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

It,  Don Francesco. He Is Sure To Be The Right One.

They Get Yellow,  Out There. Sometimes Green."

 

Mr. Heard Was Intercepted On His Way To The Hotel By The Genial Priest,

And Formally Presented To The Duchess. She Was More Than Condescending

To This Stern And Rather Tired-Looking Man; She Was Gracious. She Made

All Kinds Of Polite Enquiries,  And Indicated The Various Sites And

Persons Of Interest; While Don Francesco,  He Observed,  Had

Unaccountably Recovered From His Sudden Attack Of Bad Humour On The

Steamer.

 

"And That Is Where I Live," She Said,  Pointing To A Large And Sever

Structure Whose Walls Had Plainly Not Been Whitewashed For Many Long

Years. "It's An Old Disused Convent,  Built By The Good Duke Alfred.

Wasn't It,  Denis?"

 

"I Really Couldn't Say,  Duchess. I Never Heard Of The Gentleman."

 

"That Good Duke Was An Unmitigated Ruffian," Observed Don Francesco.

 

"Oh,  Don't Say That! Think Of All The Good He Did For The Island. Think

Of That Frieze In The Church! I Have Acres And Acres Of Rooms To Walk

About In," She Continued,  Addressing The Bishop. "All By Myself! I'm

Quite A Hermit,  You Know. You Will Perhaps Be Able To Have A Cup Of Tea

With Me To-Day?"

 

"Not Exactly A Hermit," Denis Interposed.

 

"To Take Tea With The Duchess Is An Experience,  A Revelation," Said Don

Francesco In Judicial Tones. "I Have Enjoyed That Meal In Various Parts

Of The World,  But Nobody Can Manage It Like She Can. She Has The True

Gift. You Will Make Tea For Us In Paradise,  Dear Lady. As To Luncheon,

Let Me Tell You In Confidence,  Mr. Heard,  That My Friend Keith,  Whom

You Will Meet Sooner Or Later,  Has A Most Remarkable Chef. What That

Man Of Keith's Cannot Cook Is Not Worth Eating."

 

"How Delightful!" Replied The Bishop,  Slightly Embarrassed. "And

Where," He Added,  Laughing--"Where Does One Dine?"

 

"I Don Not Dine. Madame Steynlin Used To Give Nice Evening Parties," He

Continued Reflectively,  And With A Shad Of Sadness In His Voice.

"Excellent Little Dinners! But She Is So Taken Up With Russians Just

Now; They Quite Monopolise Her House. Down There; Do You See,  Mr.

Heard? That White Villa By The Sea,  At The End Of The Promontory? She

Is So Romantic. That Is Why She Bought A House Which Nobody Else Would

Have Bought At Any Price. That Little Place,  All By Itself--It

Fascinated Her. Bitterly She Regrets Her Choice. She Has Discovered The

Drawbacks Of A Promontory. My Dear Duchess,  Never Live On A Promontory!

It Has Fearful Inconveniences; You Are Overlooked By Everybody. All The

Islands Know What You Do,  And Who Visits You,  And When,  And Why. . . .

Yes,  I Remember Those Dinners With Regret. Nowadays I Must Content

Myself With A Miserable Supper At Home. The Doctor Has Forbidden

Dinners. He Says I Am Getting Too Fat."

 

Denis Remarked:

 

"Your Fat Is Your Fortune,  Don Francesco."

 

"My Fortune,  Then,  Is A Heavy Load To Bear. Mr. Keith Tells Me I Have

Seven Double Chins,  Three Behind And Four In Front. He Says He Has

Counted Them Carefully. He Declares That An Eighth Is In Course Of

Formation. It Is Too Much For A Person Of My Austere Temperament."

 

"You Need Never Believe A Word Keith Says," Said The Duchess. "He

Upsets Me With His Long Words And His--His Awful Views. He Really Does."

 

"I Tell Him He Is The Antichrist," Observed Don Francesco,  Gravely

Shaking His Head. "But We Shall See! We Shall Catch Him Yet."

 

The Duchess Had No Idea What The Antichrist Was,  But She Felt Sure It

Was Something Not Quite Nice.

 

"If I Thought He Was Anything Like That,  I Would Never Ask Him To My

House Again. The Antichrist! Ah,  Talk Of Angels--"

 

The Person In Question Suddenly Appeared,  Superintending Half A Dozen

Young Gardeners Who Carried Various Consignments Of Plants Wrapped Up

In Straw Which Had Arrived,  Presumably,  By The Steamer.

