging Things,  Denis Dropped A Remark Which Struck Mr. Heard.

 

"The Canvas Of Nepenthe," He Observed,  "Is Rather Overcharged."

 

Rather Overcharged. . . .

 

It Was True,  Thought The Bishop,  As He Glanced Out Of His Window That

Evening,  All Alone,  Over The Sea Into Which A Young Moon Was Just

Sinking To Rest. Overcharged! A Ceaseless Ebb And Flow Of Humanity

Surged Before His Weary Eyes. That Sense Of Irreality Which Had Struck

Him On His First View Of The Island Was Still Persisting; The South

Wind,  No Doubt,  Helped This Illusion. He Remembered The General

Affluence And Kindliness Of The People; That,  At Least,  Had Made A

Definite Mark Upon His Mind. He Liked The Place. Already He Felt At

Home Here,  And In Better Health. But When He Tried To Conjure Up Some

Definite Impression Of Town And People,  The Images Became Blurred; The

Smiling Priest,  The Duchess,  Mr. Keith--They Were Like Figures In A

Dream; They Merged Into Memories Of Africa,  Of His Fellow-Passengers

From Zanzibar; They Mingled With Projects Relating To His Own Future In

England--Projects Relating To His Cousin On Nepenthe. Mr. Heard Felt

Exhausted.

 

He Was Too Tired To Be Greatly Affected By That Cannonade,  Which Was

Enough To Rouse The Dead. Something Must Be Happening,  He Mused; Then,

His Meditations Concluded,  Turned On His Other Side. He Slept Well Into

The Morning,  And Found His Breakfast Appetisingly Laid Out In The

Adjoining Room.

 

And Now,  He Thought,  For That Procession.

 

Bells Were Ringing Gaily Into The Sunshine. From A Long Way Off,  He

Discerned The Brazen Tones Of A Band,  The Chanting Of Priests And

Townspeople,  Shrill Voices Of Women. The Pageant Came In Sight--Winding

Its Way Through The Multitudes Under The Beflagged Arches Of Greenery,

While A Rain Of Flowers Descended From Windows And Balconies Overhead.

Clusters Of Children Went Before,  In Many-Tinted Array,  According To

Their Various Schools Or Confraternities. Then Came The Municipal Band

In Uniform,  Playing The Cheeriest Of Tunes,  And Escorted By The

Nepenthe Militia Whose Old-Fashioned Costume Of Silver And Scarlet Was

Most Effective. The Authorities Of The Island Trod On Their Heels--Grave

Gentlemen In Black Clothes,  Some Of Them Adorned With Ribbons And

Decorations. The Mephistophelean Judge,  The Freethinker,  Was Among

Them; He Limped Along,  Expectorating Every Ten Yards Or So,  Presumably

To Mark His Displeasure At Being Obliged,  As Official,  To Attend A

Religious Function. The Commissioner,  Too,  Was In The Ranks. He

Appeared Just The Same As Yesterday; Very Informal In His

Knickerbockers,  And Decidedly Pink About The Gills.

 

There Followed A Long Train Of Priests,  Clad In Lace And Silken

Garments Of Every Hue. They Looked Like A Perambulating Flower-Garden.

Plump,  Jovial Fellows--Chanting Blithely,  And Occasionally Exchanging A

Few Words With One Another. Don Francesco Glittered In Crimson

Vestments; He Recognized Mr. Heard,  And Gave Him A Broad Smile Combined

With Something Which Might Have Been Mistaken For A Wink. The Huge

Silver Statue Of The Saint Came Next. It Was A Grotesque Monster,  Borne

Aloft On A Wooden Platform That Wobbled On The Shoulders Of Eight Lusty

Perspiring Carriers. As It Passed,  All The Onlookers Raised Their Hats;

All Save The Russians,  The Little White Cows Who,  Standing Aside With

Wonderment Written On Their Childlike Faces,  Were Relieved From This

Necessity,  Since The Wearing Of Hats Had Been Forbidden By Their

Leader,  Their Self-Styled Messiah,  The Divinely Inspired Bazhakuloff;

They Were To Go Bareheaded Summer And Winter,  "Like The Christians Of

Old." Some Ardent Believers Went So Far As To Kneel On The Stony

Ground. The Duchess,  The Catholic-To-Be,  Had Assumed This Reverend

Posture; She Was On The Other Side Of The Street,  Surrounded By A

Number Of Ladies And Gentlemen. Mr. Heard,  Reviewing The Crowd,

Abandoned The Idea Of Piercing That Procession And Exchanging A Few

Words With Her. He Would See Her In The Afternoon.

