South Wind(Fiscle Part-3) by Norman Douglas (great novels to read txt) 📖

Surprised Air

Suggestive Of Wounded Dignity.

 

People Avoided Miss Wilberforce. And Yet You Could Not Help Liking Her

In Those Rare Moments When She Was Just A Little Disguised. She Had A

Pretty Wit,  Then; A Residue Of Gentle Nurture; Tender Instincts And A

Winsomeness Of Manner That Captivated You. Nor Were Appearances Against

Her. That Frail,  Arrowy Figure Was Invariably Clothed In Black. She

Wore The Colour By Instinct. They Said She Had Lost Her Sailor Fiance

Who Was Drowned,  Poor Lad,  In The Mediterranean; And That Now She

Wandered About At Night Looking For Him,  Or Trying To Forget Him And

Seeking Oblivion In Tipple.

 

The Story Happened To Be True,  For A Wonder. She Had Received A Twist

For Life. The Death Of This Young Lover Gave To Her Impressionable

Being A Shock Which Never Passed Off Again. The World Was Turned Inside

Out For Amy Wilberforce. She Seldom Spoke Of His Fate. But She Was

Always Talking About The Sea. She Tried To Drown Herself,  Once Or

Twice. Then,  Gradually,  She Put On A New Character Altogether And

Relapsed Into Queer Ancestral Traits,  Stripping Off,  Like So Many

Worthless Rags,  The Layers Of Laboriously Acquired Civilization. The

Refined And Bashful Girl Became Brusque,  Supercilious,  Equivocal. When

Sympathizing Friends Said That They Had Also Lost Lovers,  She Laughed

And Told Them To Look For New Ones. There Were Better Fish In The Sea,

Etc.,  Etc.

 

Soon She Found Herself Abandoned,  In Spite Of A Full Banking Account.

People Had Dropped Her,  Right And Left.

 

The Years Went By.

 

Calmly,  Without Misgivings And Without Fervour,  She Took To The Bottle.

 

Something Drew Her To Nepenthe--Dim Mediterranean Memories. Arrived

There,  She Used To Engulf Three Pints Of Martell And Hennessey,  One

After The Other,  And Then "Wash Them Out"--Such Was Her Phraseology--With

A Magnum Of Perrier Jouet; A Proceeding Which,  While It Heightened Her

Complexion And Gave A Sparkle To Her Poor Flustered Eye,  Was Not

Conducive To The Preservation Of Equilibrium In The Lower Limbs. There

Resulted Those Periodical "Nervous Breakdowns" Which Necessitated

Seclusion And Sometimes Medical Treatment. The Collapses Had Become

Distressingly Frequent With The Last Year Or Two. One Of Her Many

Drawbacks Was That She Courted Publicity In Her Cups. She Was Perfectly

Reckless As To What She Then Said,  And Had Been Known To Bring A Blush

To The Seasoned Cheek Of Don Francesco Himself Who,  Unaware Of Her

Condition At One Particular Moment,  Politely Ventured To Enquire Why

She Always Wore Black And Was Told That She Was In Mourning,  As

Everybody Ought To Mourn,  For His Lost Innocence. Being An

Englishwoman,  She Was A Thorn In The Side Of Her Moral Compatriot The

Commissioner.

 

Her Noctambulous Habits Often Brought Her Into Contact With The Local

Police And Sometimes With His Worship Signor Malipizzo. Greatly To The

Surprise Of Mr. Parker,  The Magistrate Was Observed To Take A Lenient

View Of The Case. None The Less,  She Had Passed Several Nights In The

Local Gaol. Staggering About The Lanes Of Nepenthe In The Silent Hours

Before Dawn,  She Was Liable To Be Driven,  At The Bidding Of Some Dark

Primeval Impulse,  To Divest Herself Of Her Raiment--A Singularity Which

Perturbed Even The Hardiest Of Social Night-Birds Who Had The

Misfortune To Encounter Her. Taxed With This Freakish Behaviour,  She

Would Refer To The Example Of St. Francis Of Assisi Who Did The Same,

And Brazenly Ask Whether He Wasn't Good Enough For Them? Whether She

Couldn't Give Her Last Shirt To A Beggar,  As Well As Anybody Else? In

Short,  There Was Nothing To Be Done With Her.

 

The Dear Lady,  As Keith Often Called Her,  Was Becoming A Real Problem.

 

And Now Her Eye,  Roving Round The Room,  Fixed Itself With The

Drunkard's Divine Unerring Instinct Upon Denis. What A Nice,  Modest,

Gentlemanly-Looking Boy! Just What She Wanted.

 

"This Sirocco!" She Sighed,  Groping Dramatically For A Chair. "It Makes

Me Feel So Funny. Oh,  Dear! I Shall Go Off In A Faint. Ah,  Do Be A Kind

Young Man And Fetch Me Some Brandy And Soda. A Large Tumbler. Ah,  Do!

