The next morning my health and strength were entirely restored to me,
but my brother, on the contrary, seemed weak and exhausted from his
efforts of the previous night. Our return journey to the Villa de
Angelis had passed in complete silence. I had been too much perturbed
to question him on the many points relating to the strange events as to
which I was still completely in the dark, and he on his side had shown
no desire to afford me any further information. When I saw him the next
morning he exhibited signs of great weakness, and in response to an
effort on my part to obtain some explanation of the discovery of Adrian
Temple's body, avoided an immediate reply, promising to tell me all he
knew after our return to Worth Maltravers.
I pondered over the last terrifying episode very frequently in my own
mind, and as I thought more deeply of it all, it seemed to me that the
outlines of some evil history were piece by piece developing themselves,
that I had almost within my grasp the clue that would make all plain,
and that had eluded me so long. In that dim story Adrian Temple, the
music of the _Gagliarda_, my brother's fatal passion for the violin,
all seemed to have some mysterious connection, and to have conspired in
working John's mental and physical ruin. Even the Stradivarius violin
bore a part in the tragedy, becoming, as it were, an actively malignant
spirit, though I could not explain how, and was yet entirely unaware of
the manner in which it had come into my brother's possession.
I found that John was still resolved on an immediate return to England.
His weakness, it is true, led me to entertain doubts as to how he would
support so long a journey; but at the same time I did not feel justified
in using any strong efforts to dissuade him from his purpose. I
reflected that the more wholesome air and associations of England would
certainly re-invigorate both body and mind, and that any extra strain
brought about by the journey would soon be repaired by the comforts and
watchful care with which we could surround him at Worth Maltravers.
So the first week in October saw us once more with our faces set towards
England. A very comfortable swinging-bed or hammock had been arranged
for John in the travelling carriage, and we determined to avoid fatigue
as much as possible by dividing our journey into very short stages. My
brother seemed to have no intention of giving up the Villa de Angelis.
It was left complete with its luxurious furniture, and with all his
servants, under the care of an Italian _maggior-duomo_. I felt that as
John's state of health forbade his entertaining any hope of an immediate
return thither, it would have been much better to close entirely his
Italian house. But his great weakness made it impossible for him to
undertake the effort such a course would involve, and even if my own
ignorance of the Italian tongue had not stood in the way, I was far too
eager to get my invalid back to Worth to feel inclined to import any
further delay, while I should myself adjust matters which were after all
comparatively trifling. As Parnham was now ready to discharge his usual
duties of valet, and as my brother seemed quite content that he should
do so, Raffaelle was of course to be left behind. The boy had quite won
my heart by his sweet manners, combined with his evident affection to
his master, and in making him understand that he was now to leave us,
I offered him a present of a few pounds as a token of my esteem. He
refused, however, to touch this money, and shed tears when he learnt
that he was to be left in Italy, and begged with many protestations of
devotion that he might be allowed to accompany us to England. My heart
was not proof against his entreaties, supported by so many signs of
attachment, and it was agreed, therefore, that he should at least attend
us as far as Worth Maltravers. John showed no surprise at the boy being
with us; indeed I never thought it necessary to explain that I had
originally purposed to leave him behind.
Our journey, though necessarily prolonged by the shortness of its
stages, was safely accomplished. John bore it as well as I could have
hoped, and though his body showed no signs of increased vigour, his
mind, I think, improved in tone, at any rate for a time. From the
evening on which he had shown me the terrible discovery in the Via
del Giardino he seemed to have laid aside something of his care and
depression. He now exhibited little trace of the moroseness and
selfishness which had of late so marred his character; and though he
naturally felt severely at times the fatigue of travel, yet we had no
longer to dread any relapse into that state of lethargy or stupor which
had so often baffled every effort to counteract it at Posilipo. Some
feeling of superstitious aversion had prompted me to give orders that
the Stradivarius violin should be left behind at Posilipo. But before
parting my brother asked for it, and insisted that it should be brought
with him, though I had never heard him play a note on it for many weeks.
He took an interest in all the petty episodes of travel, and certainly
appeared to derive more entertainment from the journey than was to have
been anticipated in his feeble state of health.
To the incidents of the evening spent in the Via del Giardino he made no
allusion of any kind, nor did I for my part wish to renew memories of
so unpleasant a nature. His only reference occurred one Sunday evening
as we were passing a small graveyard near Genoa. The scene apparently
turned his thoughts to that subject, and he told me that he had taken
measures before leaving Naples to ensure that the remains of Adrian
Temple should be decently interred in the cemetery of Santa Bibiana.
His words set me thinking again, and unsatisfied curiosity prompted
me strongly to inquire of him how he had convinced himself that the
skeleton at the foot of the stairs was indeed that of Adrian Temple. But
I restrained myself, partly from a reliance on his promise that he would
one day explain the whole story to me, and partly being very reluctant
to mar the enjoyment of the peaceful scenes through which we were
passing, by the introduction of any subjects so jarring and painful as
those to which I have alluded.
We reached London at last, and here we stopped a few days to make some
necessary arrangements before going down to Worth Maltravers. I had
urged upon John during the journey that immediately on his arrival in
London he should obtain the best English medical advice as to his own
health. Though he at first demurred, saying that nothing more was to be
done, and that he was perfectly satisfied with the medicine given him by
Dr. Baravelli, which he continued to take, yet by constant entreaty I
prevailed upon him to accede to so reasonable a request. Dr. Frobisher,
considered at that time the first living authority on diseases of the
brain and nerves, saw him on the morning after our arrival. He was good
enough to speak with me at some length after seeing my brother, and to
give me many hints and recipes whereby I might be better enabled to
nurse the invalid.
Sir John's condition, he said, was such as to excite serious anxiety.
There was, indeed, no brain mischief of any kind to be discovered, but
his lungs were in a state of advanced disease, and there were signs of
grave heart affection. Yet he did not bid me to despair, but said that
with careful nursing life might certainly be prolonged, and even some
measure of health in time restored. He asked me more than once if I knew
of any trouble or worry that preyed upon Sir John's mind. Were there
financial difficulties; had he been subjected to any mental shock; had
he received any severe fright? To all this I could only reply in the
negative. At the same time I told Dr. Frobisher as much of John's
history as I considered pertinent to the question. He shook his head
gravely, and recommended that Sir John should remain for the present in
London, under his own constant supervision. To this course my brother
would by no means consent. He was eager to proceed at once to his own
house, saying that if necessary we could return again to London for
Christmas. It was therefore agreed that we should go down to Worth
Maltravers at the end of the week.
Parnham had already left us for Worth in order that he might have
everything ready against his master's return, and when we arrived we
found all in perfect order for our reception. A small morning-room next
to the library, with a pleasant south aspect and opening on to the
terrace, had been prepared for my brother's use, so that he might avoid
the fatigue of mounting stairs, which Dr. Frobisher considered very
prejudicial in his present condition. We had also purchased in London a
chair fitted with wheels, which enabled him to be moved, or, if he were
feeling equal to the exertion, to move himself, without difficulty, from
room to room.
His health, I think, improved; very gradually, it is true, but still
sufficiently to inspire me with hope that he might yet be spared to us.
Of the state of his mind or thoughts I knew little, but I could see that
he was at times a prey to nervous anxiety. This showed itself in the
harassed look which his pale face often wore, and in his marked dislike
to being left alone. He derived, I think, a certain pleasure from the
quietude and monotony of his life at Worth, and perhaps also from the
consciousness that he had about him loving and devoted hearts. I say
hearts, for every servant at Worth was attached to him, remembering the
great consideration and courtesy of his earlier years, and grieving to
see his youthful and once vigorous frame reduced to so sad a strait.
