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

To

Mind His Own Gleams Of Exotic Scholarship,  Those Luminous Asides And

Fruitful Digressions,  Those Statesmanlike Comments On Things In General

Which Make His Work Not So Much A Compendium Of Local Lore As A Mirror

Of The Polite Learning Of His Age. It Is No Exaggeration To Say That,

Compared With The Ample Treatment Meted Out To Inconspicuous Rulers

Like Alfonso The Seventeenth Or Florizel The Fat,  His Account Of The

Good Duke Alfred Is The Baldest,  The Most Perfunctory And Conventional

Of Chronicles. Neither Good Nor Evil Is Related Of Him. There Is

Nothing But A Monotonous Enumeration Of Events.

 

It Was The Bibliographer Who,  Poring Over The Pages Of The Rival Monk

Father Capocchio,  That Audacious And Salacious Friar Already

Mentioned--It Was The Bibliographer Who Hit Upon A Passage Which

Suggested A Solution Of The Mystery And Proved That,  Though Monsignor

Perrelli Lived During The Reign Of The Good Duke,  It Would Be

Stretching Unduly The Sense Of A Plain Word To Say That He "Flourished"

Under His Rule. Other Persons May Have Flourished; Not So The Kindly

Prelate.

 

"Nothing Whatever," Says This Implacable Enemy Of Nepenthe,  "Is To Be

Recorded To The Credit Of The Sanguinary Brigand--So He Terms The Good

Duke--Nothing Whatsoever: Save And Except Only This,  That He Cut Off The

Ears Of A Certain Prattler,  Intriguer,  And Snuff-Taking Sensualist

Called Perrelli Who,  Under The Pretence Of Collecting Data For An

Alleged Historical Treatise,  Profited By His Priestly Garb To Play Fast

And Loose With What Little Remained Of Decent Family Life On That

God-Abandoned Island. Honour To Whom Honor Is Due! The Ostensible

Reason For This Unique Act Of Justice Was That The Said Perrelli Had

Appeared At Some Palace Function With Paste Buckles On His Shoes,

Instead Of Silver Ones. The Pretext Was Well Chosen,  Inasmuch As The

Tyrant Added To His Other Vices And Absurdities The Pose Of Being An

Extravagant Stickler For Etiquette. We Happen To Know,  Nevertheless,

That The Name Of A Young Dancer,  A Prime Favourite At Court,  Cropped Up

Persistently At The Time In Connection With This Malodorous But

Otherwise Insignificant Episode."

 

It Were Idle,  At This Hour Of The Day,  To Pursue The Enquiry; The

Mutilation Of Monsignor Perrelli's Person,  However,  Would Explain

Better Than Anything Else His Equivocal Attitude As Historian. Nor Is

The Incident Altogether Inconsistent With What We Know Of The Duke's

Cheerful Propensities. "Nose After Ears!" Was One Of His Blithest

Watchwords. Faced With So Dispiriting A Prospect And Aware That His

Highness Was As Good As His Princely Word,  The Sympathetic Scholar,

While Too Resentful To Praise His Achievements,  May Well Have Been Too

Prudent To Disparage Them. Hence His Reticence,  His Circumspection.

Hence That Monotonous Enumeration Of Events.

 

This Microscopic Blot On The Duke's Escutcheon,  As Well As Other More

Commendable Details Of His Life,  Were Duly Noted Down By The Zealous

Mr. Eames Who,  In Addition,  Had The Good Fortune To Receive As A Gift

From His Kindly But Unassuming Friend Count Caloveglia A Quaint

Portrait Of The Prince,  Hitherto Unknown--An Engraving Which He Purposed

To Reproduce,  Together With Other Fresh Iconographical Material,  In His

Enlarged And Fully Annotated Edition Of The Antiquities. The Print

Depicts His Highness Full Face,  Seated On A Throne In The Accoutrements

Of Mars,  With A Gallant Wig Flowing In Mazy Ringlets From Under The

Helmet Upon His Plated Shoulders; Overhead,  Upon A Canopy Of Cloud,

Reclines A Breezy Assemblage Of Allegorical Females--Truth,  Mercy,  Fame

With Her Trumpet,  And So Forth. His Nervous Clean-Shaven Features Do

Not Wear The Traditional Smile; They Are Thoughtful,  Almost Grim. On

His Left Is Portrayed A Huge Cannon Astride Of Which Can Be Seen A

Chubby Angel; The Duke's Hand Reposes,  In A Paternal Caress On The

Cherub's Head--Symbolical Doubtless Of His Love Of Children. His Right

Elbow Rests Upon A Table,  And The Slender Bejewelled Fingers Are

Listlessly Pressing Open A Lettered Scroll Of Parchment On Which Can Be

Deciphered The Words "A Chi T'ha Figliato" (To Her Who Bare Thee)--A

Legend Which The Bibliographer,  Whose Acquaintance With The Vernacular

Was Not On A Level With His Classical Attainments,  Conjectured To Be

Some Fashionable Courtly Toast Of The Period.

