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

Geology. As It Was The Business Gave Him A Vast Deal Of Trouble.

Monsignor Perrelli Had Dealt With Geological Matters In A Fashion Far

Too Summary For Present-Day Requirements. The Old Scholar Was Not To

Blame,  Of Course,  Seeing That Geology Was Quite A Modern Science; But

He Might At Least Have Been A Little More Painstaking In His Record Of

Those Showers Of Ashes And Lapilli Which Were Known To Have Covered The

Island From Time To Time. His Account Of Them Was Lamentably Defective.

It Was Literally Bristling With--With--With Lacunae,  Which Had To Be

Filled Up By Means Of Laborious References To Contemporary Chronicles.

Altogether One Of The Most Unsatisfactory Sections Of An Otherwise

Admirable Work. . . .

"I Wish I Could Help You," Said Mr. Heard.

"I Wish You Could. I Wish Anyone Could. There Was That Young Jew,

Marten,  Who Understood More About These Things Than Most People. A

Coarse Little Fellow,  But Quite A Specialist. He Promised To Supply Me

With An Up-To-Date Statement,  Accompanied By A Map Of The Geological

Structure Of The Island. I Said To Myself: Just What I Wanted! Well,

This Confounded Statement Has Never Reached My Hands. Now I Fear He Has

Left The Place. Gone Away Altogether. Didn't Have The Decency To Say

Good-Bye Or Leave His Address. Too Bad. Who Knows When The Next

Mineralogist Will Turn Up? These Fellows Are Not As Common As

Blackbirds. Meanwhile I Have To Rely On My Own Efforts. It's Wonderful,

By The Way,  How Much A Person Can Pick Up Of Odds And Ends Of

Information When Forced,  By A Hobby Of This Kind,  To Delve Into

Recondite Departments Of Knowledge Which He Would Otherwise Not Have

Dreamt Of Exploring. One Grows Quite Encyclopaedic! Minerals,  Medicine,

Strategy,  Heraldry,  Navigation,  Palaeography,  Statistics,  Politics,

Botany--What Did I Know Or Care About All These Things Before I Stumbled

On Old Perrelli? Have You Ever Tried To Annotate A Classic,  Mr. Heard?

I Assure You It Opens Up New Vistas,  New Realms Of Delight. It Gives

One A Genuine Zest In Life. Enthralling!"

And Thereupon The Bibliographer Fell Silent,  All At Once. He Had

Succumbed,  Yet Again,  To His Besetting Sin: Talking Too

Enthusiastically To Outsiders Of What Was Nearest His Heart. Why On

Earth Should A Globe-Trotting Bishop Be Bothered About The Mineralogy

Of Nepenthe? It Was Absurd: Tactless Of Him.

He Tried To Atone For The Blunder By Some Mundane Trivialities.

"What Are You Doing Afterwards?"

"Going Up To See Mrs. Meadows."

"Are You? Do Remember Me Very Kindly! Or Perhaps--No. Better Not. Fact

Is,  She Cut Me Dead Two Days Ago. At Least,  It Looked Uncommonly Like

It. I Confess I Was Rather Upset,  Because I'm Not Conscious Of Having

Done Anything To Annoy Her. Indeed,  I've Always Felt A Kind Of Weakness

For Mrs. Meadows; There Is Something So Fine And Womanly About Her.

Will You Try To Find Out What It's All About? Thanks. Perhaps She May

Not Have Noticed Me. She Was Walking Very Fast. And I Must Say She Was

Not Looking Herself At All. Not At All. White And Scared. Looked As If

She Had Seen A Ghost."

The Bishop Was Troubled By These Words.

"Is That So?" He Asked. "You Alarm Me. I Think I'll Be Off This Minute.

She Is My Cousin,  You Know; And I've Been Rather Concerned About Her

Lately. Yes; I Won't Wait For The End Of This Funeral; I'll Be Off!

Perhaps We Shall Meet This Evening. Then I Can Tell You Her News. As To

Deliberately Cutting You--Don't You Believe That For A Minute."

"I Shall Be Down Here About Seven O'clock. . . ."

"People Like Her," Thought Mr. Heard,  As He Fell Out Of The Procession.

He Would Make A Point Of Having A Good Long Chat,  And Perhaps Stay To

Luncheon.

He Dreaded The Coming Heat Of Midday. It Was Quite Warm Enough Already,

As He Climbed Slowly Upward By The Short Cuts That Intersected The

Driving Road,  Availing Himself Of Every Little Patch Of Shade That Fell

From Trees Or Cottages Athwart The Pathway.

