Sicilian Carousel (9 page)

But as for Pausanias, thank goodness for his passionate antiquarianism; at least he has managed to leave us an extensive notebook of all that we have lost. It is something. For most of us tend to think of the Acropolis, for example, as a stately marble hill approached by the Propylaea and crowned by the austere, almost abstract beauty of the Parthenon's white catafalque. But it is from the jottings of this little Roman antiquarian that we see something much closer to the original during the days when it still “worked,” still performed its vatic duties for the whole Greek race. How different a picture! In its clutter and jumble one cannot help thinking of the equivalent jumble of modern Lourdes or Byzantine Tinos today.

Only Pausanias tells of the color and life, the realism, the quaintness, the forest of votive statues, the gold, the ivory, the bronze, the paintings on the walls, the golden lamps, the brazen palm tree, the strange old Hermes hidden in myrtle leaves, the ancient stone upon
which Silenus sat, the smoke-grimed images of Athene, Diitrephes all pierced with arrows, Kleoitas with his silver nails, the heroes peeping from the Trojan Horse, Anacreon singing in his cups; all these, if we would picture the truth and not our own imagination we must learn of from Pausanias.

Those who tiptoe round the Acropolis today in their thousands hardly realize that they are looking at something like an empty barn.… “And by the same token,” I told Deeds, who was standing on his head on the sunny balcony next to mine, for he did yoga like most Indian Army officers, “by the same token it is the merest vainglory to tell ourselves that we are going to see anything in Syracuse as the Greeks left it—it's simply a hollow shell from which the spirit has fled. Even the temples are for the most part wiped out, gnawed down to their foundations like the molars of some old dog.” I was repeating and improvising upon the caveat of Martine who had once written to me about Pausanias apropos of the Minoan reconstructions in Crete, saying how tasteless they seemed to her. “They robbed my imagination of its due, and vulgarized something I expected to find elegant and spare and cruel—a fit sea nurse for the mainland cultures which Minoa influenced, perhaps even founded.”

“If you tell Beddoes that,” said Deeds, “he will at once ask for his money back.” I could see that he was not going to let these grave considerations disturb his
mature pleasure at sightseeing in an island which had become as precious to him as it had once been for Martine. In a sense he was right. If the Greeks were gone and their monuments were dust there were still vestiges of their way of life to be found in the food, the wine and the wild flowers of the land they had inhabited and treasured.

Today, then, Syracuse waited for us to disinter its ancient glories by an act of the imagination, aided by whatever Roberto could tell us, which was not much. Oleanders, however, and sunny white streets leading down to a bright dancing sea! There was pleasure in the air, and I did not need to sniff the horizon to determine that we were in one of those benign spots which favor happiness, encourage “all the arts—even love and introspection” as Martine used to say when she awoke from a spell of sleep on the green grass of the Abbey. Today the Carousel tackled its breakfast with dispatch and good humor; the Bishop forgot to tell the world how much he preferred bacon and tomatoes in the morning, a very good sign indeed for the rolls were not very fresh and the coffee insipid.

Even Beddoes—Beddoes had
washed
. He had parted his hair in the middle and combed down his thatch of wet ringlets with energy and science. He came up to me as I stood on the terrace with my coffee, watching Mario growling at the porters and feeling the fine morning sun on my fingers and forehead—omens of a good day to come. Miss Lobb was already
aboard the bus, and remarking this Beddoes said: “If you asked me why one felt compelled to like Miss Lobb I should reply that it was because she was so completely herself. She has grown on me. Or perhaps it is the heat.” It was not the heat, for Miss Lobb had grown on us all. Gradually the outlines of her splendid personality had flowered in the Sicilian summer, her robust but handsome figure had emerged now clad in those rather expensive summer prints from Liberty's or Horrocks with becoming style. There was a touch of cretonne-covered sofa about her which was somehow suitable to her general style of mind. She introduced herself with simplicity as Miss Lobb but always added the phrase “Of London” as if it were a lucky charm. She was indeed the spirit of London—the “best-foot-forward” of that rainy but warm-hearted town.

