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

Stepped Within.

Deep Shade Was Here,  In Those Of The Chambers Whose Roofs Remained

Intact; Shade,  And A Steamy Heat,  And The Noxious Odour Of Some Mineral

Product--The Healing Waters. He Strayed In The Twilight Through Halls

And Corridors,  Past Ample Saloons And Rows Of Cells Which Had

Apparently Served For Convenience Of Disrobing. Everywhere That Noisome

Smell Accompanied His Footsteps; The Place Was Reeking With It. And All

Was In Decay. Gaudy Paper Hung In Tatters From The Ceilings; The Dust

Lay Thick,  Undisturbed For Generations. Unclean Things Littered In

Musty Corners. Through Gaping Skylights A Sunny Beam Would Penetrate;

It Played About The Mildewy Stucco Partitions Encrusted,  In Patches,

With A Poisonous Lichen Of Bright Green. Wandering About This Dank And

Mournful Pile Of Wreckage,  He Could Understand Why Simple Folks Should

Dread To Enter So Ghoul-Haunted A Spot.

Gladly He Issued,  By Way Of An Obscure Passage,  Into What Had Once Been

A Trim Garden. No Trace Of Flowers Or Shrubs Remained; The Walks,  The

Ornamental Stone Seats And Artificial Terraces,  Were Merging Into Brown

Earth. Here,  In The Centre Of This Ruined Pleasaunce,  The Health-Giving

Fountain Had Lately Flowed,  Bubbling Up In A Couch-Shaped Basin Of

Cement. It Was Now Dry. But A Damp Warmth Still Clung To Its Rim,

Whereon The Mineral Had Left A Comely Deposit Of Opaline Texture.

Lowering His Hand He Felt An Intermittent Stream Of Hot Air Rising Out

Of The Ground,  Feeble As The Breath Of A Dying Man. Still Some

Mysterious Gusts Of Life Down There,  He Concluded,  In The Dark Earth.

How Curious That Volcanic Connection With The Mainland,  Of Which Count

Caloveglia Had Spoken!

Soon He Found Himself Beside The Shattered Framework Of A Small

Pavilion,  Built In A Grotesque Chinese Style And Looking Woefully Out

Of Place In This Classic Landscape,  With The Blue Tyrrhenian At Its

Foot. And Here He Rested. He Surveyed The Traces Of The Old Path

Leading Down From The Higher Lands In Serpentine Meanderings; That

Path--Once,  Doubtless,  Bordered By Shady Trees--Whereby All Those Worldly

Invalids Had Once Descended. He Pictured The Lively Caravan Afoot,  On

Mule-Back,  In Sedan Chairs,  Seeking Health And Pleasure At This Site,

Now So Void Of Life. Lower Down,  Almost Within A Stone's Throw,  Lay The

Beach. The Sailors,  Father And Son,  Had Drawn The Boat Up To The Shore

And Were Sitting Huddled Up On Its Shady Side,  With Some Food Between

Them On A Coloured Handkerchief. That Brobdingnagian Luncheon-Basket

Had Also Been Disembarked. Keith Was Swimming,  Together With His Two

Genii; He Looked Like A Rosy Silenus. They Seemed To Be Enjoying

Themselves Vastly,  To Judge By The Outbursts Of Laughter. Mr. Heard

Thought Of Going To Join The Fun,  But Gave Up The Idea; There Was

Something Astir That Clogged His Energies.

He Knew Them--These Southern Noons. If No Ghost Resided In The

Melancholy Ruin Hard By,  There Might Well Be Some Imponderable Hostile

Essence Afloat In The Still Air Of Midday. Anything,  He Felt,  Could

Happen At This Unearthly Hour. The Wildest Follies Might Be Committed

At The Bidding Of This Unseen Presence.

He Tried To Recollect What Keith Had Told Him Concerning Muhlen,  That

Corrupt Personality. Retlow . . . Where Had He Heard That Name Before?

In Vain He Flogged His Memory. There Was An Alien Power In This

Brightness; A Power As Of A Vampire That Drained Away His Faculties,

His Vitality; A Spirit Of Evil,  Exhaling From The Sunny Calm. It Made A

Mock,  A Mirage,  Of The Landscape Which Danced Before His Eyes; It

Distorted The Realities Of Nature,  The Works Of Man. . . .

Presently He Observed That Keith And His Companions Were Clothed And

Occupied In Dragging Things Out Of The Preposterous Food-Receptacle.

They Called Up To Him. The Spell Was Released.

He Descended.

"Nice Bathe?" He Enquired.

"Rather! And Now These Fellows Will Make A Passable Omelette,  To Begin

With. I Don't Fancy Cold Luncheons,  Do You? They Seem To Lie Dead On

One's Stomach."