Books he never read himself, and even the charm of Raffaelle's reading
seemed to have lost its power; though he never tired of hearing the boy
sing, and liked to have him sit by his chair even when his eyes were
shut and he was apparently asleep. His general health seemed to me to
change but little either for better or worse. Dr. Frobisher had led me
to expect some such a sequel. I had not concealed from him that I had
at times entertained suspicions as to my brother's sanity; but he had
assured me that they were totally unfounded, that Sir John's brain was
as clear as his own. At the same time he confessed that he could not
account for the exhausted vitality of his patient,--a condition which he
would under ordinary circumstances have attributed to excessive study or
severe trouble. He had urged upon me the pressing necessity for complete
rest, and for much sleep. My brother never even incidentally referred to
his wife, his child, or to Mrs. Temple, who constantly wrote to me from
Royston, sending kind messages to John, and asking how he did. These
messages I never dared to give him, fearing to agitate him, or retard
his recovery by diverting his thoughts into channels which must
necessarily be of a painful character. That he should never even mention
her name, or that of Lady Maltravers, led me to wonder sometimes if one
of those curious freaks of memory which occasionally accompany a severe
illness had not entirely blotted out from his mind the recollection of
his marriage and of his wife's death. He was unable to consider any
affairs of business, and the management of the estate remained as it
had done for the last two years in the hands of our excellent agent,
Mr. Baker.
But one evening in the early part of December he sent Raffaelle about
nine o'clock, saying he wished to speak to me. I went to his room, and
without any warning he began at once, "You never show me my boy now,
Sophy; he must be grown a big child, and I should like to see him."
Much startled by so unexpected a remark, I replied that the child was
at Royston under the care of Mrs. Temple, but that I knew that if it
pleased him to see Edward she would be glad to bring him down to Worth.
He seemed gratified with this idea, and begged me to ask her to do so,
desiring that his respects should be at the same time conveyed to her. I
almost ventured at that moment to recall his lost wife to his thoughts,
by saying that his child resembled her strongly; for your likeness at
that time, and even now, my dear Edward, to your poor mother was very
marked. But my courage failed me, and his talk soon reverted to an
earlier period, comparing the mildness of the month to that of the first
winter which he spent at Eton. His thoughts, however, must, I fancy,
have returned for a moment to the days when he first met your mother,
for he suddenly asked, "Where is Gaskell? Why does he never come to see
me?" This brought quite a new idea to my mind. I fancied it might do my
brother much good to have by him so sensible and true a friend as I knew
Mr. Gaskell to be. The latter's address had fortunately not slipped from
my memory, and I put all scruples aside and wrote by the next mail to
him, setting forth my brother's sad condition, saying that I had heard
John mention his name, and begging him on my own account to be so good
as to help us if possible and come to us in this hour of trial. Though
he was so far off as Westmorland, Mr. Gaskell's generosity brought
him at once to our aid, and within a week he was installed at Worth
Maltravers, sleeping, in the library, where we had arranged a bed at
his own desire, so that he might be near his sick friend.
His presence was of the utmost assistance to us all. He treated John
at once with the tenderness of a woman and the firmness of a clever
and strong man. They sat constantly together in the mornings, and Mr.
Gaskell told me John had not shown with him the same reluctance to talk
freely of his married life as he had discovered with me. The tenor of
his communications I cannot guess, nor did I ever ask; but I knew that
Mr. Gaskell was much affected by them.
John even amused himself now at times by having Mr. Baker into his rooms
of a morning, that the management of the estate might be discussed with
his friend; and he also expressed his wish to see the family solicitor,
as he desired to draw his will. Thinking that any diversion of this
nature could not but be beneficial to him, we sent to Dorchester for our
solicitor, Mr. Jeffreys, who together with his clerk spent three nights
at Worth, and drew up a testament for my brother.
So time went on, and the year was drawing to a close.
It was Christmas Eve, and I had gone to bed shortly after twelve
o'clock, having an hour earlier bid good night to John and Mr. Gaskell.
The long habit of watching with, or being in charge of an invalid at
night, had made my ears extraordinarily quick to apprehend even the
slightest murmur. It must have been, I think, near three in the morning
when I found myself awake and conscious of some unusual sound. It was
low and far off, but I knew instantly what it was, and felt a choking
sensation of fear and horror, as if an icy hand had gripped my throat,
on recognising the air of the _Gagliarda_. It was being played on the
violin, and a long way off, but I knew that tune too well to permit of
my having any doubt on the subject.
Any trouble or fear becomes, as you will some day learn, my dear nephew,
immensely intensified and exaggerated at night. It is so, I suppose,
because our nerves are in an excited condition, and our brain not
sufficiently awake to give a due account of our foolish imaginations. I
have myself many times lain awake wrestling in thought with difficulties
which in the hours of darkness seemed insurmountable, but with the dawn
resolved themselves into merely trivial inconveniences. So on this
night, as I sat up in bed looking into the dark, with the sound of that
melody in my ears, it seemed as if something too terrible for words had
happened; as though the evil spirit, which we had hoped was exorcised,
had returned with others sevenfold more wicked than himself, and taken
up his abode again with my lost brother. The memory of another night
rushed to my mind when Constance had called me from my bed at Royston,
and we had stolen together down the moonlit passages with the lilt of
that wicked music vibrating on the still summer air. Poor Constance! She
was in her grave now; yet _her_ troubles at least were over, but here,
as by some bitter irony, instead of carol or sweet symphony, it was the
_Gagliarda_ that woke me from my sleep on Christmas morning.
I flung my dressing-gown about me, and hurried through the corridor and
down the stairs which led to the lower storey and my brother's room.
As I opened my bedroom door the violin ceased suddenly in the middle
of a bar. Its last sound was not a musical note, but rather a horrible
scream, such as I pray I may never hear again. It was a sound such as a
wounded beast might utter. There is a picture I have seen of Blake's,
showing the soul of a strong wicked man leaving his body at death. The
spirit is flying out through the window with awful staring eyes, aghast
at the desolation into which it is going. If in the agony of dissolution
such a lost soul could utter a cry, it would, I think, sound like the
wail which I heard from the violin that night.
Instantly all was in absolute stillness. The passages were silent and
ghostly in the faint light of my candle; but as I reached the bottom
of the stairs I heard the sound of other footsteps, and Mr. Gaskell met
me. He was fully dressed, and had evidently not been to bed. He took me
kindly by the hand and said, "I feared you might be alarmed by the sound
of music. John has been walking in his sleep; he had taken out his
violin and was playing on it in a trance. Just as I reached him
something in it gave way, and the discord caused by the slackened
strings roused him at once. He is awake now and has returned to bed.
Control your alarm for his sake and your own. It is better that he
should not know you have been awakened."
He pressed my hand and spoke a few more reassuring words, and I went
back to my room still much agitated, and yet feeling half ashamed for
having shown so much anxiety with so little reason.
