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

Talking About All Day. We Must Row."

 

An Awning Of Red Silk Screened Off The Rays Of The Sun; The

Appointments Of The Small Boat--The Polished Wood Of Rare Texture,

Morocco Leather Cushions,  And Elaborate Fittings--Bespoke The Taste Or

At Least The Income Of A Sybarite. A Grizzly Brown Sailor And His

Curly-Pated Son Were The Oarsmen; In The Stern Sat A Couple Of Keith's

Attendants,  Whom Mr. Heard Might Have Mistaken For Two Green Genii But

For The Fact That Between Them Lay An Enormous And Hideously Modern

Receptacle Of Wicker-Work Which Impaired The Illusion. It Troubled The

Bishop,  Both By Reason Of Its Incongruity And Because He Could Not

Divine What Its Purpose Might Be,  Till Keith Solved The Mystery By

Saying:

 

"I Thought I Would Like To See For Myself About This Fountain Of Saint

Elias And,  Incidentally,  Enjoy A Little Al Fresco Luncheon By The

Shore. Now I Wonder Whether There Will Be Enough Food For Both Of Us In

The Basket?"

 

"That Thing? Dear Me. I Thought It Might Contain A Cottage Piano. What

Fountain?"

 

"You Haven't Heard Anything? Nothing At All?"

 

He Outlined The Events Of The Preceding Day.

 

"What?" He Continued. "They Didn't Even Tell You About Miss

Wilberforce? Well,  Whether She Thought It Was Her Birthday,  Or Whether

All These Omens Upset Her Nerves--Oh,  The Usual Thing,  Only Rather

More So. Decidedly More So. It Was Late At Night,  You See,  And She

Insisted On Singing 'Auld Lang Syne,' And Even On Translating It,  For

The Benefit Of The Constable Who Arrested Her,  Into Her Own Particular

Brand Of Italian. In Fact,  There Was A Good Deal Of Trouble,  Till

Somebody Let Down A Blanket From A Window. It Happened To Be A New

Policeman Unaccustomed To Her Ways,  And He Has Had A Bad Shock. His

Wife Complained To The Judge,  Who Set Round Word To Me This Morning

That She Was In The Lock-Up."

 

"In Prison. An English Lady!"

 

"It Is Not The First Time By Any Means. But I Feel Exactly As You Do

About It. I've Bailed Her Out,  And Stopped His Mouth With A Fifty-Franc

Note. Please Keep This Between Ourselves."

 

Mr. Heard Was Not Pleased To Learn This Incident. It Seemed A

Discordant Note On Nepenthe. He Observed:

 

"Miss Wilberforce Apparently Can Be Relied Upon To Create A Diversion

Of A Scandalous Nature. I Wish I Could Do Something To Help Such A Poor

Creature."

 

"The Dear Lady! I Don't Know What We Should Do Without Her. By The Way,

Have You Seen Denis Lately? We Must Be Friendly To That Young Fellow,

Heard. I Don't Think He Is Altogether Happy In This Clear Pagan Light.

He Seems To Be Oppressed About Something. What Do You Make Of Him?"

 

"Of Denis? Nothing At All."

 

"You Interest Me."

 

"How So?"

 

"Because Your Values Appear To Be Perverted. Your Heart Remains Dead To

Denis,  But Goes Out To A Worthless And Incurable Drunkard. The One Is

Supremely Happy. The Other Plainly Troubled In Mind. It Leaves You

Cold. How Do You Explain It?"

 

Mr. Heard Began To Wonder. Were His Values Really Vitiated? Had He Done

Anything To Justify Self-Reproach? He Remembered Meeting Denis Lately,

In A Fit Of Dejection,  As It Seemed; They Had Passed Each Other With A

Few Words Of Greeting. Perhaps He Might Have Been A Little More

Friendly. Well,  He Would Atone For It On The Next Occasion. He Asked:

 

"Has He No Relations?"

 

"A Mother,  At Present In Florence. There Have Been Misunderstandings,  I

Suspect. He Has Probably Found Her Out,  Like He Found Out Our Duchess;

Like He Will Find Out Both You And Me,  If We Give Him The Chance.

Meanwhile He Gropes About In A Wistful Fashion,  Trying To Carve Out A

Scheme Of Life For Himself And To Learn Something From Al Lof Us. What

Can A Person Of That Kind Have In Common With A Mother Of Any Kind?"

 

"Everything," Said Mr. Heard Enthusiastically.

 

"Nothing At All. You Are Thinking Of Your Own Mother. You Forget That

You Never See Her. Any Son Can Live With Any Mother Under Those

Conditions. The Fact Remains: Nobody Can Misunderstand A Boy Like His

Own Mother. Look Around You,  And See If It Is Not True! Honour Thy

Father And Thy Mother. Perhaps. But We Must Civilize Our Mothers Before

We Can Expect Any Rational Companionship Between Them And Their Sons.

