THE ANONYMOUS LETTER.
No sooner had her lawyer left her than a letter was delivered to Blanka
by one of the hotel servants. It was unsigned, and to the following
effect:
"PRINCESS CAGLIARI:--Be cautious. Prince Cagliari is
carrying out a fiendish scheme against you. Like yourself, he is
bent on securing a divorce, but only that he may marry you to his
protégé and favourite. He is even capable of selling his own wife.
Hitherto you have been Cagliari's wife, and the Marchioness
Caldariva his mistress; now he wishes to reverse these relations,
and make the marchioness his wife, and you his mistress. Be on your
guard. You are in the country of the Borgias."
The princess was not a little disturbed by this communication. Monstrous
as was the plot which it purported to disclose, she could not disbelieve
it when ascribed to the two men in question. Certain fearful
remembrances of the past confirmed her suspicions, and even inspired her
in her distress with thoughts of suicide.
But what if this letter were merely a trap? Who could have written it?
Who, in that city, where so few knew even of her existence, was
sufficiently familiar with her private affairs to be able to write it?
Whom could she now consult, with whom share her anxious forebodings?
Involuntarily she took up her sketch-book, and turned its leaves once
more. In vain; the address was gone--gone with the leaves she had torn
out and thrown away in the Colosseum.
Having no further engagements for that morning, she proposed to her
companion a second visit to the Colosseum, that she might once more
essay the sketch which had baffled her the day before. Both Madam
Dormandy and the advocate signified their readiness to accompany her,
the more so as a party of German visitors was planning an inspection of
the Colosseum's subterranean chambers and passages, and Zimandy proposed
to join them.
Blanka made it her first care, on arriving at the Colosseum, to search
for the lost sketch-book leaves; but though she remembered exactly where
she had dropped them, neither she nor her friend could discover the
least trace of them. Who could have appropriated them? The artist in the
gallery had been the only stranger present at the time of her previous
visit.
While the advocate and Madam Dormandy went with the German party to
inspect the lower regions, Blanka remained above, on the plea that such
subterranean excursions made her unwell. There were no robbers or wild
beasts to molest her in the arena during the others' absence, and,
besides, the entrances were all guarded.
She sat down at the foot of the cross, but not to draw, for her mind was
not now on her sketch. Plucking the dandelions that grew in profusion
about her, she fashioned them into a chain and hung it around her neck.
The thought came to her, as she was thus engaged, that of all the
Christian martyrs torn to pieces by wild beasts in that arena, not one
of them, when the tigers and hyenas leaped upon their prey, felt such a
terror as hers at sight of the monsters that seemed to be closing in
about her to rend her limb from limb.
How happy the artist must be up there in the lofty gallery! For there he
was, still at work on his picture. The artist is the only really happy
man. He need fear no exile; every land is his home. No foreign tongue
can confuse him; his thoughts find a medium of expression intelligible
to all. Wars have no terror for him; he paints them, but takes no part
in them. Storms and tempests, by land or sea, speak to him not of
danger, but are merely the symbols of nature's ever-varying moods.
Popular insurrections furnish his canvas with picturesque groupings of
animated humanity. Though all Rome surge with uproar about him, he sits
under his sun-umbrella and paints. The artist is a cold-blooded man. He
paints a madonna, but his piety is none the greater for it. He draws a
Venus, but his heart is still whole. He pictures God and Satan, but
prostrates himself before neither. How independent, too, he must feel as
he wanders through the world! He asks no help in the production of his
creations. The priest need not pray for rain or sunshine on his account.
He seeks no office or title from prince or potentate. He desires no
favour, no privilege, nor does he even require the advantage of a
recognised religious belief. With his genius he can conquer the world.
Art it is, moreover, that makes woman the equal of man. The woman artist
is something more than man's other half; she is complete in herself. She
does not ask the world for a living, she does not beg any man to give
her his name, she kneels before no marriage-altar for the priest's
blessing; she goes forth and wins for herself all that she desires.