 

Then The Bishop--The Dignitary Whom Don Francesco Had Called "Not

Exactly A Liberal." He Tallied With That Description. A Wicked Old

Face! He Was Blear-Eyed,  Brown As A Mummy,  And So Fat That His Legs Had

Long Ago Ceased To Be Any Use Save As A Precarious Support While

Standing. He Rode,  In Gorgeous Apparel,  On A Milk-White Donkey Which

Was Led By Two Pretty Choristers In Blue. Attached To The End Of A Long

Pole,  A Green Umbrella Of Gargantuan Proportions,  Adorned With Red

Tassels,  Protected His Wrinkled Head From The Rays Of The Sun. One Hand

Clutched Some Religious Object Upon Which His Eyes Were Glued In A

Hypnotic Trance,  The Other Cruised Aimlessly About The Horizon,  In The

Act Of Benediction.

 

Mumbo-Jumbo,  Thought Mr. Heard.

 

Yet He Looked Without Wincing At The Caricature Of Christianity. It Was

Like An Act In A Pantomime. He Had Seen Funnier Things In Africa. Among

The Bitongos,  For Instance. They Would Have Enjoyed This Procession,

The Bitongos. They Were Christians; Had Taken To The Gospel Like Ducks

To The Water; Wore Top-Hats At Easter. But Liars--Such Dreadful Liars!

Just The Reverse Of The M'tezo. Ah,  Those M'tezo! Incurable Heathen. He

Had Given Them Up Long Ago. Anyhow,  They Despised Lying. They Filed

Their Teeth,  Ate Their Superfluous Female Relations,  Swopped Wives

Every New Moon,  And Never Wore A Stitch Of Clothes. A Man Who Appeared

Among The M'tezo In A Fig-Leaf Would Find Himself In The Cooking-Pot

Within Five Minutes.

 

How They Attached Themselves To His Heart,  Those Black Fellows. Such

Healthy Animals! This Spectacle,  He Discovered,  Was Rather Like

Africa--The Same Steamy Heat,  The Same Blaring Noises,  Dazzling Light,

And Glowing Colours; The Same Spirit Of Unconquerable Playfulness In

Grave Concerns.

 

And The Bumbulis,  The Kubangos,  The Mugwambas! And The Bulanga--That

Tribe Whom Mr. Keith Seemed To Know So Well! Really,  The Bulanga Were

The Worst Of The Lot. Not Fit To Be Talked About. And Yet,  Somehow Or

Other,  One Could Not Help Liking Them. . . .

 

"Good Morning,  Bishop!" Said A Voice At His Side. It Was Mr. Keith. He

Looked Well Washed And Chubby In His Spotless White Clothes.

Accompanying Him Was A Friend In Grey Flannels Whom He Presently

Introduced As Mr. Eames. "Hope You Slept Well," He Went On. "And How Do

You Like The Procession? You Are Doing Quite The Right Thing In

Attending. Oh,  Quite. That Is Why I Am Here,  Though I Don't Much Fancy

These Ceremonies. One Ought To Conform To Custom. Well,  What Are You

Thinking?"

 

"I Was Thinking Of Africa,  And The Pain Which The Natives Will Endure

For What They Call Their Pleasures. I Wonder How Much Those Men Are

Paid For Carrying That Statue? They Perspire Pretty Freely."

 

"They Are Paid Nothing. They Pay,  Themselves,  A Heavy Sum For The

Privilege."

 

"You Surprise Me!"

 

"They Have Remission Of Sins; They Can Be As Naughty As Ever They Like

For A Twelvemonth Afterwards. That Is A Consideration. I Will Tell You

Something Else About That Idol. It Is Five Hundred Years Old--"

 

"Oh,  Come!" Interposed Mr. Eames,  In A Tone Of Gentle Remonstrance.

"The Saint Was Cast Exactly Eighty-Two Years Ago; They Used To Have A

Wooden One Before That Time. Anybody Can See From The Workmanship--"

 

"Have It Your Way,  Eames. Eighty-Two Years Old,  I Was Going To Say,  And

Not Yet Paid For. They Want Some Rich Foreigner To Produce The Money.

They Are Counting On Van Koppen,  Just Now; An American Millionaire,  You

Know,  Who Comes Here Every Year And Spends A Good Deal Of Money. But I

Know Old Koppen. He Is No Fool. By The Way,  Eames,  What Do You Think Of

This Discover Of Mine? Of Course You Have Hear Of The James-Lange

Theory Of The Emotions,  Namely,  That Bodily Changes Follow Directly On

The Perception Of The Existing Fact And That Our Feeling Of These Same

Changes As They Occur Is The Emotion. They Developed The Theory

Independently,  And Got Great Credit For It. Well,  I Find--What Nobody

Seems To Have Noticed--That They Were Anticipated By Professor Maudsley.

I've Got A Note Of It In My Pocket. Here You Are. Psychology Of Mind,

1876,  Pages 472-4 Et Seq.; 372,  384,  386-7 Et Passim. What Do You Say?"

 

"Nothing. I Am Not Interested In Psychology. You Know It Perfectly

Well.

 

"Why Not? Wouldn't You Get More Fun Out Of Life If You Were?"

 

"I Have Perrelli."

