When a man secures a bargain, be it in his commerce or in his hobbies,
he always endeavours to secure a second opinion. As I hurried across to
hug the shadow of the Palazzo Pandolfini I glanced at my watch, and
found that I had still an hour and a half before the _treno lumaca_, or
snail-train, as the Florentines, with sarcastic humour, term it, would
start down the Arno valley for Leghorn. Therefore I decided to carry my
prize to Signor Leo Olschki, who, as you know, is one of the most
renowned dealers in ancient manuscripts in the world, and whose shop is
situated on the Lung Amo Acciajoli, close to the Ponte Vecchio. Many
treasures of our British Museum have passed through his hands, and among
bibliophiles his name is a household word.
Fortunately I found him in: a short, fair-bearded, and exceedingly
courteous man, who himself is a lover of books although a dealer in
them. Behind those glass cases in his shop were some magnificent
illuminated manuscripts waiting to be bought by some millionaire
collector or national museum, and all around from floor to ceiling were
shelves full of the rarest books extant, some of the _incunabula_ being
the only known copies existing.
I had made many purchases of him; therefore he took me into the room at
the rear of the shop, and I displayed my bargain before his expert eyes.
In a moment he pronounced it a genuine Arnoldus, a manuscript of
exceeding rarity, and unique on account of several technical reasons
with which it is useless to trouble those who read this curious record.
"Well, now, Signor Olschki, what would you consider approximately its
worth?"
The great bibliophile stroked his beard slowly, at the same time turning
over the evenly-written parchment folios.
"I suppose," he answered, after a little hesitation, "that you don't
wish to sell it?"
"No. I tell you frankly that I've brought it here to show you and ask
your opinion as to its genuineness."
"Genuine it is no doubt--a magnificent codex. If I had it here to sell
I would not part with it under twenty-five thousand francs--a thousand
pounds."
"A thousand pounds?" I echoed, for the price was far above what I had
believed the manuscript to be worth.
"Rosenthal had one in his catalogue two years ago priced at sixteen
thousand francs. I saw it when I was in Munich, and it was not nearly
so good or well preserved as yours. Besides--this writing at the end:
have you any idea what it is about?"
"Some family record," I answered. "The usual rambling statements
regarding personal possessions, I expect."
"Of course," he answered. "In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries
they habitually disfigured their books in this way, as you know. It was
a great pity."
Having obtained the information I desired, I repacked my treasured tome
while he brought out several precious volumes for my inspection,
including a magnificent French _Psalteriolum seu preces pia cum
calendario_, with miniatures of the thirteenth century, which he had
catalogued at four hundred and fifty pounds; and an Italian _Psalterium
ad usum ord. S. Benedicti_, of two hundred leaves, written at Padua in
1428, that he had just sold to the National Museum at Berlin for fifteen
thousand marks. In addition to being an expert and dealer, he was a
true lover of books and manuscripts; and, knowing that my pocket would
not allow me to indulge in such treasures, he would often exhibit to me
his best volumes and gossip about them as every bibliophile will gossip,
handling them tenderly the while.
I caught my train and returned to the white villa facing the sea,
outside Leghorn, which was my bachelor home, entirely satisfied with my
visit to the Tuscan capital.
Three miles beyond the noisy seaport, close down where the clear waters
of the Mediterranean lazily lapped the shingly beach at the little
watering-place of Antignano, stood the square, sun-blanched house, with
its wide balcony, and its green sun-shutters now open to the soft breeze
that came across the water with the brilliant sundown. The faithful
Nello, my old Tuscan man-servant, who was cook, housekeeper, and valet
all in one, had been watching for my arrival; and as I rang at the big
iron gate before my garden the old fellow came hurrying to admit me,
with his pleasant bow and words of welcome on his lips:
"_Ben tornato, signore; ben tornato_."
I thanked him, carried my precious parcel to the study upstairs, and
then, descending again, ate hurriedly the dinner he placed before me,
anxious to examine my purchase.
