The prior mopped his round face again with his red handkerchief, and
taking a key from his pocket fumbled at the lock of the small and
old-fashioned safe, after some moments producing the precious manuscript
for my inspection.
It proved to be a thick folio, bound in its original oaken boards
covered with purple leather that had faded and in parts disappeared.
For further protection there were added great bosses of tarnished brass,
usual in fifteenth-century bindings, but the wood itself was fast
decaying; the binding presented a sadly tattered and worn appearance,
and the heavy volume seemed held together mainly by its great brass
clasp.
He placed it before me on the table, and with eager fingers I undid the
clasp and opened it. As soon as my eyes fell upon the leaves of
parchment I recognised it to be a very rare and remarkable
fourteenth-century manuscript, and a desire at once seized me to possess
it.
Written by the monk Arnoldus of Siena, it was beautifully executed in
even Gothic characters, with red and blue initials, and ornamented with
a number of curious designs in gold and colours representing the seven
deadly sins. Upon the first page was a long, square initial in gold;
and although written with the contractions common at the time, I managed
to make out the first few lines in Latin as follows:
"Arnoldus Cenni de Senis, professus in monasterio Viridis vallis canon
regul. S. Augustini in Zonie silva Camerac. dioec. Liber Gnotosolitos
de septem peccatis mortalibus, de decem praeceptis, de duodecim
consiliis evangelicis, de quinque sensibus, de simbolo fidei, de septem
sacramentis, de octo beatitudinibus, de septem donis spiritus sancti, de
quatuor peccatis ad Deum clamantibus," etc.
Across the top of the first page, written in a cursive hand in brown ink
of a somewhat later date, was the inscription:
"Liber canonicor. regul. monasterii S. Maynulfi in Bodeke prope
Paderborn. Qui rapit hunc librum rapiant sua viscera corvi."
The introduction showed that the splendid manuscript had been written by
the old Sienese monk himself in the Abbey of Saint Paul at Groenendale.
The date was fixed by the "Explicit": "Iste liber est mei Fris Arnoldi
Cenni de Senis Frum ordis B'te Marie carmelo. Ouem ppria manu scripsi i
anno dni MoCCCoXXXIX. die. XXVIII. Maij. Finito libro Reseram' gra
Xo."
I really don't know why I became so intensely interested in the volume,
for the ornamentations were evidently by a Flemish illuminator, and I
had come across many of a far more meritorious character in the work of
the Norman scribes.
Perhaps it was owing to the quaintness of the design; perhaps because of
the rareness of the work; but more probably because at the end of the
book had been left fifty or so blank leaves, as was often the case in
manuscripts of that period, and upon them, in a strange and difficult
cursive hand, was inscribed a long record which aroused my curiosity.
As every collector of manuscripts knows, one sometimes finds curious
entries upon the blank pages of vellum books. In the days before the
art of printing was discovered, when the use of paper was not general,
and when vellum and parchment were costly, every inch of the latter was
utilise and a record meant to be permanent was usually written in the
front or back of some precious volume. Therefore, the sight of this
hundred pages or so of strange-looking writing in faded brown ink,
penned with its many downward flourishes, uneven and difficult as
compared with the remarkable regularity of the old monk's treatise upon
the Seven Sins, awakened within me an eagerness to decipher it.
Horaes, psalters, offices of the Virgin, and codexes of Saints
Augustine, Bernard, Ambrose, and the others are to be found in every
private collection; therefore it was always my object to acquire
manuscript works that were original. The volume itself was certainly a
treasure, and its interest was increased tenfold by those pages of
close, half-faded handwriting, written probably a century later, and
evidently in indifferent ink to that used by the old monk.
"Well, signore," inquired the prior after I had been bending over the
ancient volume for some minutes in silence, "what is your opinion? You
are of course an expert. I am not. I know nothing about manuscripts."
His frankness was pleasing. He did not seek to expound its merits or to
criticise without being able to substantiate his statements.
"A most interesting codex," I declared, just as openly. "I don't
remember ever having met with Arnoldus before; and, as far as I can
recollect, Quain does not mention him. How did it come into your
possession?"
Landini was silent. His huge, round face, so different from the
pinched, grey countenances of most priests, assumed a mysterious look,
and his lips pursed themselves up in an instant. I noticed his
hesitation, and, recollecting that he had told me how many people in the
neighbourhood came to him in secret and sold him their most treasured
possessions, saw that my question was not an exactly fair one. Instead
of replying, he merely remarked that if I desired to acquire the volume
he was open to an offer. Then he added:
"I think, my dear signore, that when we become better acquainted we
shall like each other. Therefore I may as well tell you at once that,
in addition to the holy office which I hold, I deal in antiques.
