Madam de Strahlenheim had a sister-in-law called Wilhelmina, who was
betrothed to a young man from Westphalia, Julius de Katzenellenbogen, a
volunteer in General Kleist's division. I am very sorry to have to
repeat so many barbarous names, but extraordinary episodes never happen
except to people with names which are difficult to pronounce.
Julius was a charming fellow, full of patriotic feeling and love of
metaphysics. He gave his portrait to Wilhelmina when he entered the army
and she gave him hers, which he wore next his heart. They do this sort
of thing in Germany.
On the 13th of September, 1813, Wilhelmina was at Cassel. She was
sitting in a room, about five o'clock in the afternoon, busy knitting
with her mother and sister-in-law. While she worked she looked at her
_fiancé's_ portrait, which was standing on a little table opposite to
her. Suddenly she uttered a terrible cry, put her hand on her heart and
fainted. They had the greatest difficulty in the world to bring her
back to consciousness, and, as soon as she could speak, she said--
"Julius is dead! He has been killed!"
She insisted that she had seen the portrait shut its eyes, and at the
same instant that she had felt a terrible pain as though a red-hot iron
had pierced her heart: her horror-struck countenance gave credence to
her words.
Everybody tried to show her that her vision was unreal and that she
ought to pay no attention to it. It was of no use. The poor child was
inconsolable; she spent the night in tears and wanted to go into
mourning the next day, as though quite convinced of the affliction which
had been revealed to her. Two days after news came of the bloody battle
of Leipzig. Julius wrote to his _fiancée_ a letter dated at three
o'clock p.m. on the 13th. He had not been wounded, but had distinguished
himself, and was just going into Leipzig, where he expected to pass the
night in the general's quarters, which were, of course, out of the range
of danger. This reassuring letter did not calm Wilhelmina, who noticed
that it had been written at three o'clock, and persisted in believing
that her beloved had died at five o'clock.
The unhappy girl was not mistaken. It was known that Julius had been
sent out of Leipzig with a despatch at half-past four, and that
three-quarters of a league from the town, beyond the Elster, a straggler
from the enemy's army, concealed in a trench, had fired and killed him.
The bullet pierced his heart and broke the portrait of Wilhelmina.
"And what became of the poor girl?" I asked Madam de Strahlenheim.
"Oh! she has been very ill. She is married now to a gentleman who is a
barrister in Werner, and, if you went to Dessau, she would show you
Julius's portrait."
"All that was done by the interposition of the devil," the Abbé broke
in, for he had only been half asleep during Madam de Strahlenheim's
story. "He who could make the heathen oracles speak could easily make
the eyes of a portrait move if he thought fit. Not twenty years ago an
Englishman was strangled by a statue at Tivoli."
"By a statue!" I exclaimed. "How did that come about?"
"He was a wealthy man who had been making excavations at Tivoli, and had
discovered a statue of the Empress Agrippina Messalina ... it matters
little which. Whoever it was he had it taken to his house, and by dint
of gazing at it and admiring it he became crazy. All Protestants are
more than half mad. He called it his wife, his lady, and kissed it,
marble as it was. He said that the statue came to life every evening for
his benefit. So true was this that one morning they found milord stone
dead in his bed. Well, would you believe it?--there was another
Englishman quite ready to purchase the statue. Now I would have had it
made into lime."
When once stories of the supernatural are let loose there is no stopping
them. Everybody contributed his share, and I too took part in this
collection of fearful tales; to such purpose that when we broke up we
were all pretty well scared and full of respect for the devil's power.
