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

Trouble--Often,  How Often,  Against Our Inclination! I Call That A

Perverse Custom. Every State Of The Mind,  Whether We Are In Society Or

Alone,  Should Be Pressed To The Last Drop,  Irrespective Of Whether We

Happen To Have Swallowed A Final Mouthful Of Food Or Not. When The

Conversation Has Died,  As Everything Must Die,  From Sheer Inability To

Draw Further Breaths Of Life,  Then Is The Time To Break Up That Old

Encircling Dome Of Thought; To Construct A Fresh One,  If Need Be,  In A

Fresh Environment."

"I Confess," Said The American,  "It Has Always Struck Me As Rather

Barbarous--This Running Away. I Like To Linger. But The Ladies Don't.

They Know That Their Dresses Show Off Better In A Parlour Than Under A

Boards Of A Mahogany Table; Perhaps Their Conversation,  Too,  Sounds

Better Among Arm-Chairs And Rugs. So We Run After Then,  As We Generally

Do; Instead Of Making Them Run After Us" ("As I Do," He Added To

Himself). "But,  Count! If You Like Our American Dishes,  Why Not Get

This Man Of Yours To Learn A Few From The Duchess? I Know She Would

Gladly Teach Him; She Is Not Jealous Of Her Knowledge Like A

Professional Chef."

"I Would Have Asked Her That Favour Long Ago,  If Andrea Had Been A Born

Cook,  Like Keith's Men. Unfortunately He Is Quite Different. The

Philosopher Is Represented In His Nature,  But Not The Artist. He Is

Only A Devoted Arcadian,  Overflowing With Good Intentions."

"And Are They Of No Avail?" Queried The Bishop.

"I Have Been Told That,  In Art And Literature,  They Will Atone For

Deficiency Of Natural Talent. It May Be So; Some Persons,  At Least,

Have Been Able To Cajole Their Brains Into Believing This. However That

May Be,  I Do Not Think The Rule Can Be Extended Into The Domain Of

Cookery. Good Intentions--No. Nobody Need Attempt Such An Imposture On

His Stomach,  An Upright And Uncompromising Organ,  Which Refuses To

Listen To Nonsense. Or Let Them Try The Experiment. Gastritis Will Be

The Result Of Good Intentions. . . ."

Mr. Heard Stretched Out His Legs. He Was Beginning To Feel At Ease. He

Like This Comely Old Man; He Detected An Abiding Quality In His Outlook

And Person. And He Felt At Home In These Surroundings. There Was An Air

Of Simplicity And Refinement In That Calm Ground-Floor Chamber,  With

Its Subdued Light Filtering Through Windows That Opened Upon The

Courtyard,  Groined Vaulting Of Noble Proportions,  Stucco Frieze Stained

With Age To An Ivory Hue,  And Those Other Decorations Which The Count,

Loyal To The Traditions Of Old-World Peasant Architecture,  Had Piously

Left Unaltered--Or,  It May Be,  Adapted To Modern Needs By Touches So

Deft As Not To Reveal His Own Consummate Artistry. Through The Open

Door By Which They Had Entered Came Breathings Of Warm Wind Laden With

The Suave Odour Of A Tuft Of Madonna Lilies That Grew,  Half Neglected,

In A Shady Corner. He Had Noticed Them On His Entry--How They Stood In

Proud Clusters,  Bending Forward With Mighty Effort To Reach The Light.

His Eye Strayed Into The Courtyard And Moved About The Green Penumbra

Created By The Fig Tree's Massy Foliage; It Glanced Over Fragments Of

Statuary Half Buried Under A Riot Of Leaves And Nodding Flowers,  And

Rested With Complaisance Upon The Brickwork Flooring Of Herring-Bone

Pattern,  Coloured In A Warm,  Velvety Indian-Red. It Was Worn Down Here

And There By Tread Of Feet,  And Pleasantly Marked With Patches Of

Emerald-Green Moss And Amber-Tinted Streaks Of Light That Played About

Its Surface Wherever The Sunbeams Could Pierce The Dense Leafage

Overhead.

From Where He Sat He Could See The Locri Faun On Its Pedestal. The

Figure Was Drowned In Twilight. It Seemed To Slumber.

Meanwhile Andrea,  Looking Uncommonly Ceremonious In White Tie And White

Cotton Globes,  Was Handing Round The Coffee. It Was Pronounced An

Unqualified Success. "Absolutely Harmonious," Declared The Bishop,  Who

Had No Hesitation,  After A Critical Sip Or Two,  In Extending His

Approval To A Curiously Flavoured Liqueur Of Unknown Ingredients.

"From My Little Property On The Mainland," The Count Explained. "If It

Were A Clear Day I Would Take You Up To My Roof And Show You The Very

Site,  Although It Is Leagues And Leagues Away. But The South Wind

Always Casts A Haze Over The Mainland At This Time Of Day--A Kind Of

Veil."

