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

Because You Like Lying In Bed Late. Is That Your Way Of

Mortifying The Flesh? Got A Soul,  Eh? Get Rid Of It. The Soul! That

Unhappy Word Has Been The Refuge Of Empty Minds Ever Since The World

Began. You're Just Like A Man I Used To Know At Newcastle. You Can't

Think What An Ass He Was. A Sort Of Eugenical Crank,  Who Talked About

The City Beautiful Where Everybody Would Lead Regenerated Lives Like A

Flock Of Prize Sheep. Everything Sanitary And Soulful; Nothing But Pure

Men And Pure Women. An Addle-Headed Theorist,  He Was,  Till A Woman Got

Hold Of Him--One Of The Other Kind,  You Know--And Gave Him Something

Practical To Think About. That's What Will Happen To You,  Phipps. I Can

See It Coming."

 

"I've Been Analysing Myself Lately. I Find I Have Too Much Romance In

My Composition,  As It Is."

 

"What Do You Call Romance?"

 

Denis Thought Awhile. Then He Said:

 

"When A Man Invests Ordinary People Or Objects Or Occurrences With An

Extraordinary Interest. When He Reads Attributes Into Them Which They

Don't Possess,  Or Exaggerates Those Which They Do Possess. When He

Looks At A Person And Can't Help Thinking That There Is Nobody On Earth

Quite Like Her."

 

"Too Celestial For Me,  On The Whole. But I'm Glad You Said That Last

Part. Glad For Your Sake,  I Mean. It Shows That You've Perhaps Got

Something Better Than A Soul,  After All."

 

"What Is That?"

 

"A Body. Look Here,  Phipps. I Also Have My Romantic Moments,  Though You

Wouldn't Believe It. I Can Be As Romantic As Ever You Please. But Not

When I'm Alone."

 

"I Should Like To See You In That Condition. And Talking Latin,  No

Doubt?" He Added With A Laugh.

 

"I Daresay You Would," Replied The Scientist. "Given The Circumstances

Under Which I Become Romantic,  You'll Find It A Little Difficult. But

There's No Knowing. Funny Things Happen Sometimes!"

 

Denis Had Picked Up Another Stone. He Scrutinized It With Close

Attention,  And Then Began To Turn It Round And Round In His Hand In An

Absent-Minded Fashion. At Last He Remarked:

 

"We Are Not Doing Much Mineralogy,  Are We? What Do You Think Of

Chastity,  Marten?"

 

"Chastity Be Blowed. It's An Unclean State Of Affairs,  And Dangerous To

The Community. You Can't Call Yourself A Good Citizen Till You Have

Learnt To Despise It From The Bottom Of Your Heart. It's An Insult To

The Creator And An Abomination To Man And Beast."

 

"Perhaps You Never Gave It A Fair Trial," Suggested Denis.

 

"Perhaps I'm Not Quite Such A Damned Fool As All That. A Man Needn't

Handle Everything Dirty In Order To Be Doubly Sure About It. If You

Tell Me That A Dead Donkey Smells Bad,  I'm Quite Prepared To Believe

You Without Poking My Nose Into It. Chastity Is A Dead Donkey. No

Beating Will Bring It To Life Again. Who Killed It? The Experience Of

Every Sane Man And Woman On Earth. It's Decayed; It Ought To Be Buried.

You Ask Me To Give It A Trial. Perhaps I Will,  When I'm In The Same

Mellow Condition Myself. Everything In Its Proper Season. Don't Let Us

Reverse The Natural Order Of Things. When We Cease To Practise,  Then Is

The Time To Preach. A Fellow Of Your Size! And With Your Good Looks,

Too. Who Knows How Many Golden Opportunities You've Missed. Try To Make

Up For Lost Time,  Phipps. Get Rid Of Conventional Notions,  If You Value

Your Health."

 

"I Will,  When I Find Them Wrong. What Do You Think Of Women--Generally

Speaking,  I Mean?"

 

Marten Replied,  Without A Moment's Hesitation:

 

"Thank God I'm A Jew. You Must Take That Into Consideration. I Think

The Mormons Have Made A Good Shot At Solving The Woman Question,  If The

Question Exists At All. Mormonism Is A Protest Against Monogamy. And

Please Observe That It's A Protest Not On The Part Of Man Alone. It's A

Protest On The Part Of Woman. Never Forget That. In Fact,  I Don't

Believe Any Woman Would Ever Bind Herself To One Fool Of A Man If She

Had Her Own Way. She Wouldn't Marry At All. She Needn't,  Nowadays. She

Won't,  Very Soon. A Man Who Marries--Well,  There May Be Some Excuse For

Him,  Though A Love-Match Is Generally A Failure And A Money-Match

Always A Mistake. The Heroes,  The Saints And Sages--They Are Those Who

Face The World Alone. A Married Man Is Half A Man."

