Part 42 (1/2)
”I'll send it round, together with some old prints of this island and modern photographs. You will then see what I mean. The prints are not exactly true to nature; these people did not want to be true to nature.
And yet they convey a better impression of the place than the modern pictures. Perhaps there are two truths: the truth of fact and that of suggestion. Perrelli is very suggestive; romance grafted upon erudition, and blossoming out of it! So imaginative! He has a dissertation on the fishes of Nepenthe--it reads like a poem and is yet full of practical gastronomic hints. Can you picture Virgil collaborating with Apicius?”
The bishop said:
”Horace might have got on better with that old BON-VIVANT.”
”Horace could never have had a hand in this chapter. He lacks the idealistic tinge. He could never have written about red mullets as Perrelli writes when he compares their skin to the fiery waves of Phelgethon, to the mantle of rosy-fingered dawn, to the blush of a maiden surprised in her bath, and then goes on to tell you how to cook the b east in thirty different ways and how to spit out the bones in the most noiseless, genteel fas.h.i.+on. That is Perrelli--so original, so leisurely. Always himself! He smiled as he wrote; there is not a shadow of doubt about it. In another section, on the fountains of the island, he deliberately indulges in the humour of some old mediaeval schoolman.
Then there is a chapter on the ecclesiastical conditions of the place under Florizel the Fat--it is full of veiled attacks on the religious orders of his own day; I suspect it got him into trouble, that chapter.
I am sorry to say there is a good deal of loose talk scattered about his pages. I fear he was not altogether a pure-minded man. But I cannot bring myself to despise him. What do you think? Certain problems are always cropping up, aren't they?”
Mr. Eames suddenly looked quite troubled.
”They are,” replied the bishop, who was not in a mood to discuss ethics just then. ”What are you going to do about it?” he added.
”About what?”
”This poetic omission on the part of Perrelli to mention the sirocco?”
”It has given me a deal of extra work, I can a.s.sure you. I have had to go into the whole question. I have tabulated no less than fifty-seven varieties of sirocco. Sailors' words, most of them; together with a handful of antiquated terms. Fifty-seven varieties. Twenty-three thousand words, up to the present, dealing the with south wind.”
”That is a fair-sized foot-note,” laughed the bishop. ”A good slice of a book, I should call it.”
”My foot-notes are to be printed in small type. In fact, I am thinking of casting the whole of this sirocco--material into an appendix. Too much, you think? Surely the number of words is not disproportionate to the subject? The south wind is a good slice of Nepenthe, is it not?...
Look! That cloud has made up its mind to come our way after all.
There will be another shower of ashes. Sirocco, you observe....”
The terrace, meanwhile, had become crowded. Already the evening sun was slightly obscured behind a brown haze. Ashes were traveling fast. They began to fall, softly.
What was to be done? Everybody, mindful of the previous experience, was in favour of a second procession to take place immediately. The PARROCO held the same opinion. For form's sake, however, he dispatched a confidential messenger to learn the views of Mr. Parker, who was sitting dejectedly in his study with the incomplete Financial Report still staring him in the face. The Commissioner pulled himself together with praiseworthy alacrity and gave his whole mind to the question.
No. On due consideration, he was opposed to the idea of a procession.
Having enjoyed, in various continents and various capacities, some experience of backing the same horse twice over, Mr. Parker was not in favour of demanding a second largesse from the Saint. It might spoil everything, he said. Let them wait till next morning. If there was a deep fall like last time, the experiment might be worth trying. But not just yet! While admitting that something ought to be done, it struck him as a hazardous proceeding to play fast and loose, in this fas.h.i.+on, with the reputation of a Saint.
His Reverence, duly impressed, waited for half an hour. It was then seen that the Nicaraguan Representative had once more given the soundest of advice. The downpour of ashes ceased abruptly, at the moment when the sun sank into the sea. No mischief was done.
Late at night another phenomenon became visible. The volcano was observed to be in violent eruption. It blazed forth like a gigantic torch held into the heavens. Streams of lava poured down the mountain flanks, reddening sky and sea.
Nepenthe was consoled by the spectacle. The demon had at last found an outlet--a method of relief. There would be no more showers of ashes. The fact that villages were being overwhelmed under a deluge of flame, vineyards scorched and hundreds of innocent folks, their retreat cut off by fiery torrents, were even then being roasted to death, was no concern to the islanders. It only proved what every one knew: that the jurisdiction of their Patron Saint did not extend to the mainland.
Each of those villages had its own Saint, whose business it was to forestall accidents of this kind. If they failed in their duty through incapacity or mulishness, nothing was easier than to get rid of them; there were others to choose from--dozens of others, waiting for the job!
Thinking thus, the islanders gave vent to an immense sigh if relief.
They wished long life to their Patron Saint, with whose services they had reason to be satisfied. Their own crops and lives were safe from harm, thanks to the martyr Dodeka.n.u.s. He loved his people, and they loved him. He was a protector worthy of the name--not like those low-bred b.a.s.t.a.r.ds across the water.
CHAPTER x.x.xII