I walked back to my lodgings, and, to get into the Corso, I took a
little winding lane, down which I had not yet been. It was quite
deserted. I could see nothing but long garden walls, or some
mean-looking houses, none of which were lighted up. It had just struck
midnight, and the weather was threateningly dark. I was in the middle of
the street, walking very quickly, when I heard a slight noise above my
head, a st! and just at the same time a rose fell at my feet. I raised
my eyes and, in spite of the darkness, I saw a woman clothed in white,
at a window, with one arm stretched out towards me. Now we French show
to great advantage in a strange land, for our forefathers, the
conquerors of Europe, have cradled us in the traditions flattering to
national pride. I believed religiously in the susceptibility of all
German, Spanish, and Italian ladies at the mere look of a Frenchman. In
short, at that period I was still very much of a Frenchman, and,
besides, did not the rose tell its own tale plainly enough?
"Madam," I said in a low voice, as I picked up the rose, "you have
dropped your nosegay...."
But the lady had already vanished, and the window had been closed
noiselessly. I did what every other man would have done in my position:
I looked for the nearest door, which was two steps from the window; I
found it, and I waited to have it opened for me. Five minutes passed in
a profound silence; then I coughed, then I scratched softly, but the
door did not open. I examined it more carefully, hoping to find a lock
or latch; to my great surprise I found it padlocked.
"The jealous lover has not gone in yet, then," I said to myself.
I picked up a small stone and threw it against the window; it hit a
wooden outside shutter and fell at my feet.
"The devil!" I thought; "Roman ladies must be accustomed to lovers who
carry ladders in their pockets; no one told me of the custom."
I waited a few more moments, but fruitlessly. I thought once or twice I
saw the shutter shake lightly from the inside, as though someone wanted
to draw it aside to look into the street, but that was all. My patience
was exhausted at the end of a quarter of an hour. I lit a cigar and went
on my way, but not until I had carefully taken stock of the position
occupied by the padlocked house.
The next day, in thinking over this adventure, I arrived at the
following conclusions: A young Roman lady, probably a great beauty, had
noticed me in my expeditions about the town, and had been attracted by
my feeble charms. If she had declared her passion only by the gift of a
mysterious flower, it was because she was restrained by a becoming sense
of modesty, or perhaps she had been disturbed in her plans by the
presence of some duenna, maybe some cursed guardian like Bartolo de
Rosina. I decided to lay siege to the house which was inhabited by this
infanta.
With this fine idea in my head I left my rooms when I had first given my
hair a finishing touch and had put on my new coat and yellow gloves. In
this get-up, with my hat tilted over my ear and the faded rose in my
button-hole, I turned my steps toward the street whose name I did not
yet know, but which I had no difficulty in discovering. A notice stuck
on a Madonna told me it was called "Il viccola di Madama Lucrezia."
I was struck by this name at once, and recollected Leonardo da Vinci's
portrait, together with the stories of presentiments and witchcraft that
I had heard the evening before at the Marquise's. Then I remembered that
some matches are made in heaven. Why should not my love be named
Lucrezia? Why should she not be like the Lucrezia of the Aldobrandi
collection?
It was dawn. I was within two steps of a ravishing young lady, and no
sinister thoughts mingled with the emotion I felt.
I came to the house. It was No. 13. What an unlucky omen!... Alas! it
hardly answered to the idea of it that I had conceived by night. It was
certainly no palace, whatever else it might be. The walls surrounding it
were blackened with age and covered with lichen, and behind these were
some fruit trees badly eaten by caterpillars. In one corner of the
inclosure was a pavilion one story high, with two windows looking on to
the street; both were closed by old shutters furnished outside with a
number of iron bars. The door was low, and over it was an old coat of
arms almost worn away; it was shut, as on the previous night, by a large
padlock which was attached to a chain. Over the door was a notice
written in chalk, which read, "House to Let or to be Sold."
However, I had not made a mistake. The houses were too few for confusion
to be possible. It was indeed my padlock, and, furthermore, two rose
leaves on the pavement, near the door, indicated the exact spot where I
had received the evidences of love from my well-beloved, and they also
proved that the pavement in front of the house was rarely swept.
I asked several poor people in the neighbourhood if they could tell me
where the keeper of this mysterious house lived.
"Not anywhere here," they replied curtly.
