Isn’t it a pretty name, Rosalys? But, for me, it is so much more; it
is a sort of romantic symbol. I look at it written there on the page,
and the sentiment of things changes: it is as if I were listening to
distant music; it is as if the white paper turned softly pink, and
breathed a perfume—never so faint a perfume of hyacinths. Rosalys,
Cousin Rosalys.... London and this sad-coloured February morning become
shadowy, remote. I think of another world, another era. Somebody has
said that old memories and fond regrets are the day-dreams of the
disappointed, the illusions of the age of disillusion. Well, if they
are illusions, thank goodness they are where experience can’t touch
them—on the safe side of time.
Cousin Rosalys—I call her cousin. But, as we often used to remind
ourselves, with a kind of esoteric satisfaction, we were not “real”
cousins. She was the niece of my Aunt Elizabeth, and lived with her
in Rome; but my Aunt Elizabeth was not my “real” aunt—only my
great-aunt by marriage, the widow of my father’s uncle. It was Aunt
Elizabeth herself however, who dubbed us cousins, when she introduced
us to each other; and at that epoch, for both of us, Aunt Elizabeth’s
lightest words were in the nature of decrees, she was such a terrible
old lady.
I’m sure I don’t know why she was terrible, I don’t know how she
contrived it; she never said anything, never did anything,
especially terrifying; she wasn’t especially wise or especially
witty—intellectually, indeed, I suspect she might have passed for a
paragon of respectable commonplaceness: but I do know that everybody
stood in awe of her. I suppose it must simply have been her atmosphere,
her odylic force; a sort of metaphysical chill that enveloped her,
and was felt by all who approached her—some people are like that.
Everybody stood in awe of her, everybody deferred to her: relations,
friends, even her Director, and the cloud of priests that pervaded her
establishment and gave it its character. For, like so many other old
ladies who lived in Rome in those days, my Aunt Elizabeth was nothing if
not Catholic, if not Ecclesiastical. You would have guessed as much,
I think, from her exterior. She looked Catholic, she looked
Ecclesiastical. There was something Gothic in her anatomy, in the
architecture of her face: in her high-bridged nose, in the pointed
arch her hair made as it parted above her forehead, in her prominent
cheek-bones, her straight-lipped mouth and long attenuated chin, in the
angularities of her figure. No doubt the simile must appear far-sought,
but upon my word her face used to remind me of a chapel—a chapel built
of marble, fallen somewhat into decay. I’m not sure whether she was
a tall woman, or whether she only had a false air of tallness, being
excessively thin and holding herself rigidly erect.
She always dressed in black, in hard black silk cut to the severest
patterns. Somehow, the very jewels she wore—not merely the cross on
her bosom, but the rings on her fingers, the watch-chain round her neck,
her watch itself, her old-fashioned, gold-faced watch—seemed of a mode
canonical.
She was nothing if not Catholic, if not Ecclesiastical; but I don’t
in the least mean that she was particularly devout. She observed all
requisite forms, of course: went, as occasion demanded, to mass, to
vespers, to confession; but religious fervour was the last thing she
suggested, the last thing she affected. I never heard her talk of Faith
or Salvation, of Sin or Grace, nor indeed of any matters spiritual.
She was quite frankly a woman of the world, and it was the Church as a
worldly institution, the Church corporal, the Papacy, Papal politics,
that absorbed her interests. The loss of the Temporal Power was the
wrong that filled the universe for her, its restoration the cause for
which she lived. That it was a forlorn cause she would never for an
instant even hypothetically admit. “Remember Avignon, remember the
Seventy Years,” she used to say, with a nod that seemed to attribute
apodictic value to the injunction.
“Mark my words, she’ll live to be Pope yet,” a ribald young man
murmured behind her chair. “Oh, you tell me she is a woman. I’ll
assume it for the sake of the argument—I’d do anything for the
sake of an argument. But remember Joan, remember Pope Joan!” And he
mimicked his Aunt Elizabeth’s inflection and her conclusive nod.
I had not been in Rome since that universe-filling wrong was
perpetrated—not since I was a child of six or seven—when, a
youth approaching twenty, I went there in the autumn of 1879; and I
recollected Aunt Elizabeth only vaguely, as a lady with a face like a
chapel, in whose presence—I had almost written in whose precincts—it
had required some courage to breathe. But my mother’s last words,
when I left her in Paris, had been, “Now mind you call on your Aunt
Elizabeth at once. You mustn’t let a day pass. I am writing to her to
tell her that you are coming. She will expect you to call at once.”
So, on the morrow of my arrival, I made an exceedingly careful toilet (I
remember to this day the pains I bestowed upon my tie, the revisions to
which I submitted it!), and, with an anxious heart, presented myself at
the huge brown Roman palace, a portion of which my formidable relative
inhabited; a palace with grated windows, and a vaulted, crypt-like
porte-cochère, and a tremendous Swiss concierge, in knee-breeches and a
cocked hat: the Palazzo Zacchinelli.
