A Voyage Of Consolation by Sara Jeannette Duncan (best fiction books to read TXT) 📕

Be Anybody Who Can Identify The Remains. When You Come To Think Of

It--That'S Kind Of Hard."

"No Chance Of Christian Burial Once You Get Into A Museum," Said Dick

With Solicitude.

"I Should Like," Remarked Mrs. Portheris,  Polishing Her _Pince Nez_ To

Get A Better View Of A Mother And Daughter Lying On Their Faces. "I

Should Like To See The Clergyman Who Would Attempt It. These People Were

Heathen,  And Richly Deserved Their Fate. Richly!"

Momma Looked At Her Husband'S Aunt Caroline With Indignant Scorn. "Do

You Really Think So?" She Asked,  But We Could All See That Her Words

Were A Very Inadequate Expression For Her Emotions. Mrs. Portheris Drew

All The Guns Of Her Orthodoxy Into Line For Battle. "I Am Surprised----"

She Began,  And Then The Senator Politely But Firmly Interfered.

"Ladies," He Said,  "'_De Mortuis Nisi Bonum_,' Which Is To Say It Isn'T

Customary To Slang Corpses,  Especially,  As You May Say,  In Their

Presence. I Guess We Can All Be Thankful,  Anyhow,  That Heathen Nowadays

Have Got A Cooler Earth To Live On," And That For The Moment Was The End

Of It,  But Momma Still Gazed Commiseratingly At The Figures,  With A

Suspicious Tendency To Look For Her Handkerchief.

"It'S Too Terrible," She Said. "We Can Actually See Their _Features_."

"Don'T Let Them Get On Your Nerves,  Augusta," Suggested Poppa.

"I Won'T If I Can Help It. But When You See Their Clothes And Their Hair

And Realise----"

"It Happened Over Eighteen Hundred Years Ago,  My Dear,  And Most Of Them

Got Away."

"That Didn'T Make It Any Better For Those Who Are Now Before Us," And

Momma Used Her Handkerchief Threateningly,  Though It Was Only In

Connection With Her Nose.

"Well Now,  Augusta,  I Hate To Destroy An Illusion Like That,  Because

They'Re Not To Be Bought With Money,  But Since You'Re Determined To Work

Yourself Up Over These Unfortunates,  I'Ve Got To Expose Them To You.

They'Re Not The Genuine Remains You Take Them For. They'Re Mere

Worthless Imitations."

"Alexander," Said Momma Suspiciously,  "You Never Hesitate To Tamper With

The Truth If You Think It Will Make Me Any More Comfortable. I Don'T

Believe You."

"All Right," Returned The Senator; "When We Get Home You Ask Bramley. It

Was Bramley That Put Me On To It. Whenever One Of Those Pompeii Fellows

Dropped,  The Ashes Kind Of Caked Over Him,  And In The Course Of Time

There Was A Hole Where He Had Been. See? And What You'Re Looking At Is

Just A Collection Of Those Holes Filled Up With Composition And Then Dug

Out. Mere Holes!"

"The Illusion Is Dreadfully Perfect," Sighed Momma. "Fancy Dying Like A

Baked Potato In Hot Ashes! Somehow,  Alexander,  I Don'T Seem Able To Get

Over It," And Momma Gazed With Distressed Fascination At The Grim Form

Of The Negro Porter.

"We'Ve Got No Proper Grounds For Coming To That Conclusion Either,"

Replied Poppa Firmly. "Just As Likely They Were Suffocated By The Gas

That Came Up Out Of The Ground."

"Oh,  If I Could Think That!" Momma Exclaimed With Relief. "But If I Find

You'Ve Been Deceiving Me,  Alexander,  I'Ll Never Forgive You. It'S _Too_

Solemn!"

"You Ask Bramley," I Heard The Senator Reply. "And Now Come And Tell Me

If This Loaf Of Bread Somebody Baked Eighteen Hundred And Twenty

Something Years Ago Isn'T Exactly The Same Shape As The Naples Bakers

Are Selling Right Now."

"Daughter," Said Momma As She Went,  "I Hope You Are Taking Copious

Notes. This Is The Wonder Of Wonders That We Behold To-Day." I Said I

Was,  And I Wandered Over To Where Mrs. Portheris Examined With Mr.

Mafferton An Egg That Was Laid On The Last Day Of Pompeii. Mrs.

