South Wind(Fiscle Part-3) - Norman Douglas (ebook e reader .TXT) 📗
- Author: Norman Douglas
Book online «South Wind(Fiscle Part-3) - Norman Douglas (ebook e reader .TXT) 📗». Author Norman Douglas
"How Shall A Plant Survive, Save By Withering Now And Then? If The
Ancients Had Not Exhausted Themselves With Homer, The Soil Might Not
Have Been Ready For Our Renaissance. A Bad Sign? Who Can Tell! Good And
Bad--I Question Whether These Are Respectable Words To Use."
"You Are Content, As You Observed Before, To Establish A Fact?"
"Amply Content. I Leave The Rest To The Academicians. And The Only Fact
We Seem To Have Established Is That Your Notions Of Morality Resemble
My Notions Of Beauty In This One Point: Neither Of Them Are Up To Date.
You Will Have Be Admire A Steam-Engine. Why? Because Of Its Delicately
Adjusted Mechanism, Its Perfect Adaptation To Modern Needs. So Be It. I
Will Modify My Conception Of What Is Fair In Appearance. I Will Admire
Your Steam-Engine, And Thereby Bring My Ideals Of Beauty Up To Date.
Will You Modify Your Conception Of What Is Fair In Conduct? Will You
Admire Something More Adapted To Modern Needs Than Those Intemperate
Hebrew Doctrines; Something With More Delicately Adjusted Mechanism?
The Mendicant Friar, That Flower Of Oriental Ethics--He Is Not Up To
Date. He Resembles All Semites. He Lacks Self-Respect. He Apologizes
For Being Alive. It Is Not Pretty--To Apologize For Being Alive!"
The American Observed:
"I Should Say That Even Our Greatest Bigots, Nowadays, Don't Take Those
Old Doctrines As Seriously As You Seem To Think."
"I Daresay They Don't. But They Profess To Reproach Themselves For Not
Doing So. And This Is More Contemptible. It Adds Insincerity To
Imbecility."
A Sunny Smile Played About His Face As He Spoke These Words. It Was
Evident That His Thoughts Were Already Far Away. The Bishop, Following
The Direction Of His Glance, Saw That It Rested Upon The Statuette Of
The Faun Whose Head And Shoulders Were Now Enveloped In A Warm Beam Of
Light. Under That Genial Touch The Old Relic Seemed To Have Woke Up
From Its Slumber. Blood Was Throbbing In Its Veins. It Was Inn
Movement; It Dominated The Scene In Its Emphatic Affirmation Of Joy.
Mr. Heard, His Eyes Fixed Upon The Statuette, Now Realized The
Significance Of What Had Been Said. He Began To See More Clearly. Soon
It Dawned Upon Him That Not Joy Alone Was Expressed By The Figure.
Another Quality, More Evasive Yet More Compelling, Resided In Its
Subtle Grace: The Element Of Mystery. There, Emprisoned In The Bronze,
Dwelt Some Benignant Oracle.
Puzzle As He Would, That Oracle Refused To Clothe Itself In Words.
What Could It Be?
A Message Of Universal Application, "Loving And Enigmatical," As The
Old Man Had Called It. True! It Was A Greeting From An Unknown Friend
In An Unknown Land; Something Familiar From The Dim Past Or Distant
Future; Something That Spoke Of Well-Being--Plain To Behold, Hard To
Expound, Like The Dawning Smile Of Childhood.
Chapter 31
Towards Evening, Mr. Van Koppen Drove The Bishop Down In The Carriage
Which He Usually Hired For The Whole Of His Stay On Nepenthe. They Said
Little, Having Talked Themselves Out With The Count. The American
Seemed To Be Thinking About Something. Mr. Heard's Eye Roamed Over The
Landscape, Rather Anxiously.
"I Don't Like That New Cloud Above The Volcano," He Observed.
"Looks Like Ashes. Looks As If It Might Drift In Our Direction, Doesn't
It, If The Wind Were Strong Enough To Move It? Do You See Much Of The
Count?" He Enquired.
"Not As Much As I Should Like. What Excellent Veal Cutlets Those Were!
So White And Tender. Quite Different From The Veal We Get In England.
And That Aromatic Wine Went Uncommonly Well With Them. It Was His Own
Growth, I Suppose."
"Very Likely. From That Little Vineyard Which Produces So Many Good
Things." He Chuckled Softly. "As To English Veal--I Never Yet Tasted Any
Worth Eating. If You Don't Slaughter A Calf Till It's Grown Into A
Cow--Why, You're Not Likely To Get Anything But Beef."
