After having marched over nearly half a mile of marble flag-stones,
interrupted here and there by strips of precious mosaic, the two young
men paused at the entrance to a long, vaulted corridor. White, silent
gods stood gazing gravely from their niches in the wall, and the pale
November sun was struggling feebly to penetrate through the dusty
windows. It did not dispel the dusk, but gave it just the tenderest
suffusion of sunshine.
"Stop," whispered Cranbrook. "I want you to take in the total
impression of this scene before you examine the details. Only listen
to this primeval stillness; feel, if you can, the stately monotony of
this corridor, the divine repose and dignity of these marble forms,
the chill immobility of this light. It seems to me that, if a full,
majestic organ-tone could be architecturally expressed, it must of
necessity assume a shape resembling the broad, cold masses of this
aisle. I should call this an architectonic fugue,--a pure and lofty
meditation--"
"Now, do give us a rest, Jack," interrupted Vincent mercilessly. "I
thought you said something about a nymph or a goddess. Trot her out,
if you please, and let me have a look at her."
Cranbrook turned sharply about and gave his comrade a look of
undisguised disgust.
"Harry," he said gravely, "really you don't deserve the good fortune
of being in Italy. I thought I knew you well; but I am afraid I shall
have to revise my judgment of you. You are hopelessly and incorrigibly
frivolous. I know, it is ungracious in me to tell you so,--I, who have
accepted your bounty; but, by Jove, Harry, I don't want to buy my
pleasure at the price you seem to demand. I have enough to get home,
at all events, and I shall repay you what I owe you."
Vincent colored to the edge of his hair; he bit his lip, and was about
to yield to the first impulse of his wrath. A moment's reflection,
however, sobered him; he gave his leg two energetic cuts with his
slender cane, then turned slowly on his heel and sauntered away.
Cranbrook stood long gazing sadly after him; he would have liked to
call him back, but the aimless, leisurely gait irritated him, and the
word died on his lips. Every step seemed to hint a vague defiance.
"What does it matter to me," it seemed to say, "what you think of me?
You are of too little account to have the power to ruffle my temper."
As the last echo of the retiring footsteps was lost in the great
marble silence, Cranbrook heaved a sigh, and, suddenly remembering his
errand, walked rapidly down the corridor. He paused before a
round-arched, doorless portal, which led into a large sunny room. In
the embrazure of one of the windows, a young girl was sitting, with a
drawing-board in her lap, apparently absorbed in the contemplation of
a marble relief which was suspended upon the wall. From where
Cranbrook stood, he could see her noble profile clearly outlined
against the white wall; a thick coil of black hair was wound about the
back of her head, and a dark, tight-fitting dress fell in simple folds
about her magnificent form. There was a simplicity and an unstudied
grace in her attitude which appealed directly to Cranbrook's æsthetic
nature. Ever since he entered Italy he had been on the alert for
romantic impressions, and his eager fancy instinctively lifted every
commonplace incident that appeared to have poetic possibilities in it
into the region of romance. He remembered having seen somewhere a
statue of Clio whose features bore a remote resemblance to those of
the young girl before him--the same massive, boldly sculptured chin,
the same splendid, columnar throat, the same grave immobility of
vision. It seemed sacrilege to approach such a divine creature with a
trivial remark about the weather or the sights of Rome, and yet some
commonplace was evidently required to pave the way to further
acquaintance. Cranbrook pondered for a moment, and then advanced
boldly toward the window where the goddess was sitting. She turned her
head and flashed a pair of brilliant black eyes upon him.
"Pardon me, signorina," he said, with an apologetic cough. "I see you
are drawing. Perhaps you could kindly tell me where one can obtain
permission to copy in this gallery."
"I do not know, signore," she answered, in a low, rich voice. "No one
ever copies here. The prince is never, here, and his major-domo comes
only twice a year. He was here two weeks ago, so it will be a long
time before he will return."
"But you seem to be copying," the young man ventured to remonstrate.
"Ah, _sanctissima_!" she; cried, with a vivid gesture of deprecation.
"No, signore, I am not copying. I am a poor, ignorant thing, signore,
not an artist. There was once a kind foreigner who lodged with us; he
was an artist, a most famous artist, and he amused himself with me
while I was a child, and taught me to draw a little."
"And perhaps you would kindly allow me to look at your drawing?"
