South Wind(Fiscle Part-3) - Norman Douglas (ebook e reader .TXT) 📗

Of The

Whisky Here--It Scares Me. My Liver--"

 

"Ah,  Yes!" Said Mr. Keith With A Sigh. "No Wonder You Hesitate. It Is

Quite Disheartening,  All That Drunkenness."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6

 

 

 

 

 

It Stands To Reason That The Duchess Was Not A Duchess At All. She Was

American By Birth,  From Some Western State,  And Her First Husband Had

Been An Army Man. Her Second Spouse--He,  Too,  Had Died Long Ago--Was

Italian. In View Of His Passionate Devotion To The Catholic Church And

Of A Further Payment Of Fifty Thousand Francs,  He Had Been Raised To

The Rank Of Papal Marquis. He Died Relatively Young. Had His Life Been

Spared,  As It Ought To Have Been,  He Might Well Have Become A Papal

Duke In Course Of Time. He Was Carried Off By An Accident Not Of His

Own Contriving--Run Over By A Tramcar In Rome--Before That Further Ducal

Premium Was Even Expected To Be Paid. But For This,  He Ought To Have

Died A Duke. He Would Have Been A Duke,  By This Time.

 

His Widow,  Taking These Things Into Consideration,  Felt It Her Duty To

Appropriate The More Sonorous Of The Two Titles Open To Her. Nobody

Contested Her Claim. All Her Friends,  On The Contrary,  Declared That

She Talked Like A Peeress And Behaved Like One; And In A World Where

The Few Remaining Authentic Specimens Of That Class Fail To Fulfil

Either The One Or The Other Of These Conditions,  It Was Thought Meet

And Proper That Somebody Should Be Good Enough To Carry On,  If Only In

Semblance,  And If Only In Nepenthe,  The Traditions Of A Race Rapidly

Approaching Extinction. It Was Pleasant To Be Able To Converse With A

Duchess At Any Hour Of The Day,  And This One Was Nothing If Not

Accessible So Long As You Were Fairly Well Clothed,  Had A Reasonably

Supply Of Small Talk And Did Not Profess Violent Anti-Papal Sentiments.

 

Some People Said She Dressed Like A Duchess,  But There Was Less

Unanimity On This Point. Her Handsome Oval Face And Towering Grey Hair

Induced Her To Cultivate An Antique Pose,  With A View To Resembling "La

Pompadour." La Pompadour Stood For Something Courtly And Powdered. She

Certainly Dressed Better And On Far Less Money Than Madame Steynlin,

Whose Plump Figure,  Round Sunburnt Cheeks,  And Impulsive Manner Would

Never Have Done For An Old-World Beauty,  And Who Cared Little What

Frocks She Wore,  So Long As Somebody Loved Her. The Duchess Had All The

Aplomb Of La Pompadour,  But Not Much Of Her French Accent. Her Italian,

Too,  Was Somewhat Embryonic. That Mattered Little. The External

Impression,  The Grand Manner,  Was Everything. She Was Not Lame,  Though

She Generally Leaned On Somebody's Arm Or A Stick. It Was Rather A

Pretty Stick. She Would Have Worm A Pomander In Her Hair,  Or On A

Chatelaine,  If Anybody Had Told Her What A Pomander Was. As Her Friends

Were Unable To Enlighten Her--Mr. Keith Even Hinting That It Was An

Object Which Could Not Be Mentioned In Polite Society--She Contented

Herself With A Couple Of Patches.

 

Her Rooms In That Disused Convent Were An Interminable Suite Of

Rectangular Chambers,  Unpretentious But Solidly Built,  With Straight

Corridors Running Alongside. You Beheld Pretty Pavements Of

Old-Fashioned Tiles,  Not Overmuch Furniture,  One Or Two Portraits Of

The Pope,  And Abundance Of Flowers And Crucifixes. The Duchess

Specialized In Flowers And Crucifixes. Everybody,  Aware Of Her Fondness

For Them,  Gave Her Either The One Or The Other,  Or Both. An Elaborate

Arrangement For Tea Occupied One Of The Rooms; There Was Also A Cold

Buffet For Gentlemen--Brandies And Wines And Iced Soda-Water And Lobster

Sandwiches And Suchlike.

 

A Many-Tongued Conversation Filled The Air With Pleasant Murmurs.

Various Nationalities Were Represented,  Though The Russian Colony Was

Conspicuous By Its Absence. The Duchess,  Like Mr. Freddy Parker,  Drew

The Line At Russians. If Only They Would Not Dress So Oddly,  With Those

Open Collars,  Leathern Belts,  And Scarlet Blouses! The Judge,  Also,  Was

Never Asked To Come--He Was Too Outspoken A Freethinker,  And Too Fond Of

Spitting On The Floor. Nor Did Mr. Eames Put In An Appearance. He

Avoided Social Obligations; His Limited Means Preventing Him From

Making Any Adequate Return. But There Was An Ample Display Of

Ecclesiastics,  Together With A Few Other Notabilities. Mr. Heard

Encountered Some Familiar Faces,  And Made New Friends. He Felt Drawn

Towards Madame Steynlin--She Had Such A Cheerful Bright Face.