And Very Little Soda,  Please--On Account Of My Heart. Only The Smallest

Drop!"

 

She Took Two Or Three Sips,  Paused Awhile As Though Undecided Whether

She Could Possibly Swallow Such Nasty Stuff And Then,  With A Fine Show

Of Reluctance,  Gulped It All Down. Denis Was Spell-Bound; The Dose,  He

Artlessly Imagined,  Was Enough To Kill A Horse. Far From Being Damaged,

Miss Wilberforce Took A Chair Beside Him,  And Began To Converse.

Charmingly She Talked; All About England. As He Listened He Grew

Delighted,  Entranced. She Was Different,  Somehow,  From All The Other

Ladies He Had Lately Met On The Continent. She Was Altogether

Different. Whence Came It,  He Wondered?

 

Then,  As The Discourse Proceeded,  He Began To Realize What Was The

Matter With Them. It Was Odd,  He Thought,  That He Had Not Noticed It

Before. Miss Wilberforce Made Him Realize Wherein The Difference Lay.

They Spoke English,  It Was True; But They Had All Taken On A

Continental Outlook; Alien Phrases,  Expressions,  Affectations;

Cosmopolitan Airs And Graces That Jarred On His Frank,  Untarnished

English Nature. This One Was Otherwise. She Was Old England,  Through

And Through. The Conversation Cheered Him To An Unusual Degree--Among

All Those Foreign People He Felt Strangely Drawn Towards This Wistful

Lady Who Could Talk So Naturally And Conjure Up,  By The Mere Power Of

Words,  A Breath Of His Own Homestead In The Midlands. He Might Have

Been Sitting With An Elder Sister Just Then,  Eating Strawberries And

Cream And Watching A Tennis Match On Some Shady Green Lawn. He Was

Happy; Happier Still When Angelina Once More Floated Into His Ken And,

Noticing Miss Wilberforce,  Raised Her Eyebrows Mischievously And Gave

Him Something That Looked Like A Real Smile,  For A Change.

 

She Had Another Smile,  However,  For Mr. Edgar Marten; And Yet Another

One For Don Francesco Who,  As She Passed Near Him,  Profited By The

Occasion To Give Her A Paternal Semi-Proprietary Chuck Under The Chin,

Accompanying The Indecorous Movement With An Almost Audible Wink.

 

Mr. Heard Had Noticed Everything. He Frowned At First. It Gave Him A

Little Twinge,  And Some Food For Thought. He Was Absurdly Sensitive

About Women.

 

"A Frolicsome Child," He Mused. "Lasciva Puella. Possibly Wanton."

 

What Were This Young Man's Relations With The Girl? That Contact Of

Hand And Chin--What Did It Imply? Was The Action Quasi-Paternal,  Or

Pseudo-Paternal? Regretfully He Decided That It Was Only

Pseudo-Paternal.

 

And Yet--It Was All So Confoundedly Natural!

 

"Nobody But Our Parroco Could Keep His Hands Off That Girl," Blithely

Remarked The Priest.

 

Another Little Twinge. . . .

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7

 

 

 

 

 

Mr. Heard Was Not Prone To Wax Enthusiastic Over The Delights Of

Architecture Or Natural Scenery. He Called Himself Unexpansive And

Unromantic; He Confessed To Small Understanding,  Small Veneration,  For

Artistic Effects. The Beauty Of A Man's Character Moved Him More

Strongly Than The Beauty Of Any Picture Or Any Landscape. Yet,  On

Arriving Next Afternoon At The Upper Plateau Of Nepenthe He Could Not

Help Being Struck By The Strange And Almost Compelling Charm Of The

"Old Town." It Was So Different From The Lower Regions--So Calm And

Reposeful.

 

Down Below,  In That More Accessible Modern Settlement,  Everything Was

Bright And Many-Tinted; There Was Movement And Noise And Colour; A

Dazzling Spot! The Subtle Influence Of The Sea,  Though It Lay Four

Hundred Feet Lower Down,  Was Ever Present; One Felt Oneself On An

Island. On Reaching These Heights That Feeling Evaporated. You Were

Embowered In Mighty Trees,  In The Midst Of Which Stood The Old Town.

 

Unlike That Other One,  It Faced Due North; It Lay,  Moreover,  A Few

Hundred Feet Higher Up. That Alone Could Not Have Explained The

Difference In Temperature,  One Might Say In Climate,  Between The Two.

