In the gallery of one of the famous Roman villas which commands a
splendid view of the city, Mr. Henry Vincent, a young American, was
lounging. Judging by his appearance he was a college graduate, or, to
speak more definitely, a graduate of Harvard; for he had that jaunty
walk and general trimness of attire which are the traditional
attributes of the academical denizens of Cambridge. He swung his arms
rather more than was needed to assist locomotion, and betrayed in an
unobtrusive manner a consciousness of being well dressed. His face,
which was not without fine possibilities, had an air of well-bred
neutrality; you could see that he assumed a defensive attitude against
æsthetic impressions,--that even the Sistine Madonna or the Venus of
Milo would not have surprised him into anything like enthusiasm or
abject approval. It was evident, too, that he was a little bit ashamed
of his Baedeker, which he consulted only in a semi-surreptitious way,
and plunged into the pocket of his overcoat whenever he believed
himself to be observed. Such a contingency, however, seemed remote;
for the silence that reigned about him was as heavy and profound as if
it had been unbroken since creation's day. The large marble halls had
a grave and inhospitable air, and their severe magnificence compelled
even from our apathetic traveller a shy and reluctant veneration. He
tried to fix his attention upon a certain famous Guido which was
attached by hinges to the wall, and which, as he had just learned from
Baedeker, was a marvel of color and fine characterization; he stood
for a few moments staring with a blank and helpless air, as if, for
the first time in his life, he was beginning to question the finality
of his own judgment. Then his eyes wandered off to the cornice of the
wall, whose florid rococo upholstery won his sincere approval.
"Hang it!" he murmured impatiently, pulling a gold watch from his
waistcoat pocket. "That loon Jack--he never does keep an engagement."
At this moment, distant footsteps were heard, which, as they
approached, resounded with a sepulchral distinctness on the marble
pavement. Presently a young man entered breathlessly, holding his hat
in one hand and a white handkerchief in the other.
"Harry," he cried, excitedly, "I have found the goddess of the place.
Come quick, before she vanishes. It is a rare chance, I tell you."
He seized his companion's arm and, ignoring his remonstrances, almost
dragged him through the door by which he had entered.
"What sort of lunacy is it you are up to now, Jack?" the other was
heard to grumble. "I'll bet ten to one you have been making an ass of
yourself."
"I dare say I have," retorted Jack, good-naturedly; "a man who has not
the faculty of making a fool of himself occasionally is only half a
man. You would be a better fellow, too, Harry, if you were not so
deucedly respectable; a slight admixture of folly would give tone and
color to your demure and rigid propriety. For a man so splendidly
equipped by fortune, you have made a poor job of existence, Harry.
When I see you bestowing your sullen patronage upon the great
masterpieces of the past, I am ashamed of you--yes, by Jove, I am."
"Don't you bother about me," was the ungracious response of his
comrade. "I cut my eye-teeth a good while before you did, even though
you may be a few years older. I'll take care of myself, you may depend
upon it, and of you, too, if you get yourself into a scrape, which you
seem bent upon doing."
"Now, do be amiable, Harry," urged the other with gentle
persuasiveness. "I can't take it upon my conscience to introduce you
to a lady, and far less to a goddess, unless you promise to put on
your best behavior. You know from your mythology that goddesses are
capable of taking a terrible vengeance upon mortals who unwittingly
offend them."
Mr. John Cranbrook--for that was the name of the demonstrative
tourist--was a small, neat-looking man, with an eager face and a pair
of dark, vivid eyes. His features, though not in themselves handsome,
were finely, almost tenderly, modelled. His nose was not of the
classical type, but nevertheless of a clear and delicate cut, and his
nostrils of extreme sensitiveness. On the whole, it was a pleasant,
open, and enthusiastic face,--a face in which there was no guile. By
the side of his robust and stalwart friend, Cranbrook looked almost
frail, and it was evident that Vincent, who felt the advantages of his
superior avoirdupois, was in the habit of patronizing him. They had
been together in college and had struck up an accidental friendship,
which, to their mutual surprise, had survived a number of
misunderstandings, and even extended beyond graduation. Cranbrook, who
was of a restless and impetuous temperament, found Vincent's quiet
self-confidence very refreshing; there was a massive repose about him,
an unquestioning acceptance of the world as it was and an utter
absence of intellectual effort, which afforded his friend a refuge
from his own self-consuming ambition. Cranbrook had always prophesied
that Harry would some day wake up and commit a grand and monumental
piece of folly, but he hoped that that day was yet remote; at present
it was his rich commonplaceness and his grave and comfortable dulness
which made him the charming fellow he was, and it would be a pity to
forfeit such rare qualities.
Cranbrook's own accomplishments were not of the kind which is highly
appreciated among undergraduates. His verses, which appeared
anonymously in the weekly college paper, enjoyed much popularity in
certain young ladies' clubs, but were by the professor of rhetoric
pronounced unsound in sentiment, though undeniably clever in
expression. Vincent, on the other hand, had virtues which paved him an
easy road to popularity; he could discuss base-ball and rowing matters
with a gravity as if the fate of the republic depended upon them; he
was moreover himself an excellent "catcher," and subscribed liberally
for the promotion of athletic sports. He did not, like his friend,
care for "honors," nor had he the slightest desire to excel in Greek;
he always reflected the average undergraduate opinion on all college
affairs, and was not above playing an occasional trick on a freshman
or a professor. As for Cranbrook, he rather prided himself on being a
little exceptional, and cherished with special fondness those of his
tastes and proclivities which distinguished him from the average
humanity. He had therefore no serious scruples in accepting Vincent's
offer to pay his expenses for a year's trip abroad. Vincent, he
reasoned, would hardly benefit much by his foreign experiences, if he
went alone. His glance would never penetrate beneath the surface of
things, and he therefore needed a companion, whose æsthetic culture
was superior to his own. Cranbrook flattered himself that he was such
a companion, and vowed in his heart to give Harry full returns in
intellectual capital for what he expended on him in sordid metals.
Moreover, Harry had a clear income of fifteen to twenty thousand a
year, while he, Cranbrook, had scarcely anything which he could call
his own. I dare say that if Vincent had known all the benevolent plans
which his friend had formed for his mental improvement, he would have
thought twice before engaging him as his travelling companion; but
fortunately he was so well satisfied with his own mental condition,
and so utterly unconscious of his short-comings in point of intellect,
that he could not have treated an educational scheme of which he was
himself to be the subject as anything but an amiable lunacy on Jack's
part, or at the worst, as a practical joke. Jack was good company;
that was with him the chief consideration; his madness was harmless
and had the advantage of being entertaining; he was moreover at heart
a good fellow, and the stanchest and most loyal of friends. Harry was
often heard to express the most cheerful confidence in Jack's future;
he would be sure to come out right in the end, as soon as he had cut
his eye-teeth, and very likely Europe might be just the thing for a
complaint like his.