My old servitor moved noiselessly in and out as I ate, fidgeting as
though he wished to speak with me. But I was looking through my
letters, and took but little notice of him. Italian servants are always
a nuisance, being too loquacious and too ready to offer opinions or
advice. I had suffered for years from a succession of unsatisfactory
men, until my friend Fra Antonio of the Capuchin monastery brought old
Nello to me. He had little in exterior appearance to recommend him, for
his countenance was that of a Mephistopheles, and his attire neglected
and shabby. He was an old soldier who had served Italy well in the days
of Garibaldi, and had for years been engaged as steward on board one of
the Prince line of steamers between Naples and New York.
Fra Antonio knew him well; therefore I took him on trial, and very
quickly discovered that even though he had a wife and family living high
up in one of the odorous back streets of Leghorn, to whom some of my
provisions secretly found their way, he was a treasure of a servant.
Although old in years, he was not decrepit. His physical strength often
amazed me, and after three years of service his devotion to me was often
remarked by my friends. His only vice was smoking; and as he consumed
the very rankest of tobacco, which clung about the house for days
afterwards, I had set apart an arbour in the garden beneath the vines
where he might poison the air whenever he wished.
Having dined, I ascended the wide marble staircase to my study, a big,
high room, with frescoed ceiling, that looked out across the open sea.
Houses are large and cheap in Italy--mine was far too large for a lonely
man like myself. There were half a dozen rooms into which I never
entered, and I opened my drawing-room only when I had visitors, for I
have a man's dislike for silk-covered furniture, mirrors, and standard
lamps.
The long windows of my study were open, and the place was at that moment
filled with the crimson afterglow. I stood upon the balcony and
breathed the pure air from the sea, delightfully refreshing after the
stifling heat of the day. Across, in the far distance, the islands of
Corsica, Capraja, and Gorgona loomed purple against the blood-red
sunset, while up from the beach the evening stillness was broken by a
young fisherman playing his mandolin and singing in a fine musical voice
the old love-song with that chorus which every one in Italy knows so
well:
"Amarti soltanto
Non basta al mio cor:
Io voglio parlarti,
Parlarti d'amor!"
Love! Ah! those words he sang brought back to me, an exile, all the
bitterness of the past--all the bitterness of my own love. A lump arose
in my throat when I recollected the might-have-been; but I crushed it
down just as I had done a hundred times before, and re-entered the room,
closing the windows to shut out the words of the song, and, sighing,
seated myself at my writing-table to occupy myself with the book I had
bought from the fat prior of San Sisto.
Old Nello--whose correct name was Lionello, although, as usual in
Tuscany, everyone had called him Nello ever since his birth, sixty years
ago--brought in my coffee and liqueur, setting it down at my elbow, and
afterwards crossed to reopen the window.
"I closed it, Nello," I snapped. "Don't open it. There's too much
confounded music outside."
"_Bene, signore_," he answered. "I forgot to say that the _signor
console_ called at four o'clock."
"And what did the consul want?" I inquired.
"He wishes to see you tomorrow to luncheon," was the old fellow's
response. "And, oh! I forgot--another man called to see the signore
only a quarter of an hour before his return--the _gobbo_; Graniani."
"Graniani!" I echoed. "And what did he want, pray?"
"To sell you some more old rubbish, I suppose," was Nello's blunt reply,
for he always looked upon my purchase of antiques as a terrible waste of
good money. "He said he would return later."
I was very surprised at this. He had probably returned to Leghorn by an
earlier train from Florence; but why he wished to see me after secretly
spying upon my movements I was at a loss to know. One must, however, be
clever to comprehend the ingenuity of the Italian, with all his
diplomatic smiles and ingenious subtleties.
"If he comes I will see him," I responded; adding, "Do you know, Nello,
I don't like that man."
"Ah, signore!" answered the old fellow, "you should never trust a
hunchback."
"But when I asked you about him you knew nothing to his detriment. I
look to you to make inquiries about such people."
"At the time I was in ignorance, signore," he said apologetically; "but
I have learned several things since."
