The Count, alas, proved no more informative than anyone else. Ancient history is not a subject in which the Corfiots interest themselves much, I think, unless it may be turned to use in modern politics, and the shades of Ulysses and Leonidas evoke support in England for an independent Greek State.
The rest of the evening went as might be supposed. There was a great deal of inane babbling, much inferior music, a little awkward dancing and copious amounts of food and drink, some of it of rather an exotic nature.
The ladies pronounced it a success, and who am I to argue with them?
Chapter Sixteen : Research and Development
The social scene upon such a small and essentially backward island could not help but be very restricted.
The number of English officers, both civil and military, upon the island could be counted easily enough without running short of digits, and the number of Corfiot families who could be both counted as socially acceptable and relied upon to support their English ‘advisors’ was scarcely more.
This meant that we dined with the same old faces night after night, visited the same houses, heard the same stories over and over again until it was scarcely possible to feign either ignorance nor interest. The English all wanted to talk about home, and the Greeks all wanted to talk politics and Greek Liberation.
One could, at least, talk to them, however. By now most of the upper classes were fairly proficient in English, and those who weren’t could get by in French, a language in which, alas, I may be considered at least qualified to listen, and I heard more about the Klephts, the Philhellenes, the Turkish Atrocities, and such engaging persons as Lord Byron than I had ever hoped to learn.
The Corfiot ladies, meanwhile sat mum, although I have it on Margaret’s authority that, when in female company, away from the oppressive presence of gentlemen, they could chatter away in Italian quite as well as might be expected, and quite a few could manage French or even halting English as well.
The subject matter of their conversations I did not think to enquire about, which was, perhaps, a mistake, as later events were to show.
However content the ladies may have been with this regime I thought it sadly lacking in intellectual stimulation, and found myself eager to pursue the lines of enquiry that I had set myself on first considering this journey. Here we were in the Island of the Phaeacians, and we might as well be in Seven Dials or Shoreditch for all the evidence of Homeric times to be seen or even heard of.
I was not short of support from my family, as far as outings to romantic sounding places might be considered support.
We trailed right across the island in an open barouche to see the beach where Nausicaa found Ulysses. As far as could be seen the only differences from the beaches near the town were the steep cliffs that had to be negotiated to get down to it, and the abundance of sand where the eastern side of the island has rocks and pebbles.
The locals have it that the ship on which the Phaeacians conveyed Ulysses back to Ithaca was turned into stone by the jealous sea god, and became the small island of Pondikonisi, which I take to be a corruption of Pontikonesos, or Mouse Island, which may be seen a few miles south of Corfu Town.
It never occurred to me to credit such a foolish tale for one moment, but on hearing it the ladies must all go to admire such an historic monument, although Mrs Bennet was indisposed and begged off at the last moment.
There is certainly a picturesque view of the island from the old French battery on the hill above it, and its shape bears a vague resemblance to a ship when seen from above, but it is far too large to have been a vessel of the time, even if such feats as turning it to stone had been possible.
Lydia and Kitty must go down at once to see it at close quarters, but Mrs Morland declined.
“The prospect could not be better than we have now,” she proclaimed. “I shall set up my easel here. You may pick me up on the way back.”
“Surely the view would be better from below, near that little white chapel?” her husband suggested. He has taken a great interest in all our new experiences ever since Naples.
“When I tell you how to clyster a patient, my dear, you may tell me how to paint.”
“In that case I shall stay with you.”
“Oh, go down to the island, by all means, with the rest. I shall do perfectly well here, with the groom.”
Seeing that the doctor was in truth eager for the descent, and not relishing the prospect at all myself, I thought it time I spoke.
“In any case, I think I shall stay here and enjoy the view. I had enough trouble the other day scrambling down those cliffs with nothing to show for my pains at the end. The path here looks both narrow and steep, and I decline to consider it.”