Cranbrook was all in a flutter; he was amazed at his own temerity,
but the situation filled him with a delicious sense of adventure, and
an irresistible impulse within him urged him on. The girl had risen,
and, without the slightest embarrassment or coquettish reluctance
handed him her drawing-board. He saw at a glance that she was sincere
in disclaiming the name of an artist. The drawing was a mere simple
outline of a group, representing Briseis being led away from her lover
by the messengers of Agamemnon. The king stood on one side ready to
receive her, and on the other, Achilles, with averted face, in an
attitude of deep dejection. The natural centre of the group, however,
was the figure of Briseis. The poise of her classic head as she looked
back over her shoulder at her beloved hero was full of the tenderest
suggestions. She seemed to offer no resistance to the messengers, but
her reluctant, lingering steps were more expressive than any violent
demonstration. Cranbrook saw all this in the antique relief, but found
it but feebly, and, as it were, stammeringly rendered in the girl's
drawing. The lines were firmly and accurately traced and the
proportions were approximately correct; but the deeper sentiment of
the group had evidently escaped her, and the exquisite delicacy of
modelling she had not even attempted to imitate. Cranbrook had in his
heart to admit that he was disappointed. He feared that it was rude
to return the board without a word of favorable comment, but he
disdained to resort to any of those ingenious evasions which serve so
conveniently as substitutes for definite judgments. The girl, in the
meanwhile, stood looking into his face with an air of frank curiosity.
It was not his opinion of her work, however, which puzzled her. She
had never been accustomed to flattery, and had no idea of claiming a
merit which she was well aware did not belong to her. She seemed
rather to be wondering what manner of man her critic might be, and
whether it would be safe to appeal to him for information on some
subjects which lay beyond the reach of her own faculties.
"Signore," she began at last, a little hesitatingly, "I suppose you
are a learned man who has read many books. Perhaps you know who that
man is with the big helmet. And the maiden there with the bare feet,
standing between the men--who is she? She looks sad, I think, and yet
the large man who seems to be waiting for her is well made and
handsome, and his garments appear to be precious. His shield is finely
wrought, and I am sure he must be a man of great dignity."
"You are right," responded Cranbrook, to whom her guileless talk was
highly entertaining.
"He is a king, and his name is Agamemnon. By nationality he is a
Greek--"
"Ah, then I know why the girl is sad," she interrupted, eagerly. "The
Greeks are all thieves, Padre Gregorio says; they all steal and lie,
and they are not of the true faith. The padre has been in the Greek
land and he knows their bad ways."
"The padre probably means the modern Greeks. I know very little about
them. But the ancient Greeks were the noblest nation the world has
ever seen."
"Is it possible? And what did they do that was so great and noble?
_Sanctissima!_ the greatest nation the world has ever seen!"
These exclamations were uttered in a tone of sincere surprise which to
Cranbrook was very amusing. The conversation was now fairly started.
The American told with much expenditure of eloquence the story of "the
wrath of Achilles, the son of Peleus," and of the dire misfortunes
which fell upon the house of Priamus and Atreus in consequence of one
woman's fatal beauty. The girl sat listening with a rapt, far-away
expression; now and then a breeze of emotion flitted across her
features and a tear glittered in her eye and coursed slowly down over
her cheek. Cranbrook, too, as he was gradually tuned into sympathy
with his own tale, felt a strange, shuddering intoxication of
happiness. He did not perceive how the time slipped by; he began to
shiver, and saw that the sun was gone. The girl woke up with a start
as his voice ceased and looked about her with a bewildered air. They
both rose and walked together through the long, empty halls and
corridors. He noticed wonderingly that she carried a heavy bunch of
keys in her hand and locked each door after they had passed through
it. This then led to some personal explanations. He learned that her
name was Annunciata, and that she was the daughter of Antonio
Cæsarelli, the gardener of the villa, who lived in the house with the
_loggias_ which he could see at the end of the steep plane tree
avenue. If he would like to pick some oranges, there were plenty of
them in the garden, and as the prince never asked for them, her father
allowed her to eat as many as she liked. Would he not come and see her
father? He was a very good and kind man. At present he was trimming
the hedge up on the terrace.
During this colloquy they had entered the garden, which seemed at
first glance a great luxuriant wilderness. On the right hand of the
gate was a huge jungle of blooming rose-bushes whose intertwisted
branches climbed the tall stuccoed wall, for the possession of which
it struggled bravely with an equally ambitious and vigorous ivy.
Enormous bearded cacti of fantastic forms spread their fat prickly
leaves out over both sides of the pavement, leaving only a narrow
aisle in the middle where locomotion was practicable. A long flight of
green and slippery stone steps led up to a lofty terrace which was
raised above the rest of the garden by a high wall, surmounted by a
low marble balustrade. Here the palms spread their fan-like crowns
against the blue sky, and the golden fruit shone among the dark leaves
of the orange-trees. A large sculptured Triton with inflated cheeks
blew a column of water high up into the air, and half a dozen
dolphins, ridden by chubby water-sprites, spouted demurely along the
edges of a wide marble basin. A noseless Roman senator stood at the
top of the stairs, wrapping his mossy toga about him, with a splendid
gesture, and the grave images of the Cæsars, all time-stained and more
or less seriously maimed, gazed forth with severe dignity from their
green, leafy niches.