An irresistible impulse drove Blanka to ascend to the painter's lofty
perch in order to see how he was succeeding in the task which she
herself knew not even how to begin.
An artist engrossed in his work heeds not what is going on around him.
The painter in this instance wore a simple canvas jacket, spotted with
oil and colours here and there, and a straw hat, broad of brim and
ventilated with abundant holes. The princess, looking over his
shoulder, was far less interested in the painter than in his work.
Indeed, the artist himself was so absorbed in his task that, to save
time, he held one of his brushes crosswise between his teeth while he
worked with the other. Yet the instinct of politeness impelled him, as
soon as he heard the rustle of a lady's skirt behind him, to remove his
broad-brimmed hat and place it on the floor at his side.
"Manasseh!"
Startled surprise and gladness spoke in that word, which slipped out ere
the speaker's discretion could prevent it. The young man turned quickly.
"Princess!" he exclaimed, "where did you drop from?"
"I was not looking for you," she stammered, thus betraying that she had
been seeking him and was rejoiced, heart and soul, at the chance that
had led her to him.
Manasseh smiled. "No, not for me, but for the painter wrestling with the
Colosseum from this lofty roost. I saw you yesterday attempting the same
task from below."
"And you recognised me--so far off?"
"I have very good eyes. I also saw that you were dissatisfied with your
attempts, for you tore out one leaf after another from your sketch-book
and threw them away."
"Did you find them again?" asked Blanka, breathlessly.
"I made it a point to do so, Princess," was the reply.
"Oh, then give them back to me, please!"
"Here they are."
No creditor ever did his distressed debtor a greater favour in
surrendering to him an overdue note than did Manasseh in restoring the
lost leaves to their owner. She replaced them carefully in her
sketch-book, assuring herself, as she did so, that the missing address
was on the blank side of one of them. What if it had caught the young
man's eye? How would he have explained its presence there?
She sat down to rest a moment on the stone railing of the gallery, her
back to the arena and her face toward Manasseh,--an arrangement that
very much interfered with the artist's view of what he was painting. The
sun shone directly in her eyes, and she had no sunshade, having left
hers in the carriage. The arena was so shaded that she had needed none
there. Manasseh adjusted his umbrella so as to shield the princess, and
the rosy hue which its red fabric cast on her face reminded him of the
_Horæ_ that precede the sun-god's chariot at dawn, their forms glowing
with purple and rose-coloured tints in the morning light.
"I am very glad I happened to meet you," said Blanka, speaking more
sedately this time. "The party I came with is down below listening to
an archæological lecture on the _cunei_, the _podium_, the _vomitorium_,
and heaven knows what all, in which I am not interested. So I have time
to discuss with you, if you will let me, a point which you raised the
other day and which I have been puzzling over ever since. You said that
where you used to live revenge is unknown; and that, though you were
suffering under a grievous injury and had the means to exact full
satisfaction, yet you would not take your revenge. I too am suffering in
the same manner, and that is why I am now in Rome. I have pondered your
words and have imitated your example. Possessing the means of revenge, I
refused to use them. I loosed my enemy's hands when they were bound. Did
I do well?"
"Yes."
"No, I did not. I should have taken my revenge. Revenge is man's right."
"Revenge is the brute's right," Manasseh corrected her. "It never
repairs an injury that has once been done. In this I and the handful of
my fellow-believers differ from mankind in general. In our eyes war is
revenge, the duel is revenge, capital punishment is revenge, revolution
is revenge. Those who profess themselves followers of Jesus too often
forget that when he was dying on the cross he said, 'Father, forgive
them, for they know not what they do.'"
"That was said by Jesus the man; but Jesus the God has ascended into
heaven, whence he will come to judge the quick and the dead. And that is
revenge."
"That conception of the Judgment is one that I cannot entertain,"
returned Manasseh. "Man has made a god of the noblest of men, and has
made him like those earlier divinities who slew Niobe's innocent
children with their arrows."
Blanka was sitting so far back on the stone railing that the artist felt
obliged to warn her of her danger.