The Swiss, flourishing his staff of office, marshalled me (I can’t
use a less imposing word for the ceremony) slowly, solemnly, across a
courtyard, and up a great stone staircase, at the top of which he
handed me on to a functionary in black—a functionary with an ominously
austere countenance, like an usher to the Inquisition. Poor old
Archimede! Later, when I had come to know him well and tip him, I found
he was the mildest creature, the amiablest, the most obliging, and that
tenebrious mien of his only a congenital accident, like a lisp or a
club-foot. But for the present he dismayed me, and I surrendered myself
with humility and meekness to his guardianship. He conducted me through
a series of vast chambers—you know those enormous, ungenial Roman
rooms, their sombre tapestried walls, their formal furniture, their
cheerless, perpetual twilight—and out upon a terrace.
The terrace lay in full sunshine. There was a garden below it, a garden
with orange-trees, and rosebushes, and camellias, with stretches of
greensward, with shrubberies, with a great fountain plashing in the
midst of it, and broken, moss-grown statues: a Roman garden, from
which a hundred sweet airs came up, in the gentle Roman weather. The
balustrade of the terrace was set at intervals with flowering plants, in
big urn-shaped vases; I don’t remember what the flowers were, but they
were pink, and many of their petals had fallen, and lay scattered on the
grey terrace pavement. At the far end, under an awning brave with red
and yellow stripes, two ladies were seated—a lady in black, presumably
the object of my pious pilgrimage; and a lady in white, whom, even from
a distance, I discovered to be young and pretty. A little round table
stood between them, with a carafe of water and some tumblers glistening
crisply on it. The lady in black was fanning herself with a black lace
fan. The lady in white held a book in her hand, from which I think she
had been reading aloud. A tiny imp of a red Pomeranian dog had started
forward, and was barking furiously.
This scene must have made a deeper impression upon my perceptions
than any that I was conscious of at the moment, because it has always
remained as fresh in my memory as you see it now. It has always been a
picture that I could turn to when I would, and find unfaded: the garden,
the blue sky, the warm September sunshine, the long terrace, and the two
ladies seated at the end of it, looking towards me, an elderly lady in
black, and a young lady in white, with dark hair.
My aunt quieted Sandro (that was the dog’s name), and giving me her
hand, said “How do you do?” rather drily. And then, for what seemed
a terribly long time, though no doubt it was only a few seconds, she
kept me standing before her, while she scrutinised me through a double
eye-glass, which she held by a mother-of-pearl handle; and I was acutely
aware of the awkward figure I must be cutting to the vision of that
strange young lady.
At last, “I should never have recognised you. As a child you were the
image of your father. Now you resemble your mother,” Aunt Elizabeth
declared; and lowering her glass, she added, “This is your cousin
Rosalys.”
I wondered, as I made my bow, why I had never heard before that I had
such a pretty cousin, with such a pretty name. She smiled on me very
kindly, and I noticed how bright her eyes were, and how white and
delicate her face. The little blue veins showed through the skin, and
there was no more than just the palest, palest thought of colour in her
cheeks. But her lips—exquisitely curved, sensitive lips—were warm
red. She smiled on me very kindly, and I daresay my heart responded with
an instant palpitation. She was a girl, and she was pretty; and her
name was Rosalys; and we were cousins; and I was eighteen. And above
us glowed the blue sky of Italy, and round us the golden sunshine;
and there, beside the terrace, lay the beautiful old Roman garden, the
fragrant, romantic garden.... If at eighteen one isn’t susceptible and
sentimental and impetuous, and prepared to respond with an instant
sweet commotion to the smiles of one’s pretty cousins (especially when
they’re named Rosalys), I protest one is unworthy of one’s youth.
One might as well be thirty-five, and a literary hack in London.
After that introduction, however, my aunt immediately reclaimed my
attention. She proceeded to ask me all sorts of questions, about myself,
about my people, uninteresting questions, disconcerting questions, which
she posed with the air of one who knew the answers beforehand, and was
only asking as an examiner asks, to test you. And all the while, the
expression of her face, of her deprecating straight-lipped mouth, of her
half-closed sceptical old eyes, seemed to imply that she already had
her opinion of me, and that it wouldn’t in the least be affected
by anything I could say for myself, and that it was distinctly not a
flattering opinion.
“Well, and what brings you to Rome?” That was one of her questions.
I felt like a suspicious character haled before the local magistrate to
give an account of his presence in the parish; putting on the best face
I could, I pleaded superior orders. I had taken my baccalauréat in the
summer; and my father desired me to pass some months in Italy, for
the purpose of “patching up my Italian, which had suffered from the
ravages of time,” before I returned to Paris, and settled down to the
study of a profession.
