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

Just Yet! While Admitting That Something Ought To Be Done,  It Struck

Him As A Hazardous Proceeding To Play Fast And Loose,  In This Fashion,

With The Reputation Of A Saint.

His Reverence,  Duly Impressed,  Waited For Half An Hour. It Was Then

Seen That The Nicaraguan Representative Had Once More Given The

Soundest Of Advice. The Downpour Of Ashes Ceased Abruptly,  At The

Moment When The Sun Sank Into The Sea. No Mischief Was Done.

Late At Night Another Phenomenon Became Visible. The Volcano Was

Observed To Be In Violent Eruption. It Blazed Forth Like A Gigantic

Torch Held Into The Heavens. Streams Of Lava Poured Down The Mountain

Flanks,  Reddening Sky And Sea.

Nepenthe Was Consoled By The Spectacle. The Demon Had At Last Found An

Outlet--A Method Of Relief. There Would Be No More Showers Of Ashes. The

Fact That Villages Were Being Overwhelmed Under A Deluge Of Flame,

Vineyards Scorched And Hundreds Of Innocent Folks,  Their Retreat Cut

Off By Fiery Torrents,  Were Even Then Being Roasted To Death,  Was No

Concern To The Islanders. It Only Proved What Every One Knew: That The

Jurisdiction Of Their Patron Saint Did Not Extend To The Mainland.

Each Of Those Villages Had Its Own Saint,  Whose Business It Was To

Forestall Accidents Of This Kind. If They Failed In Their Duty Through

Incapacity Or Mulishness,  Nothing Was Easier Than To Get Rid Of Them;

There Were Others To Choose From--Dozens Of Others,  Waiting For The Job!

Thinking Thus,  The Islanders Gave Vent To An Immense Sigh If Relief.

They Wished Long Life To Their Patron Saint,  With Whose Services They

Had Reason To Be Satisfied. Their Own Crops And Lives Were Safe From

Harm,  Thanks To The Martyr Dodekanus. He Loved His People,  And They

Loved Him. He Was A Protector Worthy Of The Name--Not Like Those

Low-Bred Bastards Across The Water.

Mr. Heard Had Just Finished His Early Italian Luncheon. Sitting At His

Coffee And Smoking A Cigarette,  In A Mood Of Considerable Contentment,

He Gazed Over The Mirror-Like Surface Of The Sea Towards The Volcano,

Whose Pyrotechnical Display On The Previous Evening Had Kept Him Awake

To A Late Hour. Yet Another Glistering Day! Each One Warmer Than The

Last,  And Never A Change In The Wind! Presently He Would Retire For An

Hour Or Two Into His Cool And Darkened Bed-Room.

One Little Thing Troubled His Mind. There Had Been No Reply To The

Note--A Kind Of Note Of Enquiry--Which He Had Left At The Villa Mon Repos

On The Preceding Day. Though He Knew Little Of His Cousin,  He Could Not

Help Feeling Anxious. She Was All By Herself In That Lonely Little

Place,  Suffering--Perhaps,  And Too Proud Or Too Shy To Complain. Mr.

Eames' Description Of Her Had Made Him Uneasy. Why Should She Look As

If She Had Seen A Ghost? What Could That Signify? The Bibliographer Was

A Level-Headed Person,  By No Means Given To Flights Of Imagination.

Imperceptibly,  He Felt,  There Had Been Established An Under-Current Of

Sympathy Between Himself And This Solitary Woman,  Whom Everybody Seemed

To Like. She Was Different From The Ordinary Type; The Kind Of Woman

Whom A Man Could Not Help Respecting. She Contrasted Favourably With

Some Of His Recent Female Acquaintances Who,  However Charming Or Witty,

Dissatisfied Him In This Or That Particular. His Cousin's Devotion To

Child And Husband Appealed To His Heart. She Seemed To Be Perfect Of

Her Kind.

Africa Had Boiled Most Of The Starch Out Of Mr. Heard. But His

Acquaintance With Some Of The Saddest And Wildest Aspects Of Womanhood

Only Deepened His Conviction Of The Sanctity Of The Sex. Some Called

Him Old-Fashioned Or Quixotic,  Because He Was Not Altogether In

Sympathy With Modern Feministic Movements; They Called Him An Idealist,

Because He Had Preserved His Belief In The Sacred Mission Of Women Upon

Earth--His Childlike Faith In The Purity Of Their Souls. They Were A

Humanizing Influence,  The Guardian Angels Of Mankind,  The Inspirers,

The Mothers,  The Protectors Of Innocence. It Pleased Him To Think That

Woman Had Softened Harsh Dealings Between Man And Man; That Every

Mitigation Of Savagery,  Every Incitement To Worthy Or Heroic Actions,

Was Due To Her Gentle Words,  Her Encouraging Example. From The Very

Dawn Of History Woman Had Opposed Herself To Deeds Of Violence. What

Was It Count Caloveglia Had Said? "Temperance. All The Rest Is

Embroidery." How Well The Old Man Could Put Things! Temperance. . . .

