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

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The Peasantry Who Tilled The Surrounding Fields. Towers And Battlements

Crumbled To Earth; Roadways Heaved Uneasily With Grassy Tufts That

Sprouted In The Chinks Of The Old Paving-Blocks. Sometimes At Decline

Of Day A Creaking Hay-Waggon Would Lumber Along,  Bending Towards A

Courtyard In Whose Moss-Grown Recesses You Discerned Stacks Of Golden

Maize And Pumpkins; Apples And Plum-Trees,  Nodding Drowsily Over Walls,

Littered The Streets With Snowy Blossoms Or Fallen Leaves. Commercial

Life Was Extinct. The Few Remaining Shopkeepers Wore An Air Of

Slumberous Benevolence. The Very Stones Suggested Peace. A Mellow And

Aristocratic Flavour Clung To Those Pink Dwellings That Nestled,

World--Forgotten,  In A Green Content. . . .

 

One Of Those Few Modern Houses Was The Villa Mon Repos. There Was A

Curious History Attached To The Place. It Had Been Built About A

Century Ago At The Orders Of An Eccentric French Lady,  A Lyric Poetess,

Who Professed To Be Tired Of Life. She Had Heard That Somewhere On

Nepenthe Was A Towering Precipice,  Unique Of Its Kind And Convenient

For Suicidal Purposes. She Thought She Would Like To Live Near That

Precipice--It Might Come In Handy. There Was Nothing Of The Right Sort

In Paris,  She Declared; Only Five-Storey Hotels And Suchlike; The

Notion Of Casting Herself Down From One Of Those Artificial Eminences

Did Not Appeal To Her High-Strung Temperament; She Craved To Die Like

Sappho,  Her Ideal. An Architect Was Despatched,  The Ground Purchased,

The House Built And Furnished. That Done,  She Settled Up Her Affairs In

France And Established Herself At Mon Repos. On The Evening Of Her

Arrival She Climbed The Little Height At The Back Of Her Domain And

Looked Southward,  Down A Sheer Wall Of Rock Eight Or Nine Hundred Feet

High,  Over The Wrinkled Ocean. It Made Her Feel Queer. Further

Familiarity With The Precipice Did Not Breed Contempt; Her Visits To

The Site Became Rarer And Rarer. She Died,  At A Patriarchal Age,  In Her

Bed,  After Writing A Scholarly Pamphlet To Prove That The Tale Of

Sappho's Leap Over Her Famous Silvery Crag Was A Myth,  The "Purest

Sensationalism," A Fable Of The Grammarians "Hopelessly Irreconcilable

With What We Know Of That Great Woman's Character."

 

This Much The Bishop Had Learnt From Mr. Keith. That Gentleman Liked

The Sappho Story; He Called It Absolutely True To Human Nature And So

Creditable To The Old Lady's Intelligence That He Would Have Insisted

Upon Paying His Respects To Her Had She Not Expired A Good Many Years

Before His Arrival On The Island. And He,  Of Course,  Got It From Eames

Who,  As Annotator Of Perrelli's Antiquities,  Was In The Habit Of

Garnering Old Details Anent Private Houses And So Forth,  And Had

Possessed Himself,  In The Course Of His Researches,  Of This Particular

Pamphlet Which He Intended To Reprint,  Together With Others Of Its

Kind,  In An Appendix Entitled,  "Contemporary Social History."

 

The Driving Road Terminated At The Old Town. Mr. Heard,  Descending From

His Carriage,  Followed A Pathway Which Had Been Described To Him By

Denis And Soon Found Himself At The Entrance Of The Villa Mon Repos. It

Was An Inconspicuous Little Place,  Surrounded By Three Or Four Chestnut

Trees And A Rose Garden. A Steep Incline At The Back Of The Property

Ended,  Abruptly,  In Air. He Concluded That The Precipice Must Be On The

Other Side Of That Slope And That,  If So,  It Was Rather Too Near The

House For His Taste. Mr. Heard Thoroughly Understood The Feelings Of

The French Poetess. He,  Too,  Was Not Fond Of Precipices. It Was As Much

As He Could Do To Look Down From A Church Tower Without Growing Dizzy.

 

On The House-Steps,  Beside An Empty Cradle,  Sat A Shrivelled Hag--A

Gaunt,  Forbidding Anatomy,  With Hooked Nose And Brown Skin. Tousled

Grey Hair,  Like That Of A Skye Terrier,  Hung Over Her Forehead,  Half

Concealing A Pair Of Coal-Black Eyes. She Rose Up,  Barred The Entrance

With One Claw-Like Hand,  And Scrutinized Him Distrustfully.

 

"A Cerberus!" He Thought. "This Must Be The Old Lady Who Understands

Hindustani. Now I Wonder If She Knows English?"

 

She Seemed To Understand That Language Too; Or Perhaps His Kindly Face

Disposed Her In His Favour. He Was Allowed To Pass Within.