“But Papa,” cried Lydia, “what if we find something, a, a Grecian Urn or a scroll or something. We should not know what to do with it.”
“If you do find something of that nature, then you may bring it back for me to pronounce upon. But you will find nothing. I am becoming convinced that there is nothing to find, in Corfu, at least.”
A very pleasant time Margaret and I had of it, in our gloating, until the cries of our companions descending their precipitous way ceased to be heard above the endless droning of the crickets.
Then we both set to work, she to her easel and I to my notebook.
We chatted amicably about nothing much for half an hour, after which it became quite clear that her work was progressing much better than mine, and I was constrained to compliment her upon her efforts.
“But you have a real talent, my dear Mrs Morland. Why have you been hiding your light under a bushel for so long?”
“Opportunities for shining it have not so far been very convenient,” she replied. “But I thank you for the compliment. I dare say you are right.”
“You do not appear proud of your genius, I will say that for you.”
“Talent is one thing; genius is quite another. There is all the difference in the world between them. Talent does what it can; genius what it must. There was a time when an infinite capacity for taking pains might have been mine; but I settled for talent, and no doubt am all the happier for it. A dear friend of mine once contrived to have my picture hung upon the line at the Royal Academy and I thought I might be in the way of making a living with my brush, but life decreed otherwise. Doctor Morland came along, and my friend went back to America, and I became a doctor’s wife instead of a latter day Miss Kauffman. But may I ask you a favour, Mr Bennet?”
“Name it, my dear.”
“I am in need of a figure to give scale and perspective to my scene. Would you be so sweetly kind as to walk down the path as far as that cypress tree, and stand looking towards the island for a while?”
“Certainly. But you will not mind to be left alone here?”
“Not at all. You will be gone but a few minutes, and I see no marauding Turks on the horizon, not the merest bashi-bazouk.”
I did as requested, and soon found myself joined by the rest of the party, puffing up from below.
“There you are, Papa,’ cried Kitty. “Did you not think to bring a bottle of water with you? It is hot work climbing this slope.”
“I aplogise most sincerely for being so thoughtless,” I replied. “But tell me, was your excursion worth the effort?”
“Oh, it was pretty enough,” said Lydia, “but one gets so used to prettiness, living in Corfu.”
“You did well to save yourself the trouble, Mr Bennet,” commented the Doctor. “We found nothing but an empty chapel, full of dust and whitewash, with faint indiscernible traces of frescoes.”
“Well, I dare say the servants have the picnic set out by now,” I replied, “and you must all have the appetite to enjoy it. But we have not been entirely idle in your absence, neither.”
So we retraced our steps, to find Mrs Morland supervising the setting out of the refreshments, with her easel already folded away, and no sign of her picture.
I fear I could not hide my disappoin
tment.
“Oh,” I cried, “are we not to be treated to a viewing of the completed masterpiece?”
“Perhaps,” Mrs Morland replied, “when it is completed. At the moment it is a mere sketch, and I should be ashamed to show it.”
“Quite.” I agreed. “Just as ashamed as you are of your fluency in Italian. But I have seen your mere sketch and must beg to differ.”
“While you have all been enjoying yourselves admiring the scenery and splashing in the water,” I announced to the company, “our dear and talented friend Margaret has been hard at work, and I can testify that we have been harbouring a second Vigée Le Brun in our midst. She is no gifted amateur, neither, for her pictures have been hung in the Royal Academy, on the sacred line itself.”
“One picture was hung on the line some dozen years ago,” insisted Margaret, colouring slightly at the attention, “and, although it was my picture, it was no picture of mine.”
“Why, Mrs Morland,” exclaimed Lydia, “I wish I were clever enough to talk in riddles the way you do.”
“The riddle is easily explained. The picture was my portrait, but I did not paint it myself. It was done in secret as a surprise birthday gift by my great friend Miss Sharples, who taught me all I know about art, and who has exhibited many times at the Academy. You have seen it yourself, Mr Bennet, in our dining room.”
