South Wind(Fiscle Part-3) - Norman Douglas (ebook e reader .TXT) 📗
- Author: Norman Douglas
Book online «South Wind(Fiscle Part-3) - Norman Douglas (ebook e reader .TXT) 📗». Author Norman Douglas
Condition, The Plumbing, The Gas, The Woodwork, The Paintings And
Repaintings, The Tons Of Fuel, The Lighting In Winter, The Contrivances
Against Frost And Rain, The Never-Ending Repairs To Houses, The Daily
Polishings And Dustings And Scrubbings And Those Thousand Other
Impediments To The Life Of The Spirit! Half Of Them Are Non-Existent In
These Latitudes; Half The Vitality Expended Upon Them Could Therefore
Be Directed To Other Ends. At Close Of Day, Your Northerner Is Pleased
With Himself. He Has Survived; He Has Even Prospered. His Family Is
Adequately Housed And Clothed. He Feels 'Presentable,' As He Calls It,
In The Eyes Of Those Who Share His Illusions. He Fancies He Has
Attained The Aim And Object Of Existence. He Is Too Dazed With The
Struggle To Perceive How Incongruous His Efforts Have Been. What Has He
Done? He Has Sacrificed Himself On The Altar Of A False Ideal. He Has
Not Touched The Fringe Of A Reasonable Life. He Has Performed Certain
Social And Political Duties--He Knows Nothing Of The Duties Towards
Himself. I Am Speaking Of Men From Whom Better Things Might Have Been
Expected. As For The Majority, The Crowd, The Herd--They Do Not Exist,
Neither Here Nor Anywhere Else. They Leave A Purely Physiological Mark
Upon Posterity; They Propagate The Species And Protect Their Offspring.
So Do Foxes. It Is Not Enough For Us. Living In Our Lands, Men Would
Have Leisure To Cultivate Nobler Aspects Of Their Nature. They Would Be
Accessible To Purer Aspirations, Worthier Delights. They Would Enjoy
The Happiness Of Sages. What Other Happiness Deserves The Name? In The
Mediterranean, Mr. Heard, Lies The Hope Of Humanity."
The Bishop Was Thoughtful. There Occurred To Him Various Objections To
This Rather Fanciful Argument. Still, He Said Nothing. He Was Naturally
Chary Of Words; It Was So Interesting To Listen To Other People! And At
This Particular Period He Was More Than Usually Reflective And
Absorbent.
Happiness--An Honourable, Justifiable Happiness--How Was It To Be
Attained? Not Otherwise, He Used To Think, Than Through The Twofold
Agency Of Christianity And Civilization. That Was His Old College
Attitude. Imperceptibly His Outlook Had Shifted Since Then. Something
Had Been Stirring Within Him; New Points Of View Had Floated Into His
Ken. He Was No Longer So Sure About Things. The Structure Of His Mind
Had Lost That Old Stability; Its Elements Seemed To Be Held In
Solution, Ready To Form New Combinations. China Had Taught Him That Men
Can Be Happy And Virtuous While Lacking, And Even Scorning The First Of
These Twin Blessings. Then Had Come Africa, Where His Notions Had Been
Further Dislocated By Those Natives Who Derided Both The One And The
Other--Such Fine Healthy Animals, All The Same! A Candid Soul, He
Allowed His Natural Shrewdness And Logic To Play Freely With Memories
Of His Earlier Experiences Among The London Poor. Those Experiences Now
Became Fraught With A New Meaning. The Solemn Doctrines He Had Preached
In Those Days: Were They Really A Panacea For All The Ills Of The
Flesh? He Thought Upon The Gaunt Bodies, Starved Souls, And White
Faces--The Dirt, The Squalor Of It! Was That Christianity, Civilization?
The Count, Pursuing Some Other Line Of Thought, Broke Out Into A Kind
Of Delphic Rhapsody:
"Folly Of Men! The Wits Of Our People Have Been Blunted, Their Habits
Bestialized, Their Very Climate And Landscape Ruined. The Alert Genius
Of The Greeks Is Clogged By A Barbaric, Leaden-Hued Religion--The
Fertile Plains Of Asia Minor And Spain Converted Into Deserts! We
Begin, At Last, To Apprehend The Mischief; We Know Who Is To Blame; We
Are Turning The Corner. Enclosed Within The Soft Imagination Of The
Homo Mediterraneus Lies A Kernel Of Hard Reason. We Have Reached That
Kernel. The Northerner's Hardness Is On The Surface; His Core, His
Inner Being, Is Apt To Quaver In A State Of Fluid Irresponsibility. Yet
There Must Be Reasonable Men Everywhere; Men Who Refuse To Wear Away
Their Faculties In A Degrading Effort To Plunder One Another, Men Who
Are Tired Of Hustle And Strife. What, Sir, Would You Call The
Phenomenon Of To-Day? What Is The Outstanding Feature Of Modern Life?
