"Yes, it is beautiful! Irwin, my friend, leave us for a moment. I have
a few words to say to Signor Magnus----"
Toppi left and Signor Magnus opened wide his big sad eyes. I again
tried my steel on him, and bending forward closer to his dark face, I
asked:
"Have you ever observed _dear_ Magnus, the very striking resemblance
between your daughter, the Signorina Maria, and a certain--celebrated
personage? Don't you think she resembles the Madonna?"
"Madonna?" drawled out Magnus. "No, _dear_ Wondergood, I haven't
noticed that. I never go to church. But I fear you will be late. The
Roman fever----"
I again seized his white hand and shook it vigorously. No, I did not
tear it off. And from my eyes there burst forth again _those_ two
tears:
"Let us speak plainly, Signor Magnus," said I. "I am a straightforward
man and have grown to love you. Do you want to come along with me and
be the lord of my billions?"
Magnus was silent. His hand lay motionless in mine. His eyes were
lowered and something dark seemed to pass over his face, then
immediately to disappear. Finally he said, seriously and simply:
"I understand you, Mr. Wondergood--but I must refuse. No, I will not
go with you. I have failed to tell you one thing, but your frankness
and confidence in me compels me to say that I must, to a certain
extent, steer clear of the police."
"The Roman police," I asked, betraying a slight excitement. "Nonsense,
we shall buy it."
"No, the international," he replied. "I hope you do not think that I
have committed some base crime. The trouble is not with police which
can be bought. You are right, Mr. Wondergood, when you say that one
can buy almost any one. The truth is that I can be of no use to you.
What do you want me for? You love humanity and I detest it. At best I
am indifferent to it. Let it live and not interfere with me. Leave me
my Maria, leave me the right and strength to detest people as I read
the history of their life. Leave me my Campagna and that is all I want
and all of which I am capable. All the oil within me has burned out,
Wondergood. You see before you an extinguished lamp hanging on a wall,
a lamp which once--Goodbye."
"I do not ask your confidence, Magnus," I interjected.
"Pardon me, you will never receive it, Mr. Wondergood. My name is an
invention but it is the only one I can offer to my friends."
To tell the truth: I liked "Thomas Magnus" at that moment. He spoke
bravely and simply. In his face one could read stubbornness and
will. This man knew the value of human life and had the mien of one
condemned to death. But it was the mien of a proud, uncompromising
criminal, who will never accept the ministrations of a priest! For
a moment I thought: My Father had many bastard children, deprived of
legacy and wandering about the world. Perhaps Thomas Magnus is one of
these wanderers? And is it possible that I have met a _brother_ on
this earth? Very interesting. But from a purely human, business point
of view, one cannot help but respect a man whose hands are steeped in
blood!
I saluted, changed my position, and in the humblest possible manner,
asked Magnus's permission to visit him occasionally and seek his
advice. He hesitated but finally looked me straight in the face and
agreed.
"Very well, Mr. Wondergood. You may come. I hope to hear from you
things that may supplement the knowledge I glean from my books.
And, by the way, Mr. Toppi has made an excellent impression upon my
Maria"----
"Toppi?"
"Yes. She has found a striking resemblance between him and one of her
favorite saints. She goes to church frequently."
Toppi a saint! Or has his prayer book overbalanced his huge back and
the fishbone in his throat. Magnus gazed at me almost gently and only
his thin nose seemed to tremble slightly with restrained laughter.--It
is very pleasant to know that behind this austere exterior there is
so much quiet and restrained merriment!
It was twilight when we left. Magnus followed us to the threshold, but
Maria remained in seclusion. The little white house surrounded by the
cypress trees was as quiet and silent as we found it yesterday, but
the silence was of a different character: the silence was the soul of
Maria.
I confess that I felt rather sad at this departure but very soon
came a new series of impressions, which dispelled this feeling. We
were approaching Rome. We entered the brightly illuminated, densely
populated streets through some opening in the city wall and the
first thing we saw in the Eternal City was a creaking trolley car,
trying to make its way through the same hole in the wall. Toppi, who
was acquainted with Rome, revelled in the familiar atmosphere of
the churches we were passing and indicated with his long finger the
_remnants_ of ancient Rome which seemed to be clinging to the huge
wall of the new structures: just as if the latter had been bombarded
with the shells of old and fragments of the missiles had clung to the
bricks.
Here and there we came upon additional heaps of this old rubbish.
Above a low parapet of stone, we observed a dark shallow ditch and a
large triumphal gate, half sunk in the earth. "The Forum!" exclaimed
Toppi, majestically. Our coachman nodded his head in affirmation.
