When my time came to leave Rome I set aside several days for the last
offices of piety, piety in the Roman sense. I wrote a note to Elizabeth
Grier arranging for a long late talk on the eve of my departure. There
are some questions I want to ask you, I said, which no one can answer.
Then I went to the Villino Wei Ho and sat for an hour with the
Cardinal's sister. The guinea fowl were less vocal than formerly and the
rabbits were still hobbling about the garden looking for a gleam of
violet. I went to Tivoli and peered through the iron gates of the Villa
Horace. Already it looked as though no one had lived there for years.
Mlle de Morfontaine had returned to her estates in France and was living
in the closest retirement. They said that she opened no letters, but I
wrote her a note of farewell. I even spent an afternoon in the stifling
rooms of the Palazzo Aquilanera, where Donna Leda imparted to me in
great confidence the news of her daughter's engagement. Apparently the
young man was unable to produce any cousins from among the draughty
courts of Europe; his family was merely Italian; but he owned a modern
palace. At last a bathroom was to make its appearance in the house of
Aquilanera. How time flies!
My most considerable observance was a trip to Marcantonio's grave. I
found it by the village cemetery near the Villa Colonna-Stiavelli.
Consecrated ground had been denied the boy, but in her bewilderment and
love the mother had contrived a false wall of stones and briars that
seemed to include his grave among those of souls that the Church felt
safe in recommending at the Judgment Day. Here I sat down and prepared
to think about him. I was perhaps the only person in the world who
understood what had brought him there. The last office of friendship
would be to think about him. But some birds were singing; a man and his
wife were cultivating the ground in the next field; the sunlight was
heavy. Hard as I tried I could not keep my thoughts on my friend; it was
not difficult to recall his features or to meditate about dissipation;
but really elegiac reflection escaped me, Marcantonio. I drove back to
Rome ashamed of myself. But it had been a delightful day in the country,
unforgettable June weather.
There was one association I could not renew; I could not go to see Alix.
Whenever I met her by chance the barrier of her lowered eyelids told me
that we would never have long talks again.
Closing the apartment was melancholy enough. Ottima and I spent hours in
packing, our heads bent over our boxes and full of our imminent
farewells. She was going back to her wine-shop at the corner. Long
before I bought a ticket she had begun to pray for those in peril on the
sea and to notice the windy days. After an exhausting struggle with
myself I decided to give her the police dog. Kurt's affections were
equally divided between us; in Europe or in America he would pine for an
absent friend. Ottima and Kurt would grow old together in a life filled
with exquisite mutual attentions. I could swear that before I went to
the hotel on that last night Kurt knew I was taking leave of him. There
was a grandeur I fell short of in the way he faced an inevitable
situation. He placed one paw on my knee and looked to the right and left
in deep embarrassment. Then lying down he placed his muzzle between his
paws and barked twice.
I found Elizabeth Grier at midnight sitting in the library that Blair
had catalogued. Her small neat head looked tired and after some
desultory conversation I made a move to go. She reminded me that I had
intended asking her some questions.
My questions are harder to put than to answer.
Try.
Miss Grier, did you know that you and your friends were called the
Cabala?
Yes, of course.
I shall never know such a company again. And yet there seems to be some
last secret about you that I've never been able to seize. Haven't you
anything to tell me that will show me what you all meant, how you found
one another, and what made you so different from anyone else?
Miss Grier took a few minutes off to think this over. She sat smiling
strangely and stroking with her fingertips the roots of her hair beside
her left temple. Yes, she said, but it will only make you angry if I
tell you. Besides it's very long.
It's not long, Miss Grier, but you will insist on making it long because
you hate to have your guests leave before dawn. However, I shall listen
to you for hours if you promise to throw some light on the Cabala and
the dinners at the Villa Horace.
Well, first you must know, Samuele, that the gods of antiquity did not
die with the arrival of Christianity.--What are you smiling at?
You're adorable. You have resolved to make your explanation last
forever. I asked about the Cardinal and you have gone back to Jupiter.
What become of the gods of antiquity?
Naturally when they began to lose worshipers they began to lose some of
their divine attributes. They even found themselves able to die if they
wanted to. But when one of them died his godhead was passed on to
someone else; no sooner is Saturn dead than some man somewhere feels a
new personality descending upon him like a strait-jacket, do you see?
Now, Miss Grier!