 

"Ahem!"

 

Marten Was Silent.

 

"I Did Not Ask You To Stop," Said Denis. "You've Got It Very Pat!"

 

"Plain Sailing,  My Boy. It's The Social Reformers And Novelists Who

Create These Artificial Conundrums; They Want To Sell Their Rotten

Literature; They Want To Make Us Forget That The Only Interesting And

Important Part Of The Business Is What Nobody Talks Or Writes About.

What Does It All Amount To? Man Creates Intellectually And Physically.

He Classifies Minerals Or Blasts Out A Tunnel. Woman Creates

Physiologically; She Supplies The Essential,  The Raw Material; Her

Noblest Product Is A Child. I Get On Splendidly With Women,  Because We

Both Realize The Stupidity Of The Average Sex-Twaddle. We Have No

Illusions About Each Other. We Know Exactly What We Are After. We Know

Exactly How To Attain It. I Tell You What,  Phipps,  Female Emancipation

Is Going To Do Away With A Lot Of Cant And Idealism. Knock The Silly

Male On The Head. There'll Be An End Of Your Chastity-Worship,  Once

Women Are Fairly Started On The Game. They Won't Put Up With It."

 

"Disgusting," Said Denis. "Go On."

 

"I'm Done. What,  Sanidin Again?"

 

Denis Still Held The Stone In His Hand. He Was Thinking,  However,  Of

Other Things. He Liked To Collect Fresh Ideas,  To Be Impregnated With

The Mentality Of Other People--He Knew How Much He Had To Learn. But He

Would Have Preferred His Mind To Be Moulded Gently,  In Artistic

Fashion. Marten's Style Was More Like Random Blows From A

Sledge-Hammer,  Half Of Them Wide Of The Mark. It Was Not Very Edifying,

Or Even Instructive. Keith Was The Same. Why Was Everybody So Violent,

So Extreme In Their Views?

 

Marten Repeated:

 

"Sanidin?"

 

"It Might Be Sanidin In Places," Replied Denis. "I Do Know A Little

Something About Crystals,  Marten. I Have Read Ruskin's Ethics Of The

Dust."

 

"Ruskin. Good God! He's Not A Man; He's An Emetic. But You Never

Answered My First Question. You Always Hit Upon Sanidin. Why?"

 

"Oh,  I Don't Know. It's Rather A Pretty Word,  Don't You Think? It Would

Do For A Christian Name. Girls' Names Are So Terribly Commonplace. They

Are Always Marjorie,  Or Something. If I Had A Daughter,  I Should Call

Her Sanidin."

 

"You're Not Likely To Find Yourself In That Position At This Rate. If I

Had A Daughter,  I Know Perfectly Well What I Should Call Her."

 

"What?"

 

"Angelina."

 

"You Would?" Asked Denis Slowly. "And Why?"

 

"Oh,  It's Rather A Pretty Name,  Don't You Think?"

 

"Not A Bad Name At All,  Now I Come To Think Of It. But It Sounds

Foreign. I Thought You Did Not Care About Foreigners."

 

"I Don't. But There's One--"

 

"Go On," Said Denis.

 

Mr. Marten Winked.

 

The Mists Had Fled From The Hilltops; Rocks And Vineyards,  And The Sea

At Their Foot,  Lay Flooded In Sunshine. With One Accord,  The Two Young

Men Rose From The Ground And Turned Their Steps Homewards. The

Mineralogical Lesson Was Over.

 

"Coming To Keith's To-Night?" Enquired Marten With A Fine Show Of

Nonchalance.

 

"I Don't Know."

 

"I Would If I Were You. They Say He Does Things Properly. There'll Be

An Awful Crowd--A Regular Bust-Up. He Only Gives One Of These

Entertainments A Year. Dancing And Chinese Lanterns And Champagne In

Torrents. Won't You Go?"

 

"Perhaps Later In The Evening."

 

Denis Was Perturbed. He Scented A Rival In This Brutalitarian,  Though

It Seemed Hardly Possible That Angelina Should Take Much Notice Of Him.

Meanwhile,  He Felt In Need Of Some Gentlemanly And Soothing Influence,

After Such An Outpouring Of Vulgarity. He Thought Of The Bibliographer.

He Liked Eames; He Admired That Scholarly Detachment. He,  Too,  Might

End In Annotating Some Masterpiece--Who Knows? To Be A

Bibliographer--What A Calm,  Studious Life!

 

"I Think I'll Go To Eames," He Remarked.

