That was one December. The year made twelve steps and here was
December again. With it came to Ian a proffer from the nobleman of the
coach across the Seine. Some ancient business, whether of soul or
sense, carried him to Rome. Monsieur Ian Rullock--said to be for the
moment banished from a certain paradise--might find it in his interest
to come with him--say as traveling companion. Ian found it so.
Monseigneur was starting at once. Good! let us start.
Ian despatched his servant to the lodging known to be occupied by the
laird of Glenfernie. The man had a note to deliver. Alexander took it
and read:
GLENFERNIE,--I am quitting Paris with the Duc
de ----, for Rome.--IAN RULLOCK.
The man gone, Alexander put fire to the missive and burned it, after
which he walked up and down, up and down the wide, bare room. When
some time had passed he came back to chair and table, inkwell and pen,
and a half-written letter. The quill drove on:
... None could do better by the estate than you--not I nor
any other. So I beg of you to stay, dear Strickland, who
have stayed by us so long!
There followed a page of business detail--inquiries--expressed
wishes. Glenfernie paused. Before him, propped against a volume of old
lore, stood a small picture;--Orestes asleep in the grove of the
Furies. He sat leaning back in his chair, regarding it. He had found
it and purchased it months before, and still he studied it. His eyes
fell to the page; he wrote on:
You ask no questions, and yet I know that you question.
Well, I will tell you--knowing that you will strain out and
give to others only what should be given.... He has been,
and I have been, in Paris a year. He and I have fought three
times--fought, that is, as men call fighting. Once upon that
mountain-side at home, twice here. Now he is going--and I am
going--to Rome. Shall I fight him again--with metal digged
from the earth, fashioned and sharpened in some red-lighted
shop of the earth? I am not sure that I shall--rather, I
think that I shall not.... Is there ever a place where a
kind of growth does not go on? There is a moonrise in me
that tells me that that fighting is to be scorned. But what
shall I do, seeing that he is my foe?... Ah, I do not
know--save haunt him, save bring and bring again my inner
man, to clinch and wrestle with and throw, if may be, his
inner man. And to see that he knows that I do this--that it
tells back upon him--through and through tells back!... It
has been a strange year. Now and then I am aware of curious
far tides, effects from some giant orb of being. But I go
on.... For my daily life in Paris--here it is, your open
page!... You see, I still seek knowledge, for all your gibe
that I sought darkness. And now, as I go to Rome--
He wrote on, changing now to details as to communication, placing of
moneys, and such matters. At length came references to the last home
news, expressions of trust and affection. He signed his name, folded,
superscribed and sealed the letter, then sat on, studying the picture
before him.
Monseigneur, with gold, with fine horses, with an eery, swooping,
steadiness of direction, journeyed fast. He and his traveling
companion reached Rome early in February. There was a villa, there
were attendants, there was the Frenchman's especial circle, set with
bizarre jewels, princes of the Church, Italian nobles of his
acquaintance, exiles, a charlatan of immense note, certain ladies. He
only asked of his guest, Monsieur Rullock, that he help him to
entertain the whole chaplet, giving to his residence in Rome a certain
splendid virility.
February showed skies like sapphire. There drew on carnival week.
Masks and a wildness of riot--childish, too--
Ian leaned against the broken base of an ancient statue, set in the
villa garden, at a point that gave a famous view. Around, the
almond-trees were in bloom. The marble Diana had gazed hence for so
many years, had seen so much that might make the dewy greenwood
forgotten! It was mid-afternoon and flooding light. Here Rome basked,
half-asleep in a dream of sense; here the ant city worked and worked.
Ian stood between tides, behind him a forenoon, before him an evening
of carnival participation. In the morning he had been with a stream of
persons; presently, with the declining sun, would be with another.
Here was an hour or two of pause, time of day for rest with
half-closed eyes. He looked over the pale rose wave of the almonds, he
saw Peter's dome and St. Angelo. He was conscious of a fatigue of his
powers, a melancholy that they gave him no more than they did. "How it
is all tinsel and falsetto!... I want a clean, cold, searching
wave--desert and night--not life all choked with wax tapers and
harlequins! I want something.... I don't know what I want. I only know
I haven't got it!"
His arm moved upon the base of the statue. He looked up at the white
form with the arrow in its hands. "Self-containment.... What, goddess,
you would call chastity all around?... All the spilled self somehow
centered. But just that is difficult--difficult--more difficult than
anything Hercules attempted. Oh me!" He sat down beneath the cypress
that stood behind the statue and rested his head within his hands.
