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

Later On,  He Turned His Back Upon The Crowded Walks And Found Himself

On A Remote Terrace Overlooking The Sea. It Was Quiet Here,  In View Of

The Sunset--His Last Sunset On Nepenthe.

Leaning Over The Parapet He Enjoyed,  Once More,  The Strangely Intimate

Companionship Of The Sea. He Glanced Down Into The Water Whose Uneven

Floor Was Diapered With Long Weedy Patches,  Fragments Of Fallen Rock,

And Brighter Patches Of Sand; He Inhaled The Pungent Odour Of Sea-Wrack

And Listened To The Breathings Of The Waves. They Lapped Softly Against

The Rounded Boulders Which Strewed The Shore Like A Flock Of Nodding

Behemoths. He Remembered His Visits At Daybreak To The Beach--Those

Unspoken Confidences With The Sunlit Element To Whose Friendly Caresses

He Had Abandoned His Body. How Calm It Was,  Too,  In This Evening Light.

Near At Hand,  Somewhere,  Lay A Sounding Cave; It Sang A Melody Of Moist

Content. Shadows Lengthened; Fishing Boats,  Moving Outward For Their

Night-Work,  Steered Darkly Across The Luminous River At His Feet. Those

Jewel-Like Morning Tints Of Blue And Green Had Faded From The Water;

The Southern Cliff-Scenery,  Projections Of It,  Caught A Fiery Glare.

Bastions Of Flame. . . .

The Air Seemed To Have Become Unusually Cool And Bracing.

Here,  On A Bench All By Himself,  Sat Count Caloveglia. As The Bishop

Took A Seat Beside Him They Exchanged A Few Words. The Italian,  So

Affable As A Rule,  Was Rather Preoccupied And Disinclined For Talk.

Mr. Heard Remembered His First Encounter With That Old Man--The Salt Of

The South,  As Keith Had Called Him. It Was At Those Theatricals In The

Municipality. Then Too The Count Had Been Remarkably Silent,  His Chin

Reposing In His Hand,  Absorbed In The Spectacle--In The Passionate Grace

Of The Young Players. He Was Absorbed In Another Spectacle Now--The Old

Sun,  Moving In Passionless Splendour Down The Sky.

Only A Fortnight Ago,  That First Meeting. Less Than A Fortnight. Twelve

Days. How Much Had Been Crammed Into Them!

A Kind Of Merry Nightmare. Things Happened. There Was Something Bright

And Diabolical In The Tone Of The Place,  Something Kaleidoscopic--A

Frolicsome Perversity. Purifying,  At The Same Time. It Swept Away The

Cobwebs. It Gave You A Measure,  A Standard,  Whereby To Compute Earthly

Affairs. Another Landmark Passed; Another Milestone On The Road To

Enlightenment. That Period Of Doubt Was Over. His Values Had Righted

Themselves. He Had Carved Out New And Sound Ones; A Workable,

Up-To-Date Theory Of Life. He Was In Fine Trim. His Liver--He Forgot

That He Ever Had One. Nepenthe Had Done Him Good All Round. And He Knew

Exactly What He Wanted. A Return To The Church,  For Example,  Was Out Of

The Question. His Sympathies Had Outgrown The Ideals Of That

Establishment; A Wave Of Pantheistic Benevolence Had Drowned Its Smug

Little Teachings. The Church Of England! What Was It Still Good For? A

Stepping-Stone,  Possibly Towards Something More Respectable And Humane;

A Warning To All Concerned Of The Folly Of Idolizing Dead Men And Their

Delusions. The Church? Ghosts!

His Thoughts Wandered To England. Often Had He Sighed,  In Africa,  For

Its Drowsy Verdant Opulence--Those Willow-Fringed Streamlets And Grazing

Cattle,  The Smell Of Hay,  The Flowery Lanes,  The Rooks Cawing Among

Slumberous Elms; Often Had He Thought Of That Village On The Hill-Top

With Its Grey Steeple. Well,  He Would See Them All In A Few Days. And

How Would England Compare With The Tingling Realism Of Nepenthe? Rather

Parochial,  Rather Dun; Grey-In-Grey; Subdued Light Above--Crepuscular

Emotions On Earth. Everything Fireproof,  Seaworthy. Kindly Thoughts

Expressed In Safe Unvarying Formulas. A Guileless People! Ships Tossing

At Sea; Minds Firmly Anchored To The Commonplace. Abundance For The

Body; Diet For The Spirit. The Monotony Of A Nation Intent Upon

Respecting Laws And Customs. Horror Of The Tangent,  The Extreme,  The

Unconventional. God Save The King.