 

"Really? A Colourless Creature,  That Eames. As Dry As A Stick; A

Typical Don. I Promised Him A Mineralogical Map,  By The Way. You Might

Tell Him I Haven't Forgotten,  Will You? I Wonder What You Can See In

The Man?"

 

"I Rather Like Him," Said Denis. "He Knows What He Wants."

 

"That Is Not Enough,  My Young Friend!" Replied Marten With Decision. "A

Fellow Must Want Something Sensible."

 

"What Do You Call Sensible?"

 

"Sanidin,  And Things Like That. Things With Pretty Names. Eh,  Phipps?"

 

Denis Said Nothing.

 

His Friend Continued Jovially:

 

"The Tavern Mood Is Upon Me. I Am Going To Luisella's To Get A Drink.

One Gets Sick Of That Club. Besides,  I've Taken Rather A Fancy To That

Younger Sister. The Second Youngest,  I Mean; The One With The Curly

Hair--You Know! I Only Wish I Knew A Bit More Latin."

 

Luisella's Grotto-Tavern Had Become Quite A Famous Rendezvous. You

Could Drop In There At Any Hour And Always Find Company To Your Liking.

Don Francesco Had A Good Deal To Do With Its Discovery; He Discovered,

At All Events,  The Second Eldest Of The Four Orphan Sisters Who Managed

The House. After A Time,  Having Convinced Himself That They Were All

Good Penitents And Being A Kindly Sort Of Man,  He Thought That Other

People Might Like To Share In The Seductions Which The Place Afforded.

He Took Foreign Friends There From Time To Time,  And None Were

Disappointed. The Wine Was Excellent. Russians,  Excluded From The Club

By Mr. Parker's Severity,  Frequented The Spot In Considerable Numbers.

They Were Nicely Treated There. Not Many Nights Previously One Of The

Master's Disciples,  The Athletic Young Peter Krasnojabkin,  Who Was

Credited With Being A Protege Of Madame Steynlin's,  Had Distinguished

Himself By Drinking Sixteen Bottles At A Sitting. He Afterwards Smashed

A Few Chairs And Things,  For Which He Apologized So Prettily Next

Morning That The Girls Would Not Hear Of His Paying For The Damage.

 

"It's All In The Family," They Said. "Come And Break Some More!"

 

That Was The Way They Ran The Place,  As Regards Drinks. The Quality Of

The Refreshments,  Too,  Was Quite Out Of The Common. As For The Girls

Themselves--Their Admirers Were Legion. They Could Have Married Anyone

They Pleased,  Had It Not Been More In Accordance With The Interests Of

Their Business,  To Say Nothing Of The Personal Inclinations,  To Have

Only Lovers.

 

As Marten Disappeared Under That Hospitable Doorway,  I Flashed Through

The Mind Of Denis That Eames Was A Confirmed Recluse; He Might Not Like

Being Disturbed In The Morning.

 

Besides,  He Was Probably At Work.

 

He Thought Of Going To See The Bishop. There Was A Glamour In The Name.

To Be A Bishop! His Mother Had Sometimes Suggested The Church,  Or At

Least Politics As A Career For Him,  If Poetry Should Fail. But This One

Was So Matter-Of-Fact And Unpretentious In His Clothing,  His Opinions.

A Broken-Down Matrimonial Agent,  Don Francesco Had Called Him. Mr.

Heard Was Not His Idea Of A Shepherd Of Souls; He Was Only A Colonial,

Anyhow. A Grey Type Of Man--Nothing Purple About Him,  Nothing Glowing Or

Ornate. He Did Not Get On Particularly Well With Him Either.

 

Besides,  He Hardly Knew Him Sufficiently To Intrude At This Hour Of The

Day.

 

One Thing Was Certain. He Would Go To The Cave Of Mercury That Very

Evening. Keith Was Right. He Must Try To "Find Himself." He Wanted To

Be Alone,  To Think Things Out. Or Perhaps--No. He Did Not Want To Be

Alone With His Thoughts. They Were Too Oppressive Just Then. He

Required Some Kind Of Company.

 

Besides,  Keith Had Said "Full Moon." The Moon Was Not Yet Quite Full.

 

No!

 

He Would See What The Duchess Was Doing,  And Perhaps Stay To Luncheon.

Eames Could Wait. So Could The Bishop. So Could The Cave. He Was Fond

Of The Duchess.

 

Besides,  It Was Such A Quaint Place--That Austere Old Convent,  Built By

The Good Duke Alfred.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 9

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"That Is The Worst Of Dining With A Man. You Have To Be Civil Next

Morning. But Surely,  Eames,  We Two Need Not