The Country Seemed Deserted,  The Funeral Ceremony Having Attracted All

The Natives From Far And Near. Yet One Figure Was Moving Rapidly Up The

Road In Front Of Him. Muhlen! Even At This Distance He Was

Recognizable; He Looked,  As Usual,  Overdressed. What Was He Doing

There,  At This Hour? Mr. Heard Remembered Seeing Him Go Up,  Once

Before,  At The Same Time Of The Day.

He Called To Mind What He Had Heard From Keith In The Boat. He Was

Quite Prepared To Believe That This Man Lived On Blackmail And Women;

That Was Precisely What He Looked Like. A Villainous Personality,

Masquerading Under An Assumed Name. The Sight Of The Fellow Annoyed

Him. What Business Had He To Transact Up There? Retlow! Once More He

Began To Puzzle Where He Had Heard That Name. It Conjured Up,  Dimly,

Some Unpleasant Connotation. Where? Long Ago; So Much Was Clear. For A

Brief Moment He Felt On The Verge Of Remembering. Then His Mind Became

Blank As Before; The Revelation Had Slipped Away,  Past Recall.

He Was Glad To Enter The Shady Garden Of The Villa Mon Repos. Old

Caterina Sat,  Sphinx-Like,  On The Stones At The House Entrance. There

Was Some Knitting-Work On Her Lap,  With Brown Wool And Curiously Shaped

Needles; One Foot Rested On The Base Of The Cradle,  Which She Rocked

From Time To Time. At His Approach She Rose Up,  Stark And Hieratic,

Without A Trace Of A Friendly Smile On Her Countenance. Was The Lady

Indoors? No,  She Was Out. Out! Where? There Was A Definite But

Enigmatical Movement Of Her Withered Brown Arm; It Appeared To Embrace

The Universe. And When Would She Be Back? No Reply Whatever. Only A

Slight Upward Movement Of The Eyes,  As Much As To Say: God Knows!

"I'll Wait," Thought Mr. Heard.

He Walked Past The Forbidding Hag Who Seemed To Exhale A Positive

Hostility Towards Him,  And Entered His Cousin's Sitting-Room. He Would

Wait. He Waited. He Glanced Through A Pile Of Illustrated Newspapers

That Lay About. And Still He Waited. The Room Looked Different Somehow;

Almost Untidy. There Were No Rouses About. An Hour Passed. And Still No

Sign Of His Cousin.

Out. Always Out. What Could This Mean? Where Could She Be? It Was All

Rather Mysterious And Unsatisfactory.

At Last He Took Out His Watch. Ten Minutes To One! No Use Waiting Any

Longer. He Scribbled A Hasty Note,  Left It On The Writing-Table,  And

Walked Into The Garden Past The Impenetrable Caterina,  Who Barely

Deigned To Glance Up From Her Knitting. He Would Look For A Carriage,

And Give Himself The Luxury Of A Drive Down. It Was Too Hot To Walk At

That Hour.

Strolling Along He Espied A Familiar Courtyard That Gave Upon The

Street; Count Caloveglia's Place. On An Impulse He Entered The Massive

Portal Which Stood Invitingly Ajar. Two Elderly Gentlemen Sat

Discoursing In The Shade Of The Fig Tree; There Was No Difficulty In

Recognizing The Stranger As Mr. Van Koppen,  The American Millionaire,  A

Frequent Visitor,  They Said,  Of Count Caloveglia.

A Bronze Statuette,  Green With Age,  Stood On A Pedestal Before Them.

"How Kind Of You To Come And See Me!" Said The Italian. "Pray Make

Yourself As Comfortable As You Can,  Though These Chairs,  I Fear,  Are

Not Of The Latest Design. You Are Going To Do Me The Honour,  Are You

Not,  Of Sharing My Simple Luncheon? Mr. Van Koppen Is Staying Too."

"Very Good Of You!"

"Delighted To Make Your Acquaintance," Said The Millionaire. "Keith Was

Talking About You Only Yesterday--Such Nice Things! Do Stay. Count

Caloveglia Has Been Touching On Most Interesting Subjects--I Would Come

From The Other End Of The World To Listen To Him."

The Count,  Manifestly Shy Of These Praises,  Interrupted By Asking:

"What Do You Think Of That Bronze,  Mr. Heard?"

It Was An Exquisite Little Thing.

Perfect To The Finger-Tips And Glowing In A Lustrous Patina Of

Golden-Green,  The Locri Faun--So-Called From The Place Of Its

Discovery--Was Declared To Be Stamped With The Hall-Mark Of Individual

Distinction Which The Artificers Of Old Hellas Contrived To Impress

Upon Every One Of The Rare Surviving Bronzes Of Its Period. It Was

Perhaps The Finest Of The Whole Group. No Wonder The Statue Had Created

Wild Excitement Among The Few,  The Very Few,  Discreet Amateurs Who Had

Been Permitted To Inspect The Relic Prior To Its Clandestine Departure

From The Country. And Much As They Might Deplore The Fact That It Was

Probably Going To Adorn The Museum Of Mr. Cornelius Van Koppen,  An

Alien Millionaire,  Not One Of Them Found It In His Heart To Disapprove

Count Caloveglia's Action. For They All Liked Him. Every One Liked Him.

