There is the very tenderness of desolation upon the Appian Way. To me it
suggested nothing of the splendour of Roman villas and the tragedy of
flying Emperors. It spoke only of itself, lying over the wide silence of
the noon-day fields, historic doubtless, but noon-day certainly.
Something lives upon the warm stretches of the Appian Way, something
that talks of the eternal and unchangeable, and yet has the pathos of
the fragmentary and the lost. Perhaps it is the ghost of a genius that
has failed of reincarnation, and inspires the weeds and the leaf-shadows
instead. Thinking of it, one remembers only an almond tree in flower,
that grew beside a ruined arch by the wayside--both quite alone in the
sunlight--and perhaps of a meek, young, marble Cecilia, unquestioningly
prostrate, submissive to the axe.
We were on our way to the Catacombs, momma, the Senator, and Mrs.
Portheris in one carriage, R. Dod, Mr. Mafferton, Isabel, and I in the
other. I approved of the arrangement, because the mutually distant
understanding that existed between Mr. Mafferton and me had already been
the subject of remark by my parents. ("For old London acquaintances you
and Mr. Mafferton seem to have very little to say to each other," momma
had observed that very morning.) It was borne in upon me that this was
absurd. People have no business to be estranged for life because one of
them has happened to propose to the other, unless, of course, he has
been accepted and afterwards divorced, which is quite a different thing.
Besides, there was Dicky to think of. I decided that there was a medium
in all things, and to help me to find it I wore a blouse from Madame
Valerie in the Rue de l'Opera, which cost seven times its value, and was
naturally becoming. Perhaps this was going to extreme measures; but he
was a recalcitrant Englishman, and for Dicky's sake one had to think of
everything.
Englishmen have a genius for looking uncomfortable. Their feelings are
terribly mixed up with their personal appearance. It was some time
before Mr. Mafferton would consent to be even tolerably at his ease,
though I made a distinct effort to show that I bore no malice. It must
have been the mere memory of the past that embarrassed him, for the
other two were as completely unaware of his existence as they well could
be in the same carriage. For a time, as I talked in commonplaces, Mr.
Mafferton in monosyllables, and Mr. Dod and Miss Portheris in regards,
the most sordid realist would have hesitated to chronicle our
conversation.
"When," I inquired casually, "are you thinking of going back, Mr.
Mafferton?"
"To town? Not before October, I fancy!"
"Even in Rome," I observed, "London is 'town' to you, isn't it? What a
curious thing insular tradition is!"
"I suppose Rome was invented first," he replied haughtily.
"Why yes," I said; "while the ancestors of Eaton-square were running
about in blue paint and bear-skins, and Albert Gate, in the directory,
was a mere cave. What do you suppose," I went on, following up this line
of thought, "when you were untutored savages, was your substitute for
the Red Book?"
"Really," said this Englishman, "I haven't an idea. Perhaps as you have
suggested they had no ad_dresses_."
For a moment I felt quite depressed. "Did you think it was a conundrum?"
I asked. "You so often remind me of _Punch_, Mr. Mafferton."
I shouldn't have liked anyone to say that to me, but it seemed to have
quite a mollifying effect upon Mr. Mafferton. He smiled and pulled his
moustache in the way Englishmen always do, when endeavouring to absorb a
compliment.
"Dear old London," I went on reminiscently, "what a funny experience it
was!"
"To the Transatlantic mind," responded Mr. Mafferton stiffly, "one can
imagine it instructive."
"It was a revelation to mine," I said earnestly--"a revelation." Then,
remembering Mr. Mafferton's somewhat painful connection with the
revelation, I added carefully, "From a historic point of view. The
Tower, you know, and all that."
"Ah!" said Mr. Mafferton, with a distant eye upon the Campagna.
It was really very difficult.
"Do you remember the day we went to Madame Tussaud's?" I asked. Perhaps
my intonation was a little dreamy. "I shall _never_ forget William the
Conqueror--never."