My question seemed to displease those to whom I put it; and this piqued
my curiosity still further. Going from door to door I finished by going
into a kind of dark cave, where was an old woman, who might have been
suspected of witchcraft, for she had a black cat, and was cooking some
mysterious decoction in a cauldron.
"You want to see over the house of Madam Lucrezia?" she said. "I have
the key of it."
"All right. Show me over."
"Do you wish to take it?" she asked, smiling with a dubious air.
"Yes, if it suits me."
"It will not suit you; but, see, will you give me a _paul_ if I show it
you?"
"Most willingly."
Upon this assurance she rose slowly from her stool, unhooked a very
rusty key from the wall, and led me to No. 13.
"Why," I said, "do they call this the house of Lucrezia?"
"Why are you called a foreigner?" retorted the old woman, chuckling. "Is
it not because you _are_ a foreigner?"
"Certainly. But who was this Madam Lucrezia? Was she a Roman lady?"
"What! you come to Rome without knowing Madam Lucrezia? I will tell you
her history when we are inside. But here is another devilish trick! I do
not know what has come to this key--it will not turn. You try it."
Indeed, the padlock and the key had not seen each other for a long time.
Nevertheless, by means of three or four oaths and much grinding of my
teeth, I succeeded in turning the lock; but I tore my yellow gloves and
strained the palm of my hand. We entered upon a dark passage, which led
to several low rooms.
The curiously decorated ceilings were covered with cobwebs, under which
traces of gilding could dimly be seen. By the damp smell which pervaded
every room it was evident they had not been occupied for a long time.
There was not a single stick of furniture in them, only some strips of
old leather hung down the saltpetred walls. From the carving of some
consoles and the shape of the chimney-pieces I concluded that the house
dated from the fifteenth century, and it is probable that at one time it
had been tastefully decorated. The windows had little square panes of
glass, most of which were broken; they looked into the garden, where I
noticed a rose tree in flower, some fruit trees, and a quantity of
broccoli.
When I had wandered through all the rooms on the ground floor, I went
upstairs to the story from where I had seen my mysterious being. The old
woman tried to keep me back by telling me there was nothing to see and
that the staircase was in a very bad state. Seeing I was headstrong, she
followed me, but with marked aversion. The rooms on this floor were very
much like the others, only they were not so damp, and the floors and
windows also were in a better state. In the last room that I entered I
saw a large armchair covered with black leather, which, strangely
enough, was not covered with dust. I sat down in it, and finding it
comfortable enough in which to hear a story, I asked the old woman to
tell me the history of Madam Lucrezia; but, in order to refresh her
memory, I first gave her a present of several _pauls_. She cleared her
throat, blew her nose, and began the following story:--
"In heathen times, when Alexander was Emperor, he had a daughter, who
was as beautiful as the day. She was called Madam Lucrezia. Stop--there
she is!..."
I turned round quickly. The old woman was pointing to a carved console
which upheld the chief beam of the room. It was a very roughly carved
siren.
"Goodness!" went on the old woman, "how she loved to enjoy herself! And,
as her father found fault with her, she had this house built.
"Every night she left the Quirinal and came here to amuse herself. She
stood at that window, and when a fine cavalier, such as yourself,
Monsieur, passed by in the street, she called to him, and I leave you to
guess if he was well received. But most men are chattering magpies, and
they could have done her great harm by their babbling, so she took care
to guard herself. When she had made her adieu to her lover, her armed
attendants filled the staircase by which we came up. They despatched
you, and then buried you among the cabbages! Yes, many of their bones
are found in the garden!
"This establishment went on for a long time, but one evening her
brother, Sisto Tarquino, passed under the window. She did not recognise
him, and she called to him. He came up. In the dark all cats look grey,
and he was treated like all the others. But he had left his handkerchief
behind, and his name was upon it.
"Despair seized her as soon as she saw the mischief she had done. She
immediately unwound her garter and hung herself from that beam up there.
What an example for young people!"