 

"And How Delightfully Cool These Rooms Are!" He Was Saying To The

Duchess. "I Wonder How You Manage To Keep The Sirocco Out?"

 

"By Closing The Windows,  Bishop. English People Will Not Believe That.

They Open Their Windows. In Comes The Heat."

 

"If English People Closed Their Windows They Would Die," Said Don

Francesco. "Half The Houses In England Would Be Condemned By Law In

This Country And Pulled Down,  On Account Of Their Low Ceilings. Low

Ceilings Have Given The Englishman His Cult Of Fresh Air. He Likes To

Be Cosy And Familiar And Exclusive; He Has No Sense For Broad Social

Functions. There Is Something Of The Cave-Dweller In Every Englishman.

He May Say What He Likes,  But The Humble Cottage Will Always Remain His

Dream. You Can Tell The Ideals Of A Nation By Its Advertisements. This

Country Is Pastoral. That Is Why Our Advertisements Are So Apt To

Portray Commercial Conditions--Enormous Factories And Engines And

Chimneys; We Are Dissatisfied With Our Agricultural State. The

Frenchman's Aspiration Is Woman; Paris Hoardings Will Tell You That.

England Is A Land Of Industrial Troglodytes,  Where Every Man's Cavern

Is His Castle. Its Advertisements Depict Either Gross Masses Of Food

Such As Cave-Dwellers Naturally Relish,  Or Else Quiet Country

Scenes--Green Lanes,  And Sunsets,  And Peaceful Dwellings In The Country.

Home,  Sweet Home! The Cottage! That Means Open Windows Or Suffocation.

. . . I Think I See The Person Who Spoke To You On The Steamer," He

Added To Mr. Heard. "I Don't Like His Looks. He Is Coming Our Way."

 

"That Must Be Mr. Muhlen," Exclaimed The Duchess. "They Say He Played

Beautifully At The Hotel Last Night. I Wonder Whether I Could Induce

Him To Try My Longwood? It's Rather An Old Model,  I Fear,  And Out Of

Tune."

 

The Gentleman Appeared,  Ostentatiously Dressed And Escorted By Mr.

Richards,  The Vice-President Of The Alpha And Omega Club,  Who Seemed To

Be Fairly Steady On His Legs And Was Presently Absorbed In An Artistic

Examination Of A Number Of Silver Ornaments,  Crucifixes,  Relics And

Suchlike Objects Of Virtu,  Which The Duchess Had Gathered Together. He

Handled Them Like A Connoisseur. Others Of That Institution Had

Promised To Attend The Party But,  On Being Overhauled By The

Conscientious Vice-President,  Were Found To Be Unpresentable At The

Last Moment.

 

The Duchess Moved Away To Greet Him. Mr. Heard Remarked To Don

Francesco:

 

"That Middle-Aged Colleague Of Yours,  Yonder--He Has An Unusual Face."

 

"Our Parish Priest. A Sound Christian!"

 

The Parroco's Thin Lips,  Peaked Nose,  Beady Eyes And Colourless Cheeks

Proclaimed The Anchorite,  If Not The Monomaniac. He Flitted About Like

A Draught Of Cold Air,  Refusing All Refreshments And Not Daring To

Smell The Flowers,  Lest He Should Derive Too Much Pleasure From Them.

He Was Often Called Torquemada,  From His Harsh And Abstemious Habits.

The Name Had Been Given Him,  Of Course,  By His Brother Priests Who Knew

About Such Matters,  And Not By The Common People To Whom The Word

Torquemada Would Have Suggested,  If Anything,  A Savoury Kind Of

Pudding. Torquemada Was Capable Of Any Sacrifice,  Of Any Enormity,  In

Defence Of The Faith. A Narrow Medieval Type,  He Was The Only Person On

Nepenthe Who Would Have Been Hewn In Pieces For His God--Nobody Allowing

Themselves To Be Even Temporarily Incommoded In So Visionary A Cause.

He Enjoyed A Reputation Of Perfect Chastity Which Differentiated Him

From All The Remaining Priests And Contributed,  More Than Anything

Else,  To His Unpopularity. It Enraged The Frankly Carnal Natives To

Such An Extent That They Made Insinuations About His Bodily Health And

Told Other Horrible Stories,  Swore They Were True,  And Offered To Give

Statistical Figures In Confirmation. They Said,  Among Other Things,

That After Begging Money From Wealthy Foreigners For Alleged Repairs To

The Parish Organ And Other Godly Purposes,  He Kept The Proceeds Himself

On The Principle That Charity Began At Home And Ought To End There.