"Yes--yes, I think I do." It was clearly an effort of memory.
"And now," I said regretfully, "it can never be the same again."
"Certainly not." He used quite unnecessary emphasis.
"William and the others having been since destroyed by fire," I
continued. Mr. Mafferton looked foolish. "What a terrible scene that
must have been! Didn't you feel when all that royal wax melted as if the
dynasties of England had been wrecked over again! What effect did it
have on dear old Victoria?"
"One question at a time," said Mr. Mafferton, and I think he smiled.
"Now you remind me of Sandford and Merton," I said, "and a place for
everything and everything in its place. And punctuality is the thief of
time. And many others."
"You haven't got it _quite_ right," said Mr. Mafferton with incipient
animation. "May I correct you? 'Procrastination,' not 'punctuality.'"
"Thanks," I said. I could not help observing that for quite five minutes
Mr. Mafferton had made no effort to overhear the conversation between
Mr. Dod and Miss Portheris. It was a trifle, but life is made up of
little things.
"I don't believe we adorn our conversation with proverbs in America as
much as we did," I continued. "I guess it takes too long. If you make
use of a proverb you see, you've got to allow for reflection first, and
reflection afterwards, and a sigh, and very few of us have time for
that. It is one of our disadvantages."
Mr. Mafferton heard me with attention.
"Really!" he said in quite his old manner when we used to discuss
Presidential elections and peanuts and other features of life in my
republic. "That is a fact of some interest--but I see you cling to one
little Americanism, Miss Wick. Do you remember"--he actually looked
arch--"once assuring me that you intended to abandon the verb to
'guess'?"
"I don't know why we should leave all the good words to Shakespeare," I
said, "but I was under a great many hallucinations about the American
language in England, and I daresay I did."
If I responded coldly, it was at the thought of my last interview with
poor dear Arthur, and his misprised larynx. But at this moment a wildly
encouraging sign from Dicky reminded me that his interests and not my
own emotions were to be considered.
"We mustn't reproach each other, must we," I said softly. "_I_ don't
bear a particle of malice--really and truly."
Mr. Mafferton cast a glance of alarm at Mr. Dod and Miss Portheris, who
were raptly exchanging views as to the respective merits of a cleek and
a brassey shot given certain peculiar bunkers and a sandy green--as if
two infatuated people talking golf would have ears for anything else!
"Not on any account," he said hurriedly.
"The best quality of friendship sometimes arises out of the most
unfortunate circumstances," I added. The sympathy in my voice was for
Dicky and Isabel.
Mr. Mafferton looked at me expressively and the carriage drew up at the
Catacombs of St. Callistus. Mrs. Portheris was awaiting us by the gate,
however, so in getting out I gave my hand to Dicky.
Inside and outside the gate, how quiet it was. Nothing on the Appian Way
but dust and sunlight, nothing in the field within the walls but
yellowing grass and here and there a field-daisy bending in the silence.
It made one think of an old faded water-colour, washed in with tears,
that clings to its significance though all its reality is gone. Then we
saw a little bare house to the left with an open door, and inside found
Brothers Demetrius and Eusebius in Trappist gowns and ropes, who would
sell us beads for the profitable employment of our souls, and chocolate
and photographs, and wonderful eucalyptus liqueur from the Three
Fountains, and when we had well bought would show us the city of the
long, long dead of which they were custodians. They were both obliging
enough to speak English, Brother Demetrius imperfectly and haltingly,
and without the assistance of those four front teeth which are so
especially necessary to a foreign tongue, Brother Eusebius fluently, and
with such richness of dialect that we were not at all surprised to learn
that he had served his Pope for some years in the State of New York.
"For de ladi de chocolate. Ith it not?" said Brother Demetrius, with an
inducive smile. "It ith de betht in de worl', dis chocolate."
"Don't you believe him," said Brother Eusebius, "he's known as the
oldest of the Roman frauds. Wants your money, that's what he wants."