With every new pile of old stone and brick the fellow swelled with
pride, while I longed for my New York and its skyscrapers, and tried
to calculate the number of trucks that would be necessary to clear
these heaps of rubbish called ancient Rome away before morning. When I
mentioned this to Toppi he was insulted and replied:
"You don't understand anything: better close your eyes and just
reflect that you are in Rome."
I did so and was again convinced that sight is as much of an
impediment to the mind as sound: not without reason are all wise folk
on the earth blind and all good musicians deaf.
Like Toppi I began to sniff the air and through my sense of smell I
gathered more of Rome and its horribly long and highly entertaining
history than hitherto: thus a decaying leaf in the woods smells
stronger than the young and green foliage. Will you believe me when
I say that I sensed the odor of blood and Nero? But when I opened my
eyes expectantly I observed a plain, everyday kiosk and a lemonade
stand.
"Well, how do you like it?" growled Toppi, still dissatisfied.
"It smells----"
"Well, certainly it smells! It will smell stronger with every hour:
these are old, strong aromas, Mr. Wondergood."
And so it really was: the odor grew in strength. I cannot find
comparisons to make it clear to you. All the sections of my brain
began to move and buzz like bees aroused by smoke. It is strange, but
it seems that Rome is included in the archive of the silly Wondergood.
Perhaps this is his native town? When we approached a certain populous
square I sensed the clear odor of some blood relatives, which was
soon followed by the conviction that I, too, have walked these
streets before. Have I, like Toppi, previously donned the human form?
Ever louder buzzed the bees. My entire beehive buzzed and suddenly
thousands of faces, dim and white, beautiful and horrible, began to
dance before me; thousands upon thousands of voices, noises, cries,
laughters and sighs nearly set me deaf. No, this was no longer a
beehive: it was a huge, fiery smithy, where firearms were being forged
with the red sparks flying all about. Iron!
Of course, if I had lived in Rome before, I must have been one of
its emperors: I _remember_ the expression of my face. I remember the
movement of my bare neck as I turn my head. I remember the touch of
golden laurels upon my bald head--Iron! Ah, I hear the steps of the
iron legions of Rome. I hear the iron voices: "Vivat Cæsar!"
I am hot. I am burning. Or was I not an emperor but simply one of the
"victims" when Rome burned down in accordance with the magnificent
plan of Nero? No, this is not a fire. This is a funeral pyre on which
I am forcibly esconsced. I hear the snake-like hissing of the tongues
of flame beneath my feet. I strain my neck, all lined with blue veins,
and in my throat there rises the final curse--or blessing? Think of
it: I even remember that Roman face in the front row of spectators,
which even then gave me no rest because of its idiotic expression and
sleepy eyes: I am being burned and it sleeps!
"Hotel 'Internationale'"--cried Toppi, and I opened my eyes.
We were going up a hill along a quiet street, at the end of which
there glowed a large structure, worthy even of New York: it was
the hotel where we had previously wired for reservations. They
probably thought we had perished in the wreck. My funeral pyre was
extinguished. I grew as merry as a darkey who has just escaped from
hard labor and I whispered to Toppi:
"Well, Toppi, and how about the Madonna?"
"Y-yes, interesting. I was frightened at first and nearly choked to
death----"
"With a bone? You are silly, Toppi: she is polite and did not
recognize you. She simply took you for one of her saints. It is
a pity, old boy, that we have chosen for ourselves these solemn,
American faces: had we looked around more carefully we might have
found some more beautiful."
"I am quite satisfied with mine," said Toppi sadly, and turned away. A
glow of secret self-satisfaction appeared upon his long, shiny nose.
Ah, Toppi, Ah, the saint!
But we were already being accorded a triumphal reception.
February 14.
Rome, Hotel "Internationale."
I do not want to go to Magnus. I am thinking too much of his Madonna
of flesh and bone. I have come here to lie and to play merrily and
I am not at all taken by the prospect of being a mediocre actor,
who weeps behind the scenes and appears on the stage with his eyes
perfectly dry. Moreover, I have no time to gad about the fields
catching butterflies with a net like a boy.
The whole of Rome is buzzing about me. I am an extraordinary man,
who loves his fellow beings and I am celebrated. The mobs who flock
to worship Me are no less numerous than those who worship the Vicar
of Christ himself, two Popes all at once.--Yes, happy Rome cannot
consider itself an orphan!
I am now living at the hotel, where all is aquiver with ecstacy when
I put my shoes outside my door for the night, but they are renovating
a palace for me: the historic Villa Orsini. Painters, sculptors and
poets are kept busy. One brush-pusher is already painting my portrait,
assuring me that I remind him of one of the Medicis. The other
brush-pushers are sharpening their knives for him.