Probably you will condemn me, just as half Florence has already done.
But surely it is no disgrace to the habit I wear? From the sacriligious
Government I receive the magnificent stipend of one thousand lire [forty
pounds] annually;" and he laughed a trifle bitterly. "Can a man live on
that? I have both father and mother still living, dear old souls!
Babbo is eighty-one, and my mother seventy-eight; they live out at the
five ways in the Val d'Ema, in the old farmhouse where I was born. With
the profits I make on dealing in antiques I manage by great economy to
keep them and myself, and have just a trifle to give to the deserving
poor in my parish. Do _you_ blame me, signore?"
How could I? His charming openness, so like the Tuscan priest, and yet
so unlike the Tuscan tradesman, gave me an insight into his true
character. The extreme simplicity of his carpetless, comfortless house,
the frayed shabbiness of his cassock, and the cracked condition of his
huge buckled shoes all spoke mutely for a struggle for life. Yet, on
the other hand, his face was that of a supremely contented man. His
collection was such that if sold at Christie's it would fetch many
thousands of pounds; yet, an antiquary himself, he clung, it seemed, to
a greater portion of it, and would not part with many of his treasures.
I told him that I had admiration rather than reproach at his turning
dealer, when he frankly explained that his method of selling was not to
regard the marketable value of an object, but to obtain a small profit
upon the sum he gave for it.
"I find that this method works best," he said, "for by it I am able to
render a service to those in straitened circumstances, and at the same
time gain sufficient for the wants of my family. Of the real value of
many things I am utterly ignorant. This manuscript, for instance, I
purchased for a hundred francs. If you give me a hundred and
twenty-five, and you think it is worth it, I shall be quite contented.
Does the price suit you?"
Suit me! My heart leaped to my mouth. If he had suggested fifty pounds
instead of five I should have been prepared to consider it. Either
Quaritch in London, Rosenthal in Munich, or Olschki in Florence would, I
felt certain, be eager to give at the least a hundred pounds for it.
Such manuscripts were not offered for sale every day.
"The price is not at all high," I answered. "Indeed, it is lower than I
expected you would ask; therefore the book is mine." And taking my
wallet from my pocket, I counted out and handed to him a dozen or so of
those small, well-thumbed notes that constitute the paper currency of
Italy, for which he scribbled a receipt upon a scrap of waste-paper
which he picked up from the floor--a fact which showed him to be as
unconventional as he was frank and honest in his dealing.
Dealers in any branch of antiques, whether in pictures, china,
furniture, or manuscripts, are--except well-known firms--for the most
part sharks of the worst _genus_; hence it was pleasant to make a
purchase with such charming openness of purpose.
When he handed me the receipt, however, I thought I detected a strange,
mysterious look upon his big, beaming countenance as he said, "I thank
you, my dear Signor Kennedy, for your patronage, and I hope that you
will never regret your purchase--never."
He seemed to emphasise the words in a tone unusual to him. It flashed
across my mind that the manuscript might, after all, be a clever German
forgery, as a good many are, and that its genuineness had already been
doubted. Yet if it were, I felt certain that such a man would never
disgrace his office by knowingly deceiving me.
Still, the mystery of his manner puzzled me, and I am fain to confess
that my confidence in him became somewhat shaken.
His refusal to tell me anything of the ugly old hunchback whose orders
he had obeyed in showing me the book, and his disinclination to tell me
whence he had procured it, were both curious circumstances which
occupied my mind. It also occurred to me as most probable that Graniani
was merely an agent of the clerical antique-dealer, which accounted for
his pockets being ever filled with precious manuscripts, bits of
valuable china, miniatures, an such-like odds and ends.
Nevertheless, if the "Book of Arnoldus" were actually genuine I had
secured a gem at a ridiculously low price. I did not for one moment
doubt its authenticity; hence a feeling of intense satisfaction overcame
everything.
He showed me several other manuscripts, including a fifteenth-century
Petrarca _De Vita Solitaria_, an illuminated Horae of about the same
date, and an _Evangelia quatuor_ of a century earlier; but none of them
attracted me so much as the heavy volume I had purchased.