From Rome, on all sides, broke into the still light trumpets and
bell-ringing, pipes and drums, shout and singing. It sounded like a
thousand giant cicadæ. A group of masks went through the garden, by
the Diana figure. They threw pine cones and confetti at the gold-brown
foreigner seated there. One wore an ass's head, another was dressed as
a demon with horns and tail, a third rolled as Bacchus, a fourth,
fifth, and sixth were his mænads. All went wildly by, the clamor of
the city swelled.
This was first day of carnival. Succeeding days, succeeding nights,
mounted each a stage to heights of folly. Starred all through was
innocent merrymaking, license held in leash. But the gross, the
whirling, and the sinister elements came continuously and more
strongly into play. Measured sound grew racket, camaraderie turned
into impudence. Came at last pandemonium. All without Rome--Campagna
and mountains--were in Rome. Peasant men and women slept, when they
slept, in and beneath carts and huge wine-wagons camped and parked in
stone forests of imperial ruins. Artisan, mechanic, and merchant Rome
lightened toil and went upon the hunt for pleasure, dropping servility
in the first ditch. Foreigners, artists, men from everywhere, roved,
gazed, and listened, shared. The great made displays, some with
beauty, some of a perverted and monstrous taste. The lords of the
Church nodded, looked sleepily or alertly benevolent. At times all
alike turned mere populace. Courtesans thronged, the robber and the
assassin found their prey. All men and women who might entertain, ever
so coarsely, ever so poorly, were here at market. Mummers and players,
musicians, dancers, jugglers, gipsies, and fortune-tellers floated
thick as May-flies. Voices, voices, and every musical instrument--but
all set in a certain range, and that not the deep nor the sweet. So it
seemed, and yet, doubtless, by searching might have been found the
deep and the sweet. Certainly the air of heaven was sweet, and it went
in and between.
All who might or who chose went masked. So few did not choose that
street and piazza seemed filled with all orders of being and moments
of time. Terrible, grotesque, fantastic, pleasing, went the rout, and
now the hugest crowd was here and now it was there, and now there were
moments of even diffusion. At night the lights were in multitude, and
in multitude the flaring and strange decorations. Day and night swung
processions, stood spectacles, huge symbolic movements and attitudes,
grown obscure and molded to the letter, now mere stage effects. Day
by day through carnival week the noise increased, restraint lessened.
At times Ian was in company with monseigneur and those who came to the
villa; at times he sought or was sought by others that he knew in
Rome, fared into carnival with them. Much more rarely he dipped into
the swirl alone.
The saturnalia drew toward its close. Ash Wednesday, like a great
gray-sailed ship, was seen coming large into port. The noise grew
wild, license general. All available oil must be poured into the fire
of the last day of pleasures. Ian was to have been with monseigneur's
party gathered to view a pageant lit by torches of wax, then to drink
wine, then, in choice masks, to break in upon a dance of nymphs, whirl
away with black or brown eyes.... It was the program, but at the last
he evaded it, slipped from the villa, chose solitary going. Why, he
did not know, save that he felt aching satiety.
Here in the streets were half-lights, afterglow from the sunken sun
and smoky torches. The latter increased in number, the oil-lamps,
great and small, were lit, the tapers of various qualities and
thicknesses. Where there were open spaces vast heaps of seasoned wood
now flaming caused processions of light and shadow among ruins,
against old triumphal arches, against churches and dwellings old,
half-old, and new, lived in, chanted in still, intact and usable.
Above was star-sown night, but Rome lay under a kobold roof of her own
lighting. Noise held grating sway, mere restless motion enthroned with
her. Worlds of drunken grasshoppers in endless scorched plains! The
masks seemed now demoniac, less beauty than ugliness.
Ian found himself on the Quirinal, in the great ragged space dominated
by the Colossi. Here burned a bonfire huge enough to make Plutonian
day, and here upon the fringes of that light he encountered a carnival
brawl, and became presently involved in it. He wore a domino striped
black and silver, and a small black mask, a black hat with wide brim
and a long, curling silver feather. He was tall, broad-shouldered,
noticeable.... The quarrel had started among unmasked peasants, then
had swooped in a numerous band dressed as ravens. Light-fingered
gentry, inconspicuously clad, aided in provoking misunderstanding that
should shake for them the orchard trees. A company of wine-bibbers
with monstrous, leering masks, staggering from a side-street, fell
into the whirlpool. With vociferation and blows the whole pulled here
and there, the original cause of the falling out buried now in a host
of new causes. Ian, caught in an eddy, turned to make way out of it. A
peasant woman, there with a group from some rock village, received a
chance buffet, so heavy that she cried out, staggered, then, pushed
against in the mêlée, fell upon the earth. The raven crew threatened
trampling. "_Jesù Maria!_" she cried, and tried to raise herself, but
could not. Ian, very near her, took a step farther in and, stooping,
lifted her. But now the ravens chose to fall foul of him. The woman
was presently gone, and her peasant fellows.... He was beating off a
drunken Comus crew, with some of active ill-will. His dress was
rich--he was not Roman, evidently--the surge had foamed and dragged
across from the bonfire and the open place to the dark mouth of a poor
street. Many a thing besides light-hearted gaieties happened in
carnival season.