So Much The Better. This Soulful Cult Of Tradition,  This Clinging To

The Obvious And Genteel As It Were An Anchor Of Safety--It Nipped In The

Bud The Monster-Making Faculty Of Low Horizons And Bleak,  Wintry

Stretches Of Earth. Bazhakuloff! Those Russians,  It Struck Him,  Had

Been Providentially Sent To Nepenthe For His Delectation And

Instruction. He Was Glad To Have Beheld A Type Of This Nature,

Inconceivable In England. That Grotesque,  With Three Million Followers!

It Had Been A Liberal Education To Look Into His Vacuous Face,  Into

Those Filmy Eyes Dripping With Saintliness And Alcohol. The Little

White Cows! Chimaeras,  Engendered In Hyperborean Mists.

And Still Count Caloveglia Said Nothing. He Gazed At The Sun,  Whose Orb

Now Rolled Upon The Rim Of The Horizon. Slowly It Sank,  Fusing The

Water Into A Golden Pool. A Hush Fell Upon Nature. Colours Fled From

Earth Into The Sky. They Scattered Among The Clouds. The Enchantment

Began,  Overhead.

At Last The Old Man Remarked:

"I Suppose That Is Why I Am No Colourist. That Is Why I Worship The

Inexorable Rigour Of Form. We Of The South,  Mr. Heard,  Are Drenched In

Volatile Beauty. . . . And Yet One Never Wearies Of These Things! It Is

What You Call A Glamour,  An Interlude Of Witchcraft. Nature Is

A-Tremble With The Miraculous. She Beckons Us To Explore Her Strange

Places. She Says: Tread Here,  My Friend--And Here; Tread Where You Have

Never Trodden Before! The Sage Surrenders His Intelligence,  And Grows

Young Again. He Recaptures The Spirit Of His Boyish Dreams. He Peers

Into Worlds Unknown. See! Adventure And Discovery Are Lurking On Every

Side. These Painted Clouds With Their Floating Banners And Citadels,

Yonder Mysterious Headlands That Creep Into The Landscape At This Hour,

Those Islets Emerging,  Like Flakes Of Bronze,  Out Of The

Sunset-Glow--All The Wonder Of The Odyssey Is There!"

He Spoke Out Of Politeness And Soon Fell Silent Again. His Thoughts

Roamed Far Away.

They Were Thoughts Commensurate With The Grandeur Of The Scene.

Count Caloveglia Was No Colourist. He Was A Sculptor,  About To Reap The

Reward Of His Labours. The Cheque Would Be In His Pocket That Night.

Three Hundred And Fifty Thousand Francs--Or Nearly. That Is What Made

Him Not Exactly Grave,  But Reserved. Excess Of Joy,  Like All Other

Excesses,  Is Not Meet To Be Displayed Before Men. All Excess Is

Unseemly. Nothing Overmuch. Measure In Everything.

Measure Even In The Fabrication Of Hellenic Masterpieces. He Had

Created One Of Them (The Demeter Did Not Count); It Sufficed For His

Modest Ambitions. The Faun Was His First Forgery And His Last. To

Retrieve The Fortunes Of His Family He Had Employed Those Peculiar

Talents Which God Had Given Him. He Would Remain,  Henceforward,  An

Artist. He Shrank From The Idea Of Becoming A Wholesale Manufacturer Of

Antiques.

Three Hundred And Fifty Thousand Francs. If Sufficed. Thinking Of Those

Figures,  He Began To Smile With Contentment. He Smiled--But No More. And

As He Continued To Muse Upon The Transaction His Look Melted,

Imperceptibly,  Into One Of Reverential Awe; There Was A Solemnity About

That Sum,  An Amplitude,  A Perfection Of Outline That Reminded Him,  In A

Way,  Of The Proportions Of Some Wonderful Old Doric Temple. The Labour

Of A Lifetime Would Not Have Enabled Him To Collect So Much Had He

Tried To Sell Bronzes Of His Own Workmanship. A Bust Or Statue By Count

Caloveglia--It Would Command A Certain Small Price,  No Doubt; But What

Was The Reputation,  The Market Value,  Of The Most Eminent Modern Artist

As Compared With That Nameless But Consummate Craftsman Of Locri?