 

Mr. Keith Was Older Than He Looked--Incredibly Old,  In Fact,  Though

Nobody Could Bring Himself To Believe It; He Was Well Preserved By

Means Of A Complicated System Of Life,  The Details Of Which,  He Used To

Declare,  Were Not Fit For Publication. That Was Only His Way Of

Talking. He Exaggerated So Dreadfully. His Face Was Clean-Shaven,  Rosy,

And Of Cherubic Fulness; His Eyes Beamed Owlishly Through Spectacles

Which Nobody Had Ever Seen Him Take Off. But For Those Spectacles He

Might Have Passed For A Well-Groomed Baby In A Soap-Advertisement. He

Was Supposed To Sleep In Them.

 

It Looked As If Mr. Keith Had Taken An Instantaneous Liking To The

Bishop.

 

"Bampopo? Why,  Of Course. I've Been There. Years And Years Ago. Long

Before Your Time,  I'm Afraid. How Is The Place Getting On? Better

Roads,  No Doubt. And Better Food,  I Hope? I Was Much Interested In That

Little Lake--You Know? It Seemed To Have No Outlet. We Must Talk It

Over. And I Like Those Bulanga People--Fine Fellows! You Liked Them Too?

I'm Glad To Hear It. Such A Lot Of Nonsense Was Talked About Their

Depravity! If You Have Nothing Better To Do,  Come And Lunch To-Morrow,

Can You? Villa Khismet. Anybody Will Show You The Way. You,  Denis," He

Added,  "You Disappoint Me. You Look Like A Boy Who Is Fond Of Flowers.

And Yet You Have Never Been To See My Cannas,  Which Are The Finest In

The Kingdom,  To Say Nothing Of Myself,  Who Am Also Something Of A

Flower. A Carnivorous Orchid,  I Fancy."

 

"A Virgin Lily," Suggested Don Francesco.

 

"I Wish I Could Manage To Come," Replied Mr. Heard. "But I Must Look

For A Cousin Of Mine To-Morrow; Mrs. Meadows. Perhaps You Know Her?"

 

The Priest Said:

 

"We All Know Mrs. Meadows. And We All Like Her. Unfortunately She Lives

Far,  Far Away; Right Up There," And He Pointed Vaguely Towards The

Sirocco Clouds. "In The Old Town,  I Mean. She Dwells Like A Hermit,  All

Alone. You Can Drive Up There In A Carriage,  Of Course. It Is A Pity

All These Nice People Live So Far Away. There Is Count Caloveglia,  For

Instance,  Whom I Would Like To See Every Day Of My Life. He Talks

Better English Than I Do,  The Old Humbug! He,  Too,  Is A Hermit. But He

Will Be Down Here To-Morrow. He Never Misses The Theatricals."

 

Everybody Seems To Be A Hermit Hereabouts,  Thought Mr. Heard. And Yet

This Place Is Seething With People!

 

Aloud He Said:

 

"So My Cousin Lives Up In The Fog. And Does It Always Hang About Like

This?"

 

"Oh Dear No!" Replied The Duchess. "It Goes Away Sometimes,  In The

Afternoon. The Sirocco,  This Year,  Has Been Most Exceptional. Most

Exceptional! Don't You Think So,  Denis?"

 

"Really Couldn't Say,  Duchess. You Know I Only Arrived Last Week."

 

"Most Exceptional! Don Francesco Will Bear Me Out."

 

"It Blows," Said The Priest,  "When The Good God Wishes It To Blow. He

Has Been Wishing Pretty Frequently Of Late."

 

"I Am Writing To Your Cousin," The Duchess Remarked,  "To Ask Her To My

Small Annual Gathering After The Festival Of Saint Dodekanus.

To-Morrow,  You Know. Quite An Informal Little Affair. I May Count On

You,  Bishop? You'll All Come,  Won't You? You Too,  Mr. Keith. But No

Long Words,  Remember! Nothing About Reflexes And Preternatural And

Things Like That. And Not A Syllable About The Incarnation,  Please. It

Scares Me. What's The Name Of Her Villa,  Denis?"

 

"Mon Repos. Rather A Commonplace Name,  I Think--Mon Repos."

 

"It Is," Said Keith. "But There Is Nothing Commonplace About The Lady.

She Iw What I Would Call A New Woman."

 

"Dear Me!"

 

Mr. Heard Was Alarmed At This Picture Of His Cousin. He Did Not

Altogether Approve Of New Women.

 

"She Has Long Ago Passed The Stage You Have In Mind,  Bishop. She Is

Newer Than That. The Real Novelty! Looks After The Baby,  And Thinks Of

Her Husband In India. I Believe I Have Many Points In Common With The

New Woman. I Often Think Of People In India."

 

"Such A Dear Little Child," Said The Duchess.

 

"Almost As Round As Myself," Added Don Francesco. "There Goes The

Commissioner! He Is Fussing About With The Judge,  That Red-Haired

Man--Do You See,  Mr. Heard?--Who Limps Like Mephistopheles And Spits

Continually. They Say He Wants To Imprison All The Russians. Poor

Folks! They Ought To Be Sent Home; They Don't Belong Here. He Is

Looking At Us Now. Ha,  The Animal! He Has The Evil Eye. He Is Also

Scrofulous,  Rachitic. And His Name Is Malipizzo."