 

The House Was Empty. Mrs. Meadows Had Presumably Gone Out For A Ramble,

Taking The Child With Her. He Sat Down And Waited,  Glancing Round The

Premises. It Was A Peaceful Sort Of Abode,  Pervaded By A Strong Sense

Of Home. It Appealed To The Bishop,  Who Had Domestic Instincts And,

Despite His Youth,  Was Already A Little Weary Of Tossing About The

World. He Envied His Cousin's Happy Married Life. Would Such An

Existence Ever Fall To His Own Lot? Although,  Like Himself,  She Was

Only A Bird Of Passage On Nepenthe,  She Had Succeeded In Impressing Her

Personality Upon Those Rather Scantily Furnished Rooms And Filling Them

With An Atmosphere Of England. Heavy Bowls Of Fresh Roses Were Ranged

About. But What Was She Like,  After All These Years? Would She

Recognize Him? Had She Heard Of His Arrival On The Island?

 

Mrs. Meadows Failed To Return. Perhaps She Had Met Some Friend Of

Neighbour Who Was Keeping Her To Dinner Together With The Child. The

Old Woman Seemed Unwilling Or Unable To Give Him Any Information As To

Her Whereabouts. After Waiting An Hour,  He Scribbled A Short Note,  Left

It On The Writing-Table,  And Took His Leave. The Eyes Of That Fierce

Creature Followed Him Right Out Of The Garden. So Did The Scent Of

Roses. . . .

 

The Afternoon Was Drawing To Its Close As Mr. Heard,  In A Placid,

Contemplative Frame Of Mind,  Once More Drew Nigh The Pink Ramparts Of

The Old Town,  Purposing To Find His Way Home On Foot.

 

He Entered The Most Westerly Of Its Four Gateways. There Were Stone

Seats Within The Structure On Either Side Of The Road,  Convenient For

Sheltering From Sun Or Rain. Passing Under The Vaulted Roof He Met

Count Caloveglia,  That Handsome Soldier-Like Personality,  Who Instantly

Recognized Him And Greeted Him In Friendliest Fashion.

 

"Will You Do Me The Pleasure Of Coming To My House,  And Allow Me To

Offer You A Cup Of Tea? It Is Visible From Here--That Rounded Portal,  Do

You See? With The Fig Tree Leaning Over The Street. Only A Hundred

Yards. Or Perhaps We Can Rest Awhile Under This Archway And Converse.

It Is Always Pleasant To Watch The Movements Of The Country-Folk,  And

There Is A Peculiar Charm In This Evening Light. Well,  Let Us Sit Down

Then. I Observe You Are Interested In Those People. A Singular

Illusion,  Is It Not?"

 

He Referred To A Group Of Men And Boys Who,  Stripped To The Waist,  Were

Bearing Aloft Immense Masses Of Some Argent-Coloured Rock.

 

"You've Guessed My Thoughts," Replied The Bishop. "How On Earth Are

They Able To Support Such A Weight? They Remind Me Of Atlas With The

World On His Shoulders."

 

"It Is Pumice-Stone--One Of The Old Industries Of The Place. They

Excavate It On The Hill-Side Yonder. Volcanic Stuff. There Are Several

Suchlike Indications Of Subterranean Fires; A Hot Spring,  For Instance,

Which The People Regard With A Kind Of Superstitious Awe. It Is

Dedicated To Saint Elias And Believed To Stand In Mysterious Sympathy

With The Volcano On The Mainland. You Will Observe Too,  Sooner Or

Later,  Something Fiery And Incalculable In The Temperament Of The

Natives. Perhaps It Is Due To The Wine Grown On These Scorching Slopes.

If Geologists Are Right,  We Are Sitting At This Moment On The Crater Of

A Volcano--"

 

"Dear Me! That Might Be Rather Awkward. I Suppose This Pumice Is Very

Light?"

 

"Light As Foam. But Who Can Believe It? The Bearers Move Within A Few

Feet Of Us,  And Yet It Resembles The Most Ponderous Limestone Or

Granite. Then You Ask Yourself: How Is It Possible? If Their Burden

Were What It Seems To Be,  They Would Be Crushed To Earth Instead Of

Striding Proudly Along. Admirable Figures! As You Say,  The Spectacle

Takes One Back Into Mythological Times. Would You Not Call It A

Procession Of Titans,  Children Of The Gods,  Storing Up Mountain-Blocks

For Some Earth-Convulsing Battle? Your Eyes Deceive You. Like Thomas,

The Doubting Apostle,  You Must Touch With Your Hands. And Even Then You

Are Not Wholly Convinced. To Me,  Who Knows The Capacity Of Human Bone

And Muscle,  These Men Are A Daily Miracle. They Mock My Notions Of What

Is Permissible. How Hard It Is,  Sometimes,  To Trust The Evidence Of

One's Senses! How Reluctantly The Mind Consents To Reality! The

Industry Is Decaying," He Added,  "But I Hope It Will Outlive My Time."

