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

He Reached The Upper Level Of The Town,  He Knew Not How.

All Lay Quiet As He Found His Way Among The Familiar Buildings. It Was

After Midnight; Most Of The Lamps Had Been Extinguished. The Streets

Were Deserted. He Heard,  In The Distance,  The Song Of A Drunken

Wayfarer Reeling Homewards From A Tavern Or From The Club.

In One Of The Little Roadways That Converge Upon The Market-Place

Something Was Astir. It Was A Dim Phantom Of Willowy Outline,  Swaying

Capriciously To And Fro,  Like A Black Feather Tossed By The Wind. Miss

Wilberforce! She Fluttered Down A Doorstep And Began Crooning A Vulgar

Song About "Billy Had A Letter For To Go On Board A Ship." Denis Moved

To The Other Side Of The Narrow Path,  Hoping To Escape Unobserved. The

Light Was Too Strong.

"My Young Friend," She Cried In Quite A Hoarse And Altered Tone Of

Voice,  "We Should Know Each Other! We've Had The Pleasure Haven't We?

Been Down To The Sea,  Have You? And What Are The Wild Waves Saying?"

Denis Stood There,  Petrified With Disgust. Was It Possible? Was This

The Lady Who Had Charmed Him The Other Day? Who Had Spoken Of England

And Conjured Up The Memories Of His Own Home In The Midlands? With A

Playful Gesture,  She Sent Her Hat Careering Across The Street And Began

To Fumble At Her Breast,  Unlacing Or Unbuttoning Something. It Was

Horrible,  In The Moonlight.

A Boot,  Flying Merrily Over His Head,  Recalled Him To His Senses. He

Turned To Go,  And Had Already Made A Few Paces When The Voice Croaked

After Him:

"Does Your Mother Know You're Out?"

Some Good Genius Took Him By The Hand Next Day And Led Him To The House

Of Count Caloveglia,  In Response To That Friendly Twice-Repeated

Invitation. The Old Man Saw At A Glance That Something Serious Was

Amiss. He Plunged At Once,  With Quick Insight,  Into What He Took To Be

Extraneous Topics Of Conversation.

"I Am Glad You Like My Fig Tree! It Gives A Distinctive Tone To This

Quiet Courtyard,  Don't You Think? I Could Not Have Wished For Anything

More Appropriate. Its Shape,  Its Associations,  Are Alike Pleasing. The

Fig Is A Legendary Tree; A Volume Could Be Written About The Stories

And Superstitions Which Have Twined Themselves Around It. Some Think It

Was The Biblical Tree Of Knowledge. Judas Iscariot,  They Say,  Hanged

Himself On A Fig Tree. It Came From The East-Bacchus Brought It On His

Journey As A Gift To Mortal Men. How Much We Owe To Those Of The Greek

Gods Who Were Yet Not Wholly Divine! The Romans,  Too,  Held It In

Veneration. You Have Doubtless Heard About The Ficus Ruminalis,  At Hose

Feet The Cradle Of Romulus And Remus Was Stranded? Among Many Nations

It Became The Outward Symbol Of Generative Forces. The Egyptians

Consecrated The Fig To Isis,  That Fecund Mother Of Earth. Statues Of

Priapus Were Carved Out Of Its Wood In Allusion,  Possibly,  To Its

Reckless Fertility Or For Some Analogous Reason; It Was Also Held To Be

Sacred,  I Know Not Why,  To Mercury--"

Denis,  During This Little Speech,  Had Begun To Look More Troubled Than

Ever. The Other Continued:

"There Is Something In The Very Twistings Of That Smooth Trunk And

Those Heavy-Laden Branches That Suggests Fruitfulness,  How Voluptuously

They Writhe! A Kindly Growth,  Lover Of Men,  Their Dwellings And Ordered

Ways. That Is Why We Foster It. We Are All Utilitarians Here,  Mr.

Denis; We Think Of The Main Purposes Of Life. Besides Food,  It Gives Us

Welcome Shade At This Season; The Leaves Fall Off In Winter And Allow

The Sunlight To Percolate Into Our Rooms. You Will Not Find Evergreen

Trees Planted Near Our Windows. We Know The Value Of Sunshine; Where

The Sun Enters,  We Say,  The Physician Does Not Enter. In England The

Light Is Feebler And Yet They Made This Mistake,  During The Georgian

Period Of Architecture. They Thought That Houses Were Invented To Be

Looked At,  Not To Be Lived In. Determined To Be Faithful To The

Tradition And Regardless Of The Difference In Climate,  They Planted The

Ilex About Those Mansions Which Must Be Dank And Gloomy In Wintertime,

However Charming,  Externally,  To Those Who Relish The Chill Palladian

Outlines. You Have Lately Been To Florence,  I Hear? Come! Let Us Sit

Indoors. The Courtyard Is Rather Too Sultry To-Day,  In Spite Of The

Shade. My Old Servant Will Bring Some Tea,  Presently. Or Perhaps You

Would Prefer Some Wine And A Biscuit? Or A Glass Of Liqueur? . . .