To Begin With,  There Was On This Tiny Upland Basin Exceptionally Deep

Soil,  Borne Down By The Rains Of Unnumbered Centuries From The Heights

Overhead And Enabling Those Shady Oaks,  Poplars,  Walnuts And Apples To

Shoot Up To Uncommon Size And Luxuriance And Screen Away The Sunny

Beams. From Above,  Meanwhile,  A Perennial Shower Descended. The

Moisture-Laden Sirocco,  Tearing Itself To Shreds Against The Riven

Summits Of The High Southern Cliffs,  Dripped Ceaselessly Upon This

Verdant Oasis In Clouds Of Invisible Dew. You Could Often Enjoy The

Luxury Of A Shiver,  At Night-Time,  In The Old Town.

 

It Was A Stronghold Originally; Built On These Heights For The Greater

Security Of The Islanders Against Saracenic Inroads. When A More

Peaceful Era Drew Night The Population Began To Decline; They Found It

More Convenient To Establish Themselves In The New Settlement Lower

Down. Then Came The Good Duke Alfred--That Potentate Who,  As Mr. Eames

Was Wont To Say,  Nihil Quod Tetigit Non Ornavit. He Took A Fancy To

This Quaint Old Citadel Which,  Before His Day,  Could Only Be Reached B

A Rough Mule-Track Easily Defended Against Invaders. After Constructing

A Fine Road Of Access With Many Twists And Turnings,  Wide Enough To

Admit The Passage Of Two Of His Roomy State Carriages Driving Abreast,

He Turned His Mind To Other Improvements. Professing To Be An Admirer

Of The Good Old Times,  He Decided To Keep Up Its Traditional

Character--It Was To Remain A Fortress,  In Appearance If Not Reality. A

Massive Crenellated Rampart,  Furnished With Four Gateways And

Watch-Towers At Convenient Intervals But Serving No Purpose In

Particular,  Grew Up Around The Place; Every One Of Its Houses Which

Failed To Fit In With The Design Of This Battlemented Structure--And

There Were A Good Many Of Them--Was Ruthlessly Demolished. The Old Town

Was Enclosed In A Ring.

 

Desirous,  Next,  Of Putting An End To The Annoying Exodus Of The

Natives,  He Fixed By Law The Number Of Inhabitants; There Were To Be

Five Hundred Souls,  Neither More Nor Less. If In Any One Year The

Population Exceeded That Figure,  The Surplus Was Taken Away,  From Among

The Adult Males,  To Work As Galley-Slaves In His Fleet; A Deficiency In

The Requisite Number Was Met By Giving New Husbands From The Lower

Town,  Often Three Or Four At A Time "With A View To Ensuring Good

Results," To Those Of The Native Women Who Had Hitherto Failed To

Produce Offspring. The System Worked Well. With Some Trifling But

Reprehensive Fluctuations,  The Birth-Rate And The Death-Rate Remained

Even; Things Were At A Standstill; A Fact Which Caused His Highness To

Be Compared,  By A Courtly Panegyrist,  To Joshua Who Bade The Sun Arrest

His March Across The Heavens. Another Of These Gentlemen Calls The

Duke's Action A "Triumph Of Art Over Nature," Adding,  Not Without A

Grain Of Malice,  That "Never Have The Generative Capacities Of Mankind

Adapted Themselves With More Conspicuous Success To The Shape Of An

Unnecessary Wall." Monsignor Perrelli,  Unfortunately,  Has Nothing

Whatever To Say On The Subject. For Reasons Which Will Appear Anon,  He

Is Remarkably Silent On All That Concerns The Reign Of His Great

Contemporary.

 

Even So The Prince Was Not Satisfied. The Fastness Was Yet Imperfect;

He Disliked The Variegated Hues Of The Buildings--They Reminded Him Of

The Garish Brilliance In The Lower Town. Something Different Had To Be

Contrived. He Took Thought And,  Being A Man Of Taste And A Decorist

Where Picturesque Effects Were Concerned,  Decreed That The Entire

Place--Walls,  Houses,  The Two Convents (Benedictine And Carthusian),  The

Church,  And Even Stables And Pigsties--Was To Be Painted A Uniform Pink:

"Pink," He Ordained,  "Without The Slightest Admixture Of Blue." He

Desired,  In Fact,  A Kind Of Rose Or Flesh Colour,  A Particular Tint

Which,  He Foresaw,  Would Look Well Among The Luscious Verdure Of The

Surroundings. His Behest,  As Usual,  Was Obeyed Without Much Loss Of

Time.

 

Then He Surveyed His Work,  And Saw That It Was Good. He Had Created A

Gem. The Old Town Was A Symphony In Emerald And Coral.

 

So It Remained. The Inhabitants Grew To Be Proud Of Their Rosy Citadel;

It Was An Unwritten Law Among Them That Every New House Should Adapt

Itself To This Tone. For The Rest,  There Was Not Much Building Done

After His Death,  With The Exception Of A Few Isolated Villas That

Sprang Up,  Despite His Old Commands,  In The Neighbourhood. And The

Decline In Population Once More Set In. Men Forsook The Place--All