His Cousin,  From What He Could Guess Of Her Character,  Agreed With That

Description. Mr. Heard Would Have Maintained Against The Whole World

That A Woman,  A True Woman Like This,  Could Do No Wrong.

And Now He Gathered That She Was In Trouble Of Some Kind. Then Why Not

Allow Him To Help? He Had Asked For An Early Reply To His Note. Well,

Perhaps It Would Arrive By The Evening Post.

Slightly Vexed None The Less,  He Laid Down The Stump Of His Cigarette,

Preparatory To Retiring For The Hot Hours Of The Day. One Owes

Something To Oneself,  N'est-Ce Pas? At That Moment There Was A Knock At

His Door.

Denis Entered. His Face,  Shaded Under A Broad-Brimmed Hat,  Was Ruddy

With The Heat. He Wore Light Flannels,  And Was Carrying His Jacket On

His Arm. There Was A Large Parcel In His Hand. He Looked The Picture Of

Health.

Mr. Heard,  On Rising,  Gave Him A Critical Glance. He Remembered His

Trip In The Boat,  And The Suicide's Rock--That Black,  Ominous Cliff; He

Remembered The Thoughts Which Had Passed Through His Mind At The Time.

Was This The Kind Of Boy To Kill Himself? Surely Not. Keith Must Have

Been Mistaken. And Count Caloveglia--Was He Mistaken Too? Evidently.

There Was Nothing Tragic About Denis. He Was Brimming Over With Life.

His Troubles,  Whatever They Were,  Must Have Been Forgotten.

"I've Been Lunching With Keith," He Began. "He Made Me Tell Him A

Fairy-Tale."

"Sit Down And Have Some Coffee! You Came Away Very Early."

"He Told Me He Wanted To Go To Sleep After Luncheon. And One Or Two

Other Nice Things."

Ah,  Thought Mr. Heard,  Keith Was Acting Up To What He Had Said In The

Boat; He Was Being Good To The Boy; That Was Right Of Him.

"I'm Sure," He Said,  "That Keith Has Been Speaking Kindly To You."

"Kindly? It's Like Talking To An Earthquake. He Told Me To Dominate My

Reflexes. He Called Me A Perambulating Echo. He Said I Was A Human

Amoeba--"

"Amoeba. What's That?"

"A Sort Of Animal That Floats About Trying To Attach Itself To

Something Which It Can't Find."

"I Think I See What He Means. Anything Else?"

"He Said I Was A Chameleon."

"A Chameleon!"

"A Chameleon That Needed The Influence Of A Good Woman. Then He Gave Me

This Box Of Cuban Chocolates,  To Keep Me From Crying,  I Suppose. Have

One! They're Not Nearly As Nasty As They Look."

"Thanks. A Chameleon. That Is Really Interesting,  As Keith Would Say. I

Have Seen Thousands Of Them. Outlandish Beasts,  That Anchor Themselves

By Their Tails And Squint Horribly. Let's Have A Look At You,  Denis.

No,  I Fail To Detect Any Striking Resemblance."

"I Believe He Meant That I Take On The Colour Of Other People And Have

None Of My Own. Then He Told Me To Go And Murder Somebody."

"I Wouldn't Do That,  Denis," Laughed The Bishop. "Murders Are So

Dreadfully Vulgar."

"He Said It Might Make A Man Of Me. He Forgets That I'm Not Quite His

Age."

"You Had Better Not Tell Him That! Any Other Advice?"

"Nothing New. He Said I Made A Mistake In Paying Attention To What

Human Beings Said And Did,  And That I Ought To Forsake Mankind For A

While,  And Art And Books And So On. You Know The Way He Talks! He Said

It Would Give Me A Stronger Individuality If I Came Into Contact With

Nature And Thought Things Out For Myself Instead Of Listening To Other

People. He Advised Me To Sit Among The Rocks At Midnight And In The Hot

Afternoons,  Conversing With The Genii Of Earth And Air. It Would

Correct My Worldly Perspective. I Think He May Be Right,  In A Way.

