South Wind Part 18

Denis stood there, petrified with disgust. Was it possible? Was this the lady who had charmed him the other day? Who had spoken of England and conjured up the memories of his own home in the Midlands? With a playful gesture, she sent her hat careering across the street and began to fumble at her breast, unlacing or unb.u.t.toning something. It was horrible, in the moonlight.

A boot, flying merrily over his head, recalled him to his senses. He turned to go, and had already made a few paces when the voice croaked after him:

"Does your mother know you're out?"

CHAPTER XIII

Some good genius took him by the hand next day and led him to the house of Count Caloveglia, in response to that friendly twice-repeated invitation. The old man saw at a glance that something serious was amiss. He plunged at once, with quick insight, into what he took to be extraneous topics of conversation.

"I am glad you like my fig tree! It gives a distinctive tone to this quiet courtyard, don't you think? I could not have wished for anything more appropriate. Its shape, its a.s.sociations, are alike pleasing. The fig is a legendary tree; a volume could be written about the stories and superst.i.tions which have twined themselves around it. Some think it was the Biblical Tree of Knowledge. Judas Iscariot, they say, hanged himself on a fig tree. It came from the East-Bacchus brought it on his journey as a gift to mortal men. How much we owe to those of the Greek G.o.ds who were yet not wholly divine! The Romans, too, held it in veneration. You have doubtless heard about the FICUS RUMINALIS, at hose feet the cradle of Romulus and Remus was stranded? Among many nations it became the outward symbol of generative forces. The Egyptians consecrated the fig to Isis, that fecund Mother of Earth. Statues of Priapus were carved out of its wood in allusion, possibly, to its reckless fertility or for some a.n.a.logous reason; it was also held to be sacred, I know not why, to Mercury--"

Denis, during this little speech, had begun to look more troubled than ever. The other continued:

"There is something in the very twistings of that smooth trunk and those heavy-laden branches that suggests fruitfulness, How voluptuously they writhe! A kindly growth, lover of men, their dwellings and ordered ways. That is why we foster it. We are all utilitarians here, Mr.

Denis; we think of the main purposes of life. Besides food, it gives us welcome shade at this season; the leaves fall off in winter and allow the sunlight to percolate into our rooms. You will not find evergreen trees planted near our windows. We know the value of suns.h.i.+ne; where the sun enters, we say, the physician does not enter. In England the light is feebler and yet they made this mistake, during the Georgian period of architecture. They thought that houses were invented to be looked at, not to be lived in. Determined to be faithful to the tradition and regardless of the difference in climate, they planted the ilex about those mansions which must be dank and gloomy in wintertime, however charming, externally, to those who relish the chill Palladian outlines. You have lately been to Florence, I hear? Come! Let us sit indoors. The courtyard is rather too sultry to-day, in spite of the shade. My old servant will bring some tea, presently. Or perhaps you would prefer some wine and a biscuit? Or a gla.s.s of liqueur?...

Well? And Florence?"

"It has left me rather confused, so far," replied Denis. "Some of the things are overwhelming."

"Overwhelming? That is perhaps because you do not see the movement in its continuity, because you have not traced the stream to its source. I can understand your feelings. But one need not be overwhelmed by these men. They were lovable folks, who played with their art like some child that has discovered a long-lost toy. It is a pity that their activities were so hampered by the conventions of religious dogma. Viewed by itself, the Renaissance may seem overwhelming; it shoots up like a portentous lily out of the blood-drenched soil of a thousand battlefields. Let me take you to its real source."

He showed him that little statuette, the Locri Faun. Denis was enchanted by it.

"You have heard of Sir Herbert Street? He also thinks highly of this thing. He is now adviser in art matters to Mr. van Koppen who is a patron of mine and who, I hear, will arrive to-morrow or the day after."

"Street? I met him at my mother's house. Wasn't he at South Kensington?

A great man for dining out. You cannot pick up an evening paper without reading something about him. That kind of man! All the same, he wrote a good book on the Siena School. I liked it, didn't you?"

"It is a fair appreciation, from the collector's point of view. He has stayed with me here once or twice, and given me reason to form a high opinion of his capacities. Now if you will compare this Faun with your Florentine art, you will see what I mean by going to the fountain.

There is a difference not only in technique, but in outlook. The man who wrought this did not trouble about you, or me, or himself. He had not moods. His art is purely intellectual; he stands aloof, like a glacier. Here the spring issued, crystal-clear. As the river swells in size it grows turbid and discoloured with alien elements--personality, emotions."

"I have noticed that," said Denis. "It is what we call the malady of thought. This Faun, you say, was found on the mainland yonder?"

"Near the site of old Locri, on a piece of ground which still belongs to me. I suspect there are still a good many Greek relics to be excavated on the site. We have discovered a Demeter some years ago; a mutilated head in marble; it is now in Paris. You can see the very place from my roof here, on bright days. These men, Mr. Denis, were our masters. Do not be misled by what you are told of the wanton luxury of those sh.o.r.es; do not forget that your view of that age has filtered through Roman stoicism and English puritanism which speak with envy lurking at their hearts--the envy of the incomplete creature for him who dares express himself. A plague has infected the world--the plague of repression. Don't you think that the man who made this Faun was ent.i.tled to dine well?"

"I cannot quite make it out," said Denis, still examining the statuette.

"Ah! How does it make you feel?"

"Uneasy."

"You are unaware of a struggle between your own mind and that of the artist? I am glad. It is the test of beauty and vitality that a beholder refuses to acquiesce at first glance. There is a conflict to be undergone. This thing thrusts itself upon us; it makes no concessions, does it? And yet one cannot but admire! You will seldom encounter that sensation among the masterpieces of the Renaissance.

