South Wind(Fiscle Part-3) by Norman Douglas (novels for students TXT) 📕

All--Something That Made Him Feel Childish And Uncomfortable.

And Another Pair Of Eyes Were Watching All The Time,  Her Sinuous

Movements--Those Of Mr. Edgar Marten. This Young Scientist,  Too,

Cherished Loving Thoughts About Angelina,  Thoughts Of A More Earthly

And Volcanic Tinge; Certain Definite Projects Which Made Him Forget,  At

Times,  His Preoccupation With Biotite,  Perlite,  Magnetite,  Anorthite,

And Pyroxene.

"Denis," Said Keith,  In His Usual Pompous Fashion. "Do Put Down That

Absurd Tray And Let People Help Themselves. Listen To Me For A Moment.

How Do You Like This Place? I Am Not Asking Out Of Vulgar Curiosity; I

Am Anxious To Know The Impressions Of A Person Of Your Age And

Antecedents. You Might Collect Them For Me,  Will You? Not Now. One Day

When You Are In The Mood. Somewhat Terrestrial And Palpitating,  Is It

Not,  After The Cloistered Twilight Of A University?"

"I Came Here From Florence," Observed Denis.

"And Even After Florence! Do You Know Why? Because Mankind Dominates In

Tuscany. The Land Is Encrusted With Ephemeral Human Conceits. That Is

Not Altogether Good For A Youngster; It Disarranges His Mind And Puts

Him Out Of Harmony With What Is Permanent. Just Listen A Moment. Here,

If You Are Wise,  You Will Seek An Antidote. Taken In Over-Doze,  All

These Churches And Pictures And Books And Other Products Of Our Species

Are Toxins For A Boy Like You. They Falsify Your Cosmic Values. Try To

Be More Of An Animal. Try To Extract Pleasure From More Obvious

Sources. Lie Fallow For A While. Forget All These Things. Go Out Into

The Midday Glare. Sit Among Rocks And By The Sea. Have A Look At The

Sun And Stars For A Change; They Are Just As Impressive As Donatello.

Find Yourself! You Know The Cave Of Mercury? Climb Down,  One Night Of

Full Moon,  All Alone,  And Rest At Its Entrance. Familiarize Yourself

With Elemental Things. The Whole Earth Reeks Of Humanity And Its Works.

One Has To Be Old And Tough To Appraise Them At Their True Worth. Tell

People To Go To Hell,  Denis,  With Their Altar-Pieces And Museums And

Clock-Towers And Funny Little Art-Galleries."

Everybody Is Always Giving Me Advice,  Thought Denis. And The Worst Of

It Is,  It's Often Sound.

A Melodious Voice Added:

"If,  After That Lecture,  You Still Have Some Crotchety Appreciation

Left For The Works Of Man,  You May Be Interested,  When Next You Visit

The Old Town,  To Look At Some Busts And Other Curiosities Of Mine.

There Is A Little Greek Bronze I Would Like To Show You,  Though Perhaps

We Had Better Not Talk Too Openly About It. Pray Come. You Will Extract

Pleasure From That Statuette. And I Will Extract Pleasure From Your

Company. Obvious Sources Of Pleasure,  Aren't They,  Keith?"

It Was Count Caloveglia. He Was Referring To The Locri Faun,  A

Wonderful Antique Which Had Recently Been Found On His Property Near

The Town Of That Name On The Neighbouring Mainland,  And Was About To Be

Secretly Smuggled Out Of Italy. He Smiled In Winning Fashion As He

Spoke. Like Everyone Else,  Denis Had Fallen Under The Spell Of This

Attractive And Courteous Old Aristocrat Who Was Saturated To The Very

Marrow In The Lore Of Antiquity. There Was Sunshine In His Glance--A

Lustrous Gem--Like Grace; One Realized From His Conversation,  From His

Every Word,  That He Had Discarded Superfluities Of Thought And Browsed

For A Lifetime,  In Leisurely Fashion,  Upon All That Purifies And Exalts

The Spirit. Nothing,  One Felt,  Would Avail To Ruffle That Deep Pagan

Content.

"And How," He Continued,  Addressing Denis,  "Are Your Italian Studies

Progressing?"

"Fairly Well,  Thank You. My French Puts Me Out A Little. And I Can't

Yet Conjugate Properly."

"That Is Certainly A Drawback," Said Don Francesco,  Appearing On The

Scene. "But Don't Let It Trouble You," He Added In Paternal Tones. "It

Will Come In Time. You Are Still Young. You Are Learning Russian,

Madame Steynlin?"

"Only A Few Words." She Blushed Becomingly. "There Are Certain Sounds,

Like Water Being Poured Into A Jug--Neither Easy Nor Pleasant. I Am Not

As Quick As Some People. Mrs. Meadows Always Speaks Hindustani To Her

Old Sicilian Woman. She Comprehends Perfectly."

"So Clever These People Are,  At Languages!" Said The Duchess.