"Things that are not very creditable, eh?" I asked, regarding his
weird, almost grotesque figure in ill-fitting black coat and crumpled
shirt-front.
He hesitated as though unwilling to tell me the whole truth. He was
always reserved regarding any person of bad character, and, generally
speaking, a Tuscan never cares to denounce his compatriots to a
foreigner.
"If I were you, signore," he said, "I'd have nothing to do with any
_gobbo_."
"But I've bought several good manuscripts from him," I argued.
"The signore must please himself," he remarked. "I have warned him."
I really did not desire any warning, for the mysterious appearance of
the old hunchback's face at the church window was sufficient to cause me
grave suspicion. But Nello for three years past had exercised a kind of
paternal care over me, seeming to regard with wonder that I could
scribble piles upon piles of paper and get paid for it. It was really
wonderful how I wrote roman, he often declared. He read two of them
translated into Italian and published serially in the _Tribuna_, and
kept the copies neatly tied in bundles, which he proudly showed to his
friends as the work of his _padrone_.
"Well, had I better see the _gobbo_?" I asked.
"No, signore, I would not," was his prompt advice. "He has no business
to come here. His place is in the piazza, and it is impudence to call
upon a gentleman."
"Then tell him I'm engaged. I'll want nothing more tonight. Don't
disturb me."
"_Benissimo, signore; buona notte_." And old Nello went softly out well
satisfied, leaving me to my coffee and my old manuscript.
I had not asked Nello to give his reason, because I knew that he would
refuse to be drawn. He was a clever old fellow, and would, in argument,
get the better of me.
So, the music having ceased, I reopened the window, and in the fading
light settled myself to a pleasant hour with my latest acquisition.
Further acquaintance with the splendid volume was not disappointing. It
was certainly a treasure; and having glanced casually at the coloured
miniatures and gilt initials, I turned to the first page of the record
written upon the blank pages at the end.
The cursive writing with its long flourishing was extremely difficult to
decipher, and the ink much inferior to that used by the old monk
Arnoldus, for it was faded and brown, having evidently been penned by
one who had no acquaintance with the Gothic or book-hand. The writing
was undoubtedly that of the early sixteenth century.
The first line I was able to make out read as follows:
_Qui scripsit scripta manus eius sit benedicta_, while, as far as I
could decipher it, the record ended in the following manner:
_Qui me scribebat Godefridus nomen habebat
Godefridus Lupellus
de Croylandia
me scripsit anno
domini 1542 in no
no die mensis
Janua rij_.
This final page was so ill-written and half-obliterated by a great
yellow damp-stain that I had not before noticed it. But by it my
curiosity became further aroused, for, translated into modern English,
it showed that the addition had been made to the book by one Godfrey
Lupellus or Lovel, of Crowland, in Lincolnshire, probably one of the
monks of that once celebrated Benedictine abbey which is now but a
magnificent pile of ruins familiar to many by photographs.
The discovery that it had been penned by a person living in England
caused me to set to work at once to learn what was written there, so I
took a sheet of plain paper, and, assisted by that valuable little work
of reference, the "Dictionary of Abbreviations," commenced to
disentangle slowly the calligraphical riddle before me.
The task was extremely difficult; and, whether from the heat of the
evening or owing to the fatigue I had undergone, I felt a curious,
indescribable sensation slowly creeping over me.
It commenced with small shooting pains that paralysed the muscles of my
jaws, gradually increasing in intensity. At first I believed that it
was merely a touch of neuralgia, until all in a moment a quick, sharp
pain shot down my spine, paralysing me so completely that I could
neither move nor utter a sound.
My head swam. My jaws were fixed. I tried to rise, but could not; I
tried to cry out for my faithful Nello, but my tongue refused to utter a
sound.
A curious drowsiness seized me, and I struggled against it vainly.
Never before had I experienced such a feeling. Then a second pain ran
down my back far more acute and excruciating than the first, and I
believe I must have fainted.
At any rate, all became an utter blank. The fat priest's solemn warning
was, it seemed, no idle one.