They All Understood His Position. He Was A Necessitous Widower With A

Marriageable Daughter On His Hands,  A Girl Whom Everybody Admired For

Her Beauty And Charm Of Character.

Mr. Van Koppen,  Like All The Rest,  Knew What Hard Times He Had Gone

Through; How,  Born Of An Ancient And Wealthy Family,  He Had Not

Hesitated To Sell His Wonderful Collection Of Antiques Together With

All But A Shred Of His Ancestral Estates,  In Order To Redeem The

Gambling Debts Of A Brother. That Amounted To Quixotism,  They Declared.

They Little Realized What Anguish Of Mind This Step Had Cost Him,  For

He Concealed His True Feelings Under A Cloak Of Playful Worldliness.

Excess Of Grief,  He Held,  Is An Unlovely Thing--Not Meet To Be Displayed

Before Men. All Excess Is Unlovely. That Was Count Caloveglia's Classic

Point Of View. Measure! Measure In Everything.

People Revered Him,  Above All Else,  For His Knowledge In Matters Of

Art. His Connoisseurship Was Not One Of Mere Learning; It Was

Intuitional. Astonishing Tales Were Told Of Him. By The Sense Of Touch

Alone,  And In The Dark,  He Could Appraise Correctly Any Piece Of

Plastic Work You Liked. He Had A Natural Affinity With Such Things.

They Held It Quite Likely That The Blood Of Praxiteles Or His Compeers

May Still Have Flowed Through His Veins--Certain At All Events,  That

There Hung About His Person The Traditions Of The Versatile Colonists

On The Shores Of Magna Graecia Who,  Freed By Legions Of Slaves From The

Trivial Vexations Which Beset Modern Lives,  Were Able To Create In

Their Golden Leisure Those Monuments Of Beauty Which Are The Envy And

Despair Of Our Generation. On All That Concerned The History And

Technique Of Ancient Bronzes,  More Especially,  He Was Facile Princeps

In The Land,  And It Was Hinted,  After The Sale Of His Property,  That

Count Caloveglia Would Not Be Low To Retrieve The Fortunes Of His

Family By Putting Into Exercise Those Talents For Metal-Working Of

Which,  As A Gifted Boy,  He Had Already Shown Himself To Be Possessed.

In This They Were Disappointed. He Spoke Of These Things As "Sins Of

His Youth," Professing An Invincible Distaste,  In These Later Years,

For The Drudgery Of Work. He Called Himself An Old Dreamer. There Was A

Shed,  It Is True,  Attached To The House,  A Shed Which Went By The Name

Of A Studio. All Visitors Were Taken To See This Atelier. It Was

Smothered In Dust And Cobwebs. Clearly,  As The Count Himself Would

Explain With A Honeyed Smile,  It Had Not Been In Use For Twenty Years

Or More.

Mr. Van Koppen Knew All This.

He Knew About That Strip Of Land Which The Old Man Had Reserved For

Himself At The Sale Of His Ancestral Domain. It Lay Among The Hills,

Some Twenty Or Thirty Miles Above The Classic Site Of Locri. On This

Spot,  People Were Given To Understand,  Fragments Of Old Marbles And

Vases Had Been Picked Up By The Peasantry Within The Last Years. Things

Of Small Worth--Pottery Mostly; They Lay About Count Caloveglia's

Nepenthe Courtyard And Were Given By Him,  As Keepsakes,  To Any Visitor

Who Showed An Interest In Them. He Attached No Value To These Trifles.

"From My Little Place On The Hills," He Would Say. "Pray Take It As A

Memento Of The Pleasure Which Your Visit Has Given Me! Oh,  It Is Quite

A Small Property,  You Know; Just A Few Acres,  With A Meager Soil; In

Good Years It Produces A Little Oil And A Barrel Or Two Of Wine. And

That Is All. I Only Kept Back This Morsel From The General Ruin Of My

Property--Well,  For Sentimental Reasons. One Likes To Feel That One Is

Still Tied--By A Slender Thread,  It Is True--To The Land Of One's

Ancestors. There Is Certainly No Wealth To Be Obtained Above Ground.

But It Is Quite Possible That Something Might Emerge From Below,  Given

The Energy And The Means To Make Systematic Excavations. The Whole

Country Is So Rich In Remains Of Hellenic Life! The Countrymen,

Ploughing My Few Fields,  Often Stumble Upon Some Odd Trifle Of This

Kind. There Was That Demeter You May Have