HOMAGE
LUCINDA’S mental idiosyncrasy resisted any attempt at idealization; for
all that she had accused me of making the attempt. Though she would
not persist in cruelty, and would remove herself from the temptation
to it when once she had realized what it was, yet she could be, and
had been, cruel. In like manner she could be hard and callous, very
inaccessible to sentimentality, to that obvious appeal to the emotions
which takes its strength from our common humanity, with its common
incidents—its battle, murder, and sudden death—and so on. She did not
accept these things at their face value, or in what one may call their
universal aspect. In her inner mind—she was not very articulate, or at
all theoretical, about it—but in her inner mind she seemed to re-value
each of such incidents by an individual and personal standard which,
in its coolness and intellectual detachment, certainly approached what
most of us good human creatures—so ready to cry, as we are so ready
to laugh—would call a degree of callousness. There was a considerable
clear-sightedness in this disposition of hers, but also fully that
amount of error which (as I suppose) our own personality always
introduces into our judgments of people. We see them through our own
spectacles, which sometimes harden and sometimes soften the outlines
of the objects regarded—among which is included the wearer of the
spectacles.
She had loved Arsenio once; she had cleaved unto him with a fidelity to
which—in these days—her own word “primitive” must be allowed to be the
most obviously applicable; remorse had smitten her over her cruelty to
him. All the same, in a measure she erred about him, judging his love
solely by the standard of his conduct, his romance in the light of his
frivolity and shamelessness, his sensibility by his failure adequately
to understand a subtle and specialized sensibility in herself. That, at
least, was the attitude to which her years of association with him—now
intimate, now distant and aloof—had brought her. It was not, of course,
to be attributed in anything like its entirety to the girl whom he had
kissed at Cragsfoot, or whom he had loved at Venice, or carried off
from Waldo. Her final judgment of him was the result of what is called,
in quite another connection, a progressive revelation.
Thus it happened that his tragic death was—to put it moderately—no more
tragic to her than it was to me his friend rather by circumstances than
choice or taste, by interest and amusement more than by affection.
She took him at his word, so to say, and accepted the note of
ironical comedy which he himself was responsible for importing into
the occurrence. Keen-eyed for that aspect, and in a bitter way keenly
appreciative of it, she was blind to any other, and indeed reluctant to
try to see it—almost afraid that, even dead, he might befool her again,
still irremediably suspicious that he was deceiving her by lies and
posturings. As a result, she was really and truly—in the depths of her
soul—unmoved by the catastrophe, and not unamused by the trappings with
which Arsenio had be-draped it—or, rather, his previously rehearsed but
never actually presented, version of it.
For the outside observer—comparatively outside, anyhow—and for
the amateur of comedy and its material—human foibles, prejudices,
ambitions—there was amusement to be had. As soon as Lucinda’s decision
to renounce the inheritance—except the _palazzo_ which, as she
observed to me, had been honestly come by, and honestly preserved by
being let out in lodgings—Arsenio’s last will and testament became
an animated topic of the day—and a rather controversial one. The
clericals and their journals—Signor Panizzi’s black reactionaries and
pro-Austrians—paid lip-service to the ten thousand lire for masses,
but could not refrain from some surprise at the choice of trustees
which the lamented Don Arsenio—a good Catholic and of old noble
stock—had made (the trustees were all pestilent, as I had suspected);
while the other side—the patriots, the enlightened, the radicals,
the pestilents, while most gratefully acknowledging his munificence,
and belauding the eminent gentlemen to whom he had confided his
trust, pointed out with satisfaction how the spirit of progress and
enlightenment had proved too strong in the end even for a man of Don
Arsenio’s clerical antecedents and proclivities. As for Signor Panizzi,
both sides agreed that his finger had been in the pie; his position as
first and dominating trustee was for the one a formidable menace to,
and for the other a sufficient guarantee of, a wise, beneficial, and
honest administration of the fund.
Under the spur of this public interest and discussion, Don Arsenio’s
funeral assumed considerable dimensions, and was in fact quite
an affair—with a sprinkling of “Blacks,” a larger sprinkling of
“pestilents,” a big crowd of curious Venetian citizens, a religious
service of much pomp conducted by Father Garcia, followed at the
graveside (the priests and the “Blacks” having withdrawn with
significant ceremony) by a fiery panegyric from Signor Panizzi.
Altogether, when I next go to Venice, I shall not be surprised to see a
statue of Arsenio there; I hope that the image will wear a smile on its
face—a smile of his old variety.
Lucinda did not attend the ceremony; it would have been too much
for her feelings—for some of her feelings, at all events. But to my
surprise I saw Godfrey Frost there. I had been thrust, against my
will, into the position of one of the chief mourners; he kept himself
more in the background, and did not join me until the affair was
finished. Then we extricated ourselves from the crowd as soon as we
could, and made our way back together, ending up by sitting down to a
cup of coffee on the Piazza. I had seen and heard nothing of him since
his disordered exit from my apartment, just before the catastrophe. I
had indeed been inclined to conclude that he had left Venice and, not
thinking that his condolences would be well received, had left none
behind him. But here he was—and in a gloomy and disgruntled state of
mind, as it seemed. He had been thinking things over, no doubt—with the
natural conclusion that he had not got much profit or pleasure out of
the whole business, out of that acquaintance with the Valdez’s, which
he had once pursued so ardently.