Nobody Could Deny His Devotion To Mother,  Sisters,  And Even Distant

Relatives. So Much Was Also Certain,  That The Parroco's Family Was

Poor.

 

Harp-Like Tinklings Arose From An Adjoining Chamber; A General Move

Took Place In That Direction. Mr. Keith Was There. He Sat Beside Madame

Steynlin Who,  Being A Fair Performer Herself,  Was Listening With

Rapture To Muhlen's Strains. During A Pause He Said:

 

"I Wish I Could Make It Out. It Annoys Me,  Madame Steynlin,  Not To

Comprehend The Charm Of Music. I Would Give Almost Anything To The

Person Who Can Satisfy Me That What I Hear Is Not A Succession Of

Unnecessary Noises."

 

"Perhaps You Are Not Musical."

 

"That Would Not Prevent My Understanding The Feelings Of People Like

Yourself. I Don't Want To Be Musical. I Want To Get A Grip Of This

Thing. I Want To Know. Tell Me Why You Like It And Why I Don't. Tell

Me--"

 

The Sounds Began Again.

 

"Ah!" Said The Duchess,  "That Wonderful Andante Con Brio!"

 

Then,  As The Strains Grew Louder,  She Whispered To Don Francesco Upon A

Subject Which Had Always Puzzled Her.

 

"I Would Be Glad To Learn," She Said,  "Why Our Parliamentary

Representative,  Commendatore Morena,  Has Never Yet Visited Nepenthe.

Surely It Is His Duty To Show Himself Now And Then To His

Parishioners--Constituents,  I Mean? This Festival Of Saint Dodekanus

Would Have Been Such A Good Opportunity. His Appearance Would Have Been

A Discomfiture For The Free-Thinkers. Every Year He Promises To Come.

And Every Year He Fails Us. Why?"

 

"I Cannot Tell," Replied The Priest. "The Animal Has Probably Got Other

Things To Do."

 

"The Animal? Ah,  Don't Say That! And Such A Good Catholic!"

 

"Foreigners,  Dear Duchess,  I Leave To Your Judgment. They Are Of Little

Account,  Anyhow. But You Will Be Guided By Me In Your Appreciation Of

The Worldly Qualities Of Natives. Otherwise,  With All Your

Intelligence,  It Will Be Impossible For You To Avoid Mistakes. Let Us

Leave It At That."

 

"But Why--"

 

"We Will Leave It At That,  Dear Lady!"

 

"Indeed We Will,  Don Francesco," Replied The Duchess,  Who Loved To Be

Ruled In Matters Of This Kind.

 

At This Moment,  The Performer Rose From The Piano With Unexpected

Suddenness Remarking Sotto Voce That If He Had Known He Was To Play On

A Spinet He Would Have Brought Some Lulli With Him. He Was Beaming All

Over,  None The Less,  And Soon Making Arrangements With Other Guests For

A Series Of Picnics And Boating Excursions--Getting On Swimmingly,  In

Fact,  When The Thoughtless Madame Steynlin Captured Him And Began To

Talk Music. He Repeated That Remark,  Too Good To Be Lost,  About The

Spinet; It Led To Scarlatti,  Mozart,  Handel. He Said Handel Was The

Saviour Of English Music. She Said Handel Was Its Blight And Damnation.

Each Being Furnished With Copious Arguments,  The Discussion Degenerated

Into Technicalities.

 

Denis,  Meanwhile,  Was Handing Round Tea-Cakes And Things,  With The

Double Object Of Making Himself Useful And Of Being As Near As Possible

To Angelina,  The Hand-Maiden Of The Duchess,  A Bewitchingly Pretty

Brunette,  Who Was Doing The Same. Perhaps The Existence Of Angelin

Accounted For His Respectful Attentions And Frequent Visits To The

Duchess. He Felt He Was Really In Love For The First Time In His Life.

 

He Worshipped From Afar. He Would Have Liked To Worship From A Little

Nearer,  But Did Not Know How To Set About It; He Was Afraid Of

Troubling What He Called Her Innocence. Hitherto He Had Scored No Great

Success. Angelina,  Aged Fifteen,  With The Figure Of A Fairy,  A Glowing

Complexion,  And A Rich Southern Voice,  Was Perfectly Aware Of His

Idealistic Sentiments. She Responded To The Extent Of Gazing At Him,

Now And Then,  In A Most Disconcerting Fashion. It Was As Though She

Cared Little About Idealism. She Did Not Smile. There Was Neither Love

Nor Disdain In That Gaze; It Was Neither Hot Nor Cold,  Nor Yet

Lukewarm; It Was Something Else,  Something He