That Christmas morning was one of the most beautiful that I ever
remember. It seemed as though summer was so loath to leave our sunny
Dorset coast that she came back on this day to bid us adieu before her
final departure. I had risen early and had partaken of the Sacrament
at our little church. Dr. Butler had recently introduced this early
service, and though any alteration of time-honoured customs in such
matters might not otherwise have met with my approval, I was glad to
avail myself of the privilege on this occasion, as I wished in any case
to spend the later morning with my brother. The singular beauty of the
early hours, and the tranquillising effect of the solemn service brought
back serenity to my mind, and effectually banished from it all memories
of the preceding night. Mr. Gaskell met me in the hall on my return, and
after greeting me kindly with the established compliments of the day,
inquired after my health, and hoped that the disturbance of my slumber
on the previous night had not affected me injuriously. He had good news
for me: John seemed decidedly better, was already dressed, and desired,
as it was Christmas morning, that we would take our breakfast with him
in his room.
To this, as you may imagine, I readily assented. Our breakfast party
passed off with much content, and even with some quiet humour, John
sitting in his easy-chair at the head of the table and wishing us the
compliments of the season. I found laid in my place a letter from Mrs.
Temple greeting us all (for she knew Mr. Gaskell was at Worth), and
saying that she hoped to bring little Edward to us at the New Year.
My brother seemed much pleased at the prospect of seeing his son, and
though perhaps it was only imagination, I fancied he was particularly
gratified that Mrs. Temple herself was to pay us a visit. She had not
been to Worth since the death of Lady Maltravers.
Before we had finished breakfast the sun beat on the panes with an
unusual strength and brightness. His rays cheered us all, and it was so
warm that John first opened the windows, and then wheeled his chair on
to the walk outside. Mr. Gaskell brought him a hat and mufflers, and we
sat with him on the terrace basking in the sun. The sea was still and
glassy as a mirror, and the Channel lay stretched before us like a floor
of moving gold. A rose or two still hung against the house, and the
sun's rays reflected from the red sandstone gave us a December morning
more mild and genial than many June days that I have known in the north.
We sat for some minutes without speaking, immersed in our own
reflections and in the exquisite beauty of the scene.
The stillness was broken by the bells of the parish church ringing for
the morning service. There were two of them, and their sound, familiar
to us from childhood, seemed like the voices of old friends. John looked
at me and said with a sigh, "I should like to go to church. It is long
since I was there. You and I have always been on Christmas mornings,
Sophy, and Constance would have wished it had she been with us."
His words, so unexpected and tender, filled my eyes with tears; not
tears of grief, but of deep thankfulness to see my loved one turning
once more to the old ways. It was the first time I had heard him speak
of Constance, and that sweet name, with the infinite pathos of her
death, and of the spectacle of my brother's weakness, so overcame me
that I could not speak. I only pressed his hand and nodded. Mr. Gaskell,
who had turned away for a minute, said he thought John would take no
harm in attending the morning service provided the church were warm.
On this point I could reassure him, having found it properly heated
even in the early morning.
Mr. Gaskell was to push John's chair, and I ran off to put on my cloak,
with my heart full of profound thankfulness for the signs of returning
grace so mercifully vouchsafed to our dear sufferer on this happy day.
I was ready dressed and had just entered the library when Mr. Gaskell
stepped hurriedly through the window from the terrace. "John has
fainted!" he said. "Run for some smelling salts and call Parnham!"
There was a scene of hurried alarm, giving place ere long to terrified
despair. Parnham mounted a horse and set off at a wild gallop to Swanage
to fetch Dr. Bruton; but an hour before he returned we knew the worst.
My brother was beyond the aid of the physician: his wrecked life had
reached a sudden term!
* * * * *
I have now, dear Edward, completed the brief narrative of some of the
facts attending the latter years of your father's life. The motive which
has induced me to commit them to writing has been a double one. I am
anxious to give effect as far as may be to the desire expressed most
strongly to Mr. Gaskell by your father, that you should be put in
possession of these facts on your coming of age. And for my own part I
think it better that you should thus hear the plain truth from me, lest
you should be at the mercy of haphazard reports, which might at any time
reach you from ignorant or interested sources. Some of the circumstances
were so remarkable that it is scarcely possible to suppose that they
were not known, and most probably frequently discussed, in so large an
establishment as that of Worth Maltravers. I even have reason to believe
that exaggerated and absurd stories were current at the time of Sir
John's death, and I should be grieved to think that such foolish tales
might by any chance reach your ear without your having any sure means of
discovering where the truth lay. God knows how grievous it has been to
me to set down on paper some of the facts that I have here narrated. You
as a dutiful son will reverence the name even of a father whom you never
knew; but you must remember that his sister did more; she loved him with
a single-hearted devotion, and it still grieves her to the quick to
write anything which may seem to detract from his memory. Only, above
all things, let us speak the truth. Much of what I have told you needs,
I feel, further explanation, but this I cannot give, for I do not
understand the circumstances. Mr. Gaskell, your guardian, will, I
believe, add to this account a few notes of his own, which may tend to
elucidate some points, as he is in possession of certain facts of which
I am still ignorant.
MR. GASKELL'S NOTE
I have read what Miss Maltravers has written, and have but little to add
to it. I can give no explanation that will tally with all the facts or
meet all the difficulties involved in her narrative. The most obvious
solution of some points would be, of course, to suppose that Sir John
Maltravers was insane. But to anyone who knew him as intimately as I
did, such an hypothesis is untenable; nor, if admitted, would it explain
some of the strangest incidents. Moreover, it was strongly negatived by
Dr. Frobisher, from whose verdict in such matters there was at the time
no appeal, by Dr. Dobie, and by Dr. Bruton, who had known Sir John from
his infancy. It is possible that towards the close of his life he
suffered occasionally from hallucination, though I could not positively
affirm even so much; but this was only when his health had been
completely undermined by causes which are very difficult to analyse.
When I first knew him at Oxford he was a strong man physically as
well as mentally; open-hearted, and of a merry and genial temperament.
At the same time he was, like most cultured persons--and especially
musicians,--highly strung and excitable. But at a certain point in his
career his very nature seemed to change; he became reserved, secretive,
and saturnine. On this moral metamorphosis followed an equally startling
physical change. His robust health began to fail him, and although there
was no definite malady which doctors could combat, he went gradually
from bad to worse until the end came.
The commencement of this extraordinary change coincided, I believe,
almost exactly with his discovery of the Stradivarius violin; and
whether this was, after all, a mere coincidence or something more it is
not easy to say. Until a very short time before his death neither Miss
Maltravers nor I had any idea how that instrument had come into his
possession, or I think something might perhaps have been done to save
him.
Though towards the end of his life he spoke freely to his sister of the
finding of the violin, he only told her half the story, for he concealed
from her entirely that there was anything else in the hidden cupboard at
Oxford. But as a matter of fact, he had found there also two manuscript
books containing an elaborate diary of some years of a man's life. That
man was Adrian Temple, and I believe that in the perusal of this diary
must be sought the origin of John Maltravers's ruin. The manuscript was
beautifully written in a clear but cramped eighteenth century hand,
and gave the idea of a man writing with deliberation, and wishing to
transcribe his impressions with accuracy for further reference. The
style was excellent, and the minute details given were often of high
antiquarian interest; but the record throughout was marred by gross
licence. Adrian Temple's life had undoubtedly so definite an influence
on Sir John's that a brief outline of it, as gathered from his diaries,
is necessary for the understanding of what followed.
Temple went up to Oxford in 1737. He was seventeen years old, without
parents, brothers, or sisters; and he possessed the Royston estates
in Derbyshire, which were then, as now, a most valuable property.
With the year 1738 his diaries begin, and though then little more than
a boy, he had tasted every illicit pleasure that Oxford had to offer.
