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

His Pocket To Pay For The Funeral

Expenses. Nowadays,  Having Solved The Problem Of How To Live On 85

Pounds A Year,  He Stayed For Another Reason As Well: To Annotate

Perrelli's Antiquities. It Sweetened His Self-Imposed Exile.

 

He Was A Dry Creature,  Almost Wizened,  With Bright Eyes And A Short

Moustache; Unostentatiously Dressed; Fastidious,  Reserved,  Genteel,

Precise In Manner,  And Living A Retired Life In A Two-Roomed Cottage

Somewhere Among The Vineyards.

 

He Had Taken A High Degree In Classics,  Though Greek Was Never Much To

His Taste. It Was "Runaway Stuff"; Nervous And Sensuous; It Opened Up

Too Many Vistas,  Philological And Social,  For His Positive Mind To

Assimilate With Comfort. Those Particles Alone--There Was Something

Ambiguous,  Something Almost Disreputable,  In Their Jocund Pliability,

Their Readiness To Lend Themselves To Improper Uses. But Latin--Ah,

Latin Was Different! Even At His Preparatory School,  Where He Was Known

As A Swot Of The First Water,  He Had Displayed An Unhealthy Infatuation

For That Tongue; He Loved Its Cold,  Lapidary Construction; And While

Other Boys Played Football Or Cricket,  This Withered Little Fellow Used

To Lark About With A Note-Book,  All By Himself,  Torturing Sensible

English Into Its Refractory And Colourless Periods And Elaborating,

Without The Help Of A Gradus,  Those Inept Word-Mosaics Which Are Called

Latin Verses. "Good Fun," He Used To Say,  "And Every Bit As Exciting As

Algebra," As Though That Constituted A Recommendation. Often The Good

Form Master Shook His Head,  And Enquired Anxiously Whether He Was

Feeling Unwell,  Or Had Secret Troubles Of Any Kind.

 

"Oh,  No,  Sir," He Would Then Reply,  With A Funny Little Laugh. "Thank

You,  Sir. But Please,  Sir! Would You Mind Telling Me Whether Pecunia>

Really Comes From Pecus? Because Adams Minor (Another Swot) Ways It

Doesn't."

 

Later On,  At The University,  He Used The English Language For The Sake

Of Convenience--In Order To Make Himself Understood By Dons And Heads Of

Colleges. His Thoughts,  His Dreams,  Were In Latin.

 

Such A Man,  Arriving Almost Penniless On Nepenthe,  Might Have Passed A

Torpid Month Or Two,  Then Drifted Into The Club-Set And Gone To The

Dogs Altogether. Latin Saved Him. He Took To Studying Those Earlier

Local Writers Who Often Composed In That Tongue. The Jesuitical

Smoothness,  The Saccharine Felicity Of Authors Like Giannettasio Had

Just Begun To Pall On His Fancy,  When The Antiquities Fell Into His

Hands. It Was Like A Draught Of Some Generous Southern Wine,  After A

Course Of Barley-Water. Here Was Latin Worth Reading; Rich,  Sinewy,

Idiomatic,  Full Of Flavour,  Masculine. Flexible,  Yet Terse. Latin After

His Own Heart; A Cry Across The Centuries!

 

So Bewitched Was Mr. Eames With The Grammar And Syntax Of The

Antiquities That He Had Already Gone Through The Book Three Times Ere

Realizing That This Man,  Who Could Construct Such Flowing,  Glowing

Sentences,  Was Actually Writing About Something. Yes,  He Had Something

Of Uncommon Interest To Impart. And A Gentleman,  By Jove! So Different

From What One Runs Up Against Nowadays. He Had An Original Way Of

Looking At Things--A Human Way. Very Human. Those Quaint Streaks Of

Credulity,  Those Whimsical Blasphemies,  Those Spicy Court Anecdotes

Dropped,  As It Were,  In The Smoking Room Of A Patrician Club--A Rare Old

Fellow! He Would Have Given Anything To Have Made His Acquaintance.

 

Forthwith A Change Came Over Mr. Ernest Eames. His Frozen Classical

Mind Blossomed Under The Sunny Stimulus Of The Renaissance Scholar. He

Entered Upon A Second Boyhood--A Real Boyhood,  This Time,  Full Of

Enthusiasms And Adventures Into Flowery By-Paths Of Learning. Monsignor

Perrelli Absorbed Him. He Absorbed Monsignor Perrelli. Marginal

Observation Led To Footnotes; Footnotes To Appendixes. He Had Found An

Interest In Life. He Would Annotate The Antiquities.

 

In The Section Which Deals With The Life Of Saint Dodekanus The Italian

Had Displayed More Than His Usual Erudition And Acumen. He Had Sifted

The Records With Such Incredible Diligence That Little Was Left For The

Pen Of An Annotator,  Save Words Of Praise. In Two Small Matters,

However,  The Englishman,  Considerably To His Regret,  Was Enabled Or

Rather Obliged To Add A Postscript.

