THE BAY OF BUTTERFLIES 253 



is a murmur in Iceland may very well be a song 

 in Guiana. At any rate, my pen would have to 

 do only with words of singing catfish; yet from 

 butterflies to rock, to fish, all was logical looping 

 — mental giant-swings which came as relaxation 

 after hours of observation of unrelated sheer 

 facts. 



The singing cats, so my pen consented to write, 

 had serenaded me while I crossed the Cuyuni in 

 a canoe. There arose deep, liquid, vibrating 

 sounds, such as those I now heard, deep and 

 penetrating, as if from some submarine gong — a 

 gong which could not be thought of as wet, for it 

 had never been dry. As I stopped paddling the 

 sound became absolute vibration, the canoe itself 

 seemed to tremble, the paddle tingled in my 

 hands. It was wholly detached; it came from 

 whatever direction the ear sought it. Then, with- 

 out dying out, it was reinforced by another 

 sound, rhythmical, abrupt, twanging, filling the 

 water and air with a slow measure on four notes. 

 The water swirled beside the canoe, and a face 

 appeared — a monstrous, complacent face, such 

 as Bocklin would love — a face inhuman in pos- 

 sessing the quality of supreme contentment. 

 Framed in the brown waters, the head of the 