Then, at my request, he took me along the dark corridor and through a
side-door into the fine old church, where the light was dim and in
keeping with the ancient, time-mellowed Raphaels and the dull gilding of
ceiling and altar. The air was heavy with incense, and the only sound
beyond the echo of our footsteps was the impudent chirp of a stray bird
which had come in for shelter from the scorching sun. It was an ancient
place, erected in 1089 by the Florentines to commemorate their victories
on August sixth, the day of San Sisto.
For more than twenty years I had not entered there. I recollect going
there in my youth, because I was enamoured of a dark-eyed little
milliner from the via Dante who attended mass regularly. The past arose
before me, and I smiled at that forgotten love of my ardent youth. The
prior pointed out to me objects of interest not mentioned in the red
guide-books, they being known to him alone. He showed me the splendid
sculptured tombs of the noble houses of Cioni and of Gherardesca,
whereon lay the armoured knights in stone; the Madonna of Fra
Bartolommeo; the curious frescoes in the sacristy, and other objects
which to both of us were interesting; then, taking me back through his
house, we passed out into the tangled, old-world garden--a weedy,
neglected place, with orange and fig trees, broken moss-grown statuary,
and a long, cool loggia covered with laden vines.
Together we sat upon a bench in the welcome shadow, and at our feet the
lizards darted across those white flagstones hollowed by the tread of
generations. Father Bernardo took the long Tuscan cigar which I offered
him; and, on his calling old Teresa to bring a candle, we both lit up,
for the ignition of a "Virginia" in Italy is, as you know, an art in
itself. He confided to me that he loved to smoke--the only indulgence
he allowed himself--and then, as we lolled back, overcome by the heat
and burden of the day, we discussed antiques, and he told me some
strange stories of the treasures that had on various occasions passed
through his hands to the national galleries or the wealthy American
visitors.
A dozen times I tried to obtain from him the history of the fine old
parchment codex I had just bought, but without avail. He made it a
rule, he told me frankly, never to divulge from whom he obtained the
objects he had to sell, and had he _not_ been a cleric I should really
have suspected him of being a receiver of stolen property.
Old Teresa, in blue apron and shuffling over the stones, returned to her
master presently, informing him that someone was waiting for confession;
therefore my friend, excusing himself, flung away his cigar, crossed
himself, and hurried back to his sacred duty. He was a strange man, it
was true; charming, yet at moments austere, reserved, and mysterious.
Alone, still smoking, I sat where he had left me. Opposite, the
overgrown garden with its wealth of fruit and flowers was bounded by the
ancient stucco wall of the church, around which, in a line above the
windows, ran a row of beautiful della Robbia medallions hidden from the
world.
When I had remarked upon their beauty to Landini he had sighed, saying:
"Ah, signore, if I only might sell them and pay for the restoration of
my church! Each one is worth at least a thousand pounds sterling, for
they are even finer specimens than those upon the Foundling Hospital.
The Louvre Museum in Paris offered me a year ago twenty thousand francs
for the one to the right over there in the corner." Yes; the old place
breathed an air of a bygone age--the age of the Renaissance in Italy--
and I sat there musing as I smoked, trying to fathom the character of
the ponderous, heavy-breathing man who had that moment entered the
confessional, and wondering what could be his connection with Francesco
Graniani.
Across, straight before me, was a small, square, latticed window of old
green glass, near which, I knew, stood the confessional-box; and
suddenly--I know not why--my eye caught it, and what I noticed there
riveted my attention.
Something showed white for a single instant behind the glass, then
disappeared. But not, however, before I recognised that some person was
keeping secret watch upon my movements, and, further, that it was none
other than the forbidding-looking little hunchback of Leghorn.
In Italy one's suspicion is easily aroused, and certainly mine was by
that inexplicable incident. I determined then and there to trust
neither Graniani nor his clerical friend. Therefore, with a feeling of
anger at such impudent espionage, I rose, re-entered the prior's house,
and walked up the dark passage to the study, intending to obtain the
precious volume for which I had paid, and to wish my host a hurried
adieu.
On entering the darkened study, however, I discovered, somewhat to my
surprise, a neat-waisted, well-dressed lady in black standing there,
evidently waiting, and idling the time by glancing over the vellum pages
of my newly acquired treasure.
I drew back, begging her pardon for unceremonious intrusion, but she
merely bowed in acknowledgment. Her manner seemed agitated and nervous,
and she wore a veil, so that in the half-light I could not well
distinguish her features.
She was entirely in black, even to her gloves, and was evidently the
person to whom Father Bernardo had been called, and after confession had
passed through the little side-door of the church in order to consult
him upon some matter of extreme importance, the nature of which I could
not possibly divine. In all this I scented mystery.