They welcome you with open arms. That is because we know what the creators were thinking about. They are quite personal and familiar; they had as many moods, one suspects, as a fas.h.i.+onable prima donna.

They give pleasure. This Faun gives pleasure and something more--a sense of disquieting intimacy. While intruding upon your reserve with his solemn, stark and almost hostile novelty, he makes at the same time a strange appeal--he touches upon chords in our nature of which we ourselves were barely cognisant. You must yield, Mr. Denis, to this stranger who seems to know so much about you. When you have done so, you will make a surprising discovery. You have gained a friend--one of those who never change."

"I am trying to," replied Denis. "But it is difficult. We are not brought up that way, nowadays."

"No. Men have lost their frankness, their self-a.s.surance. Whoever yields, must be confident of his own strength. Our contemporaries have lost that feeling. They dare not be themselves. They eke out lack of sincerity by profusion of commonplace. Unlike the heroes of Homer, they repress their fears--they repress everything, save their irrepressible flatulence of mind. They are expansive in unimportant matters and at wrong moments--blown about in a whirl of fatuous extremes. The impersonal note has vanished. Why has it gone, Mr. Denis?" he suddenly asked. "And when did it go?"

The other was rather puzzled what to reply.

"I suppose you could trace its disappearance to the days of which you spoke, when artists began to display their moods to the world. Perhaps further still. Some Roman writers were fond of talking about their own affairs. If they do, the public naturally becomes interested. People like Byron must have had a good deal to do with it. He was always harping on his private life."

He paused, but the Count merely asked:

"No further back than that?"

"I don't know. Christianity made us interested in other people's feelings. Brotherliness, you know. That must have helped. So did Socrates, by the way. Of course it lowers the general standard. Where everybody can read and write, there's an end of good taste. No, I don't mean that exactly," he added, feeling that he was expressing himself very stupidly.

"Well?"

"Oh, everything! The telegraph and society papers and interviewing and America and yellow journalism ... and all those family memoirs and diaries and autobiographies and Court scandals.... They produce a new kind of public, a public which craves for personalities rather than information. They want to learn about our clothes and incomes and habits. Not a questioning public, I mean; a prying public--"

"A cannibalistic public," said the Count, quietly. "Men cannot live, it seems, save by feeding on their neighbour's life-blood. They prey on each other's nerve-tissues and personal sensations. Everything must be shared. It gives them a feeling of solidarity, I suppose, in a world where they have lost the courage to stand alone. Woe to him who dwells apart! Great things are no longer contemplated with reverence. They are hauled down from their pedestals in order to be rendered accessible to a generation of pigmies; their dignity is soiled by vulgar contact.

This l.u.s.t of handling--what is its ordinary name? Democracy. It has abraded the edge of that keen anthropocentric outlook of the Greeks which exalted whatever was distinctively human. Men have learnt to see beauty here, there, and everywhere--a little beauty, mark you, not much!

They fail to realize that in widening their capacity of appreciation they dilute its intensity. They have watered their wine. There is more to drink. The draught is poorer."

It seemed to Denis that the Count's wine had not been watered.

"Let me show you one or two other things," said the old man.

They wandered about the premises awhile, looking at marbles, prints, intaglios, coins, till a serving man entered--a clean-shaven and rather bony old creature whom the Count called Andrea--to announce tea. Denis was feeling calmer; he had fallen under the beguiling influence of this place. He realized that his host was different from the artist type he had hitherto encountered; more profound, more veracious. Already he formed the project of returning to listen to his melodious voice, and learn some more about that h.e.l.lenic life which had hitherto been a sealed book to him. n.o.body every spoke to him after the Count's fas.h.i.+on. He contrasted his address with the bantering, half-apologetic, supercilious tone of those other elderly persons who had heretofore deigned to enlightened him. He was flattered and pleased at being taken seriously and bidden to think in this straightforward, manly fas.h.i.+on; it unstrung his reserve and medicined to his wounded self-respect.

"So your mother would like to see you in Parliament?" asked the Count.

"Politics are apt to be a dirty game. One cannot touch dirt without soiling one's hands. We have a deputy here, the Commendator Morena--well, one does not like to speak about him. Let me ask you a question, Mr. Denis. Why do politicians exist?"

"I suppose the answer would be that is profitable to mankind to be run by somebody."

"Profitable, at all events, to those who do the running. Your good Sir Herbert Street has lately sent me a batch of books about the ideal public life of the future. Socialistic forecasts, and that kind of literature. He is a world-improver, you know, among other things. They have amused me more than I thought they would. That venerable blunder: to think that in changing the form of government you change the heart of man. And in other respects, too, these dreamers are at sea. For surely we should aim at simplification of machinery. Conceive, now, the state of affairs where everybody is more or less employed by the community--the community, that comfortable word!--in some patriotic business or other. Everybody an official, all controlling each other!

It would be worse than the Spanish Inquisition. A man could live at Toledo by subscribing to certain fixed opinions; he could be a.s.sured of a reasonable degree of privacy. Nothing could save him, under socialism. An insupportable world! When people cease to reflect they become idealists."

"I suppose they do," replied Denis, rather dubiously. Then it struck him that this might account for his own hazy state of mind--this lack of occupation or guiding principle. For the rest, he had not given much thought to such questions. To be a politician--it was one of the few projects which had never seriously entered his head. After a pause, he remarked:

"I can't help noticing that portrait over there. It's a very pretty thing."

"The little pastel? It is a sketch of my daughter Matilda. I did it myself when she was here last Christmas. Poor child, she can only come for the holidays; there is no chance of a respectable education o this island. But I can run over to see her every now and then. You will observe I am not much of a colourist!"

"You have been parsimonious with the tints. It reminds me of some of Lenbach's work which I saw at Florence; it is in the same manner."