Marten Remarked:

"I Don't Bother To Learn Italian. I Talk Latin To Them. They Understand

All Right."

"And What Latin,  Marten!" Laughed Denis. "No Wonder They Understand.

I'm Coming To You On Thursday Morning. Don't Forget."

"I Have Not Had Your Public School Advantages. But I Manage To Get What

I Want Out Of Them,  Generally Speaking," And He Cast A Fiery Glance In

The Direction Of Angelina,  Who Returned It Over Her Shoulder,

Unabashed. Denis,  Fortunately,  Was Looking The Other Way.

"I Wish I Had Enjoyed All Your Chances," Observed The Duchess,  With A

Little Mock-Sigh. "We Were So Carelessly Brought Up. I Learnt

Practically Nothing At School. It Is A Pity. Ah,  Bishop! I Forgot To

Tell You. Such A Charming Note From Your Cousin. She Cannot Come. The

Baby Is Teething And Troublesome In This Heat. You Will Have To Drive

Up,  I'm Afraid. . . . Mr. Keith,  I Have Not Yet Thanked You For Those

Flowers And The Book You Sent. The Flowers Are Quite Too Lovely. Look

At Them! You Are Spoiling Me--You Really Are! But I Don't Think I Shall

Like The Book. Lady Cecilia And Her Maid And That Man,  I Forget His

Name--They Do All Sorts Of Things. They Don't Seem To Be Very Nice

People."

"You Have Nothing But Nice People Round You,  Duchess. Why Should You

Want To Read About Them? There Is So Much Goodness In Real Life. Do Let

Us Keep It Out Of Our Books."

"That Sounds A Dreadful Doctrine. I See The Parroco Is About To Take

His Departure. Why Does Everybody Leave So Soon?"

She Wandered Away.

"The English Are Supposed To Be Bad Linguists," Said Don Francesco. "It

Is One Of Those Curious International Fallacies,  Like Saying The French

Are A Polite Nation--"

"Or That Home-Made Marmalade Tastes Better Than The Stuff You Buy In

Shops," Added Denis. "I Must Help The Duchess To Say Good-Bye To Those

People. She Likes To Have Some One Handy On Such Occasions. She Needs

An Echo. I Am Becoming Quite A Good Echo."

"You Are," Said Keith,  Rather Sharply. "Quite A Pretty Echo. And You

Ought To Be A Voice. Follow My Prescription,  Denis. The Cave Of

Mercury."

Count Caloveglia Remarked:

"What A Pity That Latin,  As Scholars' Language,  For The Definition And

Registration Of Ideas,  Was Ever Abandoned! It Has The Incalculable

Advantage That The Meanings Of Words Are Irrevocably Fixed By

Authority. New Ones Could Be Coined As Occasion Required. Knowledge

Would Gain By Leaps And Bounds. There Would Be A Cross-Fertilization Of

Cultures. As Things Now Stand,  Half The Intellectuals Of This World Are

Writing About Matters Which,  Unbeknown To Themselves,  Have Already Been

Treated By The Other Half. One Would Think That Commerce,  Which Has

Broken Down Geographical Barriers,  Might Have Done The Same To

Political Ones. Far From It! In Sharpening Men's Lust For Gold,  It Has

Demarcated Our Frontiers With A Bitterness Hitherto Unknown. The World

Of Thought Has Not Expanded; It Has Contracted And Grown Provincial.

Men Have Lost Sight Of Distant Horizons. Nobody Writes For Humanity,

For Civilization; They Write For Their Country,  Their Sect; To Amuse

Their Friends Or Annoy Their Enemies. Pliny Or Linneus Or Humboldt--They

Sat On Mountain-Tops; They Surveyed The Landscape At Their Feet,  And If

Some Little Valley Lay Shrouded In Mist,  The Main Outlines Of The Land

Yet Lay Clearly Distended Before Them. You Will Say That It Is

Impossible,  Nowadays,  To Gather Up The Threads Of Learning As Did These

Men; They Are Too Multifarious,  Too Divergent. A Greater Mistake Could

Not Be Imagined. For There Is A Contrary Tendency At Work--A Tendency

Towards Unification. The Threads Converge. Medieval Minds Knew Many

Truths,  Hostile To One Another. All Truths Are Now Seen To Be

Interdependent; Never Was Synthesis Easier Of Attainment. Conflict Of

Nationality And Language Hinders The Movement. Mankind At Large Is The

Loser. The Adoption Of A Universal Scholars' Tongue Would Do Much To

Remove The Obstacle. When These Southern Races Coalesce To Form The

Great Alliance Which I Foresee,  When The Mediterranean Basin Is Once

More The Centre Of Human Activity As It Deserves To Be,  Some Such Plan

Will Doubtless Be Adopted."