Portheris Was Asking Mr. Mafferton,  In Her Most Impressive Manner,  If It

Was Not Too Wonderful To Have Positive Proof That Fowls Laid Eggs Then

Just As They Do Now; And I Made A Note Of That Too. Dicky And Isabel

Bemoaned The Fate Of The Immortal Dog Who Still Bites His Flank In The

Pain Extinguished So Long Ago. I Hardly Liked To Disturb Them,  But I

Heard Dicky Say As I Passed That He Didn'T Mind Much About The Humans,

They Had Their Chance,  But This Poor Little Old Tyke Was Tied Up,  And

That On The Part Of Providence Was Playing It Low Down.

Then We All Stepped Out Into The Empty Streets Of Pompeii And Mr.

Mafferton Read To Us Impressively,  From Murray,  The Younger Pliny'S

Letter To Tacitus Describing Its Great Disaster. The Senator Listened

Thoughtfully,  For Pliny Goes Into All Kinds Of Interesting Details. "I

Haven'T Much Acquaintance With The Classics," Said He,  As Mr. Mafferton

Finished,  "But It Strikes Me That The Modern New York Newspaper Was The

Medium To Do That Man Justice. It'S The Most Remarkable Case I'Ve

Noticed Of A Good Reporter _Born Before His Time_."

"A Terrible Retribution," Said Mrs. Portheris,  Looking Severely At The

Tavern Of Phoebus,  Forever Empty Of Wine-Bibbers. "They Worshipped

Jupiter,  I Understand,  And Other Deities Even Less Respectable. Can We

Wonder That A Volcano Was Sent To Destroy Them! One Thing We May Be

Quite Sure Of--If The City Had Only Turned From Its Wickedness And

Embraced Christianity,  This Never Would Have Happened."

Momma Compressed Her Lips And Then Relaxed Them Again To Say,  "I Think

That Idea Perfectly Ridiculous." I Scented Battle And Hung Upon The

Issue,  But The Senator For The Third Time Interposed.

"Why No,  Augusta," He Said,  "I Guess That'S A Working Hypothesis Of Aunt

Caroline'S. Here'S Vesuvius Smokin' Away Ever Since Just The Same,  And

There'S Naples With A Bishop And The Relics Of Saint Januarius. You Can

Read In Your Guide-Book That Whenever Vesuvius Has Looked As If He Meant

Business For The Past Few Hundred Years,  The People Of Naples Have

Simply Called On The Bishop To Take Out The Relics Of Saint Januarius

And Walk 'Em Round The Town; And That'S Always Been Enough For Vesuvius.

Now The Pompeii Folks Didn'T Know A Saint Or A Bishop By Sight,  And

Jupiter,  As Aunt Caroline Says,  Was Never Properly Qualified To

Interfere. That'S How It Was,  I _Presume_. I Don'T Suppose The People Of

Naples Take Much Stock In The Laws Of Nature; They Don'T Have To,  With

Januarius In a Drawer. And Real Estate Keeps Booming Right Along."

"You Have An Extraordinary Way Of Putting Things," Remarked Mrs.

Portheris To Her Nephew. "Very Extraordinary. But I Am Glad To Hear That

You Agree With Me," And She Looked As If She Did Not Understand Momma'S

Acquiescent Smile.

We Went Our Several Ways To See The Baths,  And The Comic Theatre,  The

Bakehouse And The Gymnasium; And I Had A Little Walk By Myself In The

Street Of Abundance,  Where The Little Empty Houses Waited Patiently On

Either Side For Those To Return Who Had Gone Out,  And The Sun Lay Full

On Their Floors Of Dusty Mosaic,  And Their Gardens Where Nothing Grew.

It Seemed To Me,  As It Seems To Everybody,  That Pompeii Was Not Dead,

But Asleep,  And Her Tints Were So Clear And Gay That Her Dreams Might Be

Those Of A Ballet-Girl. A Solitary Yellow Dog Chased A Lizard In The

Sun,  And The Pebbles He Knocked About Made An Absurdly Disturbing Noise.

Beyond The Vague Tinted Roofless Walls That Stretched Over The Pleasant

Little Peninsula,  The Blue Sea Rippled Tenderly,  Remembering Much

Delight,  And The Place Seemed To Smile In Its Sleep. It Was Easy To

Understand Why Cicero Chose To Have His Villa In The Midst Of Such

Light-Heartedness,  And Why The Gods,  Perhaps,  Decided That They Had Lent

Too Much Laughter To Pompeii. I Made Free Of The Hospitality Of

Cornelius Rufus And Sat For A While In His _Exedra_,  Where He Himself,

In Marble On A Little Pillar In The Middle Of The Room,  Made Me As

Welcome As If I Had Been A Client Or A Neighbour. We Considered Each

Other Across The Centuries,  Making Mutual Allowances,  And Spent The Most

Sociable Half-Hour. I Take A Personal Interest In The City'S Disaster

Now--It Overwhelmed One Of My Friends.