“So I have,” I confirmed. “I remember it now. ‘Miss Margaret Dashwood, aged Fifteen Years. R. Sharples pinxit.’ A remarkable piece.”
“My friend Rolinda is a remarkable lady, but strangely drawn to the wilds of the Americas, where she spent most of her childhood. I could tell you….”
But we never heard what Mrs Morland might have told us, for at that point she was interrupted by Lydia.
“Miss Margaret Dashwood!” she cried. “Was your maiden name Dashwood? You cannot be, surely, but I must ask you. Are you by any chance the Miss Margaret Dashwood who wrote The Seven Sisters?”
“I must plead guilty as charged. But how do you come to be familiar with my youthful indiscretion, Lady Wickham?”
“It came out with the latest crate of books that I ordered for the library, the Reading Society that I hope to found here. Since Lady Maitland stays in Malta, it is for me to set the example, you know. But, my dear Margaret, it is the completest thing. It is the best thing that has come out since I know not when. I never laughed so much since the first time I saw a duckbilled platypus. You must give us all a reading at our society, and share your genius with my ladies.”
“To tell the truth I have not thought about it for many years, and should hate to be judged by it now. I did not even know it was printed. It was finished some years ago, and intended for immediate publication. It was disposed of to a bookseller, it was even advertised, and why the business proceeded no farther, I have never been able to learn. That any bookseller should think it worthwhile to purchase what he did not think it worthwhile to publish seems extraordinary. But it appears that Mr Crosby has decided he must make some money out of it at last. I hope he does, for I will not see a penny until his commission is covered.”
The rest of the afternoon was occupied chiefly with exclamations at the famous author we had among us, with incoherent explanations from Lydia of the plot of what the famous author herself proclaimed to be a piece of nonsense of which she was quite ashamed by now. Shame, however, is something with which Lydia is scarce acquainted, and she would not be satisfied until she had obtained the author’s agreement to give a talk to her ladies’ group.
“You amaze me yet again,” said Wickham, when all was recounted to him that evening. “I am glad that Lydia has something to occupy her mind with other than fripperies but I do not know that I am entirely happy about this ladies’ group. There are enough around here who would be but too pleased to form a faction against the High Commissioner with me as a figurehead, but I decline to be involved.”
The volume itself was passed avidly around, and eventually reached my hands, when I found myself entirely in agreement with the author as to its merits.
None of this, however, was of any consequence to my great work. It began to appear that I must return to England without any new material with which to amaze my collaborator. Corfu had proved devoid of clues, and I was on the point of despairing when I heard that on Ithaca the house of Ulysses himself was still shown to travelers, and I must needs go there.
Chapter Seventeen:Grubbing in the Earth
Passage to such a convenient island was easily secured. Less easily secured was a companion on the voyage. The fleshpots of Corfu proved irresistible to my companions, and although they were all unvaryingly polite about it, I could see that they were but bearing kindly with the bee in my bonnet.
Objections were raised. The Wickhams could not leave their post, of course, and Mrs Bennet was loath to abandon her long lost daughter so soon. Kitty and Golightly pleaded the winter storms, although they must be of no consequence for such a short voyage.
Morland at last consented to accompany me, saying that he had not brought me thus far unscathed to let me perish unattended on a faraway island of which we knew nothing.
Mrs Morland, alas, must stay in Corfu, where her status as a famous author was essential to enable Lydia to bask in the reflected lustre of such a distinguished connection.
“It is very tedious,” she remarked, “but Lady Wickham is so insistent, and so intent on making sure that anyone who may at all be considered on the island should have benefited from my acquaintance. It is comical, really, especially with the Corfiot ladies. They sit around me in a circle and stare at me, and flutter their fans and snub each other while I read from something I wrote so long ago that I can scarce recollect it, and laugh and look solemn in all the wrong places, and sit mute when questions are asked for, unless perchance one takes courage to ask if I have met Lord Byron. They all seem obsessed with Lord Byron, lord knows why. I remember writing in my diary once, many years ago, that I intended to seek fame and fortune. I see no sign of fortune, and if this is fame, it has been greatly overrated.”