Girls Are Different. They Are More Cynical And Less Idealistic,  They

Can Put Up With Mothers,  They Can Laugh At Them. I Am Speaking In A

General Way. Of Course There Are Shining Exceptions. Mothers At Present

Can Bring Children Into The World,  But This Performance Is Apt To Mark

The End Of Their Capacities. They Can't Even Attend To The Elementary

Animal Requirements Of Their Offspring. It Is Quite Surprising How Many

Children Survive In Spite Of Their Mothers. Ask Any Doctor."

 

"If That Is The Case There Must Be Something Wrong With Our Social

System. You May Be Sure That The Female Cat Or Canary Bird Is Just As

Efficient In Her Department As The Male In His. Speaking From My Own

Experience Among The London Poor,  I Should Say That The Father Is Often

A Mere Parasite On His Wifo And Children--"

 

"We May Both Of Us Be Right. But I Wish You Would Take Denis In Hand A

Little. Will You? Perhaps You Misread His Character. He May Be Afraid

Of You."

 

"Have You Any Particular Reason--?"

 

"I Don't Like His Looks. There Is Something Tragic About Him Lately."

 

Mr. Heard Was Slightly Nettled. After All,  He Was Not On Nepenthe For

The Purpose Of Doling Out Consolations To Melancholy Undergraduates.

 

"I Should Be Sorry To Think Myself Singled Out For His Distrust," He

Replied. "At The Same Time,  I Don't Notice That He Has Much To Say To

Certain Other People--To The Commissioner,  For Instance,  Or To Mr.

Muhlen."

 

"Muhlen? He Is Quite Right To Leave Muhlen Alone. Quite Right. It

Proves His Intuition. I Have Learnt All About That Man. A Beastly

Character. He Has A Bad Record. Lives On Blackmail And Women. His Real

Name Is Retlow."

 

And Mr. Keith Lit A Cigar,  As Though To Dismiss The Subject.

 

"Retlow,  You Say? That's Queer."

 

The Name Sounded Familiar To The Bishop. Where Had He Heard It Before?

He Racked His Memory. Where Could It Have Been? Retlow. . . . It Was

Not A Common Name. Long Ago,  Obviously. Where?

 

In African Days,  Or Earlier?

 

His Searchings Were Interrupted By The Voice Of The Old Boatman Who,

Relinquishing An Oar,  Pointed To A Swart Precipice Near At Hand And

Said In Tolerable English (The Older Generation Of Natives All Spoke

English--Their Children Were Learning Russian):

 

"The Suicides' Rock,  Gentlemens. Ah! Many Is The Poor Christian I Have

Pick Up There. He Throw Down Hisself. Him Dead. Often In Small Pieces.

Here Blood. Here Brain. Here Leg And Boot. Here Finger. Ah! The Poor

Chiristian. That So,  Gentlemens."

 

The Bishop Scanned With A Shudder This Frowning Cliff Of Basalt,  And

Turned To Address His Companion.

 

"Do People Really Throw Themselves Over Here?"

 

"Very Few. Not More Than Three Or Four In A Season,  I'm Told. The Local

Suicides,  As A Rule,  Are Not As Spectacular As They Might Be

Considering The Landscape. They Shoot Themselves Or Take Poison,  Which

Shows A Certain Consideration For Other People. It Is Not A Pleasant

Job,  You Know,  To Row To This Remote Spot And Scramble About The Cliff

At The Risk Of A Broken Neck,  Collecting Shattered Fragments Of

Humanity Into A Potato Sack."

 

"Not At All Pleasant!"

 

"As Compared With England," Keith Pursued,  "Life Here Is Intense,

Palpitating,  Dramatic--A Kind Of Blood-Curdling Farce Full Of

Irresponsible Crimes And Improbable Consequences. The Soil Is Saturated

With Blood. People Are Always Killing Themselves Or Each Other For

Motives Which,  To An Englishman,  Are Altogether Outside The Range Of

Comprehensibility. Shall I Tell You About One Of Our Most Interesting

Cases? I Happen To Be On The Island At The Time. There Was A Young

Fellow Here--An Agreeable Young Fellow--An Artist; He Was Rich; He Took A

Villa,  And Painted. We All Liked Him. Then,  By Degrees,  He Became

Secretive And Moody. Said He Was Studying Mechanics. He Told Me Himself

That Much As He Liked Landscape Painting He Thought An Artist--A Real

Artist,  He Said--Ought To Be Versed In Ancillary Sciences; In

Fortification,  Wood-Carving,  Architecture,  And So On. Leonardo Da

Vinci,  You Know. Well,  One Day They Could Not Get Into His Bedroom.

They Broke Open His Door And Discovered That He Had Constructed A

Perfectly-Formed Guillotine; The Knife Had Fallen; His Head Lay On One

Side And His Body On The Other. You May Well Be Surprised. I Went

Carefully Into That Case. He Was In The Best Of Health,  With A

Creditable Artistic Record Behind Him. He Had No Troubles,  Financial Or

Domestic."

 

"Then What On Earth--?"

