Meanwhile, St. Swithin has gallantly come to our aid. Well, here in Cleveland at least. His day has passed with the sort of indecision one expects from saints and weather alike: cloudy skies, some sun, but not even the faintest hint of rain. Are we now condemned to forty days of this?
If it does indeed remain dry, do we credit the saint? Conversely, if it rains every day for six weeks, will anyone hold it against St. Swithin? No, we are always charitable to the saints.
Of course, it will only take one feeble drizzle before midnight to unleash St. Swithin’s infamous curse: rain on this fateful day, and not one of the next forty will escape his damp dominion.
He has a French accomplice, St. Gervais, who also shares this dismal prophecy:
“Quand il pleut à la Saint-Gervais, il pleut quarante jours après.“1When it rains on Saint-Gervais, it rains forty days later.
But Saint Gervais is celebrated on June 19. Why are the two out of sync? Surely, saints should coordinate better. Their very own entente cordiale?
Doubt St. Swithin if you like. But doubt not that he is as precise in his forecasts as the so-called scientific meteorologists, whose predictions are comfortably vague and assure us only that any sort of weather may appear at any time, in any place. On your head be it.
- 1When it rains on Saint-Gervais, it rains forty days later.
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