Well? And Florence?"

"It Has Left Me Rather Confused,  So Far," Replied Denis. "Some Of The

Things Are Overwhelming."

"Overwhelming? That Is Perhaps Because You Do Not See The Movement In

Its Continuity,  Because You Have Not Traced The Stream To Its Source. I

Can Understand Your Feelings. But One Need Not Be Overwhelmed By These

Men. They Were Lovable Folks,  Who Played With Their Art Like Some Child

That Has Discovered A Long-Lost Toy. It Is A Pity That Their Activities

Were So Hampered By The Conventions Of Religious Dogma. Viewed By

Itself,  The Renaissance May Seem Overwhelming; It Shoots Up Like A

Portentous Lily Out Of The Blood-Drenched Soil Of A Thousand

Battlefields. Let Me Take You To Its Real Source."

He Showed Him That Little Statuette,  The Locri Faun. Denis Was

Enchanted By It.

"You Have Heard Of Sir Herbert Street? He Also Thinks Highly Of This

Thing. He Is Now Adviser In Art Matters To Mr. Van Koppen Who Is A

Patron Of Mine And Who,  I Hear,  Will Arrive To-Morrow Or The Day

After."

"Street? I Met Him At My Mother's House. Wasn't He At South Kensington?

A Great Man For Dining Out. You Cannot Pick Up An Evening Paper Without

Reading Something About Him. That Kind Of Man! All The Same,  He Wrote A

Good Book On The Siena School. I Liked It,  Didn't You?"

"It Is A Fair Appreciation,  From The Collector's Point Of View. He Has

Stayed With Me Here Once Or Twice,  And Given Me Reason To Form A High

Opinion Of His Capacities. Now If You Will Compare This Faun With Your

Florentine Art,  You Will See What I Mean By Going To The Fountain.

There Is A Difference Not Only In Technique,  But In Outlook. The Man

Who Wrought This Did Not Trouble About You,  Or Me,  Or Himself. He Had

Not Moods. His Art Is Purely Intellectual; He Stands Aloof,  Like A

Glacier. Here The Spring Issued,  Crystal-Clear. As The River Swells In

Size It Grows Turbid And Discoloured With Alien Elements--Personality,

Emotions."

"I Have Noticed That," Said Denis. "It Is What We Call The Malady Of

Thought. This Faun,  You Say,  Was Found On The Mainland Yonder?"

"Near The Site Of Old Locri,  On A Piece Of Ground Which Still Belongs

To Me. I Suspect There Are Still A Good Many Greek Relics To Be

Excavated On The Site. We Have Discovered A Demeter Some Years Ago; A

Mutilated Head In Marble; It Is Now In Paris. You Can See The Very

Place From My Roof Here,  On Bright Days. These Men,  Mr. Denis,  Were Our

Masters. Do Not Be Misled By What You Are Told Of The Wanton Luxury Of

Those Shores; Do Not Forget That Your View Of That Age Has Filtered

Through Roman Stoicism And English Puritanism Which Speak With Envy

Lurking At Their Hearts--The Envy Of The Incomplete Creature For Him Who

Dares Express Himself. A Plague Has Infected The World--The Plague Of

Repression. Don't You Think That The Man Who Made This Faun Was

Entitled To Dine Well?"

"I Cannot Quite Make It Out," Said Denis,  Still Examining The

Statuette.

"Ah! How Does It Make You Feel?"

"Uneasy."

"You Are Unaware Of A Struggle Between Your Own Mind And That Of The

Artist? I Am Glad. It Is The Test Of Beauty And Vitality That A

Beholder Refuses To Acquiesce At First Glance. There Is A Conflict To

Be Undergone. This Thing Thrusts Itself Upon Us; It Makes No

Concessions,  Does It? And Yet One Cannot But Admire! You Will Seldom

Encounter That Sensation Among The Masterpieces Of The Renaissance.

They Welcome You With Open Arms. That Is Because We Know What The

Creators Were Thinking About. They Are Quite Personal And Familiar;

They Had As Many Moods,  One Suspects,  As A Fashionable Prima Donna.