"They Say The English Cannot Cook, In Spite Of The Excellence Of Their
Prime Materials."
"I Think The Prime Materials Are At Fault. They Sacrifice Everything To
Size. It's Barbaric. Those Greasy Southdown Sheep! It's The Same With
Their Fowls; They're Large, But Insipid--Very Different From The Little
Things You Get Down Here. Now A Goose Is Capital Fodder. But If You
Grow Him Only For His Weight, You Destroy His Quality And Flavour; You
Get A Lump Of Blubber Instead Of A Bird."
"Apple Sauce?"
"I Don't Like Apples In Any Shape. A Sour Kind Of Potato, I Call Them.
They Eat An Awful Lot Of Apples In Our Country. That Is What Makes So
Many Of Our Women As Flat As Boards, In Front And Behind--Especially In
The Eastern States. It's Apple-Eating. Apples Ought To Be Taxed. They
Ruin The Female Figure. I'm Not Sure That They Don't Sour The Character
As Well."
"Don't You Care About Our English Vegetables?"
"Can't Say I'm Much In Love With Them, Mr. Heard. Brussels Sprouts, For
Instance--I'm Very Partial To Brussels Sprouts. But The Things They Give
You Over There Are The Size Of A Bath Sponge, And Much The Same Taste,
I Reckon. And The Carrots! A Carrot Ought To Be Small And Round And
Yellow, It Ought To Melt In The Mouth Like A Plum. Those Carrots Aren't
Carrots At All. They're Walking Sticks. And The Peas! No, I Don't Care
About English Peas. Too Large And Too Lively For Me."
"Lively?"
"That's It. Lively. I Shall Never Forget My First Experience Of Them,"
He Went On, Laughing. "There Were Two Or Three In The Dish; Just Two Or
Three; Filled It Up Nicely. Looked Like Cannon-Balls. What Do They
Expect Me To Do With These Things? I Wondered. I Didn't Like To Ask The
Waiter. One Doesn't Care To Be Taken For An Ignorant Stranger. Well, I
Landed One On My Plate And Began Carving At It, To See If There Was
Anything Eatable Inside The Shell, When The Durned Thing Slipped Away
From My Knife And Crashed On To The Floor. Bounced Up Like A Marble. I
Called For A Nutcracker--'I Shall Want The Largest You've Got,' I Said.
They Couldn't Find One. Now I'm Not The Sort Of Man, Mr. Heard, To Be
Beaten By A Vegetable, If It Really Was A Vegetable. Because, You See,
It Behaved More Like A Blamed Mineral. I Sent For The Head Waiter, And
Took Him Into My Confidence. I Tried To Talk English, Like I'm Talking
To You. 'What D'ye Call These Things?' I Asked. 'Marrowfats, Sir.' 'Ah,
I Thought They Weren't Peas. You've Got Petits Pois Down On The Bill Of
Fare. Better Get That Put Right. And Now, How D'ye Eat Them?' 'You Bite
Them!' That's What He Said. 'You Bite Them.' Of Course I Didn't Believe
Him. I Thought It Was Just A Bit Of English Humour, Especially As The
Other Waiter Was Looking The Opposite Way All The Time. Well, Like A
Fool, I Said To Myself: 'No Harm In Trying!' I've Got Pretty Sharp
Teeth, You Know, For A Boy Of My Age. That's How I Managed To Do What A
Lot Of You Younger Fellows Couldn't Have Done. I Got Them Fixed Into
The Softest Of That Bunch Of Marrowfats. But As To Pulling Them Out
Again! The Head Waiter, You Bet, Had Disappeared. And The Other Fellow
Was Standing At The Window With His Back To Me. Looking Up The Street,
I Should Say, To See If It Was Going To Rain."
After This Little Outburst, The Millionaire Seemed To Have Nothing More
To Say.
He Was Thinking. . . .
Cornelius Van Koppen Loved A Good Liar. He Knew Something About The
Gentle Art. It Was An Art, He Used To Say, Which No Fool Should Be
Allowed To Cultivate. There Were Too Many Amateurs Knocking About.
These Bunglers Spoiled The Trade. Without Doing Any Good To Themselves,
They Roused Distrust; They Rubbed The Fine Bloom Off Human Credulity.