 

"Always Your Old Perrelli! That Reminds Me,  Eames. I Mean To Talk To

Van Koppen As Soon As He Arrives About Getting That Book Of Yours

Published. He Is Good For Any Amount. Koppen Is Your Man."

 

There Was A Mischievous Twinkle In His Eye,  As He Said This.

 

"Please Don't," Implored Mr. Eames. "You Will Annoy Me Very Seriously."

 

"Don't Be Absurd,  My Poor Fellow."

 

"You Can't Think How Much You Will Annoy Me! How Often Have I Told

You--"

 

"Then You Must Lunch With Me To-Day,  Together With The Bishop. Don't

Trouble About Driving To The Old Town To See Your Cousin," He Added To

Mr. Heard. "She Is Sure To Be At The Reception Of The Duchess This

Afternoon."

 

Mr. Eames Said:

 

"So Sorry. I Must Get Back Home. I Only Came Out To Speak To A Man

About A Collar--For My Dog,  I Mean. Another Day,  If You Don't Mind. And

No Millionaires,  Whatever You Do!"

 

He Departed,  Rather Awkwardly.

 

"He Is Shy," Keith Explained. "But He Can Tell You All About The

Island. And Now Come Home With Me,  Bishop. I Feel As If It Were Time

For Luncheon. It Must Be About Half-Past Twelve."

 

Mr. Heard Took Out His Watch.

 

"Half-Past Twelve To The Minute," He Said.

 

"I Thought To. A Man's Best Clock Is His Stomach. We Have Only A Few

Hundred Yards To Go. Hot,  Isn't It? This Infernal South Wind. . . ."

 

The Villa Khismet Was One Of The Surprises Of Nepenthe. It Lay Somewhat

Out Of The Way,  At The End Of A Narrow,  Gloomy And Tortuous Lane. Who

Would Have Dreamt Of Finding A House Of This Kind In Such A Situation?

Who Would Have Expected,  On Passing Through That Mouldy Wooden Gateway

In The Wall,  To Find Himself In A Courtyard That Recalled The Exquisite

Proportions And Traceries Of The Alhambra--To Be Able To Wander Thence

Under Fretted Arches Through A Maze Of Marble-Paved Moorish Chambers,

Great And Small,  Opening Upon Each Other At Irregular Angles With A

Deliciously Impromptu Effect? The Palace Had Been Built Regardless Of

Expense. It Was Originally Laid Out,  Keith Explained,  By One Of The Old

Rulers Of Nepenthe Who,  To Tease His Faithful Subjects,  Simulated A

Frenzied Devotion For The Poetry And Architecture Of The Saracens,

Their Bitterest Enemies.

 

Something Oriental Still Hung About These Chambers,  Though The Modern

Furniture Was Not At All In Keeping With The Style. Mr. Keith Did Not

Profess To Be A Man Of Taste. "I Try To Be Comfortable," He Used To

Say. He Succeeded In Being Luxurious.

 

They Glanced Into The Garden--A Spacious Park-Like Enclosure Terminating

In A Declivity,  So As To Afford A View Over The Sea Far Below. It Was A

Mock Wilderness Of Trees And Bright Blossoms,  Flooded In Meridian

Sunlight. Some Gardeners Moved About,  Binding Up The Riotous Vegetation

That Had Sprouted Overnight Under The Moist Breath Of The Sirocco.

 

"It's Too Hot To Think Of Lunching Out Here," Said Keith. "You Should

Come And See This Place In The Evening."

 

"It Must Be Wonderful At That Hour."

 

"Still More Wonderful In The Early Morning,  Or By Moonlight. But Then I

Am Generally Alone. There Are Twenty-Four Fountains In This Garden," He

Added. "They Might Help To Keep The Place Cool. But Of Course Not One

Of Them Is In Use Now. You Have Observed,  Have You Not,  That There Is

No Running Water On This Island? That Old Duke Built The Fountains All

The Same,  And To Every One Of Them He Attached A Cistern,  To Hold The

Winter Rains; Then A Pumping Apparatus. Relays Of Slaves Had To Work

Underground,  Day And Night,  Pumping Water For These Twenty-Four

Fountains; It Fell Back Into The Cisterns,  And Was Forced Up Again. The

Arabs Had Fountains. He Meant To Have Them Too. Particularly At Night!

If Anything Went Wrong With The Machinery At That Hour,  There Was The

Devil To Pay. He Swore He Could Not Sleep Unless He Heard The Music Of

The Water. And His Sleepless Nights Were Bad For His Subjects. They

Generally Hid In Caves Till The Fountains Were Reported To Be In

Working Order Again. That Is The Way To Run An Island,  Mr. Heard. One

Must Be A Stylist."

 

"You Might Re-Activate One Of Them,  At Least,  With The Help Of Those

Servants."

 

"They Have Enough To Do,  I Assure You,  To Re-Activate Me--Keep Me Young

And In Good Condition. To Say Nothing Of The Flowers,  Which Also Need A

Little