 

Many A Time He Cursed The Day When His Researches Among The Archives Of

The Mainland Brought Him Into Contact With The Unpublished Chronicle Of

Father Capocchio,  A Dominican Friar Of Licorous And Even Licentious

Disposition,  A Hater Of Nepenthe And A Personal Enemy,  It Seemed,  Of

His Idol Perrelli. His Manuscript--The Greater Part Of It,  At All

Events--Was Not Fit To Be Printed; Not Fit To Be Touched By Respectable

People. Mr. Eames Felt It His Duty To Waive Considerations Of Delicacy.

In His Capacity Of Annotator He Would Have Plunged Headlong Into The

Augean Stables,  Had There Been Any Likelihood Of Extracting Therefrom

The Germs Of A Luminous Footnote. He Perused The Manuscript,  Making

Notes As He Went Along. This Wretched Monk,  He Concluded,  Must Have

Possessed A Damnably Intimate Knowledge Of Nepenthean Conditions,  And A

Cantankerous And Crapulous Turn Of Mind,  Into The Bargain. He Never

Lost An Opportunity Of Denigrating The Island; He Was Determined,

Absolutely Determined,  To See Only The Bad Side Of Things,  So Far As

That Place Was Concerned.

 

Regarding The Pious Relic,  For Instance,--The Thigh-Bone Of The Saint,

Preserved In The Principal Church--He Wrote:

 

"A Certain Perrelli Who Calls Himself Historian,  Which Is As Though One

Should Call A Mule A Horse,  Or An Ass A Mule,  Brays Loudly And

Disconnectedly About The Femur Of The Local God. We Have Personally

Examined This Priceless Femur. It Is Not A Femur,  But A Tibia. And It

Is The Tibia Not Of A Saint,  But Of A Young Cow Or Calf. We May

Mention,  In Passing,  That We Hold A Diploma In Anatomy From The

Palermitan Faculty Of Medicine."

 

That Was Father Capocchio's Way: Bald To Coarseness,  Whenever He Lacked

Occasion To Be Obscene.

 

To Mr. Eames It Would Have Mattered Little,  A Priori,  Whether The Relic

Was A Femur Or A Tibia,  A Cow Or Man. In This Case,  He Liked To Think

It Was The Thigh-Bone Of A Saint. He Possessed An Unusually Strong Dose

Of That Latin Pietas,  That Reverence Which Consists In Leaving Things

As They Are,  Particularly When They Have Been Described For The Benefit

Of Posterity,  With The Most Engaging Candour,  By A Man Of Perrelli's

Calibre. Now An Insinuation Like This Could Not Be Slurred Over. It Was

A Downright Challenge! The Matter Must Be Thrashed Out. For Four Months

He Poured Over Books On Surgery And Anatomy. Then,  Having Acquired A

Knowledge Of The Subject--Adequate,  Though Necessarily Superficial--He

Applied To The Ecclesiastical Authorities For Permission To View The

Relic. It Was Politely Refused. The Saintly Object,  They Declared,

Could Only Be Exhibited To Persons Profession The Roman Catholic Faith,

And Armed With A Special Recommendation From The Bishop.

 

"These," He Used To Say,  "Are The Troubles Which Lie In Wait For A

Conscientious Annotator."

 

On Another Point,  That Of A Derivation Of The Saint's Name,  He Was

Pained To Discover In The Pages Of Father Capocchio An Alternative

Suggestion,  Of Which More Anon. It Caused Him Many Sleepless Nights.

But On Matters Pertaining To The Climate Of Nepenthe,  Its Inhabitants,

Products,  Minerals,  Water-Supply,  Fisheries,  Trade,  Folk-Lore,

Ethnology,--On Questions Such As These He Had Gathered Much Fresh

Information. Sheaves Of Stimulating Footnotes Had Accumulated On His

Desk.

 

When Would All This Material Be Published?

 

Mr. Eames Had Not The Faintest Idea. Meanwhile He Calmly Went On

Collecting And Collecting,  And Collecting. Something Might Turn Up,  One

Of These Days. Everybody With The Slightest Pretensions To Scholarship

Was Interested In His Work; Many Friends Had Made Him Offers Of

Pecuniary Assistance Towards The Printing Of A Book Which Could Not Be

Expected To Be A Source Of Profit To Its Publisher; The Wealthy And

Good-Natured Mr. Keith,  In Particular,  Used To Complain Savagely And

Very Sincerely At Not Being Allowed To Assist To The Extent Of A

Hundred Or Two. There Were Days On Which He Seemed To Yield To These

Arguments; Days When He Expanded And Gave Rein To His Fancy,  Smiling In

Anticipation Of That Noble Volume--The Golden Latinity Of Monsignor

Perrelli Enriched With Twenty-Five Years' Patient Labour On The Part Of

Himself; Days When He Would Go So Far As To Discuss Prospective

Contracts,  And Bindings And Photogravures,  And Margins,  And Paper.