Mr. Van Koppen,  Connoisseur Of Cigars,  Opened His Capacious Case And

Offered Its Contents,  Without Disclosing The Fact That They Were

Specially Manufactured For Him At A Fabulous Price.

"You Will Find Them Smokable,  I Hope. As A Matter Of Fact It's No Use

Trying To Keep A Cigar In Good Condition On The Yacht. And It Must Be

The Same On An Island Like This. So Far As Tobacco Is Concerned,

Nepenthe Can Be Nothing But A Ship At Anchor."

"True," Said The Count. "The Moist Sirocco Is Injurious To The Finer

Growths."

"This South Wind!" Exclaimed Mr. Heard. "This African Pest! Is There No

Other Wind Hereabouts? Tell Me,  Count,  Does The Sirocco Always Blow?"

"So Far As I Have Observed It Blows Constantly During The Spring And

Summer. Hardly Less Constantly In Autumn," He Added. "And In Winter,

Often For Weeks On End."

"Sounds Promising," Observed The Bishop. "And Has It No Influence On

The Character?"

"The Native Is Accustomed,  Or Resigned. Foreigners,  Sometimes,  Are

Tempted To Strange Actions Under Its Influence."

The American Said:

"You Spoke Of Amalgamating Our Cuisine With Yours,  Or Vice Versa. It

Can Doubtless Be Done,  To The Profit Of Both Parties. Why Not Go A Step

Further? Why Not Amalgamate Our Respective Civilizations?"

"A Pleasant Dream,  My Friend,  With Which I Have Occasionally Beguiled

Myself! Our Contribution To Human Happiness,  And That Of America--Are

They Not Irreconcilable? What Is Yours? Comfort,  Time And Labour Saving

Contrivances; Abundance; In A Word,  All That Is Summed Up Under The

Denomination Of Utility. Ours,  Let Us Say,  Is Beauty. No Doubt We Could

Saturate Ourselves With Each Other's Ideals,  To Our Mutual Advantage.

But It Would Never Be An Amalgam; The Joints Would Show. It Would Be A

Successful Graft,  Rather Than A Fusion Of Elements. No; I Do Not See

How Beauty And Utility Are Ever To Be Syncretized Into A Homogeneous

Conception. They Are Too Antagonistic To Coalesce."

"But There Is Abundant Beauty And Grandeur In Modern American Life,"

Said The Millionaire,  "Quite Apart,  I Mean,  From That Of The Natural

Scenery. A Fine Steam-Engine,  For Instance--I Call That A Beautiful

Thing,  Perfectly Adapted To Its End. Is Its Beauty Really So

Antagonistic To That Of Your Civilization?"

"I Know That Some Excellent Persons Have Been Writing Lately About The

Beauty Of A Swift-Gliding Motor-Car And Things Of That Kind. They Are

Right,  In One Sense Of The Word. For There Is A Beauty To Mechanical

Fitness Which No Art Can Enhance. But It Is Not The Beauty Of Which I

Spoke."

"And Therefore," Observed The Bishop,  "We Ought To Have Another Word

For It."

"Precisely,  My Dear Sir! We Ought To Have Another Word. All Values Are

Continually Being Revised,  And Tested Anew. Are They Not? We Have Been

Restating Moral Values Within The Last Half-Century; It Is The Same

With Artistic Ones. New Canons Of Taste,  New Standards,  Are Continually

Being Evolved; There Is A General Widening And Multiplying Of Notions.

This,  I Think,  Ought To Make Us Careful As To The Words We Employ,  And

Ready To Coin New Ones Whenever A New Idea Is To Be Expressed. If We

Enlarge Our Concepts,  We Should Likewise Enlarge Our Vocabulary. When I

Spoke Of Beauty,  I Used The Word In Its Narrow Classical Meaning,  A

Meaning Which May Be Out Of Fashion,  But Which Has The Great Advantage

That It Happens To Be Irrevocably Fixed And Defined For Us By What The

Ancients Themselves Have Handed Down In The Way Of Art And Criticism.

This Particular Beauty,  I Say,  Is Irreconcilable With That Other Beauty

Of Which You Spoke."

"How So?" Asked The Millionaire.

"There Resides,  For Example,  In Hellenic Sculpture A Certain

Ingredient--What Shall We Call It? Let Us Call It The Factor Of

Strangeness,  Of Mystery! It Is A Vague Emanation Which Radiates From

Such Works Of Art,  And Gives Us A Sense Of Their Universal

Applicability To All Our Changing Moods And Passions. That,  I Suppose,

Is Why We Call Them Ever Young. They Beckon To All Of Us Familiarly And

Yet,  As It Were,  From An Unexplored World. They Speak To Us At All

Seasons In Some Loving And Yet Enigmatical Language,  Such Language As

We May Read,  At Times,  In The Eyes Of A Child That Wakes From Sleep.