He became aware that a friendly person had come up, was with him
beating off raven, gorgon, and satyr. He saw that this person was very
big, and caught an old, oft-noted trick in the swing of his arm.
To-night, in carnival time, when there was trouble, it seemed quite
natural and with a touch of home that Old Steadfast should loom forth.
A clang of music, shouting, and an oncoming array of lights helped to
daunt band of ravens and drunken masks. A procession of fishermen with
nets and monsters of the sea approached, went by. The attackers merged
in the throng that attended or followed, went away with innocent
shouts and songs. A second push followed the first, a great crowd of
masks and spectators bound for a piazza through which was to pass one
of the final large pageants. This wave carried with it Ian and
Alexander. On such a night, where every sea was tumult, one
indication, one propelling touch, was as good as another. The two went
on in company. Alexander was not masked. Ian was, but that did not
to-night hide him from the other. They came into the flaringly lighted
place. Around stood old ruins, piers, broken arches and columns, and
among these modern houses. For the better viewing of the spectacle
banks of seats had been built, tier upon tier rising high, propped
against what had been ancient bath or temple. The crowd surged to
these, filling every stretch and cranny not yet seized upon. There
issued that the tiers were packed; dark, curving, mounting rows where
foot touched shoulder. The piazza turned amphitheater.
Still, in this carnival night, Ian and Alexander found themselves
together. They were sitting side by side, a third of the way between
pavement and the topmost row. They sat still, broodingly, in a cloud
of things rememberable, no distinct images, but all their common past,
good and bad, and the progress from one to the other, making as it
were one chord, or a mist of one color. They did not reason about this
momentary oneness, but took it as it came. It was carnival season.
Yet the cloud dripped honey, the color was clear and not unrestful,
the chord sweet and resounding.
The pageant, fantastic, towering, red and purple lighted, passed by.
The throng upon the seats moved, rose, struck heavily with their feet,
going down the narrow ways. Many torches had been extinguished, many
that were carried had gone on, following the last triumphal car. Here
were semi-darkness, great noise and confusion--weight, too, pressing
upon ground that long ago had been honeycombed; where the crypt of a
three-hundred-year-old church touched through an archway old priest
paths beneath a vanished temple, that in turn gave into a mixed ruin
of dungeons and cellars opening at last to day or night upon a
hillside at some distance from the place of raised benches. Now, the
crowd pressing thickly, the earth crust at one point trembled,
cracked, gave way. Scaffolding and throng came with groans and cries
into a very cavern. Those that were left above, high on narrow,
overswaying platforms, with shouts of terror pushed back from the pit
mouth, managed with accidents, injuries enough, to get to firmer
earth. Then began, among the braver sort, rescue of those who had gone
down with soil and timbers. What with the darkness and the confused
and sunken ruin, this was difficult enough.
Ian and Alexander, unhurt, clambered down the standing part and by the
light of congregated and improvised torches helped in that rescue, and
helped strongly. Many were pinned beneath wood, smothered by the
caving earth. The rent was wide and in places the ruin afire. Groans,
cries, appeals shook the hearts of the carnival crowd. All would now
have helped, but it was not possible for many. There must be strength
to descend into the pit and work there.
A beam pinned a man more than near a creeping flame. The two Scots
beat out that fire. Glenfernie heaved away the beam, Ian drew out the
man, badly hurt, moaning of wife and child. Glenfernie lifted him,
mounted with him, over heaped debris, by uncertain ledge and step,
until other arms, outstretched, could take him. Turning back, he took
from Ian a woman's form, lifted it forth. Down again, the two worked
on. Others were with them, there was made a one-minded ring, folly
forgot.
At last it seemed that all were rescued. A few men only moved now in
the hollow, peering here and there. The fire had taken headway; the
gulf, it was evident, would presently be filled with flame. The heat
beat back those at the rim. "Come out! Come out, every one!" The
rescuers began to clamber forth.
Came down a roaring pile of red-lit timbers, with smoke and sparks. It
blocked the way for Alexander and Ian. Turning, here threatened a
pillar of choking murk, red-tongued. Behind them was a gaping, narrow
archway. Involuntary recoil before that stinging push of smoke brought
them in under this. They were in a passageway, but when again they
would have made forth and across to the side of the pit, and so, by
climbing, out of it, they found that they could not. Before them lay
now a mere field of fire, and the blowing air drove a biting smoke
against them.