 

"Everything Seems To Decay Up Here In Sober And Gracious Fashion. I Am

Delighted,  Count,  With Your Old Town. There Is An Autumnal Flavour

About The Place. It Is A Poet's Dream. Some Philosopher Might Dwell

Here--Some Sage Who Has Grown Weary Of Disentangling Life's Threads."

 

Rarely Did Mr. Heard Use Florid And Sentimental Language Like This. The

Soft Light,  The Reposeful Surroundings,  The Homelike Influence Of The

Villa Mon Repos--All Had Conspired To Put Him Into An Uncommonly Idyllic

Mood Of Mind. He Felt Disposed To Linger With The Kindly Stranger Who

Seemed So Much More Communicative And Affable Than On The Occasion Of

Those Theatricals. He Lit A Cigarette And Watched,  For A While,  The

Flow Of Life Through That Gateway. Its Passage Was Pierced,  Like The

Eye Of A Needle,  With A Slender Shaft Of Light From The Westering Sun.

Fine Particles Of Dust,  Suspended Overhead,  Enveloped The Homeward

Moving Peasantry In A Tender Mist Of Gold.

 

"Yes," Replied The Count. "This Citadel Is A Microcosm Of What The

World Might Be,  If Men Were Reasonable. Not All Men! A Great Proportion

Must Be Good Enough To Remain What They Are. We Could Not Live Without

Those Whose Business It Is To Bring The Reasonableness Of The Few Into

Its Proper Relief. Were It Otherwise,  There Would Be No More

Reasonableness On Earth,  Would There?"

 

"And That Would Be A Pity," Observed Mr. Heard. "I Was Much Interested,

Count,  In What You Said Yesterday. You Spoke Of The Mediterranean

Becoming Once More The Center Of Human Activity. There Is An Attraction

In The Idea To One Who,  Like Myself,  Has Been Brought Up On The

Classics And Has Never Forgotten His Spiritual Debt To Antiquity. But I

Question Whether The Majority Of My Countrymen Would Be Moved By Such

Considerations."

 

The Old Man Replied:

 

"I Think We Need Not Trouble About Majorities. No One Can Expect A

Majority To Be Stirred By Motives Other Than Ignoble. Your English

Majority,  In Particular,  Is Quite Unaware Of Its Debt To Us: Why Should

It Turn Eyes In Our Direction? But As For Other Northern Men,  The

Enlightened Ones--I Cannot Help Thinking That They Will Come To Their

Senses Again One Of These Days. Oh Yes! They Will Recover Their Sanity.

They Will Perceive Under What Artificial And Cramping Conditions,  Under

What False Standards,  They Have Been Living; They Will Realize The

Advantages Of A Climate Where Nature Meets You Half-Way. I Know Little

Of England,  But The United States Are Pretty Familiar To Me; The Two

Climates,  I Imagine,  Cannot Be Very Dissimilar. That A Man Should Wear

Himself To The Bone In The Acquisition Of Material Gain Is Not Pretty.

But What Else Can He Do In Lands Adapted Only For Wolves And Bears?

Without A Degree Of Comfort Which Would Be Superfluous Hereabouts,  He

Would Feel Humiliated. He Must Become Strenuous If He Wishes To Rise

Superior To His Inhospitable Surroundings."

 

"We Think A Good Deal Of Strenuousness," Objected The Bishop.

 

"Have You Not Noticed That Whenever Anything,  However Fantastic,  Is

Imposed Upon Men By Physical Forces,  They Straightway Make A God Of It?

That Is Why You Deify Strenuousness. You Dare Not Forgo It. The Eskimo

Doubtless Deifies Seal-Blubber; He Could Not Survive Without It. Yet

Nobody Would Be An Eskimo If He Had A Chance Of Bettering His

Condition. By All Means Let Us Take Life Seriously. But Let Us Be

Serious About Things That Matter."

 

"Things That Matter,  Count! Is It Not Creditable For A Man To Support

His Wife And Family In The Best Conditions Possible?"

 

"Assuredly. But Chosen Spirits Will Do This In Regions Where The Same

Results Can Be Obtained With A Smaller Outlay Of Vital Force. We Have

Only A Certain Amount Of Energy At Our Disposal. It Is Not Seemly To

Consume Every Ounce Of It In A Contest With Brute Nature. Man Is Made

For Better Things. Whatever Fails To Elevate The Mind Is Not Truly

Profitable. Tell Me,  Sir,  How Shall The Mind Be Elevated If The Body Be

Exhausted With Material Preoccupations? Consider The Complex Conditions

Under Which A Northern Family Is Obliged To Live. Think Of The Labour

Expended Upon That Unceasing Duel With The Elements--The Extra Clothing

And Footwear And Mufflers And Mantles,  The Carpets,  The Rugs,  The

Abundant And Costly Food Required To Keep The Body In