The Wisdom of Father Brown

THE great Muscari, most original of the young Tuscan poets, walked swiftly into his favouriterestaurant, which overlooked the Mediterranean, was covered by an awning and fenced by littlelemon and orange trees. Waiters in white aprons were already laying out on white tables the insigniaof an early and elegant lunch; and this seemed to increase a satisfaction that already touched the topof swagger. Muscari had an eagle nose like Dante; his hair and neckerchief were dark and flowing;...
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THE great Muscari, most original of the young Tuscan poets, walked swiftly into his favouriterestaurant, which overlooked the Mediterranean, was covered by an awning and fenced by littlelemon and orange trees. Waiters in white aprons were already laying out on white tables the insigniaof an early and elegant lunch; and this seemed to increase a satisfaction that already touched the topof swagger. Muscari had an eagle nose like Dante; his hair and neckerchief were dark and flowing; hecarried a black cloak, and might almost have carried a black mask, so much did he bear with him asort of Venetian melodrama. He acted as if a troubadour had still a definite social office, like abishop. He went as near as his century permitted to walking the world literally like Don Juan, withrapier and guitar.For he never travelled without a case of swords, with which he had fought many brilliant duels, orwithout a corresponding case for his mandolin, with which he had actually serenaded Miss EthelHarrogate, the highly conventional daughter of a Yorkshire banker on a holiday. Yet he was neithera charlatan nor a child; but a hot, logical Latin who liked a certain thing and was it. His poetry was asstraightforward as anyone else's prose. He desired fame or wine or the beauty of women with atorrid directness inconceivable among the cloudy ideals or cloudy compromises of the north; tovaguer races his intensity smelt of danger or even crime. Like fire or the sea, he was too simple to betrusted.The banker and his beautiful English daughter were staying at the hotel attached to Muscari'srestaurant; that was why it was his favourite restaurant. A glance flashed around the room told himat once, however, that the English party had not descended. The restaurant was glittering, but stillcomparatively empty. Two priests were talking at a table in a corner, but Muscari (an ardentCatholic) took no more notice of them than of a couple of crows. But from a yet farther seat, partlyconcealed behind a dwarf tree golden with oranges, there rose and advanced towards the poet aperson whose costume was the most aggressively opposite to his own.