 

The Mention Of Artillery Recalls The Fact That His Highness Was An

Amateur Of Ordnance. He Established A Gun-Foundry On The Island,  And

What He Did Not Know About The Art Of Casting Pieces,  As Practised In

His Day,  Was Plainly Not Worth Knowing. Had It Not Been For His

Passionate Love Of Testing New Processes And New Combinations Of Metal,

He Might Have Attained To A European Reputation In That Department. But

He Was Always Experimenting,  And The Consequence Was That His Cannons

Were Always Splitting. One,  However,  A Monster Of Its Kind,  Remained

Intact,  To Outward Appearances. It Was Fired On Every Conceivable

Occasion--To Summon The Militia,  For Example,  From Remote Corners Of The

Island At Any Hour Of The Day Or Night,  A Considerable Hardship To

Those Who Lived At A Distance Of Two Or Three Miles,  Seeing That

According To The Instructions Set Forth In The Militiaman's Year-Book,

The Sternest Penalties Were Imposed Upon All Who Failed To Appear In

Their Ranks At The Palace Gates Within Five Minutes After The Signal

Had Been Sounded.

 

It Was A Perilous Gun To Handle. Owing To Some Undiscoverable Flaw Of

Construction Or Imperfection In The Alloy,  The Monster Soon Developed A

Disconcerting Knack Of Back-Firing,  Hazardous To Life And Limb. It

Stands To Reason That The Good Duke Attached No Undue Importance To Any

Trifling Disaster Accruing Therefrom. On The Contrary,  In Order To Be

Sure Of A Thunderous Detonation,  He Often Deigned To Superintend In

Person The Loading Of This Particular Piece.

 

"More Powder," He Would Then Command. "More Powder! Ram It In! Never

Mind Her Little Caprices! A Good Salute Is Worth A Good Soldier! More

Powder! Fill Her Up To The Brim! She's Only Playful,  Like Her Master."

Those Who Lost Fingers Or Hands Or Arms Received The Order Of The

Golden Vine. Whenever A Major Portion Of The Anatomy,  A Head Or So

Forth,  Went Astray,  The Victim Was Posthumously Ennobled.

 

Since His Day,  Thanks To The Science Of A Paduan Engineer,  This Defect

Has Been Almost Completely Overcome,  And The Gun Can Still Be Heard On

Great Occasions,  Such As The Duke's Birthday,  The Festival Of The

Patron Saint,  Or The Visit To The Island Of Some Foreign Sovereign; It

Is Also Discharged,  As Of Yore,  To Summon The Militia For The Purpose

Of Quelling Any Popular Disturbance. But Even Now It Occasionally

Relapses Into Its Old Humours--With This Difference,  That Instead Of

Being Decorated With A Coveted Distinction,  The Disabled Man Is Sent To

The Hospital And Told Not To Make A Fool Of Himself Next Time.

 

This Was The Gun Whose Sound Attracted The Strained Attention Of Mr.

Keith And His Companions,  Far Away,  On The Sea,  Under The Cliffs.

 

Chapter 20

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Firing Had Ceased; The Boat Began To Glide Forwards Once More. But

Mr. Heard's Eye Remained Fixed Upon The Ill-Omened Black Rock. The

Sun's Rays Had Already Licked Dry The Moisture On Its Surface; It Shone

With A Steady Dull Glow. Some Malefic Force Seemed To Dwell Here. Some

Demon Haunted The Place,  Peering Out Of The Crevices Or Rising Up From

The Turquoise-Tinted Water At Its Foot. The Suicides' Rock!

 

That Vague Sense Of Apprehension,  Of Impending Disaster,  Once More

Invaded Him. Suddenly It Revealed Itself In Definite Terms. A Ghastly

Notion Flitted Through His Mind.

 

"You Think It Possible That Denis--?" He Began.

 

His Friend Seemed To Have Lost All Interest In That Subject. It Was A

Way He Had.