Miss Lobb was a barmaid and she worked in the Strand in what she described as a “good house”; once again adding an explanatory phrase in the words “a tied house,” whatever that was. Her warmth and good humor were infectious, and she talked English loudly but with grace to everyone, even when she fully realized that they did not understand what she was saying. “I think what I like about her,” said Beddoes, “is her way of saying ‘OOPS!' when she trips over a bush, and then flicking up her skirts in a skittish manner.” Yes, but that was not all. She also had a way of crying “Righty ho!” which brought all hands running on deck to reef sail. Beddoes watched her fondly as she sat;
reading a novel by Marie Corelli which she had stolen from the last hotel. Perhaps it was the association with bars? Though Miss Lobb did not herself drink, or so she said. Yet her frame was broad and buxom and her face large and red with a strongly arched nose and large sound white teeth. Later she was to explain to Deeds that even if one did not drink the mere fact of working near the stuff made one breathe it in through the pores—the reason why barmaids were always on the stout side. I forgot what he answered to this; but he too like the rest of us was a willing captive of her charms. And when she began a sentence with the phrase “Lord love yer now” he winced with pleasure; it was the very soul of London speaking. “I think I am deeply in love with little Lobbie; in love for the first time in my life,” said Beddoes and I gazed at him anxiously, wondering if perhaps he had been drinking before breakfast. Little Lobbie!

Such was the prevailing good humor—and I am disposed to attribute this to Syracuse itself, for the whole place radiated good humor and mildness—that even the Bishop unbent and became almost expansive; he strolled over to us and asked Beddoes what he did for a living. “At the moment I am on the run from the police,” said Beddoes unexpectedly, and after a moment's pained surprise we all laughed heartily at the supposed witticism. “I got flung out of Dunge-ness Junior for setting an exam paper which they said was far above the heads of the children.” The Bishop
looked perplexed and concerned. “But there were other reasons too,” said Beddoes and gave his yellow smile. “For instance, my paper said ‘Enumerate all the uses of adversity and explain why the hell they are sweet.'” The Bishop's wife beckoned him, and he left us with obvious relief. It was time to crawl aboard the little bus. Today there was no problem with our gear as we were staying in Syracuse for a couple of nights or so. There was simply the organization of the medical supplies and the lunchboxes of Mario and Roberto.

So we began to sidle down the inclined planes towards the little island of Ortygia, the original site from which the ancient Syracuse had grown up into a capital of 500,000 souls—a giant among ancient cities. There was not much traffic along the broad avenues but I was glad that Mario was taking things softly—I felt that there was something precious about the place and that one should not damage its atmosphere by rushing greedily about. The modern town has spread in a smeary way towards the landward side and the little island of Ortygia is slowly becoming depopulated, though for the moment it is full of tumbledown houses of great charm—like a little Italian hill village sited upon an ancient fortress. But the presence of water, of the blue sea, gave it radiance and poise. Like so many choice Greek harbors (Lindos, Corfu, Samos, etc.) it had been sited on a spit between two perfect anchorages; owing to the stability of the Mediterranean weather, and its predictability, one
could always live upon a double harbor like this, confident that when the south wind blew the north wind packed up; there was always a good lee. So with Ortygia. It must have made an instant appeal to Greeks who had known the beauty and security of Lindos in Rhodes or Paleocastrizza in Corfu. The actual soil erosion in limestone lands must always produce this sort of configuration under the rubbing of the sea; I can think of dozens of such harbors and have often wondered whether the Cretan or Minoan symbol of the double axe was not a reproduction of this sort of ideal harbor.… Alexandria too had this to offer the sailor; the safe anchorage during the winter storms and the safe lay-by for the spring and autumn squalls brought by the changing equinoxes. I made a mental note to try this theory out on Roberto when next I got the chance; at the moment he was vaguely describing the streets through which we were passing as we moved towards the narrow causeway which led to the island.

“I have a nagging memory about the word Ortygia,” I told Deeds; “I think that somewhere I saw that it really meant ‘Quail Island' and that it was one of the possible sites where Ulysses (always accident prone when it came to females) ran into a lot of trouble with Circe.” It would need the Lexicon to check this vague and irritating notion. Deeds said that in the islands off the coast of Turkey there were some small and remote ones famous for their quails; and that the women hunted them with a curious kind of little net like a
lacrosse stick which had two large eyes painted on it. It resembled a strange savage totem. When the quails saw the eyes they crouched down and seemed hypnotized, and they were easily netted. He had often wondered whether this was an ancient survival, this curious hunting art.