The Bankruptcy, The Proven Fatuity, Of Everything That Is Bound Up
Under The Name Of Western Civilization. Men Are Perceiving, I Think,
The Baseness Of Mercantile And Military Ideals, The Loftiness Of Those
Older Ones. They Will Band Together, The Elect Of Every Nation, In
God-Favoured Regions Round The Inland Sea, Thee To Lead Serener Lives.
To Those How Have Hitherto Preached Indecorous Maxims Of Conduct They
Will Say: 'What Is All This Ferocious Nonsense About Strenuousness? An
Unbecoming Fluster. And Who Are You, To Dictate How We Shall Order Our
Day? Go! Shiver And Struggle In Your Hyperborean Dens. Trample About
Those Misty Rain-Sodden Fields, And Hack Each Other's Eyes Out With
Antideluvian Bayonets. Or Career Up And Down The Ocean, In Your Absurd
Ships, To Pick The Pockets Of Men Better Than Yourselves. That Is You
Mode Of Self-Expression. It Is Not Ours.' And Mediterranean People Will
Lead The Way. They Have Suffered More Than All From The Imbecilities Of
Kinds And Priests And Soldiers And Politicians. They Now Make An End Of
This Neurasthenic Gadding And Getting. They Focus Themselves Anew And
Regain Their Lost Dignity. That Ancient Individualistic Tone Reasserts
Itself. Man Becomes A Personality Once More--"
He Continued For Some Time In This Prophetic Strain, The Bishop
Listening With Considerable Approbation Though, At A Certain Point Of
The Discourse, He Would Have Liked To Drop A Word About Thermopylae And
Marathon. He Also Knew Something Of The Evils Of Northern
Industrialism--How It Stunts The Body And Warps The Mind.
"What A Charming Dreamer!" He Thought.
It Was Rather Convenient For The Count To Be Able To Pass, Just Then,
For A Dreamer.
As A Matter Of Fact, He Was An Extremely Practical Old Gentleman.
Chapter 8
"Sanidin?" Queried Denis Almost Flippantly, As He Held Up A Fragment Of
Rock.
He Was Not Particularly Eager To Hear Marten's Answer. He Had Thought,
Only A Few Days Ago, That He Would Like To Be A Geologist; Marten Had
Inspired Him With A Fancy For That Science. The Fit Was Already
Passing.
How Quickly This Geological Mood Had Evaporated. How Quickly Everything
Evaporated, Nowadays.
All Was Not Well With Denis. Early That Morning He Had Tried His Hand
At Poetry Once More, After A Long Interval. Four Words--That Was All The
Inspiration Which Had Come To Him.
"Or Vine-Wreathed Tuscany. . . ."
A Pretty Turn, In The Earlier Manner Of Keats. It Looked Well On The
Snowy Paper. "Or Vine-Wreathed Tuscany." He Was Content With That
Phrase, So Far As It Went. But Where Was The Rest Of The Stanza?
How Easily, A Year Or Two Ago, Could He Have Fashioned The Whole Verse.
How Easily Everything Was Accomplished In Those Days. To Be A Poet:
That Was A Fixed Point On His Horizon. Any Number Of Joyous Lyrics, As
Well As Three Plays Not Intended For The Stage, Had Already Dropped
From His Pen. He Was An Extraordinary Success Among His College
Friends; Everybody Liked Him; He Could Say And Do What He Pleased. Was
He Not The Idol Of A Select Group Who Admired Not Only One Another But
Also The Satanism Of Baudelaire, The Hieratic Obscenities Of Beardsley,
The Mustiest Persian Sage, The Modernest American Ballad-Monger? He Was
Full Of Gay Irresponsibility. Ever Since, On Returning To His Rooms
After Some Tedious Lecture, He Announced To His Friends That He Had
Lost An Umbrella But Preserved, Thank God, His Honour, They Augured A
Brilliant Future For Him. So, For Other But No Less Cogent Reasons, Did
His Doting, Misguided Mother.
