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

Stand On Ceremony? I Am

Particularly Anxious For You To Come To-Night. Can't You Really Manage

It? I Want You To Meet Malipizzo And Say A Few Nice Words To Him. You

Are Too Aloof With That Man. There Is Nothing Like Keeping On The Right

Side Of The Law."

 

"What Do You Mean By That?"

 

"The Right Side Of The Judge," Said Keith. "It Is So Easy To Be

Polite To People,  And So Advisable In Some Cases. How Would You Like

To Spend A Week Or Two In Gaol? He Will Have You There One Of These

Days,  Unless You Have Placed Him Under Some Kind Of Obligation. He

Represents Justice Here. I Know You Don't Like Him. But What Would

It Cost You--Just A Friendly Handshake?"

 

"He Cannot Touch Me. I Have Nothing On My Conscience."

 

"Conscience,  My Dear Fellow,  Is A Good Servant But A Bad Master. Your

Sentiments Are English. They Will Never Do In A Country Where The

Personal Element Still Counts For Something."

 

"The Personal Element Signifying Favouritism And Venality?" Asked

Eames. "A Pretty State Of Affairs!"

 

"The Philosopher Can Only Live Under A Venal Government."

 

"I Disagree With You Altogether."

 

"You Always Disagree With Me," Answered Keith. "And You Always Find

Yourself In The Wrong. You Remember How I Warned You About That Little

Affair Of Yours? You Remember What An Ass You Made Of Yourself?"

 

"What Little Affair?" Enquired Eames,  With A Tinge Of Resignation In

His Voice.

 

The Other Did Not Reply. Mr. Keith Could Be Tactful,  On Occasions. He

Pretended To Be Absorbed In Cutting A Cigar.

 

"What Little Affair?" Insisted The Bibliographer,  Fearful Of What Was

Coming Next.

 

It Came.

 

"Oh,  That Balloon Business. . . ."

 

It Was Not True To Say Of Mr. Eames That He Lived On Nepenthe Because

He Was Wanted By The London Police For Something That Happened In

Richmond Park,  That His Real Name Was Not Eames At All But Daniels--The

Notorious Hodgson Daniels,  You Know,  Who Was Mixed Up In The Lotus Club

Scandal,  That He Was The Local Representative Of An International Gang

Of White-Slave Traffickers Who Had Affiliated Offices In Every Part Of

The World,  That He Was Not A Man At All But An Old Boarding-House

Keeper Who Had Very Good Reasons For Assuming The Male Disguise,  That

He Was A Morphinomaniac,  A Disfrocked Baptist Minister,  A Pawnbroker

Out Of Work,  A Fire-Worshipper,  A Transylvanian,  A Bank Clerk Who Had

Had A Fall,  A Decayed Jockey Who Disgraced Himself At A Subsequent

Period In Connection With Some East-End Mission For Reforming The Boys

Of Bermondsey And Then,  After Pawning His Mother's Jewelry,  Writing

Anonymous Threatening Letters To Society Ladies About Their Husbands

And Vice-Versa,  Trying To Blackmail Three Cabinet Ministers And

Tricking Poor Servant-Girls Out Of Their Hard-Earned Wages By The Sale

Of Sham Bibles,  Was Luckily Run To Earth In Piccadilly Circus,  After An

Exciting Chase,  With A Forty-Pound Salmon Under His Arm Which He Had

Been Seen To Lift From The Window Of A Bond Street Fishmonger.

 

All These Things,  And A Good Many More,  Had Been Said. Eames Knew It.

Kind Friends Had Seen To That.

 

To Contrive Such Stories Was A Certain Lady's Method Of Asserting Her

Personality On The Island. She Seldom Went Into Society Owing To Some

Physical Defect In Her Structure; She Could Only Sit At Home,  Like

Penelope,  Weaving These And Other Bright Tapestries--Odds And Ends Of

Servants' Gossip,  Patched Together By The Virulent Industry Of Her Own

Disordered Imagination. It Consoled Mr. Eames Slightly To Reflect That

He Was Not The Only Resident Singled Out For Such Aspersions; That The

More Harmless A Man's Life,  The More Fearsome The Legends. He Suffered,

None The Less. This Was Why He Seldom Entered The Premises Of The Alpha

And Omega Club Where,  Quite Apart From His Objection To Parker's Poison

And The Loose And Rowdy Talk Of The Place,  He Was Liable To Encounter

The Lady's Stepbrother. Of Course He Knew Perfectly Well What He Ought

To Have Done. He Ought To Have Imitated The Example Of Other People Who

Behaved Like Scoundrels And Openly Gloried In It. That Was The Only Way

To Be Even With Her; It Took The Wind Out Of Her Sails. Keith Often Put

The Matter Into A Nutshell:

 