 

"What A Funny Name," Remarked The Bishop.

 

"Yes,  And He Is A Funny Animal. They Are Great Friends,  Those Two."

 

"A Horrible Man,  That Judge," Said The Duchess. "Only Think,  Mr. Heard,

An Atheist."

 

"A Freemason," Corrected Mr. Keith.

 

"It's The Same Thing. And Ugly! Nobody Has A Right To Be Quite So Ugly.

I Declare He's Worse Than The Cinematographic Villain--You Remember,

Denis?"

 

"It Is A Miracle He Has Lived So Long,  With That Face," Added Don

Francesco. "I Think God Created Him In Order That Mankind Should Have

Some Idea Of The Meaning Of The Word 'Grotesque.'"

 

The Proud Title "Commissioner" Caused The Bishop To Pay Particular

Attention To The Other Of The Two Individuals In Question. He Beheld A

Stumpy And Pompous-Looking Personage,  Flushed In The Face,  With A

Moth-Eaten Grey Beard And Shifty Grey Eyes,  Clothed In A Flannel Shirt,

Tweed Knickerbockers,  Brown Stockings,  White Spats And Shoes. Such Was

The Commissioner's Invariable Get-Up,  Save That In Winter He Wore A Cap

Instead Of A Panama. He Was Smoking A Briar Pipe And Looking Blatantly

British,  As If He Had Just Spent An Unwashed Night In A Third-Class

Carriage Between King's Cross And Aberdeen. The Magistrate,  On The

Other Hand--The Red-Haired Man--Was Jauntily Dressed,  With A Straw Hat On

One Side Of His Repulsive Head,  And Plenty Of Starch About Him.

 

"I Never Knew We Had A Commissioner Here," Said Mr. Heard.

 

Keith Replied:

 

"We Haven't. He Is Financial Commissioner For Nicaragua. An

Incomparable Ass Is Mr. Freddy Parker."

 

"Oh,  He Has A Sensible Idea Now And Then,  When He Forgets To Be A

Fool," Observed Don Francesco. "He Is President Of The Club,  Mr. Heard.

They Will Elect You Honorary Member. Take My Advice. Avoid The Whisky."

 

Denis Remarked,  After A Critical Glance In The Same Direction:

 

"I Notice That The Commissioner Looks Redder In The Face Than When I

Last Saw Him."

 

"That," Said Keith,  "Is One Of Mr. Parker's Characteristics."

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

Concerning The Life And Martyrdom Of Saint Dodekamus,  Patron Of

Nepenthe,  We Possess Hardly Any Information Of A Trustworthy Nature. It

Is With His Career As With That Of Other Saints: They Become

Overlaid--Encrusted,  As It Were--With Extraneous Legendary Material In

The Course Of Ages,  Even As A Downward-Rolling Avalanche Gathers Snow.

The Nucleus Is Hard To Find. What Is Incontestably True May Be Summed

Up Almost In One Paragraph.

 

He Was Born In A.D. 450,  Or Thereabouts,  In The City Of Kallisto,  In

Crete. He Was An Only Child,  A Beautiful But Unruly Boy,  The Despair Of

His Widowed Mother. At The Age Of Thirteen He Encountered,  One Evening,

An Elderly Man Of Thoughtful Mien,  Who Addressed Him In Familiar

Language. On Several Later Occasions He Discoursed With The Same

Personage,  In A Grove Of Laurels And Pines Known As Alephane; But What

Passed Between Them,  And Whether It Was Some Divine Apparition,  Or

Merely A Man Of Flesh And Blood,  Was Never Discovered,  For He Seems To

Have Kept His Mother In Ignorance Of The Whole Affair. From That Time

Onward His Conduct Changed. He Grew Pensive,  Mild,  And Charitable. He

Entered,  As Youthful Acolyte,  A Neighbouring Convent Of Salacian Monks,

And Quickly Distinguished Himself For Piety And The Gift Of Miracles.

In The Short Space Of Three Years,  Or Thereabouts,  He Had Healed Eight

Lepers,  Caused The Clouds To Rain,  Walked Dryshod Over Several Rivers,

And Raised Twenty-Three Persons From The Dead.

 

At The Age Of Eighteen He Had A Second Vision. This Time It Was A Young

Woman,  Of Pleasing Exterior. He Discoursed With Her,  On Several

Occasions,  In The Grove Of Laurels And Pines Known As Alephane; But

What Passed Between Them,  And Whether It Was A Woman Of Flesh And

Blood,  Or Merely An Angel,  Was