His Puritan Conscience Was Enraged At Petty Thefts, Petty Forgeries,
Petty Larcenies. That Was Why He Despised That Otherwise Excellent
Person, The Financial Commissioner For Nicaragua, Whose Wildest Flights
Of Embezzlement Never Exceeded A Few Hundred Dollars. He Respected A
Man Who, Like Himself, Could Work In The Grand Style. To Play Upon The
Credulity Of A Continent--It Was Napoleonic, It Was Like Stealing A
Kingdom; It Was Not Stealing At All. This, He Shrewdly Suspected, Was
What His Good Friend The Count Was Engaged Upon. That Delightful Old
Man Was Working In The Grand Style.
Bronzes, Ancient Or Modern, Were Greek To Mr. Van Koppen. He Could Not
Tell The Difference Between The Art Of Clodion And Of Myron--Had, In
Fact, Never Heard The Names Of These Good People And Did Not
Particularly Care To Hear Them; He Paid Sir Herbert Street For That
Part Of The Business. But He Had Picked Up, In The Course Of His Long
Humanitarian Career, A Good Deal Of General Knowledge. Old Koppen Was
No Fool. He Was Intelligent; Intelligence, As The Count Had Said, Being
Perfectly Compatible With Progress. The Millionaire Could Put Two And
Two Together As Fast As Most Men; He Was Celebrated, Even Among His
Quick-Witted Compatriots, For An Uncanny Faculty Of Walking Round
People Without Getting Off His Chair. Common Sense, He Called It.
Many A Time He Had Listened To Count Caloveglia's Rounded Periods Anent
The Locri Faun. Taking His Own Personal Experience As A Guide, He Had
Come To The Conclusion That A Man Does Not Explain Things Quite So
Satisfactorily, Unless He Has Some Business In Hand. Everything Fitted
Into A Hypothesis Which Had Been Slowly Maturing In His Mind, Namely,
That He Was Confronted By A Fraud, A Really Noble Fraud, A Fraud After
His Own Heart, A Fraud Deserving The Fullest Support Of Every Sensible
Man And Woman.
That Vineyard, For Instance, With Those Antiquities. A Good Many
Friends Of His In The States Had Made Their Pile Out Of Salted Gold
Mines. Why Not Salt A Vineyard? Oh Yes; Everything Fitted In
Beautifully. The Remoteness Of That Vineyard . . . A Town Like Locri
Was Obviously Unsafe, Too Public A Place For Such Important
Discoveries. The Conscientious Sir Herbert Would Certainly Want To Make
Enquiries On The Spot--Enquiries Which Would Prove That No Faun Had Ever
Been Found There. And That Would Ruin Everything. Therefore The Statue
Had Been "Carried" To The Vineyard In Ancient Times By "Some Young And
Ardent Lover Of Art." Carried, Ha, Ha! His Knowledge Of Human Nature
Made Him Doubt Whether The Locri Faun Had Ever In Its Life Made A
Further Journey Than To Caloveglia's Shady Courtyard From That
Mysterious, Dusty Shed At The Back Of His House. Or The Demeter Either.
That "Sadly Mutilated Head" Was A Feeler--A Rehearsal. They Both Came
"From The Same Workshop." Excellent! That Shed Was The Workshop--The
Birthplace Of These Two Antiques; The Count Himself Their Old Hellenic
Creator.
Andrea, No Doubt, Was The Secret.
These Art Experts! Here Was Street, One Of The Best Of Them, A Man Of
Celebrity In His Department, Solemnly Pronouncing For The Authenticity
Of The Fake--In The Full And Innocent Conviction That It Was Really
Authentic. A Sucking Babe. This Man, He Could See By His Simple Society
Face, Had Not Even Made An Arrangement With The Count As To A
Commission For Himself In The Event Of A Purchase Being Concluded. He
Was Satisfied With His Salary. These Experts--What A Crowd Of Fools They
Were! Especially The Honest Ones.
None The Less, He Was Delighted With Sir Herbert's Opinion. It Was
Exactly What He Wanted. For He Meant To Help The County Who, He Was
Sure, Would Never Accept A Cent From Him Save Under A Pretext Like That
Of The Sale Of The Faun. He Loved Old Caloveglia. There Was Something
Clean And Purposeful About Him. His Friendship With Such A Man Filled
Up What He Knew To Be A Void In His Own Equipment As Citizen Of The
World. And The Count Was Working--Was Lying--For A Worthy Purpose: A
Daughter's Dowry. For That Reason Alone He Was Deserving Of Assistance.
Mr. Van Koppen Was Unmarried. Knowing Life As He Did, From Its More
Seamy Or Mercenary Side, He Had
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