Everything,  Of Course,  Was To Be Of Appropriate Quality--Not

Pretentious,  But Distinguished. Oh,  Yes! A Book Of That Kind--It Must

Have A Cachet Of Its Own. . . .

 

Then,  Suddenly,  He Would Observe That He Was Joking; Only Joking.

 

The True Mr. Eames Revealed And Reasserted Himself. He Shrank From The

Idea. He Closed Up Like A Flower In The Chill Of Night-Fall. He Was Not

Going To Put Himself Under Obligations To Anybody. He Would Keep His

Sense Of Personal Independence,  Even If It Entailed The Sacrifice Of A

Life's Ambition. Owe No Man Anything! The Words Rang In His Ears. They

Were His Father's Words. Owe No Man Anything! They Were That

Gentleman's Definition Of A Gentleman--A Definition Which Was Cordially

Approved By Every Other Gentleman Who,  Like Mr. Eames Junior,  Happened

To Hold Analogous Views.

 

Gentlemen Being Rather Scarce Nowadays,  We Cannot But Feel Grateful To

The Crotalophoboi For Devouring Saint Dodekanus And Paving The Way,  Via

The Antiquities Of Monsignor Perrelli,  For The Refined Personality Of

Mr. Eames--Even If Such Was Not Their Original Intention.

Chapter 4

 

 

 

 

 

Next Morning,  At Precisely 4 A.M.,  There Was An Earthquake.

 

Foreigners Unaccustomed To Nepenthean Conditions Rushed In Their

Pyjamas Out Of Doors,  To Escape The Falling Wreckage. An American Lady,

Staying At Mr. Muhlen's High-Class Hotel,  Jumped From Her Bed-Room On

The Third Floor Into The Courtyard Below,  And Narrowly Escaped Bruising

Her Ankle.

 

It Was A False Alarm. The Sudden Clanging Of Every Bell On The Place,

The Explosion Of Twelve Hundred Mortars And The Simultaneous Booming Of

An Enormous Cannon--That Far-Famed Gun Whose Wayward Tricks Had Cost The

Lives Of Hundreds Of Its Loaders In The Days Of The Good Duke--Might

Have Passed For An Earthquake Of The First Magnitude,  So Far As Noise

And Concussion Were Concerned. The Island Rocked To Its Foundations. It

Was The Signal For The Festival Of The Patron Saint To Begin.

 

Nobody Could Have Slept Through That Din. Mr. Heard,  Dog-Tired As He

Was,  Woke Up And Opened His Eyes.

 

"Things Are Happening Here," He Said--A Remark Which He Found Himself

Repeating On Several Later Occasions.

 

He Looked Round The Room. It Was Not An Hotel Bed-Room. Then He Began

To Remember Things,  Drowsily. He Remembered The Pleasant Surprise Of

The Previous Evening--How The Duchess Had Called To Mind A Small Villa,

Vacated Earlier Than She Had Expected By A Lady Friend For Whom She Had

Taken It. It Was Furnished,  Spotlessly Clean,  With A Woman,  A Capable

Cook,  In Attendance. She Had Insisted On His Living There.

 

"So Much Nicer Than A Dreadful Room In An Hotel! You'll Show The Bishop

All Over It,  Won't You,  Denis?"

 

Walking Together,  He And Denis,  They Had Been Overtaken By Another

Recent Visitor To Nepenthe. It Was Mr. Edgar Marten. Mr. Marten Was A

Hirsute And Impecunious Young Hebrew Of Low Tastes,  With A Passion For

Mineralogy. He Had Profited By Some University Grant To Make Certain

Studies At Nepenthe Which Was Renowned For Its Variegated Rocks. There

Was Something Striking About Him,  Thought Mr. Heard. He Said Little Of

Consequence,  But Denis Listened Enthusiastically To His Abstruse

Remarks About Fractures And So Forth,  And Watched With Eagerness As He

Poked His Stick Into The Rough Walls To Dislodge Some Stone That Seemed

To Be Of Interest.

 

"So You Don't Know The Difference Between Augite And Hornblende?" He

Once Enquired. "Really? Dash My Eyes! How Old Did You Say You Were?"

 

"Nineteen."

 

"And What Have You Been Doing,  Phipps,  These Last Nineteen Years?"

 

"One Can't Know Everything At My Age."

 

"Granted. But I Think You Might Have Learnt That Much. Come To Me On

Thursday Morning. I'll See What I Can Do For You."

 

Mr. Heard Rather Admired This Youthful Scientist. The Fellow Knew What

He Was After; He Was After Stones. Perfect Of His Kind--A Condition

Which Always Appealed To The Bishop. Pleasant Youngsters,  Both Of Them.

And So Different From Each Other!

 

As To Denis--He Could Not Make Up His Mind About Denis. To Begin With,

He Exhaled That