His temptations were no doubt great; for besides being wealthy he was
handsome, and had probably never known any proper control, as both his
parents had died when he was still very young. But in spite of other
failings, he was a brilliant scholar, and on taking his degree, was
made at once a fellow of St. John's. He took up his abode in that
College in a fine set of rooms looking on to the gardens, and from this
period seems to have used Royston but little, living always either at
Oxford or on the Continent. He formed at this time the acquaintance of
one Jocelyn, whom he engaged as companion and amanuensis. Jocelyn was a
man of talent, but of irregular life, and was no doubt an accomplice in
many of Temple's excesses. In 1743 they both undertook the so-called
"grand tour," and though it was not his first visit, it was then
probably that Temple first felt the fascination of pagan Italy,--a
fascination which increased with every year of his after-life.
On his return from foreign travel he found himself among the stirring
events of 1745. He was an ardent supporter of the Pretender, and made no
attempt to conceal his views. Jacobite tendencies were indeed generally
prevalent in the College at the time, and had this been the sum of his
offending, it is probable that little notice would have been taken by
the College authorities. But his notoriously wild life told against the
young man, and certain dark suspicions were not easily passed over.
After the _fiasco_ of the Rebellion Dr. Holmes, then President of the
College, seems to have made a scapegoat of Temple. He was deprived of
his fellowship, and though not formally expelled, such pressure was put
upon him as resulted in his leaving St. John's and removing to Magdalen
Hall. There his great wealth evidently secured him consideration, and he
was given the best rooms in the Hall, that very set looking on to New
College Lane which Sir John Maltravers afterwards occupied.
In the first half of the eighteenth century the romance of the middle
ages, though dying, was not dead, and the occult sciences still found
followers among the Oxford towers. From his early years Temple's mind
seems to have been set strongly towards mysticism of all kinds, and he
and Jocelyn were versed in the jargon of the alchemist and astrologer,
and practised according to the ancient rules. It was his reputation as
a necromancer, and the stories current of illicit rites performed in
the garden-rooms at St. John's, that contributed largely to his being
dismissed from that College. He had also become acquainted with Francis
Dashwood, the notorious Lord le Despencer, and many a winter's night
saw him riding through the misty Thames meadows to the door of the sham
Franciscan abbey. In his diaries were more notices than one of the
"Franciscans" and the nameless orgies of Medmenham.
He was devoted to music. It was a rare enough accomplishment then, and a
rarer thing still to find a wealthy landowner performing on the violin.
Yet so he did, though he kept his passion very much to himself, as
fiddling was thought lightly of in those days. His musical skill
was altogether exceptional, and he was the first possessor of the
Stradivarius violin which afterwards fell so unfortunately into Sir
John's hands. This violin Temple bought in the autumn of 1738, on the
occasion of a first visit to Italy. In that year died the nonagenarian
Antonius Stradivarius, the greatest violin-maker the world has ever
seen. After Stradivarius's death the stock of fiddles in his shop was
sold by auction. Temple happened to be travelling in Cremona at the time
with a tutor, and at the auction he bought that very instrument which we
afterwards had cause to know so well. A note in his diary gave its cost
at four louis, and said that a curious history attached to it. Though
it was of his golden period, and probably the finest instrument he ever
made, Stradivarius would never sell it, and it had hung for more than
thirty years in his shop. It was said that from some whim as he lay
dying he had given orders that it should be burnt; but if that were so,
the instructions were neglected, and after his death it came under the
hammer. Adrian Temple from the first recognised the great value of the
instrument. His notes show that he only used it on certain special
occasions, and it was no doubt for its better protection that he devised
the hidden cupboard where Sir John eventually found it.
The later years of Temple's life were spent for the most part in Italy.
On the Scoglio di Venere, near Naples, he built the Villa de Angelis,
and there henceforth passed all except the hottest months of the year.
Shortly after the completion of the villa Jocelyn left him suddenly, and
became a Carthusian monk. A caustic note in his diary hinted that even
this foul parasite was shocked into the austerest form of religion by
something he had seen going forward. At Naples Temple's dark life became
still darker. He dallied, it is true, with Neo-Platonism, and boasts
that he, like Plotinus, had twice passed the circle of the _nous_ and
enjoyed the fruition of the deity; but the ideals of even that easy
doctrine grew in his evil life still more miserably debased. More than
once in the manuscript he made mention by name of the _Gagliarda_
of Graziani as having been played at pagan mysteries which these
enthusiasts revived at Naples, and the air had evidently impressed
itself deeply on his memory. The last entry in his diary is made on
the 16th of December, 1752. He was then in Oxford for a few days, but
shortly afterwards returned to Naples. The accident of his having just
completed a second volume, induced him, no doubt, to leave it behind him
in the secret cupboard. It is probable that he commenced a third, but if
so it was never found.
In reading the manuscript I was struck with the author's clear and easy
style, and found the interest of the narrative increase rather than
diminish. At the same time its study was inexpressibly painful to me.
Nothing could have supported me in my determination to thoroughly
master it but the conviction that if I was to be of any real assistance
to my poor friend Maltravers, I must know as far as possible every
circumstance connected with his malady. As it was, I felt myself
breathing an atmosphere of moral contagion during the perusal of the
manuscript, and certain passages have since returned at times to haunt
me in spite of all efforts to dislodge them from my memory. When I came
to Worth at Miss Maltravers's urgent invitation, I found my friend Sir
John terribly altered. It was not only that he was ill and physically
weak, but he had entirely lost the manner of youth, which, though
indefinable, is yet so appreciable, and draws so sharp a distinction
between the first period of life and middle age. But the most striking
feature of his illness was the extraordinary pallor of his complexion,
which made his face resemble a subtle counterfeit of white wax rather
than that of a living man. He welcomed me undemonstratively, but with
evident sincerity; and there was an entire absence of the constraint
which often accompanies the meeting again of friends whose cordial
relations have suffered interruption. From the time of my arrival at
Worth until his death we were constantly together; indeed I was much
struck by the almost childish dislike which he showed to be left alone
even for a few moments. As night approached this feeling became
intensified. Parnham slept always in his master's room; but if anything
called the servant away even for a minute, he would send for Carotenuto
or myself to be with him until his return. His nerves were weak; he
started violently at any unexpected noise, and above all, he dreaded
being in the dark. When night fell he had additional lamps brought into
his room, and even when he composed himself to sleep, insisted on a
strong light being kept by his bedside.
I had often read in books of people wearing a "hunted" expression, and
had laughed at the phrase as conventional and unmeaning. But when I
came to Worth I knew its truth; for if any face ever wore a hunted--I
had almost written a haunted--look, it was the white face of Sir John
Maltravers. His air seemed that of a man who was constantly expecting
the arrival of some evil tidings, and at times reminded me painfully of
the guilty expectation of a felon who knows that a warrant is issued for
his arrest.
During my visit he spoke to me frequently about his past life, and
instead of showing any reluctance to discuss the subject, seemed glad of
the opportunity of disburdening his mind. I gathered from him that the
reading of Adrian Temple's memoirs had made a deep impression on his
mind, which was no doubt intensified by the vision which he thought he
saw in his rooms at Oxford, and by the discovery of the portrait at
Royston. Of those singular phenomena I have no explanation to offer.
The romantic element in his disposition rendered him peculiarly
susceptible to the fascination of that mysticism which breathed through
Temple's narrative. He told me that almost from the first time he read
it he was filled with a longing to visit the places and to revive the
strange life of which it spoke. This inclination he kept at first in
check, but by degrees it gathered strength enough to master him.