“I didn’t choose to seem to run away,” he told me, “in case there was
any investigation, or a trial, or anything of that kind. Besides”—he
added this rather reluctantly—“I had a curiosity to see the last of the
fellow. But they tell me I shan’t be wanted, as things have turned out,
and I’m off to-morrow—going home, Julius.”
There was evidently more that he wanted to say. I smoked in silence.
“I don’t want to see Lucinda—Madame Valdez,” he blurted out, after a
pause. “But I wish you’d just say that I’m sorry if I annoyed her. I’ve
made a fool of myself; I’m pretty good at business; but a fool outside
it—so far, at least. I don’t understand what she was up to, but—well,
I’m willing to suppose——”
I helped him out. “You’re willing to give a lady the benefit of the
doubt? It’s usual, you know. I’ve very little doubt that she’ll make
friends with you now, if you like.”
He turned to me with a smile, rather sour, yet shrewd. “Would you think
that good enough yourself?”
At first I thought that he was questioning me as to the state of my own
affections. But the words which he immediately added—in a more precise
definition of his question—showed that he was occupied with his own
more important case. “In my place—situated as I am, you know?”
As a result of shock, or of meditation thereupon, or of contemplation
of the lamentable life and death of Arsenio Valdez, Mr. Godfrey Frost
was becoming himself again! I do not think that the Wesleyan strain
had anything to do with the matter at this stage. It was the Frost
business instinct that had revived, the business view. Godfrey might
have counted the world well lost for Lucinda’s love—at all events, well
risked; business-risked, so to put it. But not for the mere friendship,
the hope of which I had held out to him. “In my place—situated as I
am.” The phrases carried a good deal to me, a tremendous lot to him.
The world—such a world as his—was not to be lost, or bartered, for
less than a full recompense. After all, whoever did talk of losing
his world for friendship? Most people think themselves meritorious
if they lose a hundred pounds on that score. And Godfrey had in all
likelihood—the precise figures were unknown—already dropped a good
deal more than that, and had taken in return little but hard words and
buffeting. No wonder the Frost instinct looked suspiciously at any
further venture! Not of actual money, of course; that stood only as a
symbol; and to be even an adequate symbol would have required immense
multiplication. If a symbol were to be used in any seriousness, the old
one served best—the old personification of all that he, in an hour of
urgent impulse, had been willing to lose or to risk for Lucinda.
“Well, my dear fellow,” I said urbanely, “there were always
circumstances, to which we needn’t refer in detail, that made any
intimate acquaintance between you and the Valdez’s—well, difficult.
Affectation to deny it! I’ve even felt it myself; of course in a minor
degree.”
“Why a minor degree?” he asked rather aggressively. “If I’m Nina’s
cousin, you’re Waldo’s!”
“There’s all the difference,” I said decisively, though I was not at
all prepared to put the difference into words. However, I made a weak
and conventional effort: “Old Waldo’s so happy now that he can’t bear
any malice——”
He cut across the lame inadequacy of this explanation (not that there
wasn’t a bit of truth in it).
“I’m damned rich,” he observed moodily, “and everybody behaves to me as
if I was damned important—except you and the Valdez’s, of course. But
I’m not free. Let’s have a liqueur to wash down that coffee, shall we?”
I agreed, and we had one. It was not a moment to refuse him creature
comforts.
“I’m part of the concern,” he resumed, after a large sip. “And jolly
lucky to be, of course—I see that. But it limits what one may call
one’s independence. It doesn’t matter a hang what you do, Julius (This
to me, London representative of Coldston’s!)—Oh, privately, I mean,
of course. But with me, private life—well, family life, I mean—and
business are so infernally mixed up together. Nina can’t absolutely
give me the sack, but it would be infernally inconvenient not to be on
terms with her.” He paused, and added impressively: “It might in the
end break up the business.”
One might as well think of breaking up the great Pyramid or Mount
Popocatepetl! Too large an order even for an age of revolution!
“But you and Nina have nothing to quarrel about,” I
expostulated—dishonestly.
He eyed me, again smiling sourly. “Oh, come, you know better than
that!” his smile said, though his tongue didn’t. “And, besides, it
would upset that idea that she and I talked over, and that rather
particularly attracted me. I think I spoke to you about it? About
Cragsfoot, you know.”
“Have you heard from Lady Dundrannan lately?” I inquired.
“No—not since I left the Villa.” He made this admission rather sulkily.
“Ah, then you’re not up-to-date! Cragsfoot’s all arranged. I’m to have
it.” And I told him about the family arrangement.
Here I must confess to a bit of malicious triumph. The things envisaged
itself to me as a fight between Rillington and Frost, and Rillington
had won. Waldo’s old allegiance had resisted complete absorption. But
my feeling was—at the moment—rather ungenerous; he was a good deal
humbled already.
He took the disappointment very well. “Well, it was a fancy of mine,
but of course you ought to have the first call, if Waldo sells out. So
you’ll be living at Cragsfoot after Sir Paget’s death?” He appeared to
ruminate over this prospect.