 

"The Scenery Of Nepenthe. It Got On His Nerves; It Unstrung Him. Does

That Surprise You Too? Don't You Feel Its Effect Upon Yourself? The

Bland Winds,  The Sea Shining In Velvety Depths As Though Filled With

Some Electric Fluid,  The Riot Of Vegetation,  These Extravagant Cliffs

That Change Colour With Every Hour Of The Day? Look At That Peak

Yonder--Is It Not Almost Transparent,  Like Some Crystal Of Amethyst?

This Coast-Line Alone--The Sheer Effrontery Of Its Mineral Charm--Might

Affect Some Natures To Such An Extent As To Dislocate Their Stability.

Northern Minds Seem To Become Fluid Here,  Impressionable,  Unstable,

Unbalanced--What You Please. There Is Something In The Brightness Of

This Spot Which Decomposes Their Old Particles And Arranges Them Into

Fresh And Unexpected Patterns. That Is What People Mean When They Say

That They 'Diswcover' Themselves Here. You Discover A Mechanism,  You

Know,  When You Take It To Pieces. You Catch My Meaning?"

 

"I Catch It."

 

He Nodded. He Understood Perfectly. Some Analogous Process Was Going On

Within Him At That Moment. He,  Too,  Was Discovering Himself.

 

"Have You Discovered Yourself,  Keith?"

 

"Yes,  By Other Methods,  Elsewhere. I Am Only Here For A Short Time In

The Spring And Another Ten Days In September. That Is Hardly Enough,

Even Supposing I Were The Sort Of Person To Be Accessible To These

Externals. I Have Passed That Stage. I Am Too Old,  Too Unemotional. I

Prefer Devouring A Partridge En Casserole Or Listening To Your

Conversation ("Listening To My Conversation!" Thought Mr. Heard) To All

The Scenery In The World But I Watch Other People; I Make It My

Business To Study Their Condition; I Put Myself In Their Places. Je

Constate,  As The French Say. To Them,  The Landscape Of Nepenthe Is

Alive,  Often Malignantly Alive. They Do What You Cannot So Effectually

Do In The North; They Humanize It,  Identifying Its Various Aspects With

Their Own Moods,  Its Features With Their Own Traditions."

 

Mr. Heard Thought Of Those Tremendous Mists He Had Seen Only An Hour

Ago--The Daughters Of Old Ocean.

 

"They Humanize It," He Echoed. "The Mythopoetic Faculty!"

 

"Perhaps This Capacity Of Southern Scenery To Bear A Mortal

Interpretation Accounts For The Anthropomorphic Deities Of Classical

Days. I Often Think It Does. Even We Moderns Are Unaccountably Moved By

Its Varying Facets Which Act Sometimes As An Aphrodisiac,  And Sometimes

By Their Very Perfection,  Their Discouraging Spell,  Their Insolent

Beauty,  Suggest The Hopelessness Of All Human Endeavour. . . . Denis! I

Should Think Him Capable Of Anything,  Just Now. Do You Imagine A Person

Like This Could Possibly Remain Insensible To The Beguiling Influence

Of These Surroundings?"

 

"I Never Thought About Him."

 

"Really? You Interest Me,  Heard. If You Deny The Susceptibility Of A

Temperament Like His,  You Deny The Whole Operation Of Externals Upon

Character And Action. You Deny,  For Example,  The Success Of The Roman

Catholic Church Which Relies,  For Its Moral Effects,  Upon Such Optic

Appeals To The Senses,  And Upon The Ease With Which Transitory Feelings

Can Be Transmuted Into Axioms Of Conduct. Do You Deny This?"

 

"Not At All. I Have Seen Enough Of Their System To Realize Its Extreme

Simplicity."

 

"And Then Think Of The Peculiar History Of This Island And Its

Situation As A Converging-Point For Men Of Every Race And Every Creed.

All These Things Stimulate To Rapid Nervous Discharges; That Is,  To

Inconsidered,  Foolish Actions--"

 

"All Fools!" The Boatman Interrupted. "All Foreigners! We People Don't

Do These Things. Only Dam-Fool Foreigners. That So,  Gentlemens. They

Have Trouble Themselves,  Then They Come To This Rock And,  Boom! Make

Trouble For Their Friends."

 

"Boom!" Echoed His Son,  Who Had Apparently Caught The Drift Of The Old

Man's Speech. Whereat The Two Greek Genii In The Stern Laughed

Immoderately; Knowing,  As They Did,  That The Boy Had Not The Slightest

Idea Of What His Father Was Talking About.

 

"Boom!" They Repeated,  In Derisive Chorus.

 

At That Moment All The Occupants Of The Boat Pricked Up Their Ears. A

Sound Had Reached Them,  A Similar Sound--A Sound That Recalled The

Distant Firing Of A Big Gun. Boom! It Reverberated Among The Rocks. The

Rowers Dropped Their Oars. Everyone Listened.

 

The Sound Came Again. This Time There Was No Question As