FURNACE FLAMES
'Ahi quanto a dir qual era e cosa dura
Questa selva selvaggia ed aspra e forte,
Che nel pensier rinnova la paura!
Tanto e amara, che poco e piu morte:
Ma per trattar del ben ch' ivi trovai,
Diro dell' altre cose, ch' io v' ho scorte.'
DANTE.
Beneath the hail of black dust and fiery ashes that blew in gusts from
Vesuvius across the bay, Tommy Crevequer screwed his eyes and tilted his
straw hat forwards and drew, getting an excellent view, if not of
Vesuvius, which was blotted in brown mist, at any rate of the population
who thronged the harbour, and of the way in which they received their
impressions. Foreigners--never-failing game--were much in evidence, a
North German Lloyd having recently arrived; there were also the Sindaco,
and various other celebrities. The artist of _Marchese Peppino_ made
them seem rather funny. It was the first morning after the breaking out
of the eruption, and interest everywhere was vivid. Journalists recorded
their impressions with smarting eyes.
A little way from Tommy, Warren Venables stood, a leaf torn from a
sketch-book thrust beneath his hat to guard forehead and eyes. Tommy had
seen him some time ago; he was rather bored when Venables looked round
and saw him, and strolled towards him.
'Interesting,' said Venables concisely; and Tommy nodded.
Venables half looked over the artist's shoulder, with a careless 'May I
see?'
Tommy shut his notebook with deliberation, and put his pencil into his
pocket. Then, after a moment's interval, he flushed, slowly and with
great completeness.
'You know it's a rotten rag,' he said, hurling down the other's screen
with an angry blow that sent it crashing in pieces.
Venables, looking at his resentment for a moment in silence, said
simply:
'I beg your pardon, Crevequer.'
He, too, had flushed. He was learning, it seemed, the 'insolent
flimsiness' (as Prudence had it) of all his screens, this among the
rest. He wondered for how long Crevequer had known that he 'knew it was
a rotten rag'--or, rather, for how long he had cared.
The red, fine ash drifted before a push of wind into Tommy's eyes and
mouth; his sullen anger surged in him, and broke stammeringly out.
Inconsequently, he was glad to see how the soft, drifting dust lay on
Venables' coat and very clean collar.
'You thought--you thought I--we--didn't know a thing about it, or about
anything else, all this time. Well, w-what business was it of yours?
and--and why couldn't you have let us alone?' Querulously he stuttered
it out, and coughed out the dust as he ended.
Venables said again, 'I beg your pardon.'
Tommy glowered at him resentfully.
'That's no good. You--you had no business....'
His own outbreak had taken him by surprise. He was seeing the pinched
look round Betty's lips, the strained heaviness of her eyes.
Venables, his quiet face very inexpressive beneath the paper guard,
said, 'No, possibly not;' and that again took Tommy by surprise.
His flare of anger flickered down to a sullen smoulder; it seemed to
lack fuel. Venables' silence, as they stood together, seemed to put him,
as usual, in the right. After all, though 'what one can take' may be the
only thing that counts on one side, what has been offered can hardly be
left out of a sane vision of the other. Tommy, resentfully aware of
this, was stirred to surprise, not for the first time, at the part
latterly played by Venables in this matter. It seemed hardly
characteristic; a certain reckless unwisdom it had, which was
incongruous. Tommy wondered whether it was that play had at last grown
suddenly to earnest, an irresistible tide swamping judgment, or whether
this late development might perhaps be sheer amends.
Anyhow, now, since Venables, from whatever motive, had thus done the
decent thing, they were again seas apart. Venables had, in a manner, by
doing the things which retrospect had exhibited to the Crevequers as not
quite decent, come down for a little to their level. It had only been
for a little; he had now regained his own. His apology for his descent
set him there with more entire security than before.
Tommy, as they stood together, wished--he had of late wished it a good
deal--that he liked Venables less. It was that element in any
relationship that made the difference of plane oppressive.
Venables, who had been standing in considering silence, seemed to
remember that there was very little left to say between them. He nodded
good-bye, and turned away.
Tommy slowly opened his notebook, and stared at his half-completed
sketch beneath drawn-down brows.
'What rot; what sickening rot,' he murmured, and finished the drawing
with quick, skilful strokes.
This was a great time for newspaper men. Leaving the harbour, Tommy
strolled into the town, to seek impressions. The most vivid, coming to
him unsought, was one of cinders and black dust falling like
intermittent rain into his eyes. To protect them he followed Venables'
example, and thrust a page from his sketch-book under his hat. In the
street outside Santa Chiara he encountered Mrs. Venables and Miranda;
they were coming out of the church. Beneath her swathing motor veil,
Mrs. Venables' face was alight with exaltation. She also, manifestly,
was seeking--and finding--impressions. She accosted Tommy.
'Immensely striking.... But too pitiful'--she indicated the church--'the
prayers, the unreasoning, childlike terror. In the streets, too, the
poor terrified refugees, clasping their household gods and lighting
candles to the saints as they walk ... infinitely pathetic ... if one
could tell them how futile!'
She paused, remembering, perhaps, that Tommy, as belonging to the same
childlike faith, might also, on occasion, light a candle to the saints.
'It seems a natural thing to try, under the circumstances,' he remarked,
confirming her suspicion.
'Poor souls,' she murmured. 'I must get over to Bosco Trecase
to-morrow.... Human nature in the raw ... deeply impressive. One's heart
bleeds for all the broken-up homes. And the way they take it--children
hurt without knowing why. That seems to me to be infinitely pathetic;
don't you think so, Mr. Crevequer?'