"The Practical Advantages Of Doing Something Outrageous Must Be Clear

To You. It Is The Only Way Of Stopping Her Mouth,  Unless You Like To

Have Her Poisoned,  Which Might Be Rather Expensive Even Down Here,

Though You May Be Sure I Would Do My Best To Smooth Things Over With

Malipizzo. But I Am Afraid You Don't Realize The Advantages Of

Ruffianism As A Mode Of Art,  And A Mode Of Life. Only Think: A Thousand

Wrongs To Every Right! What An Opening For A Man Of Talent,  Especially

In A Country Like This,  Where Frank And Independent Action Still Counts

Its Admirers. You Have Done Nothing,  Of Late,  Worthy To Be Recorded In

The Chronique Scandaleuse Of Nepenthe. Twelve Years Ago,  Wasn't It,

That Little Affair Of Yours? Time Is Slipping By,  And Here You Muddle

Along With Your Old Perrelli,  In A Fog Of Moral Stagnation. It Is Not

Fair To The Rest Of Us. We All Contribute Our Mites To The Gaiety Of

Nations. Bethink Yourself. Bestir Yourself. Man! Do Something To Show

Us You Are Alive."

 

To Such Speeches Mr. Eames Would Listen With A Smile Of Amused

Indignation. He Was Incapable Of Living Up To The Ideals Of A Man Like

Keith Whose Sympathy With Every Form Of Wrong-Doing Would Have Rendered

Him Positively Unfit For Decent Society But For His Flagrant Good

Nature And Good Luncheons. He Suffered In Silence.

 

He Had Good Reason For Suffering. That "Little Affair" Of Twelve Years

Ago Was A Ghost Which Refused To Be Laid. Every One On The Island Knew

The Story; It Was Handed Down From One Batch Of Visitors To The Next.

He Knew That Whenever His Name Was Mentioned This Unique Indiscretion

Of His,  This Toothsome Morsel,  Would Likewise Be Dished Up. It Would

Never Grow Stale,  Though Atoned For By Twelve Years Of Exemplary

Conduct. He Felt Guilty. There Was A Skeleton In His Cupboard. He

Realized What People Were Saying.

 

"Know Eames? Oh,  Yes. That Quiet Man,  Who Writes. One Can't Swallow

Half Those Yarns About Him; Quite Impossible To Believe,  Of Course. She

Overdoes Things,  The Good Woman. All The Same,  There's No Smoke Without

Fire. You Know What Actually Did Happen,  Don't You? Well; One Really

Doesn't Quite Know What To Make Of A Fellow Like That,  Does One?"

 

What Had Happened?

 

The Bibliographer Had Fallen In Love,  After The Fashion Of A

Pure-Minded,  Gallant Gentleman. It Was His First And Only Experience Of

This Kind--An All-Consuming Passion Which Did Much Credit To His Heart

But Little To His Head. So Deeply Were His Feelings Involved That

During Those Brief Months Of Infatuation He Neglected,  He Despised,  He

Derided His Idol Perrelli. He Put On A New Character. While The Dust

Was Accumulating On Those Piles Of Footnotes,  Mr. Eames Astonished

People By Becoming A Society Man. It Was A Transfiguration. He Appeared

In Fancy Ties And Spats,  Fluttered About At Boating Parties And

Picnics,  Dined At Restaurants,  Perpetrated One Or Two Classic Jokes

About The Sirocco. Nepenthe Opened Its Eyes Wide Till The Truth Was

Made Manifest. After That,  Everybody Said He Might Have Discovered A

Worthier Object For His Affection Than The "Balloon Captif."

 

She Was A Native Of The Mainland To Whose Credit It Must Be Said That

She Did Not Pretend To Be Anything But What She Was--An Exuberant,

Gluttonous Dame,  With Volcanic Eyes,  Heavy Golden Bracelets,  The

Soupcon Of A Moustache,  And Arms As Thick As Other People's Thighs; An

Altogether Impossible Person. Nobody But A Man Of Genuine Refinement,

Scrupulous Rectitude,  Delicate Sense Of Honour And Kindly Disposition

Would Have Risked Being Seen In The Same Street With Such A Horror;

Nobody But A Real Gentleman Could Have Fallen In Love With Her. Mr.

Eames Ran After Her Like A Dog. He Made A Perfect Ass Of Himself,

Heedless Of What Anybody Though Or Said Of Him. The Men Declared He Was

Going Mad--Breaking Up--Sickening For An Attack Of G.P. "Miracles Will

Never Cease," Charitably Observed The Duchess. Alone Of All His Lady

Acquaintances,  Madame Steynlin Liked Him All The Better For This

Gaucherie. She Was A True Woman-Friend Of All Lovers; She Knew The

Human Heart And Its Queer Little Vagaries. She Received The Couple With

Open Arms And Entertained Them Royally,  After Her Manner; Gave Them A

Kind Of Social Status. Under This Friendly Treatment Mr. Eames Grew

Thinner From Day To Day; He Was Visibly Losing Flesh. The Dame

Prospered. Piloted By The Love-Sick Bibliographer She Gradually Waddled

Her Way--It Was Uphill Work,  For Both Of Them--Into The Uppermost Strata

Of Local Society Where,  Owing To The Rarefied Atmosphere,  Her Appetite,

To Say Nothing Of Her Person,  Soon Gained Notoriety. She Was Known,  In

Briefest Space Of Time,  As "The Cormorant," As "Prime Streaky," As

"Jumbo," As "The Phenomenon" And,  By Those Who Understood The French

Language,  As The "Ballon Captif."