"Your Notion Would Suit Me Down To The Ground," Said The Bishop,  Who

Was A Good Latinist. "I Would Love To Converse In The Old Style With A

Student From Salamanca Or Bergen Or Khieff Or Padua Or--"

Don Francesco Gave Utterance To Some Wholly Unintelligible Speech. Then

He Observed:

"The Student Might Not Be Able To Catch Your Meaning,  Mr. Heard. I Was

Only Talking Latin! You See,  We Would Be Obliged To Standardize Our

Pronunciation. I Wonder,  By The Way,  Why The Old Scholars' Language Was

Ever Discarded?"

"Patriotism Destroyed It," Replied The Count. "That Narrow Modern

Patriotism Of The Cock-On-The-Dung-Hill Type."

Mr. Keith Began:

"It Is An Atavistic And Altogether Discreditable Phenomenon--This Recent

Recrudescence Of Monarchical Principles--"

"What Did You Promise About Long Words?" Playfully Enquired The

Duchess,  Who Had Just Returned.

"I Cannot Help It,  Dear Lady. It Is My Mother's Fault. She Was So Very

Precise. I Was Carefully Brought Up."

"That Is A Pity,  Mr. Keith."

"Northern People Are Very Precise," Said Don Francesco,  Folding His

Gown Around His Ample Limbs. "Particularly In Love Affairs. We Down

Here,  Who Live In This Sirocco,  Are Supposed To Be Calculating And

Mercenary In Matters Of The Heart. We Want Dowries For Our

Daughters--They Say We Are Always Coming To The Point: Money,  Money! The

Capacity Of An English Girl For Coming To The Point Will Take Some

Beating. She Paralyses You With Directness. I Will Tell You A True

Story. There Was A Young Italian Whom I Knew--Yes,  I Knew Him Well. He

Had Just Arrived In London; Very Handsome In The Face,  Though Perhaps A

Little Too Fat. He Fell In Love With An Elegant Young Lady Who Was

Employed In The Establishment Of Madame Elise In Bond Street. He Used

To Wait For Her To Come Out At Six O'clock And Follow Her Like A Dog,

Not Daring To Speak. He Carried A Costly Bracelet For Her In His

Pocket,  And Every Day Fresh Flowers,  Which He Was Always Too Shy And

Too Deeply Enamoured To Present. She Was His Angel,  His Ideal. He

Dreamt Of Her By Day And Night,  Wondering Whether He Would Ever Have

The Courage To Address So Tall And Queenly A Creature. It Was His First

English Love Affair,  You Understand; He Learnt The Proper Technique

Later On. For Five Or Six Weeks This Unhappy State Of Things Continued,

Till One Day,  When He Was Running After Her As Usual,  She Turned Round

Furiously And Said: 'What Do You Mean,  Sir,  By Following Me About It

This Disgusting Fashion? How Day You? I Shall Call The Police,  If It

Occurs Again.' He Was Deprived Of Speech At First: He Could Only Gaze

In What You Call Dumb Amazement. Then He Managed To Stammer Out

Something About His Heart And His Love,  And To Show Her The Flowers And

The Bracelet. She Said: 'So That's It,  Is It? Well Of All The Funny

Boys. Why Couldn't You Speak Up Sooner? D'you Know Of A Place Round

Here--'"

"Ha,  Ha,  Ha!"

It Was A Formidable Explosion On The Part Of The Commissioner,  In An

Adjoining Room.

He Was Talking To Some Friends About Napoleon.

They Wanted A Fellow Like That On Nepenthe--A Fellow Who Got Things

Done. Napoleon Would Have Made No Bones About The Wilberforce Woman

Over There. It Was A Scandalous State Of Affairs. What Was The Use Of A

Committee For Trying To Keep Her In Order And Getting Her Locked Up In

A Sanatorium? Everybody Knew What A Committee Meant. Committee! It Was

A Preposterous Word. Committees Were The Same All The World Over.

Committee! He Was In Charge Of That Particular One; They Were Dong All

They Could,  But What Did It Amount To? Nothing. To Begin With,  There

Was Not Enough Money Coming In,  Unless Somebody Could Wheedle A Cheque

Out Of That Rich Old Koppen Sensualist Whose Yacht Might Be Arriving At

Any Moment. And Then Her Own Pig-Headedness! She Refused To Be Talked

Over Into Doing What Was In Her Own Interests. Napoleon,  He Reckoned,

Might Have Talked Her Over--Ha,  Ha,  Ha!

The Lady In Question,  All Unaware Of These Humanitarian Designs,  Had

Taken Up A Strategic Position In The Neighbourhood Of The Drinks,  And

Was Glancing Shyly Round The Room In Search Of A Likely Male Who Would

Fetch Her A Stiff Glass Of Something From The Buffet,  And That Soon.

She Was Groggy,  But Not Sufficiently Primed To Go There Herself; She

Knew That Everybody's Eye Would Be Fixed Upon Her; She Had Been Much

Talked About Of Late. Drunk,  She Was Impossible; Dead Sober,  Almost As

Bad--Haughty,  Sullen,  Logical,  With A Grieved And