I took my leave of her, thinking that, while General Wickham might decline to be involved in factions against his chief, Lady Wickham bid fair to be carving one out for herself.
Some occupation was necessary for me, however, if I were to avoid running mad from boredom, and I set off for Ithaca accompanied by Doctor Morland and the ever-useful Spiro in high hopes.
Ithaca was a sell, of course. The roofless shell displayed as the home of Ulysses had been, to my estimation, built some two thousand years after Troy fell. The olive tree growing in a corner of one room, cried up as Penelope’s bed post, looked to me to have seeded itself perhaps a hundred years ago but no more, while the apsidal end with faint traces of frescoes looked to me early Christian.
I was ready to return to Corfu almost as soon as we arrived in Ithaca. The miserable village, with its one wretched inn was no attraction, and even Spiro was hard put to communicate with the locals. Small Greek islands, I was to find, are much of a muchness, wherever one goes, lots of rocks, lots of olive trees and not much else.
Morland surprised me, however, by suggesting we stay for further investigations.
“I do not doubt what you say,” he commented, ‘that this cannot be the palace of Ulysses. But might not the tradition preserve some truth, something we might perhaps call a folk-memory, that the Homeric palace was here, or at least in this neighbourhood? Might we not be able to find some trace if we searched diligently for it. I speak under correction, and in the hope of providing some consolation for your hopes, of course.”
“And how might we set about finding such traces?” I asked. “For I fear I have no notion.”
“We went to Pompeii from Naples, did we not, and there they found a whole city buried beneath the ground, waiting to be dug up. Might we not do likewise?”
“What, go about grubbing in the earth like some farm labourer? And for what? For the mere possibility of finding we know not what.”
“Had the excavators at Pompeii taken that attitude, would not scholarship have been greatly the loser?”
“At Pompei they knew there was a city to reveal. Treasure seekers had been unearthing finds for centuries. Besides, they had Pliny’s account to guide them.”
“And do we not have Homer’s account to guide us? Could not we do something by following him?”
“I thank you for your confidence, Doctor, but even I do not carry the whole of the Odyssey in my head, nor even on my person. And even if I did, or if we sent to Corfu for the text, it would be no use. The terms Homer uses for descriptions, whether of people or of places, are almost invariably stock phrases, what we call ‘Homeric epithets’, easy to remember and easy to fit into the metre of his lines, and apt for anything. Besides, it would not do. For a reputable scholar to do as you suggest would be to lose all reputation. It would be like an eminent physician travelling around peddling quack remedies. No, we must resign ourselves to the charms of Corfu. And may we get back there before the worst of the winter storms.”
“I do not suggest for one moment, Mr Bennet, that either you or I should soil our hands with picks and shovels. We have plentiful resources of manual labour to hand, at very little expense. How shall it look to the ladies if we return so soon, having accomplished nothing? Might not a day or two’s judicious activity provide something to show for our efforts? Who knows what might lie beneath our feet as we stand here? Besides, there are several herbs around this site that I have never seen before, that Spiro tells me have been used as medicines since ancient times. I must give them some study, at least, before we depart. Why one of them might be the very moly that Ulysses held to his nose and so escaped the enchantments of the witch Circe, or Vergil’s dictamnum, that causes the huntsman’s arrows to fall from the backs of wild goats while their wounds heal instantly.”
That is the trouble with having two experts in one party, especially if one of them is of a practical bent. Their interests cannot coincide. The scholar knows that knowledge can only be found by painstaking study of ancient wisdom. The practical man believes in trial and error, which he calls ‘experiment’.
Our Neighbours' Sport Beyond the Seas Page 11