Mr. Crevequer tapped his sketch-book with his pencil. The difference of
plane did not oppress him particularly in Mrs. Venables' presence; he
still almost enjoyed it.
'It's got, you know, to seem f-funny to me,' he explained. 'But I admit
it's a little forced, some of the humour.'
'Oh yes--your paper.'
Mrs. Venables became vague; her eyes greedily took in impressions from
the passers-by.
Miranda said, 'Oh, I say, do let's see!'
Tommy did not open his book. He changed the subject.
'Rather pretty, the way the cinders fall, don't you think?'
Miranda said that the atmosphere was beastly, and that she hated it.
'It gets right inside my clothes--all gritty.' She wriggled
distressfully. 'And my shoes are quite full of it. I want to go home to
lunch, but mother won't. Mother likes it, I believe.'
'The worst, I am afraid, may be still to come,' Mrs. Venables murmured.
'They say we may expect a terrible night. There are sinister omens....'
'Oh, it is a rotten place,' said Miranda, disgusted.
It grew to be so, more and more, through the day. Tommy met Betty for
lunch, then continued his impression-seeking, coated from head to foot
in black dust. They arranged to be in for supper at eight. Betty was not
surprised when Tommy failed to appear; there was so much of increasing
interest going on. Instead, Gina Lunelli came in, seeking cheerful
society because she was horribly afraid, with the abandoned physical
terror of large, full-blooded people. The Crevequers always cheered one,
made one laugh; she sought them, therefore, and found Betty alone,
waiting for supper.
Supper restored Gina a little; she became more cheerful, though still
observing that there seemed every probability of the world coming to an
end in the course of the night.
'The way it blazes--Madre Dio! And the ashes that choke one! And this
horrible storm! And Tommy--he's out in it!'
'Oh, Tommy's all right.'
Gina shrugged her broad shoulders.
'What with the storm, and the ashes they're shovelling in great heaps
off the roofs, and the wild people there are about, and no one to keep
order, and the convulsion of the earth.... But who knows? We must hope
for the best, and the saints are good.'
Later on in the evening there actually was a slight convulsion of the
earth. It shook the furniture and made a rattling, and caused Gina to
have a fit of hysteria, and sent her running out into the street,
notwithstanding the storm, averring that she would on the whole prefer
to be slain by lightning than by a collapsing roof.
Betty curled herself up in her chair and listened to the voices of the
night. It was about eleven o'clock then--a black, wild night, full of
the storm. The earth growled back strange mutterings in answer to the
rumblings of the sky. It was as if all hell was loose, and playing about
Naples that night. The thunder-peals and the answering earth-growls grew
in reverberance, in sullen rage.
Betty wanted Tommy.
There might be many reasons, but there seemed on the face of it to be no
reason, why he should not have come in. He had probably been asked to
supper by some one. But he had said, for certain, that he would come
home.... Betty did not think that Tommy had lately been in a mood to
seek sociable evenings with friends.
Gina's terror, the wild night, the storm in the air, caught hold of
Betty with an insistent grip. The voice of the travailing earth played
on her strung nerves as if they had been banjo-strings. She smoked
cigarettes to still them; she tried to read, to ignore them.
A little after midnight the city shook with great definiteness. The room
quivered and rattled from floor to ceiling. Betty, after that, went out
into the streets, to see how things were, to meet other people, to find
Tommy, to escape her own society. The Crevequers were gregarious; they
on all occasions sought other people's society in preference to their
own.
Betty was in the fashion; every one seemed, upon that upheaval, to have
sought the open, more or less regardless of whether or not they were
clad suitably to face it. Some of them were not at all clad suitably;
they gave an impression of extreme haste. Close to Betty a stout lady in
a nightdress shivered, and clasped a whimpering pug in her arms.
There was an influx into the churches; there was crying and moaning and
telling of beads. An impromptu procession passed, bearing lighted
candles, and a wax San Gennaro lent from his altar by his _parocco_.
Meanwhile the mountain across the bay flung into the black night its
glowing masses. Above it hung an immense fiery pillar, blazing across
the dark, restless sea.
Vesuvius had not done yet.
Betty looked for Tommy.
She did not find him; she found instead Mrs. Venables, and thought, with
a vague, detached part of her mind, what an orgie this must be.
Mrs. Venables was not pleased with Betty, but the strikingness of the
present occasion seemed to unite them.
'Deeply impressive.... I suppose few of us have ever experienced such a
night.... I am going into the church.'
'I'm l-looking for Tommy,' Betty said mechanically, staring down the
street.
Mrs. Venables did not hear; she was borne away by the crowd, murmuring,
'The city of dreadful night,' the light of exaltation kindling her fine
plain face.
'But probably he's home by now,' Betty suddenly thought, and pressed a
way through the people to her own street, and climbed the black stairs
to the small room, where the lamp flickered dimly and nothing else
moved.
Betty huddled again into her own arm-chair, and rested her chin on her
drawn-up knees, and stared across at the empty chair opposite her. She
wanted Tommy; Tommy who would so have talked if he had been there--the
last more silent weeks had slipped from memory; Tommy, who was so often
late in returning, who might be occupied in so many ways during this
strange night, yet whose absence, nevertheless, grew with the hours to
have a sinister meaning, as well as an infinite solitary sadness.
The storm rolled over Naples.