“Yes—and I hope to be there a good deal of my time, even before that.”
“With Nina and Waldo for your neighbors at Briarmount?”
“Of course. Why not? What do you mean? I shall see you there too
sometimes, I hope.”
“I hope you’ll get on well with her.” He was smiling still, though in
a moody, malicious way—as one is apt to smile when contemplating the
difficulties or vexations of others. “You and your family,” he added
the next moment. And with that he rose from his chair. “No good asking
you to dine to-night, I suppose?” I shook my head. “No, you’ll have to
be on hand, of course! Well, good-by, then. I’m off early to-morrow.”
He held out his hand. “It’ll interest Nina to hear about all this.” He
waved his hand round Venice, but no doubt he referred especially to the
death and burial of the eminent Don Arsenio Valdez.
“Pray give her my best regards. Pave the way for me as a neighbor,
Godfrey!”
“Taking everything together, it’ll need a bit of smoothing, perhaps.”
He nodded to me, and strolled away across the Piazza.
His words had given me material for a half-amused, half-scared
reflection—the mood which the neighborhood of Lady Dundrannan—and
much more the possibility of any conflict with Lady Dundrannan—always
aroused in me. Sir Paget’s letter had reflected—in a humor slightly
spiced with restiveness—the present relations between Cragsfoot and
Briarmount. What would they be with me in residence, and presently in
possession? With me and my family there, as Godfrey Frost said? My
family which did not exist at present!
But I did not sit there reflecting. I paid for our
refreshments—Godfrey, in his preoccupation, had omitted even to offer
to do so—and went back to the _palazzo_. Old Amedeo waylaid me in
the hall and told me that Donna Lucinda had requested me to pay her
a visit as soon as I returned from the funeral; but he prevented me
from obeying her invitation for a few minutes. He was in a state of
exultation that had to find expression.
“Ah, what a funeral! You saw me there? No! But I was, of course. A
triumph! The name of Valdez will stand high in Venice henceforth! Oh, I
don’t like Panizzi and that lot, any more than Father Garcia does. My
sympathies are clerical. None the less, it was remarkable! Alas, what
wouldn’t Don Arsenio have done if he hadn’t been cut off in his youth!”
That was a question which I felt—and feel—quite incapable of answering,
save in the most general and non-committal terms. “Something
astonishing!” I said with a nod, as I dodged past the broad barrier of
Amedeo’s figure and succeeded in reaching the staircase.
Right up to the top of the tall old house I had to go this time—past
Father Garcia and his noble “Black” friends, past the scene of the
banquet and the scene of the catastrophe. I think that Lucinda must
have been listening for my steps; she opened the door herself before I
had time to knock on it.
She was back in the needlewoman’s costume now—her black frock, with
her shawl about her shoulders. Perhaps this attire solved the problem
of mourning in the easiest way; or perhaps it was a declaration of
her intentions. I did not wait to ask myself that; the expression of
her face caught my immediate attention. It was one of irrepressible
amusement—of the eager amusement which seeks to share itself with
another appreciative soul. She caught me by the hand, and drew me
in, leading me through the narrow passage to the door of her sitting
room—much of a replica of Arsenio’s on the floor below, though the
ceiling was less lofty and the windows narrower.
Then I saw what had evoked the expression on her face. Between the
windows, propped up against the discolored old hangings on the wall,
stood the largest wreath of _immortelles_ which I have ever seen on or
off a grave, in or out of a shop window; and, occupying about half of
the interior of the circle, there was a shield, or plaque, of purple
velvet—Oh, very sumptuous!—bearing an inscription in large letters of
gold:
“To the Illustrious Donna Lucinda Valdez and to the Immortal Memory
of the Illustrious Señor Don Arsenio Valdez, the City and Citizens of
Venice offer Gratitude and Homage.”
“Isn’t it—tremendous?” whispered Lucinda, her arm now in mine.
“It certainly is some size,” I admitted, eyeing the creation ruefully.
“No, no! The whole thing, I mean! Arsenio himself! Oh, how I should
like to tell them the truth!”
“The funeral too was—tremendous,” I remarked. “But I suppose Amedeo’s
told you?”
“Yes, he has! Also Father Garcia, who paid me a visit of condolence.
And a number of Arsenio’s noble friends have sent condolences by
stately, seedy menservants. Oh, and those trustees have left their
cards, of course! Panizzi and the others!”
All this time we had been standing arm in arm, opposite the portentous
monument of grief, gratitude, and homage. Now Lucinda withdrew her hand
from my arm, and sank into a chair.
“I’m having fame thrust upon me! I’m being immortalized. The munificent
widow of the munificent Arsenio Valdez! I’m becoming a public
character! Oh, he is having his revenge on me, isn’t he? Julius, I
can’t stand it! I must fly from Venice!”
My attention stuck on the monstrous wreath. “What are you going to do
with that?”
“I wonder if there would ever be a dark enough night to tie a flat-iron
to it, steal out with it round our necks, and drop it in the Grand
Canal!” Lucinda speculated wistfully.