 

The "Ballon Captif." . . .

 

How Things Got About,  On Nepenthe! Somehow Or Other,  This Odious

Nickname Reached Her Lover's Ears. It Embittered His Existence To Such

An Extent That,  Long After The Idyll Was Over,  He Had Serious Thoughts

Of Leaving The Island And Would Doubtless Have Done So,  But For His

Re-Kindled Enthusiasm For Monsignor Perrelli. So Sensitive Did He

Remain On This Point That The Mere Mention Of Balloons,  Or Even

Aeroplanes,  Would Make Him Wince And Feel Desirous Of Leaving The Room;

He Always Thought That People Introduced The Subject With Malicious

Purpose,  In Order To Remind Him Of This Unforgettable Peccadillo,  The

"Balloon Business," His One Lapse From Perfect Propriety. Mr. Keith,

Who Confessed To A Vein Of Coarseness In His Nature--Prided Himself Upon

It And,  In Fact,  Cultivated Insensitiveness As Other People Cultivate

Orchids,  Pronouncing It To Be The Best Method Of Self-Protection In A

World Infested With Fools--Mr. Keith Sometimes Could Not Resist The

Temptation Of Raking Up The Ashes Surreptitiously,  After An Elaborate,

Misleading Preamble. He Loved To Watch His Friend's Meekly Perplexed

Face On Such Occasions.

 

Heaven Knows How Long The Affair Might Have Lasted But For The Fact

That A Husband,  Or Somebody,  Unexpectedly Turned Up--A Husky Little Man

With A Cast In One Eye,  Who Looked Uxorious To An Alarming Degree. He

Carried Her Off In The Nick Of Time To Save Mr. Eames From Social

Ostracism,  Mental Dotage,  And Financial Ruin. Her Mere Appearance Had

Made Him The Laughing-Stock Of The Place; Her Appetite Had Led Him Into

Outlays Altogether Incompatible With His Income,  Chiefly In The Matter

Of Pastries,  Macaroons,  Fondants,  Ices,  Caramels,  Chocolates,  Jam

Tartlets And,  Above All,  Meringues,  To Which She Was Fabulously

Destructive.

 

It Took Some Living Down,  That Episode. He Feared People Would Talk Of

It To His Dying Day; He Knew They Would! He Wished Balloons Had Never

Been Invented. None The Less He Stuck It Out Bravely,  Threw Himself

With Redoubled Zeal Into Monsignor Perrelli And,  Incidentally,  Became

More Of A Recluse Than Ever.

 

"It Has Been A Lesson," He Reflected. "Semper Aliquid Haerebit,  I Am

Afraid. . . ."

 

Ernest Eames Was The Ideal Annotator. He Was Neither Inductive Nor

Deductive; He Had No Axe To Grind. His Talent Consisted In An Ant--Like

Hiving Faculty. He Was Acquisitive Of Information For A Set Purpose--To

Bring The Antiquities Up To Date. Whatever Failed To Fit In With This

Programme,  However Novel,  However Interesting--It Was Ruthlessly

Discarded. In This And Other Matters He Was The Reverse Of Keith,  Who

Collected Information For Its Own Sake. Keith Was A Pertinacious And

Omnivorous Student; He Sought Knowledge Not For A Set Purpose But

Because Nothing Was Without Interest For Him. He Took All Learning To

His Province. He Read For The Pleasure Of Knowing What He Did Not Know

Before; His Mind Was Unusually Receptive Because,  He Said,  He Respected

The Laws Which Governed His Body. Facts Were His Prey. He Threw Himself

Into Them With A Kind Of Piratical Ardour; Took Them By The Throat,

Wallowed In Them,  Worried Them Like A Terrier,  And Finally Assimilated

Them. They Gave Him Food For What He Liked Best On Earth:

"Disinterested Thought." They "Formed A Rich Loam." He Had An

Encyclopaeic Turn Of Mind; His Head,  As Somebody Once Remarked,  Was A

Lumber-Room Of Useless Information. He Could Tell You How Many Public

Baths Exited In Geneva In Pre-Reformation Days,  What Was The Colour Of

Mehemet Ali's Whiskers,  Why The Manuscript Of Virgil's Friend Gallius

Had Not Been Handed Down To Posterity,  And In What Year,  And What

Month,  The Decimal System Was Introduced Into Finland. Such Aimless

Incursions Into Knowledge Were A Puzzle To His Friends,  But Not To

Himself. They Helped Him To Build Up A Harmonious Scheme Of Life--To

Round Himself Off.

 

He Had Lately Attacked,  In Corsair Fashion,  The Greek Philosophers And

Had Disembowelled Plato,  Aristotle And