While the old woman was thus confusing the ages, mixing up the Tarquins
with the Borgias, I had my eyes fixed on the flooring. I had discovered
several rose petals still quite fresh, which gave me plenty to think of.
"Who attends to this garden?" I asked the old woman.
"My son, Monsieur, gardener to M. Vanozzi, who has the next garden. M.
Vanozzi is always away in the Maremma; and he hardly ever comes to Rome.
That is why the garden is not very nicely kept. My son goes with him,
and I am afraid they will not come back for a very long time," she
added, with a sigh.
"He is busily employed, then, with M. Vanozzi."
"Oh, he is a queer man--busy over too many things. I am afraid he spends
his time in a bad way.... Ah, my poor boy!"
She took a step towards the door as though she wanted to change the
conversation.
"No one lives here, then?" I resumed, stopping her.
"Not a single creature."
"And why is that?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Listen to me," I said, as I gave her a piastre. "Tell me the truth. A
woman comes here."
"A woman? Good Lord!"
"Yes; I saw her yesterday evening and I spoke to her."
"Holy Mother!" cried the old dame, and she rushed to the staircase; "it
must be Madam Lucrezia! Let us go! let us go, Monsieur! They certainly
told me she walked here by night, but I did not wish to tell it you for
fear of injuring the landlord, because I thought you wished to rent it."
It was out of the question to keep her there; she hurried out of the
house, anxious, she said, "to light a candle in the nearest church."
I went out too, and let her go, hopeless of learning anything more from
her.
You will readily guess that I did not relate my adventures at the
Aldobrandi palace; the Marquise was too prudish, and Don Ottavio too
much taken up with politics to be a useful adviser in a love affair. But
I went to my artist friend, who knew Rome from end to end, and asked him
what he thought of it.
"I think you have seen the ghost of Lucrezia Borgia," he said. "What a
danger you have run into! She was dangerous enough when she was alive;
imagine how much more she must be now she is dead! It makes me shudder
to think of it."
"You are surely half joking?"
"So Monsieur is an atheist and a philosopher and does not believe in the
most orthodox explanations. Very well, then. What do you say to another
hypothesis? Suppose the old woman lets the house to women who are equal
to accosting men who pass by in the street; there are old women
sufficiently depraved to drive such a trade."
"Wonderful," I said. "Then I must look like a saint, for the old dame
never suggested any such offers. You insult me. Besides, my friend,
remember the furnishing of the house: a man must be possessed by the
devil to be satisfied with it."
"Then it is a ghost, there can be no doubt about it. But wait a bit, I
have still another idea. You have mistaken the house--ah! that is it;
near a garden? With a little low door to it.... Why, that is my dear
friend Rosina's! Eighteen months ago she was the ornament of that
street. It is true she has become blind in one eye, but that is a
trifle.... She still has a very lovely profile."
None of these explanations satisfied me. When evening came I walked
slowly past the house of Lucrezia, but I did not see anything. I went up
and down past it with no further result. Three or four evenings
followed, and I danced attendance under her windows as I went home from
the Aldobrandi palace, with ever the same want of success. I had begun
to forget the mysterious occupant of No. 13, when, passing towards
midnight through the lane, I distinctly heard a woman's light laugh
behind the shutter of the window at which the giver of the flowers had
appeared to me. Twice I heard that little laugh, and I could not prevent
feeling slightly afraid, when just at that moment I saw come out at the
other end of the street a group of penitents, closely hooded, with
tapers in hand, bearing a corpse to burial. When they had gone by I took
up my stand once more under the window; but this time I did not hear
anything. I tried to throw pebbles; and I even called out more or less
loudly; but still no one appeared; and, a heavy shower coming on, I was
obliged to beat a retreat.
I am ashamed to tell how many times I stood before that accursed house
without succeeding in solving the riddle that tormented me. Once only
did I pass along the Viccolo di Madama Lucrezia with Don Ottavio and his
ubiquitous Abbé.
"That is the house of Lucrezia," I said.