There is no doubt in my mind that the music of the _Gagliarda_ of
Graziani helped materially in this process of mental degradation. It is
curious that Michael Prætorius in the "Syntagma musicum" should speak of
the Galliard generally as an "invention of the devil, full of shameful
and licentious gestures and immodest movements," and the singular melody
of the _Gagliarda_ in the "Areopagita" suite certainly exercised from
the first a strange influence over me. I shall not do more than touch
on the question here, because I see Miss Maltravers has spoken of it
at length, and will only say, that though since the day of Sir John's
death I have never heard a note of it, the air is still fresh in my
mind, and has at times presented itself to me unexpectedly, and always
with an unwholesome effect. This I have found happen generally in times
of physical depression, and the same air no doubt exerted a similar
influence on Sir John, which his impressionable nature rendered from the
first more deleterious to him.
I say this advisedly, because I am sure that if some music is good for
man and elevates him, other melodies are equally bad and enervating. An
experience far wider than any we yet possess is necessary to enable us
to say how far this influence is capable of extension. How far, that
is, the mind may be directed on the one hand to ascetic abnegation by
the systematic use of certain music, or on the other to illicit and
dangerous pleasures by melodies of an opposite tendency. But this much
is, I think, certain, that after a comparatively advanced standard of
culture has once been attained, music is the readiest if not the only
key which admits to the yet narrower circle of the highest imaginative
thought.
On the occasion for travel afforded him by his honeymoon, an impulse
which he could not at the time explain, but which after-events have
convinced me was the haunting suggestion of the _Gagliarda_, drove him
to visit the scenes mentioned so often in Temple's diary. He had always
been an excellent scholar, and a classic of more than ordinary ability.
Rome and Southern Italy filled him with a strange delight. His education
enabled him to appreciate to the full what he saw; he peopled the stage
with the figures of the original actors, and tried to assimilate his
thought to theirs. He began reading classical literature widely, no
longer from the scholarly but the literary standpoint. In Rome he
spent much time in the librarians' shops, and there met with copies
of the numerous authors of the later empire and of those Alexandrine
philosophers which are rarely seen in England. In these he found a new
delight and fresh food for his mysticism.
Such study, if carried to any extent, is probably dangerous to the
English character, and certainly was to a man of Maltravers's romantic
sympathies. This reading produced in time so real an effect upon his
mind that if he did not definitely abandon Christianity, as I fear he
did, he at least adulterated it with other doctrines till it became to
him Neo-Platonism. That most seductive of philosophies, which has
enthralled so many minds from Proclus and Julian to Augustine and the
Renaissancists, found an easy convert in John Maltravers. Its passionate
longing for the vague and undefined good, its tolerance of æsthetic
impressions, the pleasant superstitions of its dynamic pantheism, all
touched responsive chords in his nature. His mind, he told me, became
filled with a measureless yearning for the old culture of pagan
philosophy, and as the past became clearer and more real, so the present
grew dimmer, and his thoughts were gradually weaned entirely from all
the natural objects of affection and interest which should otherwise
have occupied them. To what a terrible extent this process went on, Miss
Maltravers's narrative shows. Soon after reaching Naples he visited the
Villa de Angelis, which Temple had built on the ruins of a sea-house of
Pomponius. The later building had in its turn become dismantled and
ruinous, and Sir John found no difficulty in buying the site outright.
He afterwards rebuilt it on an elaborate scale, endeavouring to
reproduce in its equipment the luxury of the later empire. I had
occasion to visit the house more than once in my capacity of executor,
and found it full of priceless works of art, which, though neither so
difficult to procure at that time nor so costly as they would be now,
were yet sufficiently valuable to have necessitated an unjustifiable
outlay.
The situation of the building fostered his infatuation for the past. It
lay between the Bay of Naples and the Bay of Baia, and from its windows
commanded the same exquisite view which had charmed Cicero and Lucullus,
Severus and the Antonines. Hard by stood Baia, the princely seaside
resort of the empire. That most luxurious and wanton of all cities of
antiquity survived the cataclysms of ages, and only lost its civic
continuity and became the ruined village of to-day in the sack of the
fifteenth century. But a continuity of wickedness is not so easily
broken, and those who know the spot best say that it is still instinct
with memories of a shameful past.
For miles along that haunted coast the foot cannot be put down except on
the ruins of some splendid villa, and over all there broods a spirit of
corruption and debasement actually sensible and oppressive. Of the dawns
and sunsets, of the noonday sun tempered by the sea-breeze and the shade
of scented groves, those who have been there know the charm, and to
those who have not no words can describe it. But there are malefic
vapours rising from the corpse of a past not altogether buried, and most
cultivated Englishmen who tarry there long feel their influence as did
John Maltravers. Like so many _decepti deceptores_ of the Neo-Platonic
school, he did not practise the abnegation enjoined by the very cult he
professed to follow. Though his nature was far too refined, I believe,
ever to sink into the sensualism revealed in Temple's diaries, yet it
was through the gratification of corporeal tastes that he endeavoured
to achieve the divine _extasis_; and there were constantly lavish and
sumptuous entertainments at the villa, at which strange guests were
present.
In such a nightmare of a life it was not to be expected that any mind
would find repose, and Maltravers certainly found none. All those cares
which usually occupy men's minds, all thoughts of wife, child, and home
were, it is true, abandoned; but a wild unrest had hold of him, and
never suffered him to be at ease. Though he never told me as much, yet
I believe he was under the impression that the form which he had seen
at Oxford and Royston had reappeared to him on more than one subsequent
occasion. It must have been, I fancy, with a vague hope of "laying" this
spectre that he now set himself with eagerness to discover where or
how Temple had died. He remembered that Royston tradition said he had
succumbed at Naples in the plague of 1752, but an idea seized him that
this was not the case; indeed I half suspect his fancy unconsciously
pictured that evil man as still alive. The methods by which he
eventually discovered the skeleton, or learnt the episodes which
preceded Temple's death, I do not know. He promised to tell me some
day at length, but a sudden death prevented his ever doing so. The
facts as he narrated them, and as I have little doubt they actually
occurred, were these: Adrian Temple, after Jocelyn's departure, had
made a confidant of one Palamede Domacavalli, a scion of a splendid
Parthenopean family of that name. Palamede had a palace in the heart of
Naples, and was Temple's equal in age and also in his great wealth. The
two men became boon companions, associated in all kinds of wickedness
and excess. At length Palamede married a beautiful girl named Olimpia
Aldobrandini, who was also of the noblest lineage; but the intimacy
between him and Temple was not interrupted. About a year subsequent to
this marriage dancing was going on after a splendid banquet in the great
hall of the Palazzo Domacavalli. Adrian, who was a favoured guest,
called to the musicians in the gallery to play the "Areopagita" suite,
and danced it with Olimpia, the wife of his host. The _Gagliarda_ was
reached but never finished, for near the end of the second movement
Palamede from behind drove a stiletto into his friend's heart. He had
found out that day that Adrian had not spared even Olimpia's honour.
I have endeavoured to condense into a connected story the facts learnt
piecemeal from Sir John in conversation. To a certain extent they
supplied, if not an explanation, at least an account of the change
that had come over my friend. But only to a certain extent; there the
explanation broke down and I was left baffled. I could imagine that a
life of unwholesome surroundings and disordered studies might in time
produce such a loss of mental tone as would lead in turn to moral
_acolasia_, sensual excess, and physical ruin. But in Sir John's case
the cause was not adequate; he had, so far as I know, never wholly given
the reins to sensuality, and the change was too abrupt and the breakdown
of body and mind too complete to be accounted for by such events as
those of which he had spoken.