The upper garden showed signs of human supervision. A considerable
area was occupied by flower-beds, laid out with geometrical regularity
and stiffness; and the low box-wood hedges along their borders had a
density and preciseness of outline which showed that they had been
recently trimmed. Stone vases of magnificent design were placed at
regular intervals along the balustrade; and in the middle projection
of the terrace stood a hoary table with a broken porphyry plate,
suggestive of coffee and old-time costumes, and the ponderous gossip
of Roman grandees.
Cranbrook had walked for a while silently at Annunciata's side. He
was deeply impressed with all he saw, and yet a dreamy sense of their
unreality was gradually stealing over him. He imagined himself some
wonderful personage in an Eastern fairy-tale, and felt for the moment
as if he were moving in an animated chapter of the "Arabian Nights."
He had had little hesitation in asking Annunciata questions about
herself; they seemed both, somehow, raised above the petty etiquette
of mundane intercourse. She had confessed to him with an unthinking
directness which was extremely becoming to her, that her artistic
aspirations which he had found so mysterious were utterly destitute of
the ideal afflatus. She had, as a child, learned lace-making and
embroidery, and had earned many a _lira_ by adorning the precious
vestments of archbishops and cardinals. She was now making a design
for a tapestry, in which she meant to introduce the group from the
antique relief. Her father allowed her to save all she earned for her
dowry; because then, he said, she might be able to make a good match.
This latter statement grated a little on Cranbrook's sensitive ears;
but a glance at Annunciata's face soon reassured him. She had the air
of stating a universally recognized fact concerning which she had
never had occasion to reflect. She kept prattling away very much like
a spoiled child, who is confident that its voice is pleasant, and its
little experiences as absorbing to its listener as they are to
itself.
At length, by many devious paths, they reached a house on a sunny
elevation, at the western extremity of the garden. It was a house such
as one sees only in Rome,--a wide expanse of stuccoed wall with six or
seven windows of different sizes scattered at random over its surface.
Long tufts of fine grass depended from the gutters of the roof, and
the plain pillars supporting the round arches of the _loggias_ had a
humid and weather-beaten look. The whole edifice, instead of asserting
itself glaringly as a product of human art, blended with soft
gradations into the surrounding landscape. Even the rude fresco of the
Mother of Sorrows over the door was half overgrown with a greenish,
semi-visible moss which allowed the original colors to shine faintly
through, and the coarse lines of the dial in the middle of the wall
were almost obliterated by sun and rain. But what especially attracted
Cranbrook's attention was a card, hung out under one of the windows,
upon which was written, with big, scrawling letters,--"_Appartamento
Mobiliato d'Affitarsi_." He determined on the spot to become the
occupant of this apartment whatever its deficiencies might be;
therefore, without further delay, he introduced himself to
Annunciata's mother, Monna Nina, as a _forestiero_ in search of
lodgings; and, after having gone through the formality of inspecting
the room, he accepted Monna Nina's price and terms with an eagerness
which made the excellent woman repent in her heart that she had not
asked more.
The next day Cranbrook parted amicably from Vincent, who, it must be
admitted, was beginning to have serious doubts of his sanity. They had
had many a quarrel in days past, but Jack had always come to his
senses again and been the first to make up. Vincent had the
comfortable certainty of being himself always in the right, and it
therefore never occurred to him that it might be his place to
apologize. He had invariably accepted Jack's apologies good-naturedly
and consented gracefully to let by-gones be by-gones, even though he
were himself the offender; and the glow of conscious virtue which at
such times pervaded him well rewarded him for his self-sacrifice. But
this time, it seemed, Jack had taken some mysterious resolution, and
his reason had hopelessly forsaken him. He even refused all offers of
money, and talked about remaining in Rome and making his living by
writing for the newspapers. He cherished no ill-will against Harry, he
said, but had simply made up his mind that their tastes and
temperaments were too dissimilar, and that they would both be happier
if they parted company. They would see each other frequently and
remain on friendly terms. No one was blamable for the separation,
except Nature, who had made them so different. With these, and many
similar assurances Cranbrook shook Vincent's hand and repaired to his
new abode among the palms and cypresses. And yet his ears burned
uncomfortably as he drove away in the _fiacre_. It was the first time
he had been insincere to Harry, even by implication; but after what
had happened, it was impossible to mention Annunciata's name.