On The Lungarno In Florence,  In The Cool Of The Evening,  We Walked

Together,  The Senator,  Momma,  Dicky,  And I. Dicky Radiated Depression,

If Such A Thing Is Atmospherically Possible; We All Moved In It. Mr. Dod

Had Been Banished From The Portheris Party,  And He Groaned Over The

Reflection That It Was His Own Fault. At Pompeii I Had Exerted Myself In

His Interest To Such An Extent That Mr. Mafferton Detached Himself From

Mrs. Portheris And Attached Himself To Momma For The Drive Home. Little

Did I Realise That One Could Be Too Agreeable In a Good Cause. Dicky

Insinuated Himself With Difficulty Into Mr. Mafferton'S Vacant Place

Opposite Mrs. Portheris,  And Even Before The Carriages Started I Saw

That He Was Going To Have A Bad Time. His Own Version Of The Experience

Was Painful In The Extreme,  And He Represented The Climax As Having

Occurred Just As They Arrived At The Hotel. The Unfortunate Youth Must

Have Been Goaded To His Fate,  For His General Attitude Toward Matters Of

Orthodoxy Was Most Discreet.

"There Is Something _Biblical_," Said Mrs. Portheris (So Dicky Related),

"That Those Pompeiian Remains Remind Me Of,  And I Cannot Think What It

Is."

"Lot'S Wife,  Mamma?" Said Isabel.

"_Quite_ Right,  My Child--What A Memory You Have! That Wretched Woman

Who Stopped To Look Back At The City Where Careless Friends And

Relatives Were Enjoying Themselves,  Indifferent To Their Coming Fate,  In

Direct Disobedience To The Command. Of Course,  She Turned To Salt,  And

These People To Ashes,  But She Must Have Looked Very Much Like Them When

The Process Was Completed."

That Was Dicky'S Opportunity For Restraint And Submission,  But He Seemed

To Have Been Physically Unable To Take It. He Rushed,  Instead,  Blindly

To Perdition. "I Don'T Believe That Yarn," He Said.

There Was A Moment'S Awful Silence,  During Which Dicky Said He Counted

His Heart-Beats And Felt As If He Had Announced Himself An Atheist Or A

Jew,  And Then His Sentence Fell.

"In That Case,  Mr. Dod,  I Must Infer That You Are Opposed To The

Doctrine Of The Complete Inspiration Of Holy Writ. If You Do Not Believe

In That,  I Shudder To Think Of What You May Not Believe In. I Will Say

No More Now,  But After Dinner I Will Be Obliged To Speak To You For A

Few Minutes,  Privately. Thank You,  I Can Get Out Without Assistance."

And After Dinner,  Privately,  Dicky Learned That Mrs. Portheris Had For

Some Time Been Seriously Considering The Effect Of His,  To Her,

Painfully Flippant Views,  Upon The Opening Mind Of Her Daughter--The

Child Had Only Been Out Six Months--And That His Distressing

Announcement Of This Morning Left Her In No Further Doubt As To Her

Path Of Duty. She Would Always Endeavour To Have As Kindly A

Recollection Of Him As Possible,  He Had Really Been Very Obliging,  But

For The Present She Must Ask Him To Make Some Other Travelling

Arrangements. Cook,  She Believed,  Would Always Change One'S Tickets Less

Ten Per Cent.,  But She Would Leave That To Dicky. And She Hoped,  She

_Sincerely_ Hoped,  That Time Would Improve His Views. When That Was

Accomplished She Trusted He Would Write And Tell Her,  But Not Before.

"And While I'M Getting Good And Ready To Pass An Examination In Noah,

Jonah,  And Methuselah," Remarked Dicky Bitterly,  As We Discussed The

Situation On The Lungarno For The Seventh Time That Day,  "Mafferton

Sails In."

"Why Didn'T You Tell Her Plainly That You Wanted To Marry Isabel,  And

Would Brook No Opposition?" I Demanded,  For My Stock Of Sympathy Was

Getting Low.

"Now That'S A Valuable Suggestion,  Isn'T It?" Returned Mr. Dod With

Sarcasm. "Good Old Psychological Moment That Was,  Wasn'T It? Talk About

Girls Having Tact! Besides,  I'Ve Never Told Isabel Herself Yet,  And I'M

Not The American To Give In To The Effete And Decaying Custom Of Asking

A Girl'S Poppa,  Or Momma If It'S A Case Of Widow,  First. Not Richard

Dod."

"What On Earth," I Exclaimed,  "Have You Been Doing All This Time?"

"Now Go Slow,  Mamie,  And Don'T Look At Me Like That.