"Move back, until this burns itself out! The earth gave into some kind
of underground room. This is a passage."
It stretched black behind them. Glenfernie caught up a thick, arm-long
piece of lighted wood that would answer for brand. They worked through
a long vaulted tunnel, turned at right angles, and came into what
their torch showed to have been an ancient chapel. In a niche stood a
broken statue, on the wall spread a painting of St. Christopher in
midstream.
"Shall we go on? There must be a way out of this maze."
"If the torch will last us through."
They passed out of the chapel into a place where of old the dead had
been buried. They moved between massy pillars, by the shelves of stone
where the bones lay in the dust. It seemed a great enough hall. At the
end of this they discovered an upward-going stair, but it was old and
broken, and when they mounted it they found that it ended flat against
thick stone, roof to it, pavement, perhaps, to some old church. They
saw by a difference in the flags where had been space, the stair
opening into the hollow of the church; but now was only stone, solid
and thick. They struck against it, but it was moveless, and in the
church, if church there were above, none in the dead night to hear
them. They came down the stair, and through a small, half-blocked
doorway stumbled into a labyrinth of passages and narrow chambers.
They found old pieces of wood--what had been a wine-cask, what might
have had other uses. They broke these into torch lengths, lighting one
from another as that burned down. These underways did not seem wholly
neglected, buried, and forgotten. There lacked any total blocking or
demolition, and there was air. But intricacy and uncertainty reigned.
The mood of the amphitheater when they had sat side by side claimed
them still. There had been a reversion or a coming into fresh space
where quarrel faded like a shadow before light. The light was a
golden, hazy one, made up of myriads of sublimed memories,
associations, judgments, conclusions. Nothing defined emerged from it;
it was simply somewhat golden, somewhat warm light, as from a sun well
under the horizon--a kind of dreamy well-being as of old Together,
unquestioning Acceptance. Suddenly aroused, each might have cried,
"For the moment--it was for a moment only!" Then, for the moment,
there was return, with addition. It came like a winged force from the
bounds of doing or undoing. While it lasted it imposed upon them
quieted minds, withdrew any seeming need for question. They sought for
egress from this place where their bodies moved, explanation of this
material labyrinth. But they did not seek explanation of this mood,
fallen among pride and anger, wrong and revenge. It came from at
large, with the power of largeness. They were back, "for the moment,"
in a simplicity of ancient, firm companionship.
They spoke scarcely at all. It had been a habit of old, in their much
adventuring together, to do so in long silences. Alexander had set the
pace there, Ian learning to follow.... It was as if this were an
adventure of, say, five years ago, and it was as if it were a dream
adventure. Or it was as if some part of themselves, quietly and with a
hidden will separating itself, had sailed away from the huge storm and
cloud and red lightnings.... What they did say had wholly and only to
do with immediate exigencies. Behind, in pure feeling, was the unity.
Down in this underground place the air began to come more freshly.
"Look at the flame," said Ian. "It is bending."
They had left behind rooms and passages lined with unbroken masonry.
Here were newer chambers and excavations, softer walled.
"They have been opening from this side. That was dug not so long ago."
Another minute and they came into a ragged, cavern-like space filled
with fresh night air. Presently they were forth upon a low hillside,
and at their feet Tiber mirrored the stars. Rome lay around. The
carnival lights yet flared, the carnival noise beat, beat. This was a
deserted strip, an islet between restless seas.
Ian and Alexander stood upon trodden earth and grass, about them the
yet encumbering ruins of an ancient building, pillars and architraves
and capitals, broken friezes and headless caryatids. Here was the
river, here the ancient street. They breathed in the air, they looked
at the sky, but then at Rome. Somewhere a trumpet was fiercely crying.
Like an impatient hand, like a spurred foot, it tore the magician's
fabric of the past few hours.
Ian laughed. "We had best rub our eyes!" To the fine hearing there was
a catch of the breath, a small dancing hope in his laughter. "_Or,
Glenfernie, shall we dream on?_"
But the other opened his eyes upon things like the Kelpie's Pool and
the old room in the keep where a figure like himself read letters that
lied. He saw in many places a figure like himself, injured and fooled,
stuck full of poisoned arrows. The figure grew as he watched it, until
it overloomed him, until he was passionately its partisan. He said no
word, but he flung the smoking torch yet held in hand among the ruins,
and, leaving Ian and his black and silver, plunged down the slope to
the old, old street along which now poured a wave of carnival.