Brother Demetrius shook his fist in amicable, wagging protest. "That's
the way he goes on, you know--quarrelsome old party. But I don't say
it's bad chocolate. Try it, young lady, try it."
He handed a bit to Isabel, who looked at her momma.
"There is no possible objection, my dear," said Mrs. Portheris, and she
nibbled it.
Dicky invested wildly.
"Dese photograff dey are very pritty," remarked Brother Demetrius to
momma, who was turning over some St. Stephens and St. Cecilias.
"He'd say anything to sell them," put in Brother Eusebius. "He never
thinks of his immortal soul, any more than if he was a poor miserable
heretic. He'll tell you they're originals next, taken by Nero at the
time. You're all good Catholics, of course?"
"We are not any kind of Catholics," said Mrs. Portheris severely.
"I'll give you my blessing all the same, and no extra charge. But the
saints forbid that I should be selling beads made out of their precious
bones to Protestants."
"I'll take that string," said momma.
"I wouldn't do it on any account," continued Brother Eusebius, as he
wrapped them up in blue paper, but momma still attaches a certain amount
of veneration to those beads.
"And what can I do for you, sir?" continued Brother Eusebius to the
Senator, rubbing his hands. "What'll be the next thing?"
"The Early Christians," replied poppa laconically, "if it's all the same
to you."
"Just in half a shake. Don't hurry yourselves. They'll keep, you
know--they've kept a good long while already. Now you, madam," said
Brother Eusebius to Mrs. Portheris, "have never had the influenza, I
know. It only attacks people advanced in life."
"Indeed I have," replied that lady. "Twice."
"Is that so! Well, you never _would_ have had it if you'd been protected
with this liqueur of ours. It's death and burial on influenza," and
Brother Eusebius shook the bottle.
"I consider," said Mrs. Portheris solemnly, "that eucalyptus in another
form saved my life. But I inhaled it."
"Tho," ventured Brother Demetrius, "tho did I. But the wine ith for
internal drinking."
"Listen to him! _E_ternal drinking, that's what he means. You never saw
such an old boy for the influenza--gets it every week or so. How many
bottles, madam? Just a nip, after dinner, and you don't know how poetic
it will make you feel into the bargain."
"One bottle," replied Mrs. Portheris, "the larger size, please. Anything
with eucalyptus in it must be salutary. And as we are going underground,
where it is bound to be damp, I think I'll have a little now."
"That's what I call English common-sense," exclaimed Brother Eusebius,
getting out a glass. "Will nobody keep the lady company? It's Popish,
but it's good."
Nobody would. Momma observed rather uncautiously that the smell of it
was enough, at which Mrs. Portheris remarked, with some asperity, that
she hoped Mrs. Wick would never be obliged to be indebted to the
"smell." "It is quite excellent," she said, "_most_ cordial. I really
think, as a precaution, I'll take another glass."
"Isn't it pretty strong?" asked poppa.
[Illustration: We followed the monks.]
"The influenza is stronger," replied Mrs. Portheris oracularly, and
finished her second potation.
"And nothing," said Brother Eusebius sadly, "for the gentleman standing
outside the door, who doesn't approve of encouraging the Roman Catholic
Church in any respect whatever. Dear me! dear me! we do get some queer
customers." At which Mr. Mafferton frowned portentously. But nothing
seemed to have any effect on Brother Eusebius.
"There are such a lot of you, and you are sure to be so inquisitive,
that we'll both go with you," said he, and took candles from a shelf.
Not ordinary candles at all--coils of long, slender strips, with one end
turned up to burn. At the sight of them momma shuddered and said she
hadn't thought it would be dark, and took the Senator's arm as a
precautionary measure. Then we followed the monks Eusebius and
Demetrius, who wrapped shawls round their sloping shoulders and hurried
across the grass towards the little brick entrance to the Catacombs,
shading their candles from the wind that twisted their brown gowns round
their legs, with all the anxiety to get it over shown by janitors of
buildings of this world.