Today, however, Quail Island was agreeably crowded with loafers drinking lemonade and waving to us as we passed over the narrow causeway and slowed almost to a halt in front of the Temple of Apollo—disappointingly battered and placed all askew with reference to the modern town in which it had got itself stuck—it seemed almost by accident. It had a forlorn benignity in the sunlight but it would need a very advanced state of rapturous romanticism to feel deeply moved by it. Mario drew rein for the statutory pause and himself rested with his forehead on his arms; he did not give poor Apollo as much as a glance. I think that he never had given it a glance or a thought. Was he right or wrong, I wondered? Here we were all politely craning our necks, while the more industrious had their noses buried in their guides. The bus had attracted a crowd of children who were equally indifferent to Apollo and found us much more interesting; they proposed to try and stick us up for the price of a drink. Negotiations were opened in a strange lingua franca which seemed part Swedish and part English. They did not get very far, for suddenly, like a lion waking and bounding from his lair, Mario rushed out of the bus and after them
with a deep and frightful growling which sent them rushing widdershins. It was as decisive as the Battle of Himera, the enemy forces were scattered and ran screaming down the side streets while Mario with a grin like a harvest moon, regained the bus and started up the motor again.

Deeds's
Guide
was all carefully marked up with symbols which strongly suggested the Sikel alphabet or Linear B. Intrigued, I asked him what they represented. “I am evaluating my own Sicily,” he said. “There are four terms, four values for the monuments. Together they form the word Moss. M is for must, O is for ought really, SH is for should really, and SK is for skip. Over the years my taste has varied a little but not so much. I see for example that for old Apollo I have given him an ‘ought really'.… We can't afford to skip him outright on historical grounds, but he doesn't invigorate one. But just you wait a moment.” I waited and it was not for long, for Mario crawled down a couple of streets so narrow that we could have touched the walls without leaning forward—and at last into the fine airy cathedral square. It was not only spacious but it was smothered in oleander blossom—full-grown trees this time and in full flower. It was no surprise in this halcyon air to hear a girl singing, the cooing of doves, and the brisk clip-clop of the little colored
fiacres
which plied for hire in this enchanted corner of Quail Island, as I dared to call it in my own mind—until either Liddell or Scott or both told me I was all wrong. We drew
up outside the cathedral and Roberto had a sudden access of hopelessness. “There is so
much
to tell,” he said wringing his hands at the immensity of the task, “we should really stay a week or a month.… But the important thing is to
look first!”

It was a happy injunction, and we clambered down from the bus in a sunshine fragrant with flower smells to follow him into the deep booming warmth of the old church which was surprising and unreal—and above all sublimely beautiful. One felt that little knock at the heart which told one that we were really visiting the heart of the island—the quick or quiddity of Sicily. Why is it so astonishing a place? It takes a moment's thought and a hundred paces down the side street to analyze its singularity. For the ancient Greek temple, or what remains of it (the remains are really considerable), has been comfortably and capaciously cocooned in the Christian edifice without attempting to disguise the modernity of the successor to Gelon's noble construction.

You would think that this simple but daring idea would result in a dreadful fiasco. But you are astonished to find the result deeply harmonious and congruent; it has a peaceful feeling of inevitability, as if it had been achieved during sleep, unerringly. I think everyone in the party felt a strong tug of admiration at these fine proportions, and the simple dignity of the whole conception. It was also a sort of living X-ray of our whole culture, or let us say, the history of
the religious impulse in one vivid cross section. Usually the age that succeeds manages to smash everything and sweep it, if not under the carpet, at least into the new construction. Here we were standing on a spot which had been consecrated ground before the Greeks, then during the Greek reign, and finally for the Christians.… The past had been not razed but accepted and accommodated with reassuring tact and ampleness. I felt suddenly like chuckling as I walked about inside this honeycomb—so full of treasures, a real Ark of the human covenant. For the first time in my life I didn't feel anti-Christian. Roberto must have been used to seeing the impact of this lovely spot upon his tourists for he did nothing, said nothing, just stood by with his hands in his pockets, waiting to brief us when we so desired.