There Is Something In It. So I Asked Him To Climb Into The Hills With

Me,  Then And There,  In Order To Get Into Touch With Elemental Powers.

He Said He Thought Highly Of My Character,  But As To Climbing About In

This Heat--He Said He'd Be Damned If He Would. Those Were His Very

Words. He Wanted To Sleep. He Was Too Old For That Sort Of Thing."

"Very Sensible,  I'm Sure."

"You Think So? Because Then--Then He Told Me That You Were The Proper

Person For An Expedition Of That Kind. He Suggested I Should Come And

See You About It At Once--It Would Allow Him Time To Get His Usual

Afternoon Nap. That Is Why I'm Here. So Do! It Isn't So Very Hot,  Once

You Get Used To It. We Are Sure To See Something Funny."

"Oh!"

This,  Thought The Bishop,  Was A Pretty Example Of That Doctrine Of

Benevolent Egotism Which Keith Had Expounded To Him Once Or Twice. A

Very Pretty Example!

"He Said That?"

Denis Nodded.

The Notion Was Distasteful To Mr. Heard. To Go Out Into This Torrid

Sunshine. . . . He,  Too,  Was Not Exactly Young; Moreover,  He Was Still

Rather Delicate--He Needed All The Rest He Could Get. He Was Looking

Forward With Positive Delight To The Coming Hours In His Cool Bedroom.

"You Really Want Me To Climb To The Top Of A Mountain At This Hour Of

The Day And Sit There In The Heat,  Waiting For Some Wretched Demon To

Reveal Himself? Aren't You A Little Too Old For That Sort Of Thing?

Come Now! Does It Strike You As A Reasonable Proposition? With The

Thermometer At Seventy-Eight In This Room?"

"Keith Said You Liked Nothing Better. He Said You Might Take Offence If

I Didn't Ask You To Come."

He Seemed To Be Disappointed.

There Were Not Many People For Whom Mr. Heard Would Have Put Himself

Out Just Then In That Particular Way; And Denis,  Up To A Few Days Ago,

Was Certainly Not One Of Them. The Bishop Had Never Been Drawn Towards

This Rather Precious Youth. He Was Not Mr. Heard's Type Of Boy. There

Was A Lack Of Grit And Stamina About Him--Something Soft,  Both In Manner

And Appearance; Something Dreamy,  Ambiguous,  Almost Epicene. Mr. Heard

Had Not Quite Lost His Old British Instinct As To The Fundamental

Uselessness Of All Art. A Young Fellow Who,  Instead Of Taking Up Some

Rational Profession,  Talked About Cimabue And Jacopo Bellini . . .

There Was Something Not Quite Right With Him. Jacopo Bellini! But Even

While Thinking What To Reply,  He Was Conscious Of Having Undergone A

Slight Change Of Feeling Lately. He Was Growing More Tolerant And

Benign,  Even In Trifles Like This. Jacopo Bellini: Why Not? Meanwhile,

He Bethought Himself Of A Way Of Escape.

"Suppose You Go Alone? Or Why Not Try The Midnight Expedition First? I

Might Manage Midnight."

"I've Tried It."

"Alone?" He Laughed. "No Success?"

"None Whatever," Said Denis. And It Seemed As If A Shadow Flitted

Across His Face At These Words.

That Cloud,  That Change Of Tone--What Did They Portend? Something Might

Be Wrong,  Then,  After All. Perhaps Keith Had Been Correct In His

Diagnosis When He Observed That A Susceptible Mind Like This Could Be

Shaken Out Of Its Equilibrium By The Influence Of Nepenthe--"Capable Of

Anything In This Clear Pagan Light." It Was Not Mr. Heard's Habit To

Probe Into The Feelings Of Others--As To Those Of A Person Like Denis He

Did Not Pretend To Understand Them. Artistic People! Incalculable!

Inconsequential! Irresponsible! Quite Another Point Of View! Yet He

Could Not Help Thinking Of That Doleful Black Rock,  With The

Turquoise-Tinted Water At Its Foot. Remembering These Things He Felt A

Sudden Access Of Sympathy Towards This Lonesome Fellow-Creature.

Instead Of Pursuing The Subject Of The Expedition He Asked,  Quite

Abruptly:

"Tell Me,  Denis,  Are You Happy Here?"

"How Odd That You Should Come With That Question! I Had A Letter From

My Mother This Morning. She Wants To Know The