Now The Swiftest And Fairest Steam-Engine In The World Is Not For Ever

Young; It Grows Obsolete And Ends,  After A Short Life,  On The

Scrap-Heap. That Is To Say,  Where Usefulness Enters,  This Spirit Of

Mystery,  Of Eternal Youth,  Is Put To Flight. And There Is Yet Another

Element Of Classical Beauty Which Is Equally At Variance With Your

Modern Conception Of It: The Element Of Authority. Beholding The

Praxitelean Eros,  The Veriest Ruffian Feels Compelled To Reverence The

Creator And His Work. 'Who Was The Man?' He Asks; For He Acknowledges

That Such Things Impose Themselves Upon His Untutored Mind. Now A

Certain Monsieur Cadillac Builds The Most Beautiful Motor-Cars. Who Is

This Man? We Do Not Care A Fig About Him. He Is Probably A Jewish

Syndicate. Such Being The Case,  I Cannot Bring Myself To Reverence

Monsieur Cadillac And His Cars. They Are Comfortable,  But That Factor

Of Authority,  Which Compels Our Homage To The Eros,  Is Wholly Lacking.

Yet Both Things Are Called Beautiful. That We Should Apply The Same

Word To Products So Different,  So Hopelessly Conflicting,  As Those Of

Praxiteles And Monsieur Cadillac--What Does It Prove? It Proves Our

Poverty Of Invention. And What Does It Explain? It Explains Our

Confusion Of Thought."

The Millionaire Remarked:

"I Suppose The Human Outlook Has Shifted With The Years. Democracy Hyas

Changed Your Old Point Of View."

"Assuredly. No American,  No Modern Of Any Race,  I Fancy,  Can Divest

Himself Of The Notion That One Man Is As Good As Another; In The Eyes

Of God,  They Add--Meaning In Their Own Eyes. No Greek,  No Ancient Of Any

Race,  I Fancy,  Could Have Burdened Himself With So Preposterous A

Delusion. Democracy Has Killed My Point Of View. It Has Substituted

Progress For Civilization. To Appreciate Things Of Beauty,  As Do The

Americans,  A Man Requires Intelligence. Intelligence Is Compatible With

Progress. To Create Them,  As Did The Greeks,  He Requires Intelligence

And Something Else As Well: Time. Democracy,  In Abolishing Slavery,  Has

Eliminated That Element Of Time--An Element Which Is Indispensable To

Civilization."

"We Have Some Fine Slavery In America At This Moment."

"I Am Using The Word In The Antique Sense. Your Modern Slavery Is Of

Another Kind. It Has All The Drawbacks And Few Of The Advantages Of The

Classic Variety. It Gives Leisure To The Wrong People--To Those Who

Praise The Dignity Of Labour. Men Who Talk About The Dignity Of Labour

Had Better Say As Little As Possible About Civilization,  For Fear Of

Confusing It With The North Pole."

The American Laughed.

"That's One For Me!" He Remarked.

"On The Contrary! You Are An Admirable Example Of That Happy Graft

Which We Mentioned Just Now."

"Progress And Civilization!" Exclaimed Mr. Heard. "One Uses Those Words

So Much In My Walk Of Life That,  Thinking It Over,  I Begin To Wonder

Whether They Mean More Than This: That There Are Perpetual

Readjustments Going On. They Are Supposed To Indicate An Upward

Movement,  Some Vague Step In The Direction Of Betterment Which,

Frankly,  I Confess Myself Unable To Perceive. What Is The Use Of

Civilization If It Makes A Man Unhappy And Unhealthy? The Uncivilized

African Native Is Happy And Healthy. The Poor Creatures Among Whom I

Worked,  In The Slums Of London,  Are Neither The One Nor The Other; They

Are Civilized. I Glance Down The Ages,  And See Nothing But--Change! And

Perhaps Not Even Change. Mere Differences Of Opinion As To The Value Of

This Or That In Different Times And Places."

"Pardon Me! I Was Using The Words In A Specific Sense. What I Mean By

Progress Is The Welding Together Of Society For Whatever Ends. Progress

Is A Centripetal Movement,  Obliterating Man In The Mass. Civilization

Is Centrifugal; It Permits,  It Postulates,  The Assertion Of

Personality. The Terms Are,  Therefore,  Not Synonymous. They Stand For

Hostile And Divergent Movements. Progress Subordinates. Civilization

Co-Ordinates. The Individual Emerges In Civilization. He Is Submerged

In Progress."

"You Might Call Civilization A Placid Lake," Said The American,  "And

The Other A River Or Torrent."

"Exactly!" Remarked Mr. Heard. "The One Is Static,  The Other Dynamic.

And Which Of The Two,  Count,  Would You Say Was The More Beneficial To

Humanity?"

"Ah! For My Part I Would Not Bring Such Consideration To Bear On The

Point. We May Deduce,  From The Evolution Of Society,  That Progress Is

The Newer Movement,  Since