Life has no labyrinth but one's steps can track it, and mind acts on
mind though bodies be far divided.
Following the strange sensation that crept upon me while examining that
half-faded, uneven screed came a complete blank. My muscles were
paralysed, my breathing difficult, my throat contracted, and my
manhood's energy utterly sapped, until I was helpless as a child. It
seemed as though the unseen power had touched me with the finger of
death, and I had withered and fallen.
Yet slowly and painfully I struggled back to a sense of my hapless
position, and on opening my eyes, sore in their sockets, I found, to my
amazement, that I was lying in a heap on the carpet beside my overturned
chair, my head close to the carved leg of my writing-table. The light
dazzled me, and I quickly became aware that I was lying full in the
morning sunshine which streamed in at the open window.
I had fallen from my chair and remained insensible the whole night.
Nello had not discovered me, as I had dismissed him, wishing to be
alone.
In Tuscany it is light early in summer, and the July sun soon gathers
power. I glanced at the clock, and saw that it was already a quarter to
five.
Outside, a fisherman was singing a gay song as he unloaded his boat, and
children were already shouting as they bathed in the sunlit water; but
the brightness in the world beyond only jarred upon me, soured and
embittered man that I was. Could that curious sensation be a precursory
sign of some terrible malady--epilepsy or paralysis, perhaps?
I struggled to my feet and stood beside the table, dazed, unbalanced,
and so weak of limb that my legs could scarcely bear me. I felt as
though I had just risen from a sick-bed after months of suffering.
The book lay open at the final page whereon the writer of the record,
Godfrey Lovel, had inscribed his name and date as already reproduced
here. My thoughts ran back to the moment when I had experienced that
sudden seizure, and I recollected how interested I had been in the few
lines I had succeeded in deciphering.
The unmistakable paralysis that had stricken me down at the very moment
my curiosity was aroused was certainly alarming, and even mysterious,
especially after the prior's hints as to the evil that would pursue me
if I determined to continue in possession of that fine old volume.
The fat priest's words recurred to me with a deep and hidden meaning,
and I admit that my spirit was mightily disturbed. It seemed that I had
raised a foe where I might have won a friend.
I locked the book away in my safe, and went forth upon the balcony and
breathed the fresh air of morning. Across the sparkling waters of the
tideless sea the islands stood grey and mysterious in the blue haze,
Gorgona, peopled only by its convict-gangs, showing most distinctly of
all. A veil of mystery seemed to have fallen upon everything--upon all
save a mighty battleship, with black smoke belching from her three
yellow funnels and flying the white ensign of England as she approached
an anchorage outside the port.
A desire for fresh air seized me; therefore, feeling faint, I took a
liqueur glass of neat brandy, and then descended to the big marble
entrance-hall that always echoed so dismally to my lonely footsteps.
Recollect that I was a man without kith or kin, self-exiled for private
reasons over which I had been unable to exercise control, and although
living among a people that I loved because of their sympathy and charm,
I was yet homesick for England and suffering from the nostalgia that
those whose lot it is to spend their lives abroad know, alas! too well.
Outside I took the old sea-road--that shadeless road that runs with so
many windings away along the edge of the deadly Maremma and on to Rome.
I walked it often, for it led out along the edge of the brown cliffs
through a wild and uninhabited tract of country, a district which until
ten years ago had been dangerous on account of a band of lawless
brigands. The latter had, however, all been exterminated by the
carabineers, and the loneliness of the country suited well my frame of
mind.
I met no one save an old barefooted fishwife whom I knew, trudging
onward with her basket poised on her head. So I lit my pipe and gave
myself up to reflection, trying to account for my strange seizure. I
hesitated to consult a doctor, for I entertained an Englishman's want of
faith in the Italian _medico_. I longed to be able to consult my own
doctor in London, and ask his opinion whether the strange stupor were an
actual warning.
Although Italy possesses such distinct charm; although Tuscany was the
home of my youth; although I had hosts of friends among the fishermen
and honest _contadini_ about me; although my friends at the white old
monastery away among the olives on the side of the Black Mountain were
always warm in their welcome and eager to render me the very smallest
and humblest service, yet I was suddenly tired of it all. Sweet as were
the pleasures of Tuscany, as Byron, Shelley, Smollett, and George Eliot
had found, yet I was English, and England was my home.
I threw myself down on the grass of the cliff-top and thought it all
out. Through seven long years I had led that life of utter loneliness,
returning to London only for a fortnight or so each year, and then sadly
leaving Charing Cross again for another twelve months of exile. I had
my work, the writing of romance, to absorb my attention, it was true;
but the writer of novels must live in congenial surroundings, otherwise
the influence of a solitary life must show in his work.
Letters I had received from home during the past few days showed, too,
that there was really no further reason why I should not return and live
in England among my friends; therefore, after long reflection and
carefully considering the whole question, I at length made up my mind to
pack up my collection of pictures, old furniture, manuscripts, and
antiques, and remove them to some country home in England.
I have a habit of acting with precipitation. My father, full of
old-fashioned caution, used to chide me for it. In his day there was no
such thing as smartness. But in the profession, as in business,
old-fashioned stolidity has now passed away. Today, if one sees the
legend, "Established 1792," over a shop, one avoids it, knowing that its
proprietor is not content with up-to-date small profits. Time was when
the solid professional or business man was as black-coated and serious
as an undertaker; but it is all of the past. The smart, speculative
man, who acts promptly and has the courage of his own convictions, is
the man who succeeds in the present scramble for daily bread. In every
walk of life one must keep abreast of the flood; hence, with my mind
made up, I entered the consulate at eleven o'clock and announced my
immediate departure to my old friend and confidant, Jack Hutchinson, one
of the most popular of his Majesty's representatives abroad, and whose
name with every skipper up and down the Mediterranean is synonymous with
geniality of manner and kindliness of heart.
When I sank into a chair in his private room and announced to him that I
was going his face fell. I knew well that he had no other English
friend there, and my departure would leave him utterly alone. He was an
exile, like myself; only, there was for him a comfortable pension at the
end of it.
"Well," he exclaimed after a moment, "I'm awfully sorry you're going, my
dear old fellow--awfully sorry. But I think you are acting wisely.
You've been here too long, and have grown misanthropic. A little London
life will take you out of yourself. Besides, of late you've been
working far too hard."