I had, too, an uneasy feeling, which grew upon me the more I saw of him,
that while he spoke freely enough on certain topics, and obviously meant
to give a complete history of his past life, there was in reality
something in the background which he always kept from my view. He was,
it seemed, like a young man asked by an indulgent father to disclose
his debts in order that they may be discharged, who, although he knows
his parent's leniency, and that any debt not now disclosed will be
afterwards but a weight upon his own neck, yet hesitates for very shame
to tell the full amount, and keeps some items back. So poor Sir John
kept something back from me his friend, whose only aim was to afford him
consolation and relief, and whose compassion would have made me listen
without rebuke to the narration of the blackest crimes. I cannot say how
much this conviction grieved me. I would most willingly have given my
all, my very life, to save my friend and Miss Maltravers's brother; but
my efforts were paralysed by the feeling that I did not know what I had
to combat, that some evil influence was at work on him which continually
evaded my grasp. Once or twice it seemed as though he were within an
ace of telling me all; once or twice, I believe, he had definitely made
up his mind to do so; but then the mood changed, or more probably his
courage failed him.
It was on one of these occasions that he asked me, somewhat suddenly,
whether I thought that a man could by any conscious act committed in the
flesh take away from himself all possibility of repentance and ultimate
salvation. Though, I trust, a sincere Christian, I am nothing of a
theologian, and the question touching on a topic which had not occurred
to my mind since childhood, and which seemed to savour rather of
medieval romance than of practical religion, took me for a moment aback.
I hesitated for an instant, and then replied that the means of salvation
offered man were undoubtedly so sufficient as to remove from one truly
penitent the guilt of any crime however dark. My hesitation had been but
momentary; but Sir John seemed to have noticed it, and sealed his lips
to any confession, if he had indeed intended to make any, by changing
the subject abruptly. This question naturally gave me food for serious
reflection and anxiety. It was the first occasion on which he appeared
to me to be undoubtedly suffering from definite hallucination, and I was
aware that any illusions connected with religion are generally most
difficult to remove. At the same time, anything of this sort was the
more remarkable in Sir John's case, as he had, so far as I knew, for a
considerable time entirely abandoned the Christian belief.
Unable to elicit any further information from him, and being thus thrown
entirely upon my own resources, I determined that I would read through
again the whole of Temple's diaries. The task was a very distasteful
one, as I have already explained, but I hoped that a second reading
might perhaps throw some light on the dark misgiving that was troubling
Sir John. I read the manuscript again with the closest attention.
Nothing, however, of any importance seemed to have escaped me on the
former occasions, and I had reached nearly the end of the second volume
when a comparatively slight matter arrested my attention. I have said
that the pages were all carefully numbered, and the events of each day
recorded separately; even where Temple had found nothing of moment to
notice on a given day, he had still inserted the date with the word
_nil_ written against it. But as I sat one evening in the library at
Worth after Sir John had gone to bed, and was finally glancing through
the days of the months in Temple's diary to make sure that all were
complete, I found one day was missing. It was towards the end of the
second volume, and the day was the 23d of October in the year 1752. A
glance at the numbering of the pages revealed the fact that three leaves
had been entirely removed, and that the pages numbered 349 to 354 were
not to be found. Again I ran through the diaries to see whether there
were any leaves removed in other places, but found no other single page
missing. All was complete except at this one place, the manuscript
beautifully written, with scarcely an error or erasure throughout. A
closer examination showed that these leaves had been cut out close to
the back, and the cut edges of the paper appeared too fresh to admit of
this being done a century ago. A very short reflection convinced me, in
fact, that the excision was not likely to have been Temple's, and that
it must have been made by Sir John.
My first intention was to ask him at once what the lost pages had
contained, and why they had been cut out. The matter might be a mere
triviality which he could explain in a moment. But on softly opening his
bedroom door I found him sleeping, and Parnham (whom the strong light
always burnt in the room rendered more wakeful) informed me that his
master had been in a deep sleep for more than an hour. I knew how
sorely his wasted energies needed such repose, and stepped back to the
library without awaking him. A few minutes before, I had been feeling
sleepy at the conclusion of my task, but now all wish for sleep was
suddenly banished and a painful wakefulness took its place. I was under
a species of mental excitement which reminded me of my feelings some
years before at Oxford on the first occasion of our ever playing the
_Gagliarda_ together, and an idea struck me with the force of intuition
that in these three lost leaves lay the secret of my friend's ruin.
I turned to the context to see whether there was anything in the entries
preceding or following the lacuna that would afford a clue to the
missing passage. The record of the few days immediately preceding the
23d of October was short and contained nothing of any moment whatever.
Adrian and Jocelyn were alone together at the Villa de Angelis. The
entry on the 22d was very unimportant and apparently quite complete,
ending at the bottom of page 348. Of the 23d there was, as I have said,
no record at all, and the entry for the 24th began at the top of page
355. This last memorandum was also brief, and written when the author
was annoyed by Jocelyn leaving him.
The defection of his companion had been apparently entirely unexpected.
There was at least no previous hint of any such intention. Temple wrote
that Jocelyn had left the Villa de Angelis that day and taken up his
abode with the Carthusians of San Martino. No reason for such an
extraordinary change was given; but there was a hint that Jocelyn had
professed himself shocked at something that had happened. The entry
concluded with a few bitter remarks: _"So farewell to my holy anchoret;
and if I cannot speed him with a leprosie as one Elisha did his servant,
yet at least he went out from my presence with a face as white as
snow."_
I had read this sentence more than once before without its attracting
other than a passing attention. The curious expression, that Jocelyn had
gone out from his presence with a face as white as snow, had hitherto
seemed to me to mean nothing more than that the two men had parted in
violent anger, and that Temple had abused or bullied his companion. But
as I sat alone that night in the library the words seemed to assume an
entirely new force, and a strange suspicion began to creep over me.
I have said that one of the most remarkable features of Sir John's
illness was his deadly pallor. Though I had now spent some time at
Worth, and had been daily struck by this lack of colour, I had never
before remembered in this connection that a strange paleness had also
been an attribute of Adrian Temple, and was indeed very clearly marked
in the picture painted of him by Battoni. In Sir John's account,
moreover, of the vision which he thought he had seen in his rooms at
Oxford, he had always spoken of the white and waxen face of his spectral
visitant. The family tradition of Royston said that Temple had lost his
colour in some deadly magical experiment, and a conviction now flashed
upon me that Jocelyn's face "as white as snow" could refer only to this
same unnatural pallor, and that he too had been smitten with it as with
the mark of the beast.
In a drawer of my despatch-box, I kept by me all the letters which the
late Lady Maltravers had written home during her ill-fated honeymoon.
Miss Maltravers had placed them in my hands in order that I might be
acquainted with every fact that could at all elucidate the progress of
Sir John's malady. I remembered that in one of these letters mention was
made of a sharp attack of fever in Naples, and of her noticing in him
for the first time this singular pallor. I found the letter again
without difficulty and read it with a new light. Every line breathed of
surprise and alarm. Lady Maltravers feared that her husband was very
seriously ill. On the Wednesday, two days before she wrote, he had
suffered all day from a strange restlessness, which had increased after
they had retired in the evening. He could not sleep and had dressed
again, saying he would walk a little in the night air to compose
himself. He had not returned till near six in the morning, and then
seemed so exhausted that he had since been confined to his bed. He was
terribly pale, and the doctors feared he had been attacked by some
strange fever.