"Are Those Sailors Not Coming With Us?"

"No. They Are Well Paid For Their Work. No Doubt They Would Like To Be

In My Service Too. But I Never Employ Islanders,  Except For Casual

Jobs; It Saves Me All Kinds Of Local Trouble And Family Intrigues. Nor

Yet Older People. They Are So Apt To Think; And Once A Servant Begins

To Think He Ceases To Be Of Use. I Believe In The Outsider,  For All

Purposes Of Human Intercourse. If You Want A Thing Done,  Go To The

Outsider,  The Intelligent Amateur. And When You Marry,  Heard,  Be Sure

To Select A Wife From Another Class,  Another Province,  Another

Country--Another Planet,  If Possible. Otherwise You Will Repent It. Not

That I See Any Objection,  On Principle,  To Incest; It Strikes Me As The

Most Natural Proceeding In The World--"

"Dear Me!"

"And Yet--That Inexplicable Prejudice. It Is Probably Artificial And Of

Modern Origin. I Suspect The Priestly Caste. Royal Families Kept Up The

Custom And Do So Still,  Like That Of Siam. Odd,  How Anachronisms Linger

Longest At The Two Poles Of Society. What Do You Say," He Went On,  "To

Climbing A Little Up That Gorge,  Into The Shade? I Cannot Digest

Properly With The Sun Staring At Me. And Tell Me,  As We Go Along,  Your

Impressions Of The Ruin. . . I Perceive Drawbacks To Incest; Grave

Practical Drawbacks--Sterility,  Inbreeding. Yes,  There Is Obviously

Something To Be Said For Exogamy. Audi Alteram Partem As Eames Might

Say,  Though God Knows Why He Thinks It Sounds Better In Latin. Seen The

Ghost?"

The Bishop Remembered A Certain Answer Given Him By Madame Steynlin,  To

Whom He Had Once Spoken Of The "Tonic" Effects Of Keith's Conversation.

"A Tonic?" She Had Said. "Very Likely! But Not A Tonic For Men And

Women. A Tonic For Horses."

After Luncheon They Improvised A Shelter In Order To Repose Awhile. It

Was The Right Thing To Do On Nepenthe At That Hour Of The Day,  And Mr.

Keith Tried To Conform To Custom Even Under Unusual Circumstances Such

As These. Protected By The Boat's Scarlet Awning From The Rays Of The

Sun,  They Slumbered Through The Flaming Hours.

The Duchess Was A Good Sleeper,  As Befitted A Person Of Regular Habits

And Pure Life.

It Was Her Custom To Retire For The Night At About Eleven O'clock.

Angelina,  Who Reposed In An Adjoining Room,  Would Enter Softly At Nine

In The Morning,  Draw Up The Blinds,  And Deposit A Cup Of Tea At The

Bedside Of Her Mistress. Up To That Moment,  She Would Slumber Like A

Child. Rarely Did She Suffer From Insomnia Or Nightmare. On This

Particular Night,  However,  Her Rest Was Troubled By A Strange And

Disquieting Dream.

She Was A Little Girl Once More,  At Her Parental Home Out West. All The

Old Memories Were Around Her. It Was Winter Time. She Was Alone,  Out Of

Doors. Snow,  The Familiar Snow,  Was Falling From A Sombre Sky; Already

It Lay Deep On The Boundless Plains. It Fell Without Ceasing. The Sky

Grew Darker. Hours Seemed To Pass,  And Still The Flakes Descended. It

Was Not Cold Snow. It Was Warm Snow--Warm And Rather Suffocating. Very

Suffocating. It Began To Choke Her. Suddenly She Found She Could

Breathe No More. She Gave A Wild Cry Of Despair--

Her Maid Was Standing Beside The Bed,  A Lighted Candle In Her Hand.

Otherwise The Room Was In Pitch Darkness. Angelina Looked Like A

Tanagra Statuette. Draped In Nothing But A Clinging Nightgown That

Reached Two Inches Below The Knee And Accentuated The Charm Of Her

Figure,  With The Candle-Light Throwing Playful Gleams Upon Her Neck And

Cheeks,  Angelina Was An Apparition To Gladden The Heart Of Man.

The Heart Of The Duchess Was Not Gladdened By Any Means.

"What Is The Meaning Of This,  Girl?" She Enquired Sternly,  In What She

Took To Be The Language Of The Country. "And In The Middle Of The

Night!"

"It's Nine O'clock,  Madam."

"Nine O'clock? Then Draw The Blinds."