"Oh, I am protected by guardian angels," she replied, lightly. She
wished to learn whether one of those angels was then before her. "I
received this morning an anonymous letter," she continued, "and as it
contains certain facts which only you could know, my first thought was
that you had written it."
"I assure you, I have never written you a letter," declared Manasseh.
"Please read it." She handed him the letter.
How quickly the young man's calm face flushed and glowed with passion as
he read! The martyrs of old could forgive their enemies for the tortures
inflicted on them; but could they also pardon the inhumanity shown to
their loved ones? Manasseh crumpled the paper in his hand with
vindictive energy, as if he had held in his grasp the authors of that
detestable plot. Yet what right had he now to take vengeance on a man
whom he had refrained from punishing on Anna's behalf? Anna was his own
sister, and as such a beloved being. Her life had been spoiled by this
man, yet her brother had been able to declare, "We do not seek
revenge"--although this revenge was easily in his power. And what was
Blanka to him? A dream. And did this dream weigh more with him than the
sorrow that had invaded his own family?
He returned the letter to its owner. "Just like them!" he muttered
between his teeth.
"Prince Cagliari is in Rome," remarked Blanka.
"I know it. I met him, and he spoke to me and thanked me for the
attentions I had shown his wife during Holy Week."
It was fortunate for the princess that she sat in the rosy light of the
red umbrella, so that her heightened colour passed unnoticed.
"He called on me this morning," said she, "and showed himself very
gracious. His position is now stronger than it was, affairs at the
Vatican being guided at present by those who look upon him with favour."
"Yes, I know that," said Manasseh.
"How do you know it, may I ask?"
"Oh, I have wide-reaching connections. My landlord is a cobbler.
'Messere Scalcagnato' lounges about the _piazza_ by the hour, is
therefore well instructed in political matters, and keeps me duly
informed of all that takes place at the Vatican."
The princess gave a merry laugh at the thought of Manasseh's taking
lessons in politics from the professor of shoemaking. A little feeling
of satisfaction contributed also to her display of good humour: she was
assured by Manasseh's words that his address was still the same that she
had noted in her sketch-book. But her laugh was immediately followed by
a sigh, and she folded her hands in her lap.
"I wage war with nobody, Heaven knows!" she exclaimed, sadly. "I have
merely sued for mercy, and it has been promised me."
"Princess," interposed the young man, gently, "I cannot intervene
between you and your enemies, but I can arm you with a weapon of defence
against their assaults. If you wish to repulse the man whom you fear and
who pursues you,--to give him such a rebuff that he will never again
dare to approach you,--then wait until he makes the proposal which you
dread, and give him this answer: 'Between you and me there is a
canonical interdict which renders our union impossible; it is contained
in the fourteenth paragraph of the Secret Instructions.' As soon as you
say that he will vanish so completely from your presence that you will
never set eyes on him again."
"Wonderful!" cried Blanka. "That will surely be a miracle."
"Such it may always remain to you," returned Manasseh, "and you may
never know how deep a wound you have inflicted. But you must thenceforth
look for no mercy. Sue urgently for a decision, and be prepared for a
harsh one."
"Thank you," said Blanka, simply. "_N'en parlons plus_"--repeating
Prince Cagliari's phrase.
With that she stepped lightly to the stone block which the artist had
been using for a chair, and, seating herself on it, began to copy in
outline his painting of the Colosseum, as if that had been the sole
purpose of her coming. Nor did she so much as ask permission thus to
violate the rules of professional courtesy. This sketching from a
finished picture she found vastly easier than drawing from the object
itself, a task which always proves elusive and baffling to the beginner.
Manasseh took his stand behind her as she worked, but his eyes were not
wholly occupied in following her pencil.
Meanwhile the archæological explorers had abundant time to inspect all
the subterranean passages and chambers of the Colosseum, and it was only
when they emerged into the arena and began to seek their lost companion,
with loud outcries, that she started up in some alarm and made haste to
retrace her steps.
Manasseh picked up the dandelion chain that had fallen from her neck and
put it in his bosom.