They Give Pleasure. This Faun Gives Pleasure And Something More--A Sense

Of Disquieting Intimacy. While Intruding Upon Your Reserve With His

Solemn,  Stark And Almost Hostile Novelty,  He Makes At The Same Time A

Strange Appeal--He Touches Upon Chords In Our Nature Of Which We

Ourselves Were Barely Cognisant. You Must Yield,  Mr. Denis,  To This

Stranger Who Seems To Know So Much About You. When You Have Done So,

You Will Make A Surprising Discovery. You Have Gained A Friend--One Of

Those Who Never Change."

"I Am Trying To," Replied Denis. "But It Is Difficult. We Are Not

Brought Up That Way,  Nowadays."

"No. Men Have Lost Their Frankness,  Their Self-Assurance. Whoever

Yields,  Must Be Confident Of His Own Strength. Our Contemporaries Have

Lost That Feeling. They Dare Not Be Themselves. They Eke Out Lack Of

Sincerity By Profusion Of Commonplace. Unlike The Heroes Of Homer,  They

Repress Their Fears--They Repress Everything,  Save Their Irrepressible

Flatulence Of Mind. They Are Expansive In Unimportant Matters And At

Wrong Moments--Blown About In A Whirl Of Fatuous Extremes. The

Impersonal Note Has Vanished. Why Has It Gone,  Mr. Denis?" He Suddenly

Asked. "And When Did It Go?"

The Other Was Rather Puzzled What To Reply.

"I Suppose You Could Trace Its Disappearance To The Days Of Which You

Spoke,  When Artists Began To Display Their Moods To The World. Perhaps

Further Still. Some Roman Writers Were Fond Of Talking About Their Own

Affairs. If They Do,  The Public Naturally Becomes Interested. People

Like Byron Must Have Had A Good Deal To Do With It. He Was Always

Harping On His Private Life."

He Paused,  But The Count Merely Asked:

"No Further Back Than That?"

"I Don't Know. Christianity Made Us Interested In Other People's

Feelings. Brotherliness,  You Know. That Must Have Helped. So Did

Socrates,  By The Way. Of Course It Lowers The General Standard. Where

Everybody Can Read And Write,  There's An End Of Good Taste. No,  I Don't

Mean That Exactly," He Added,  Feeling That He Was Expressing Himself

Very Stupidly.

"Well?"

"Oh,  Everything! The Telegraph And Society Papers And Interviewing And

America And Yellow Journalism . . . And All Those Family Memoirs And

Diaries And Autobiographies And Court Scandals. . . . They Produce A

New Kind Of Public,  A Public Which Craves For Personalities Rather Than

Information. They Want To Learn About Our Clothes And Incomes And

Habits. Not A Questioning Public,  I Mean; A Prying Public--"

"A Cannibalistic Public," Said The Count,  Quietly. "Men Cannot Live,  It

Seems,  Save By Feeding On Their Neighbour's Life-Blood. They Prey On

Each Other's Nerve-Tissues And Personal Sensations. Everything Must Be

Shared. It Gives Them A Feeling Of Solidarity,  I Suppose,  In A World

Where They Have Lost The Courage To Stand Alone. Woe To Him Who Dwells

Apart! Great Things Are No Longer Contemplated With Reverence. They Are

Hauled Down From Their Pedestals In Order To Be Rendered Accessible To

A Generation Of Pigmies; Their Dignity Is Soiled By Vulgar Contact.

This Lust Of Handling--What Is Its Ordinary Name? Democracy. It Has

Abraded The Edge Of That Keen Anthropocentric Outlook Of The Greeks

Which Exalted Whatever Was Distinctively Human. Men Have Learnt To See

Beauty Here,  There,  And Everywhere--A Little Beauty,  Mark You,  Not Much!

They Fail To Realize That In Widening Their Capacity Of Appreciation

They Dilute Its Intensity. They Have Watered Their Wine. There Is More

To Drink. The Draught Is Poorer."

It Seemed To Denis That The Count's Wine Had Not Been Watered.

"Let Me Show You One Or Two Other Things," Said The Old Man.

They Wandered About The Premises Awhile,  Looking At Marbles,  Prints,

Intaglios,  Coins,  Till A Serving Man Entered--A Clean-Shaven And Rather

Bony Old Creature Whom The Count Called Andrea--To Announce Tea. Denis

Was Feeling Calmer; He Had Fallen Under The Beguiling Influence Of This

Place. He Realized That