Both Were Disappointed. Those Sprightly Sallies Became Rarer; Epigrams
Died, Still-Born, On His Lips. He Lost His Sense Of Humour; Grew
Mirthless, Fretful, Self-Conscious. He Suddenly Realized The Existence
Of A World Beyond His College Walls; It Made Him Feel Like A Hot-House
Flower Exposed To The Blustering Winds Of March. Life Was No Longer A
Hurdle In A Steeple-Chase To Be Taken At A Gallop; It Was A Tangle Of
Beastly Facts That Stared You In The Face And Refused To Get Out Of The
Way. With Growing Years, During Vacation, He Came In Contact With A New
Set Of People; Men Who Smiled Indulgently At Mention Of All He Held
Most Sacred--Art, Classics, Literature; Men Who Were Plainly Not Insane
And Yet Took Up Incomprehensible Professions Of One Kind Or
Another--Took Them Up With Open Eyes And Unfeigned Zest, And Actually
Prospered At Them In A Crude Worldly Fashion.
He Shrank At First From Their Society, Consoling Himself With The
Reflection That, Being Bounders, It Did Not Matter Whether They
Succeeded Or Not. But This Explanation Did Not Hold Good For Long. They
Were Not Bounders--Not All Of Them. People Not Only Dined With Them:
They Asked Them To Dinner. Quite Decent Fellows, In Fact. Nothing Was
Wrong With Them, Save That They Held A Point Of View Which Was At
Variance With His Own.
It Was A Rude Awakening. Every Moment He Was Up Against Something New.
There Were Quite A Lot Of Things, He Discovered, Which A Fellow Ought
To Know, And Doesn't. Too Many Of Them To Assimilate With Comfort. They
Crowded In Upon Him And Unsettled His Mind. He Kept Up A Brave
Exterior, But His Inner Core Was Suffering; He Was No Longer Certain Of
Himself. He Became Easily Swayed And Changeful In His Moods. That Sure
Touch In Lyrics, As In Daily Life, Was Deserting Him. His Dreams Were
Not Coming True. He Was Not Going To Set The Thames On Fire With Poetry
Or Anything Else. He Would Probably Be A Failure. Aware Of This
Weakness, He Looked Up To What Was Strong. Everything Was Different
From Himself, Everything Forceful, Emphatic And Clear-Cut, Exercised A
Fascination Upon Him. He Tried In An Honest, Groping Fashion, To Learn
What It Was All About. That Was Why He Had Taken To Edgar Marten, The
Antithesis Of Himself, Bright But Dogmatic, A Slovenly Little Plebeian
But A Man Who After All Had A Determined, Definite Point Of View.
Denis Repeated:
"Sanidin?"
"Let's Have A Look At It Then," Said Marten Condescendingly, "Though I
Can't Say I'm In A Geological Temper This Morning. The South Wind Seems
To Rot One's Intelligence Somehow. Hand It Here. Sanidin Be Blowed!
It's Specular Iron. Now I Wonder Why You Should Hit Upon Sanidin? Why?"
He, Too, Did Not Pause For A Reply. He Turned His Glance Once More Down
The Steep Hill-Side Which They Had Climbed With A View To Exploring
Some Instructive Exposure Of The Rock. Marten Intended To Utilize The
Site As A Text For A Lay Sermon. Arrived On The Spot They Had Sat Down.
As If By Common Consent, Geology Was Forgotten. To Outward Appearances
They Were Absorbed In The Beauties Of Nature. Sirocco Mists Rose
Upwards, Clustering Thickly Overhead And Rolling In Billowy Formations
Among The Dales. Sometimes A Breath Of Wind Would Convulse Their Ranks,
Causing Them To Trail In Long Silvery Pennants Across The Sky And,
Opening A Rift In Their Gossamer Texture, Would Reveal, Far Down Below,
A Glimmer Of Olives Shining In The Sunlight Or A Patch Of Blue Sea,
Framed In An Aureole Of Peacock Hues. Stones And Grass Were Clammy With
Warm Moisture.
"It's A Funny Thing," Said Marten, After A Long Pause. "I've Often
Noticed It. When I'm Not Actually At Work, I'm Always Thinking About
Girls. I Wish I Could Talk Better Latin, Or Italian. Not That I Should
Be Running After Them All Day Long. I've Got Other Fish To Fry. I've
Got To Catalogue My Minerals, And I'm Only Half-Way Through. For The
Matter Of That, I Haven't Come Across Half As Many Nice Ones Here As I
Thought I Would."
"Minerals?"
"Girls. I Don't Seem To Take To These Foreigners. But There's One--"
"Go On."
"You're A Queer Fellow, Phipps. Don't You Ever Look At Women? I Believe
You Have The Making Of A Saint In You. Fight Against It. A Fellow Can't
Live Without Vices. Here You Are, With Lots Of Money, Stewing In A Back
Bedroom Of A Second-Class Hotel And Getting Up Every Morning At Five
O'clock
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