The date of the letter was the 25th of October, fixing the night of the
23d as the time of Sir John's first attack. The coincidence of the date
with that of the day missing in Temple's diary was significant, but it
was not needed now to convince me that Sir John's ruin was due to
something that occurred on that fatal night at Naples.
The question that Dr. Frobisher had asked Miss Maltravers when he was
first called to see her brother in London returned to my memory with an
overwhelming force. "Had Sir John been subjected to any mental shock;
had he received any severe fright?" I knew now that the question should
have been answered in the affirmative, for I felt as certain as if
Sir John had told me himself that he _had_ received a violent shock,
probably some terrible fright, on the night of the 23d of October. What
the nature of that shock could have been my imagination was powerless to
conceive, only I knew that whatever Sir John had done or seen, Adrian
Temple and Jocelyn had done or seen also a century before and at the
same place. That horror which had blanched the face of all three men
for life had fallen perhaps with a less overwhelming force on Temple's
seasoned wickedness, but had driven the worthless Jocelyn to the
cloister, and was driving Sir John to the grave.
These thoughts as they passed through my mind filled me with a vague
alarm. The lateness of the hour, the stillness and the subdued light,
made the library in which I sat seem so vast and lonely that I began to
feel the same dread of being alone that I had observed so often in my
friend. Though only a door separated me from his bedroom, and I could
hear his deep and regular breathing, I felt as though I must go in
and waken him or Parnham to keep me company and save me from my own
reflections. By a strong effort I restrained myself, and sat down to
think the matter over and endeavour to frame some hypothesis that might
explain the mystery. But it was all to no purpose. I merely wearied
myself without being able to arrive at even a plausible conjecture,
except that it seemed as though the strange coincidence of date might
point to some ghastly charm or incantation which could only be carried
out on one certain night of the year.
It must have been near morning when, quite exhausted, I fell into an
uneasy slumber in the arm-chair where I sat. My sleep, however brief,
was peopled with a succession of fantastic visions, in which I
continually saw Sir John, not ill and wasted as now, but vigorous and
handsome as I had known him at Oxford, standing beside a glowing brazier
and reciting words I could not understand, while another man with a
sneering white face sat in a corner playing the air of the _Gagliarda_
on a violin. Parnham woke me in my chair at seven o'clock; his master,
he said, was still sleeping easily.
I had made up my mind that as soon as he awoke I would inquire of Sir
John as to the pages missing from the diary; but though my expectation
and excitement were at a high pitch, I was forced to restrain my
curiosity, for Sir John's slumber continued late into the day. Dr.
Bruton called in the morning, and said that this sleep was what the
patient's condition most required, and was a distinctly favourable
symptom; he was on no account to be disturbed. Sir John did not leave
his bed, but continued dozing all day till the evening. When at last he
shook off his drowsiness, the hour was already so late that, in spite of
my anxiety, I hesitated to talk with him about the diaries, lest I
should unduly excite him before the night.
As the evening advanced he became very uneasy, and rose more than once
from his bed. This restlessness, following on the repose of the day,
ought perhaps to have made me anxious, for I have since observed that
when death is very near an apprehensive unrest often sets in both with
men and animals. It seems as if they dreaded to resign themselves to
sleep, lest as they slumber the last enemy should seize them unawares.
They try to fling off the bedclothes, they sometimes must leave their
beds and walk. So it was with poor John Maltravers on his last Christmas
Eve. I had sat with him grieving for his disquiet until he seemed to
grow more tranquil, and at length fell asleep. I was sleeping that night
in his room instead of Parnham, and tired with sitting up through the
previous night, I flung myself, dressed as I was, upon the bed. I had
scarcely dozed off, I think, before the sound of his violin awoke me.
I found he had risen from his bed, had taken his favourite instrument,
and was playing in his sleep. The air was the _Gagliarda_ of the
"Areopagita" suite, which I had not heard since we had played it last
together at Oxford, and it brought back with it a crowd of far-off
memories and infinite regrets. I cursed the sleepiness which had
overcome me at my watchman's post, and allowed Sir John to play once
more that melody which had always been fraught with such evil for him;
and I was about to wake him gently when he was startled from sleep by a
strange accident. As I walked towards him the violin seemed entirely to
collapse in his hands, and, as a matter of fact, the belly then gave way
and broke under the strain of the strings. As the strings slackened, the
last note became an unearthly discord. If I were superstitious I should
say that some evil spirit then went out of the violin, and broke in his
parting throes the wooden tabernacle which had so long sheltered him. It
was the last time the instrument was ever used, and that hideous chord
was the last that Maltravers ever played.
I had feared that the shock of waking thus suddenly from sleep would
have a very prejudicial effect upon the sleep-walker, but this seemed
not to be the case. I persuaded him to go back at once to bed, and in a
few minutes he fell asleep again. In the morning he seemed for the first
time distinctly better; there was indeed something of his old self in
his manner. It seemed as though the breaking of the violin had been an
actual relief to him; and I believe that on that Christmas morning his
better instincts woke, and that his old religious training and the
associations of his boyhood then made their last appeal. I was pleased
at such a change, however temporary it might prove. He wished to go to
church, and I determined that again I would subdue my curiosity and
defer the questions I was burning to put till after our return from
the morning service. Miss Maltravers had gone indoors to make some
preparation, Sir John was in his wheel-chair on the terrace, and I was
sitting by him in the sun. For a few moments he appeared immersed in
silent thought, and then bent over towards me till his head was close
to mine, and said, "Dear William, there is something I must tell you.
I feel I cannot even go to church till I have told you all." His manner
shocked me beyond expression. I knew that he was going to tell me the
secret of the lost pages, but instead of wishing any longer to have my
curiosity satisfied, I felt a horrible dread of what he might say next.
He took my hand in his and held it tightly, as a man who was about to
undergo severe physical pain and sought the consolation of a friend's
support. Then he went on--"You will be shocked at what I am going to
tell you; but listen, and do not give me up: You must stand by me and
comfort me and help me to turn again." He paused for a moment and
continued--"It was one night in October, when Constance and I were at
Naples. I took that violin and went by myself to the ruined villa on
the Scoglio di Venere." He had been speaking with difficulty. His hand
clutched mine convulsively, but still I felt it trembling, and I could
see the moisture standing thick on his forehead. At this point the
effort seemed too much for him and he broke off. "I cannot go on, I
cannot tell you, but you can read it for yourself. In that diary which
I gave you there are some pages missing." The suspense was becoming
intolerable to me, and I broke in, "Yes, yes, I know; you cut them out.
Tell me where they are," He went on--"Yes, I cut them out lest they
should possibly fall into anyone's hands unaware. But before you read
them you must swear, as you hope for salvation, that you will never try
to do what is written in them. Swear this to me now, or I never can
let you see them." My eagerness was too great to stop now to discuss
trifles, and to humour him I swore as desired. He had been speaking with
a continual increasing effort; he cast a hurried and fearful glance
round as though he expected to see someone listening, and it was almost
in a whisper that he went on, "You will find them in--" His agitation
had become most painful to watch, and as he spoke the last words a
convulsion passed over his face, and speech failing him, he sank back on
his pillow. A strange fear took hold of me. For a moment I thought there
were others on the terrace beside myself, and turned round expecting to
see Miss Maltravers returned; but we were still alone. I even fancied
that just as Sir John spoke his last words I felt something brush
swiftly by me. He put up his hands, beating the air with a most painful
gesture, as though he were trying to keep off an antagonist who had
gripped him by the throat, and made a final struggle to speak. But the
spasm was too strong for him; a dreadful stillness followed, and he was
gone.
