I had spent near a week at the Villa de Angelis. John's manner to me
was most tender and affectionate; but he showed no wish to refer to the
tragedy of his wife's death and the sad events which had preceded it, or
to attempt to explain in any way his own conduct in the past. Nor did
I ever lead the conversation to these topics; for I felt that even if
there were no other reason, his great weakness rendered it inadvisable
to introduce such subjects at present, or even to lead him to speak at
all more than was actually necessary. I was content to minister to him
in quiet, and infinitely happy in his restored affection. He seemed
desirous of banishing from his mind all thoughts of the last few months,
but spoke much of the years before he had gone to Oxford, and of happy
days which we had spent together in our childhood at Worth Maltravers.
His weakness was extreme, but he complained of no particular malady
except a short cough which troubled him at night.
I had spoken to him of his health, for I could see that his state was
such as to inspire anxiety, and begged that he would allow me to see if
there was an English doctor at Naples who could visit him. This he would
not assent to, saying that he was quite content with the care of an
Italian doctor who visited him almost daily, and that he hoped to be
able, under my escort, to return within a very short time to England.
"I shall never be much better, dear Sophy," he said one day. "The doctor
tells me that I am suffering from some sort of consumption, and that I
must not expect to live long. Yet I yearn to see Worth once more, and to
feel again the west winds blowing in the evening across from Portland,
and smell the thyme on the Dorset downs. In a few days I hope perhaps to
be a little stronger, and I then wish to show you a discovery which I
have made in Naples. After that you may order them to harness the
horses, and carry me back to Worth Maltravers."
I endeavoured to ascertain from Signor Baravelli, the doctor, something
as to the actual state of his patient; but my knowledge of Italian was
so slight that I could neither make him understand what I would be at,
nor comprehend in turn what he replied, so that this attempt was
relinquished. From my brother himself I gathered that he had begun to
feel his health much impaired as far back as the early spring, but
though his strength had since then gradually failed him, he had not been
confined to the house until a month past. He spent the day and often
the night reclining on his sofa and speaking little. He had apparently
lost the taste for the violin which had once absorbed so much of his
attention; indeed I think the bodily strength necessary for its
performance had probably now failed him. The Stradivarius instrument
lay near his couch in its case; but I only saw the latter open on one
occasion, I think, and was deeply thankful that John no longer took
the same delight as heretofore in the practice of this art,--not only
because the mere sound of his violin was now fraught to me with such
bitter memories, but also because I felt sure that its performance had
in some way which I could not explain a deleterious effect upon himself.
He exhibited that absence of vitality which is so often noticeable in
those who have not long to live, and on some days lay in a state of
semi-lethargy from which it was difficult to rouse him. But at other
times he suffered from a distressing restlessness which forbade him to
sit still even for a few minutes, and which was more painful to watch
than his lethargic stupor. The Italian boy, of whom I have already
spoken, exhibited an untiring devotion to his master which won my heart.
His name was Raffaelle Carotenuto, and he often sang to us in the
evening, accompanying himself on the mandoline. At nights, too, when
John could not sleep, Raffaelle would read for hours till at last
his master dozed off. He was well educated, and though I could not
understand the subject he read, I often sat by and listened, being
charmed with his evident attachment to my brother and with the melodious
intonation of a sweet voice.
My brother was nervous apparently in some respects, and would never be
left alone even for a few minutes; but in the intervals while Raffaelle
was with him I had ample opportunity to examine and appreciate the
beauties of the Villa de Angelis. It was built, as I have said, on some
rocks jutting into the sea, just before coming to the Capo di Posilipo
as you proceed from Naples. The earlier foundations were, I believe,
originally Roman, and upon them a modern villa had been constructed
in the eighteenth century, and to this again John had made important
additions in the past two years. Looking down upon the sea from the
windows of the villa, one could on calm days easily discern the remains
of Roman piers and moles lying below the surface of the transparent
water; and the tufa-rock on which the house was built was burrowed with
those unintelligible excavations of a classic date so common in the
neighbourhood. These subterraneous rooms and passages, while they
aroused my curiosity, seemed at the same time so gloomy and repellent
that I never explored them. But on one sunny morning, as I walked at
the foot of the rocks by the sea, I ventured into one of the larger of
these chambers, and saw that it had at the far end an opening leading
apparently to an inner room. I had walking with me an old Italian female
servant who took a motherly interest in my proceedings, and who, relying
principally upon a very slight knowledge of English, had constituted
herself my body-guard. Encouraged by her presence, I penetrated this
inner room and found that it again opened in turn into another, and so
on until we had passed through no less than four chambers.