 

"Denis? I Really Could Not Tell. I'm Not Sufficiently In His

Confidence. . . . Honour Thy Father And Thy Mother," He Proceeded,

Reverting To His Former Theme. "What Think You,  Heard,  Of This Old

Injunction? Is It Not Altogether Obsolete? Was It Not Written For Quite

Other Conditions? Honour Thy Father And Mother. Why? The State Educates

Children,  Feeds Them,  Investigates And Cures Their Complaints,  Washes

And Weighs Them,  Reports On Their Teeth And Stomachs,  Prescribes When

They May Begin To Smoke And Enter Public-Houses: Where Does Parental

Authority Come In? The State Provides Old Folks With Refuges And

Pensions: How About The Former Obligations Of Children? Child And

Parent Alike Now Thank The Community For What They Once Received From

Each Other. And The Geographical Elements That Went To The Making Of A

Home Are Also Dispersed. Rich And Poor Roam Like Gipsies From One

Country To Another,  From One Flat Into The Next; The Patriarchal Board

Is Replaced By Clubs And Grill-Rooms And Fried-Fish Shops. Many A Man

Who Thinks To Found A Home Discovers That He Has Merely Opened A Tavern

For His Friends. Note,  Too,  That The Family Has Outgrown Its

Ecclesiastical Sanction; The Oil Of Supernaturalism Which Once Greased

The Wheels Has Run Dry; The Machinery Is Creaking. Industrial

Conditions Have Killed The Old Home. Requiescat! Honour Thy Father And

Mother. Industrialism Has Killed That Commandment. Thou Shalt Not

Steal. Consider This Injunction,  Heard,  And Ask Yourself Whether

Industrialism Does Not Split Its Sides With Laughing At It. If We Are

To Galvanize That Old Collection Of Laws Into Some Semblance Of Life,

Every One F Them Must Be Re-Written And Brought Up To Date. They Are

Inappropriate For Modern Life; Their Interest Is Purely Historical. We

Want New Values. We Are No Longer Nomads. Industrialism Has Killed The

Pastoral And The Agricultural Points Of View. And How The Modern Jews

Smile At Our Infatuation For Those Queer Doctrines And Legends Which

They Themselves Have Long Ago Outgrown. Apropos,  What Has Become Of

Marten?"

 

"Left The Island,  I Hear."

 

"Quick Work. Now I Wonder Why?"

 

Everybody Wondered At Marten's Precipitate Departure. Even Angelina

Wondered.

 

She Just Wondered.

 

Had He Known That She Wondered,  He Might Have Been Tempted To Prolong

His Stay. But Marten Was Too Young To Be A Practical Psychologist. He

Had Lived For Half A Day In Terror Of What He Called "The Inevitable

Reaction," Unaware Of The Fact That Certain People Do Not Suffer From

Reactions And Too Engrossed In Mineralogy To Have Learnt,  From A Study

Of Other Sciences,  That Angelina Was One Of Them. She Had Passed That

Stage,  With Homeric Laughter,  Long Before His Appearance On Nepenthe.

She Just Wondered,  Nowadays.

 

Scared,  As Though The Avenging Furies Were At His Heels,  He Quitted The

Scene Of His Nocturnal Romance,  Leaving Half His Geological Projects

Incomplete. Had He Taken The Amiable Don Francesco Into His Confidence

He Might Have Heard Something To His Advantage. But The Scientist Could

Not Endure The Sight Of A Christian Priest. Like Other Intolerant Folk

He Was Now Paying For His Prejudices.

 

"An Erotic Little Beast," Keith Went On. "And A Typical Hebrew--A

Scoffer. Have You Noticed What A Disruptive And Irreverential Brood

They Are? They Move Up And Down Society Like Some Provocative Fluid,

Insensible To Our Ideals; They Take A Diabolical Pleasure In Shattering

Our Old-Established Conceptions Of Right And Wrong. I Confess I Like

Them For That; They Need Shattering,  Some Of Those Conceptions. And

They Have Their Weaknesses Too,  Their Achilles Heel--Music,  For

Instance,  Or Chess. When Next You Are In Town Don't Forget To Go To

That Little Chess Club Of Theirs Over Aldgate East Station. It Is

Better Than A Play To Watch Their Faces. And With All This Materialism

They Have A Mysterious Feminine Leaven Of Enthusiasm And Unworldliness.

What Pecuniary Advantage Could Marten Expect To Gain From His

Minerals?"

 

"A Professorship."

 

"Why,  Possibly. He Had The Professorial Temperament; There Was Not Much

Poetry In His Composition. If You Were To Ask Him,  'What Are Those

Wonderful Rocks Over There,  Shaped Like Some Titanic Organ And Glowing

With A Kind Of Violet Flame?' He Would Say,  'Organ Be Blowed. It's

Columnar Lithoidite.' I Learnt A Little From Him,  But Not Enough. I

Wish We Had Him Here. He Could Have Told Us Something."

 

And Mr. Keith,  Ever Avid Of Fresh Things,  Regretted His Lost

Opportunities. He Was In One Of This Acquisitive,  Corsair Moods. He

Said:

 

"I Could Take Geology By The Throat Just Now. It's Disgusting,  Not To

Know Things!"

 

His Companion,  Meanwhile,  Beheld The Panorama In All Its Nightmarish

Splendour,  As It Drifted Past Him. He Saw The