"I've Drawn Them." She Stepped To The Window And Tapped On The Glass

Panes By Way Of Confirmation. "All Dark Outside," She Added. "Ashes Are

Falling From Heaven. The Volcano Is Very,  Very Angry."

"Ashes? The Volcano? I Must Dress At Once. Light Two More Candles. No,

Three! We Can't Have Three Candles Burning. Don Francesco May Be Here

At Any Moment."

The Duchess Often Laughingly Described Herself As "Only A Weak Woman."

A Certain Number Of Persons Concurred In That Opinion. Just Then She

Was The Most Self-Possessed Inhabitant Of Nepenthe. The Disturbance Of

Nature Left Her Undisturbed. Her Intellect Was Naturally Incurious As

To The Habits Of Volcanoes; Her Soul,  Moreover,  In Good Hands,  Her

Conscience In Excellent Working Order,  As Befitted A Potential Convert

To Catholicism. She Could Rely On A Spiritual Adviser Who Had Instilled

Into Her Mind A Lofty Sense Of Obedience And Resignation. Don Francesco

Would Never Desert Her. He Would Arrive In Due Course,  Explaining Why

God Had Allowed The Volcano To Behave In This Unseemly Fashion,  And

Brimming Over With Words Of Consolation For His Daughter-To-Be. God,  If

So Disposed,  Could Work A Miracle And Drive Away The Plague,  Even As He

Had Sent It. Ashes Or No Ashes,  All Was For The Best. Calmly She

Waited.

Out Of Doors,  Meanwhile,  The Shower Went On Without Ceasing. It Had

Begun Shortly After Midnight; The Ground Was Covered To The Depth Of

Two Inches. Nepenthe Lay Veiled In Cimmerian Gloom,  Darker Than

Starless Midnight--A Darkness That Could Be Felt; A Blanket,  As It Were,

Hot And Breathless,  Weighing Upon The Landscape. All Was Silent. No

Footfall Could Be Heard In The Streets; The Powdery Ashes,  Softer Than

Snow,  Absorbed Every Sound. And Still They Fell. Those Few Scared

Natives Whom Necessity Forced To Go Abroad Crept About In Fear Of Their

Lives. They Thought The End Of The World Had Come. Terror-Stricken,

They Carried Knives And Revolvers In Their Pockets; They Passed Each

Other Distrustfully In The Streets Holding,  In One Hand,  A Lighted

Torch Or Lantern,  And In The Other A Handkerchief Pressed To The Face

For Fear Of Suffocation. In One Or Two Of The Shop Windows Could Be

Discerned A Light Glimmering Feebly As Through The Thickest Fog. All

The Ordinary Sights And Sounds Of Morning--The Vehicles Plying For Hire,

The Cracking Of Whips,  The Cries Of The Fish And Fruit Vendors--All Were

Gone. The Deathly Stillness Was Broken Only By A Clangour Of The Town

Clock,  Tolling The Hours Into A Darkened World.

Half A Dozen Adventurous Spirits Had Gathered Together At The Club.

They Called Themselves Adventurous. As A Matter Of Fact They Were

Scared Out Of Their Wits And Had Gone There Merely With A View To

Leaning On Each Other For Mutual Support And Courage. There Was No

Whisky Drinking That Morning,  No Cards,  No Scandal-Mongering. They Sat

Round A Table Under An Acetylene Lamp,  Anxiously Listening To A Young

Professor From Christiania Who Claimed To Be Versed In The Higher

Mathematics And Was Then Occupied In Calculating,  By Means Of The

Binomial Theorem,  How Long It Would Take For The Whole Town Of Nepenthe

To Be Submerged Under Ashes Up To The Roofs--Presuming All The Buildings

To Be Of Equal Height. He Was A New-Comer To The Place And,  For That

Reason,  Rather A Cheerful Pessimist. He Thought It Quite Possible That

Before The Second Floors Of The Houses Had Been Reached--Granted,  Of

Course,  That None Was Higher Or Lower Than The Other--The Wind Might

Change And Carry The Ashes Elsewhere. His Demonstration Had A

Depressing Effect On The Hearts Of Those Who Had Lived Longer On The

Island. They Rose From The Table And Sadly Shook Their Heads,  Prepared

For The Worst. They Knew Their Sirocco.

As Morning Wore On Other Stragglers Entered The Premises,  Muffled Up To

The Ears; They Scattered Ashes From Their Cloaks And Hastily Closed The

Door Behind Them. More Lamps Were Lighted. The News Was Not Inspiring.

It Was Dark As Ever Outside; You Could Not See Your Hand Before Your

Face; The Shower Had Accumulated To An Alarming Extent. Some Roofs Had

Fallen In Under The Weight Of Ashes; Telegraphic Communication With The

Mainland