The Count Saw Things In Their True Perspective. His Mental Attitude

Towards Sir Herbert Street And His American Employer Was Not Tinged

With The Faintest Cloud Of Disrespect; For Van Koppen,  Indeed,  He

Cherished A Liking Which Bordered On Affection. He Detected In The

Astute American What Nobody Else Could Detect--An Element Of Childlike

Freshness And Simplicity. As Far Apart,  In Externals,  As Two Distant

Trees Whose Leaves Are Fluttering On Either Side Of Some Tangled

Forest,  He Yet Felt That Their Roots Were Interwoven Below Ground,

Drawing Common Life And Nourishment And Sympathies From That Old

Teeming Soil Of Human Aspirations. Nor Was He Vainglorious Of His

Achievement. His Superiority Over The Art-Expert He Took As A Gift Of

The Gods. Vanityi Was Abhorrent To His Nature. He Was Not Proud But

Glad--Glad To Have Been Able To Reconquer His Legitimate Social

Position; Glad,  Above All Things,  To Have Forged A Link With The Past--A

Key To Admit Him Into The Fellowship Of Lysippus And Those Others Whose

August Shades,  He Opined,  Were Even Them Smiling Upon Him. The Locri

Faun Was His Handiwork. He Was "Entitled To Dine Well," As He Had Told

Denis. That Was What He Now Purposed To Do. One Master-Stroke Had

Repaired His Fortunes. It Sufficed. Nothing Overmuch. Count Caloveglia

Knew The Story Of Polycrates,  The Too-Fortunate Man. He Knew What Lies

In Wait For The Presumptuous Mortal Whoo Oversteps The Boundary Of What

Is Fair And Good. Nemesis!

Three Hundred And Fifty Thousand Francs. There Would Be An Ample Dowry

For Matilda. And,  As Regards Himself,  He Could Return To His Passion Of

Youth; He Could Afford To Become A Sculptor Again And Even,  If So

Disposed,  A Collector--Though Not Exactly After The Style Of His

Excellent Friend Cornelius Van Koppen.

"That Was A Suggestive Encounter,  Was It Not,  Between The Deputy And

Our Local Judge?"

He Spoke,  As Before,  Out Of Civility.

"Very Suggestive," Assented Mr. Heard. "Two Blackguards,  I Call Them."

The Bishop Was Particularly Glad To Learn,  As Everybody On The Island

Had Learnt,  The Minutest Details Of This Sordid Legal Affair. It Seemed

Likewise To Have Been Providentially Arranged,  In Order To Afford Him

An Insight Into The Administration Of Local Law,  And Some Notion Of

What Would Have Been In Store For His Cousin Had She Applied For Relief

From Muhlen's Persecutions To Signor Malipizzo,  His Intimate Friend.

There Would Have Been No Justice For Her--Not From That Quarter. He

Would Probably Have Forbidden The Child To Be Moved Out Of His

Jurisdiction,  Pending The Progress Of A Trial Which Might Never End.

Nor Could The English Court,  With Its Obsolete Provisions On This Head,

Have Regarded Muhlen Otherwise Than As Her Legal Husband--The Child Of

Her Later Union As Illegitimate. Bastardy: A Taint For Life! How Well

She Had Done To Put Herself Beyond A Rancorous Letter Of The Law; To

Protect Her Child And Family According To The Immutable Instincts Of

Mankind!

The Nepenthe Magistrate Had Shown What He Was Capable Of,  In His

Bestial Dealings With A Half-Witted Lad And Those Harmless Russian

Lunatics--The First One Saved Through The Intervention Of A Cut-Throat

Politician,  And The Second . . . Well,  He Did Not Exactly Know How The

Muscovites Had Been Able To Regain Their Freedom But,  Remembering What

Keith Had Told Him About Miss Wilberforce,  Her Periodical Imprisonments

And His Periodical Bribes,  He Shrewdly Suspected Some Underhand

Practices On The Part Of That Gentleman At The Instigation,  Very

Possibly,  Of The Charming Madame Steynlin. Signor Malipizzo's Cruel

Travesty Of Justice--How Unfavourably It Compared With His Cousin's

Altogether Satisfactory,  Straightforward And Businesslike Handling Of

Muhlen's Little Affair!

Doubtless She Suffered Intensely. He Called To Mind Her Looks,  Her

Voice,  During That First Interview At The Villa Mon Repos; He Thought

It Likely That,  But For Her Child And Husband,  She Would Have Taken Her

Own Life In Order To Escape From This Villain. And Doubtless She Had

Weighed The Matter In Her Own Mind. Sensible People Do Not Take Steps

Of This Gravity Without Reflecting On The Possible Consequences. She

Must Have Tried Her Hardest To Talk Muhlen Over,  Before Coming To The

Conclusion That Thee Was Nothing To Be Done With The Fellow. She Knew

Him; She Knew Her Own Mind. She Knew Better Than Anyone Else What Was

In Store For Her If Muhlen Got The Upper Hand. Her Home Broken Up; Her

Child A Bastard; Herself And Meadows--Social Outcasts; All Their Three

Lives Ruined. Mrs. Meadows,  Plainly,  Did Not Relish Such A Prospect.

She Did Not See Why Her Existence Should Be Wrecked Because A Scoundrel

Happened To Be Supported By A Disreputable Paragraph Of The Code.

Muhlen Was A Troublesome Insect. He Must Be Brushed Aside. Ridiculous

To Call Such A Thing A Tragedy!

He Thought Of The Insignificance Of A Human Life. Thousands Of Decent

Upright Folks Swept Away At A Blow. . . . Who Cared? One Dirty

Blackmailer More Or Less: What On Earth Did It Matter To Anybody?

An Enigma? His Cousin Was Not An Enigma At All. Keith