They were all lighted after a fashion through vent-holes which somewhere
or other reached the outer air, but the fourth room opened into a fifth
which was unlighted. My companion, who had been showing signs of alarm
and an evident reluctance to proceed further, now stopped abruptly and
begged me to return. It may have been that her fear communicated itself
to me also, for on attempting to cross the threshold and explore the
darkness of the fifth cell, I was seized by an unreasoning panic and by
the feeling of undefined horror experienced in a nightmare. I hesitated
for an instant, but my fear became suddenly more intense, and springing
back, I followed my companion, who had set out to run back to the outer
air. We never paused until we stood panting in the full sunlight by the
sea. As soon as the maid had found her breath, she begged me never to go
there again, explaining in broken English that the caves were known in
the neighbourhood as the "Cells of Isis," and were reputed to be haunted
by demons. This episode, trifling as it may appear, had so great an
effect upon me that I never again ventured on to the lower walk which
ran at the foot of the rocks by the sea.
In the house above, my brother had built a large hall after the ancient
Roman style, and this, with a dining-room and many other chambers, were
decorated in the fashion of those discovered at Pompeii. They had been
furnished with the utmost luxury, and the beauty of the paintings,
furniture, carpets, and hangings was enhanced by statues in bronze and
marble. The villa, indeed, and its fittings were of a kind to which
I was little used, and at the same time of such beauty that I never
ceased to regard all as a creation of an enchanter's wand, or as the
drop-scene to some drama which might suddenly be raised and disappear
from my sight. The house, in short, together with its furniture, was,
I believe, intended to be a reproduction of an ancient Roman villa,
and had something about it repellent to my rustic and insular ideas.
In the contemplation of its perfection I experienced a curious mental
sensation, which I can only compare to the physical oppression produced
on some persons by the heavy and cloying perfume of a bouquet of
gardenias or other too highly scented exotics.
In my brother's room was a medieval reproduction in mellow alabaster of
a classic group of a dolphin encircling a Cupid. It was, I think, the
fairest work of art I ever saw, but it jarred upon my sense of propriety
that close by it should hang an ivory crucifix. I would rather, I think,
have seen all things material and pagan entirely, with every view of
the future life shut out, than have found a medley of things sacred and
profane, where the emblems of our highest hopes and aspirations were
placed in insulting indifference side by side with the embodied forms of
sensuality. Here, in this scene of magical beauty, it seemed to me for
a moment that the years had rolled back, that Christianity had still to
fight with a _living_ Paganism, and that the battle was not yet won. It
was the same all through the house; and there were many other matters
which filled me with regret, mingled with vague and apprehensive
surmises which I shall not here repeat.
At one end of the house was a small library, but it contained few works
except Latin and Greek classics. I had gone thither one day to look for
a book that John had asked for, when in turning out some drawers I found
a number of letters written from Worth by my lost Constance to her
husband. The shock of being brought suddenly face to face with a
handwriting that evoked memories at once so dear and sad was in itself
a sharp one; but its bitterness was immeasurably increased by the
discovery that not one of these envelopes had ever been opened. While
that dear heart, now at rest, was pouring forth her love and sorrow to
the ears that should have been above all others ready to receive them,
her letters, as they arrived, were flung uncared for, unread, even
unopened, into any haphazard receptacle.
The days passed one by one at the Villa de Angelis with but little
incident, nor did my brother's health either visibly improve or decline.
Though the weather was still more than usually warm, a grateful breeze
came morning and evening from the sea and tempered the heat so much as
to render it always supportable. John would sometimes in the evening sit
propped up with cushions on the trellised balcony looking towards Baia,
and watch the fishermen setting their nets. We could hear the melody
of their deep-voiced songs carried up on the night air. "It was here,
Sophy," my brother said, as we sat one evening looking on a scene like
this,--"It was here that the great epicure Pollio built himself a famous
house, and called it by two Greek words meaning a 'truce to care,' from
which our name of Posilipo is derived. It was his _sans-souci_, and here
he cast aside his vexations; but they were lighter than mine. Posilipo
has brought no cessation of care to me. I do not think I shall find any
truce this side the grave; and beyond, who knows?"
This was the first time John had spoken in this strain, and he seemed
stirred to an unusual activity, as though his own words had suddenly
reminded him how frail was his state. He called Raffaelle to him and
despatched him on an errand to Naples. The next morning he sent for me
earlier than usual, and begged that a carriage might be ready by six in
the evening, as he desired to drive into the city. I tried at first to
dissuade him from his project, urging him to consider his weak state of
health. He replied that he felt somewhat stronger, and had something
that he particularly wished me to see in Naples. This done, it would be
better to return at once to England: he could, he thought, bear the
journey if we travelled by very short stages.