There is little more to add; for Sir John's guilty secret, perished with
him. Though I was sure from his manner that the missing leaves were
concealed somewhere at Worth, and though as executor I caused the most
diligent search to be made, no trace of them was afterwards found; nor
did any circumstance ever transpire to fling further light upon the
matter. I must confess that I should have felt the discovery of these
pages as a relief; for though I dreaded what I might have had to read,
yet I was more anxious lest, being found at a later period and falling
into other hands, they should cause a recrudescence of that plague which
had blighted Sir John's life.
Of the nature of the events which took place on that night at Naples
I can form no conjecture. But as certain physical sights have ere now
proved so revolting as to unhinge the intellect, so I can imagine that
the mind may in a state of extreme tension conjure up to itself some
form of moral evil so hideous as metaphysically to sear it: and this,
I believe, happened in the case both of Adrian Temple and of Sir John
Maltravers.
It is difficult to imagine the accessories used to produce the mental
excitation in which alone such a presentment of evil could become
imaginable. Fancy and legend, which have combined to represent as
possible appearances of the supernatural, agree also in considering them
as more likely to occur at certain times and places than at others; and
it is possible that the missing pages of the diary contained an account
of the time, place, and other conditions chosen by Temple for some
deadly experiment. Sir John most probably re-enacted the scene under
precisely similar conditions, and the effect on his overwrought
imagination was so vivid as to upset the balance of his mind. The time
chosen was no doubt the night of the 23d of October, and I cannot help
thinking that the place was one of those evil-looking and ruinous
sea-rooms which had so terrifying an effect on Miss Maltravers. Temple
may have used on that night one of the medieval incantations, or
possibly the more ancient invocation of the Isiac rite with which a
man of his knowledge and proclivities would certainly be familiar. The
accessories of either are sufficiently hideous to weaken the mind by
terror, and so prepare it for a belief in some frightful apparition. But
whatever was done, I feel sure that the music of the _Gagliarda_ formed
part of the ceremonial.
Medieval philosophers and theologians held that evil is in its essence
so horrible that the human mind, if it could realise it, must perish at
its contemplation. Such realisation was by mercy ordinarily withheld,
but its possibility was hinted in the legend of the _Visio malefica_.
The _Visio Beatifica_ was, as is well known, that vision of the Deity
or realisation of the perfect Good which was to form the happiness of
heaven, and the reward of the sanctified in the next world. Tradition
says that this vision was accorded also to some specially elect spirits
even in this life, as to Enoch, Elijah, Stephen, and Jerome. But there
was a converse to the Beatific Vision in the _Visio malefica_, or
presentation of absolute Evil, which was to be the chief torture of the
damned, and which, like the Beatific Vision, had been made visible in
life to certain desperate men. It visited Esau, as was said, when he
found no place for repentance, and Judas, whom it drove to suicide.
Cain saw it when he murdered his brother, and legend relates that in his
case, and in that of others, it left a physical brand to be borne by
the body to the grave. It was supposed that the Malefic Vision, besides
being thus spontaneously presented to typically abandoned men, had
actually been purposely called up by some few great adepts, and used by
them to blast their enemies. But to do so was considered equivalent to a
conscious surrender to the powers of evil, as the vision once seen took
away all hope of final salvation.
Adrian Temple would undoubtedly be cognisant of this legend, and the
lost experiment may have been an attempt to call up the Malefic Vision.
It is but a vague conjecture at the best, for the tree of the knowledge
of Evil bears many sorts of poisonous fruit, and no one can give full
account of the extravagances of a wayward fancy.
Conjointly with Miss Sophia, Sir John appointed me his executor and
guardian of his only son. Two months later we had lit a great fire
in the library at Worth. In it, after the servants were gone to bed,
we burnt the book containing the "Areopagita" of Graziani, and the
Stradivarius fiddle. The diaries of Temple I had already destroyed, and
wish that I could as easily blot out their foul and debasing memories
from my mind. I shall probably be blamed by those who would exalt
art at the expense of everything else, for burning a unique violin.
This reproach I am content to bear. Though I am not unreasonably
superstitious, and have no sympathy for that potential pantheism to
which Sir John Maltravers surrendered his intellect, yet I felt so great
an aversion to this violin that I would neither suffer it to remain at
Worth, nor pass into other hands. Miss Sophia was entirely at one with
me on this point. It was the same feeling which restrains any except
fools or braggarts from wishing to sleep in "haunted" rooms, or to live
in houses polluted with the memory of a revolting crime. No sane mind
believes in foolish apparitions, but fancy may at times bewitch the best
of us. So the Stradivarius was burnt. It was, after all, perhaps not so
serious a matter, for, as I have said, the bass-bar had given way. There
had always been a question whether it was strong enough to resist the
strain of modern stringing. Experience showed at last that it was not.
With the failure of the bass-bar the belly collapsed, and the wood broke
across the grain in so extraordinary a manner as to put the fiddle
beyond repair, except as a curiosity. Its loss, therefore, is not to be
so much regretted. Sir Edward has been brought up to think more of a
cricket-bat than of a violin-bow; but if he wishes at any time to buy a
Stradivarius, the fortunes of Worth and Royston, nursed through two long
minorities, will certainly justify his doing so.
Miss Sophia and I stood by and watched the holocaust. My heart misgave
me for a moment when I saw the mellow red varnish blistering off the
back, but I put my regret resolutely aside. As the bright flames jumped
up and lapped it round, they flung a red glow on the scroll. It was
wonderfully wrought, and differed, as I think Miss Maltravers has
already said, from any known example of Stradivarius. As we watched it,
the scroll took form, and we saw what we had never seen before, that it
was cut so that the deep lines in a certain light showed as the profile
of a man. It was a wizened little paganish face, with sharp-cut features
and a bald head. As I looked at it I knew at once (and a cameo has since
confirmed the fact) that it was a head of Porphyry. Thus the second
label found in the violin was explained and Sir John's view confirmed,
that Stradivarius had made the instrument for some Neo-Platonist
enthusiast who had dedicated it to his master Porphyrius.
* * * * *
A year after Sir John's death I went with Miss Maltravers to Worth
church to see a plain slab of slate which we had placed over her
brother's grave. We stood in bright sunlight in the Maltravers chapel,
with the monuments of that splendid family about us. Among them were the
altar-tomb of Sir Esmoun, and the effigies of more than one Crusader.
As I looked on their knightly forms, with their heads resting on their
tilting helms, their faces set firm, and their hands joined in prayer,
I could not help envying them that full and unwavering faith for which
they had fought and died. It seemed to stand out in such sharp contrast
with our latter-day sciolism and half-believed creeds, and to be flung
into higher relief by the dark shadow of John Maltravers's ruined life.
At our feet was the great brass of one Sir Roger de Maltravers. I
pointed out the end of the inscription to my companion--"CVIVS ANIMÆ,
ATQVE ANIMABVS OMNIVM FIDELIVM DEFVNCTORVM, ATQVE NOSTRIS ANIMABVS QVVM
EX HAC LVCE TRANSIVERIMVS, PROPITIETVR DEVS." Though no Catholic, I
could not refuse to add a sincere Amen. Miss Sophia, who is not ignorant
of Latin, read the inscription after me. "Ex hac luce," she said, as
though speaking to herself, "out of this light; alas! alas! for some the
light is darkness."