“H’m,” said she, manifesting no emotion at what (in my simplicity)
I deemed rather a felicitous metaphor; and then, as it were, she let me
off with a warning. “Look out that you don’t fall into bad company.
Rome is full of dangerous people—painters, Bohemians, republicans,
atheists. You must be careful. I shall keep my eye upon you.”
By-and-by, to my relief, my aunt’s director arrived, Monsignor
Parlaghi, a tall, fat, cheerful, bustling man, who wore a silk cassock
edged with purple, and a purple netted sash. When he sat down and
crossed his legs, one saw a square-toed shoe with a silver buckle, and
an inch or two of purple silk stocking. He began at once to talk with
his penitent, about some matter to which I (happily) was a stranger; and
that gave me my chance to break the ice with Rosalys.
She had risen to greet the Monsignore, and now stood by the balustrade
of the terrace, half turned towards the garden, a slender, fragile
figure, all in white. Her dark hair swept away from her forehead in
lovely, long undulations, and her white face, beneath it, seemed almost
spirit-like in its delicacy, almost immaterial.
“I am richer than I thought. I did not know I had a Cousin Rosalys,”
said I.
It looks like a sufficiently easy thing to say, doesn’t it? And
besides, hadn’t I carefully composed and corrected and conned it
beforehand in the silence of my mind? But I remember the mighty effort
of will it cost me to get it said. I suppose it is in the design of
nature that Eighteen should find it nervous work to break the ice with
pretty girls. At any rate, I remember how my heart fluttered, and what
a hollow, unfamiliar sound my voice had; I remember that in the very
middle of the enterprise my pluck and my presence of mind suddenly
deserted me, and everything became a blank, and for one horrible moment
I thought I was going to break down utterly, and stand there staring,
blushing, speechless. But then I made a further mighty effort of will,
a desperate effort, and somehow, though they nearly choked me, the
premeditated words came out.
“Oh, we’re not real cousins,” said she, letting her eyes shine for
a second on my face. And she explained to me just what the connection
between us was. “But we will call ourselves cousins,” she concluded.
The worst was over; the worst, though Eighteen was still, no doubt,
conscious of perturbations. I don’t know how long we stood chatting
together there by the balustrade, but presently I said something about
the garden, and she proposed that we should go down into it. So she led
me to the other end of the terrace, where there was a flight of steps,
and we went down into the garden.
The merest trifles, in such weather, with a pretty new-found Cousin
Rosalys for a comrade, are delightful, when one is eighteen, aren’t
they? It was delightful to feel the yielding turf under our feet, the
cool grass curling round our ankles—for in Roman gardens, in those old
days, it wasn’t the fashion to clip the grass close, as on an English
lawn. It was delightful to walk in the shade of the orange-trees, and
breathe the air sweetened by them. The stillness the dreamy stillness of
the soft, sunny afternoon was delightful; the crumbling old statues were
delightful, statues of fauns and dryads, of Pagan gods and goddesses,
Pan and Bacchus and Diana, their noses broken for the most part,
their bodies clothed in mosses and leafy vines. And the flowers were
delightful; the cyclamens, with which—so abundant were they—the
walls of the garden fairly dripped, as with a kind of pink foam; and the
roses, and the waxen red and white camellias. It was delightful to stop
before the great brown old fountain, and listen to its tinkle-tinkle of
cold water, and peer into its basin, all green with weeds, and watch the
antics of the goldfishes, and the little rainbows the sun struck from
the spray. And my Cousin Rosalys’s white frock was delightful, and her
voice was delightful; and that perturbation in my heart was exquisitely
delightful—something between a thrill and a tremor—a delicious
mixture of fear and wonderment and beatitude. I had dragged myself
hither to pay a duty-call upon my grim old dragon of a great-aunt
Elizabeth; and here I was wandering amid the hundred delights of a
romantic Italian garden, with a lovely, white-robed, bright-eyed sylph
of a Cousin Rosalys.
Don’t ask me what we talked about. I have only the most fragmentary
recollection. I remember she told me that her father and mother had died
in India, when she was a child, and that her father (Aunt Elizabeth’s
“ever so much younger brother”) had been in the army, and that she
had lived with Aunt Elizabeth since she was twelve. And I remember she
asked me to speak French with her, because in Rome she almost always
spoke Italian or English, and she didn’t want to forget her French;
and “You’re, of course, almost a Frenchman, living in Paris.” So
we spoke French together, saying ma cousine and mon cousin, which was
very intimate and pleasant; and she spoke it so well that I expressed
some surprise. “If you don’t put on at least a slight accent, I
shall tell you you’re almost a Frenchman too,” I threatened. “Oh,
I had French nurses when I was little,” she said, “and afterwards
a French governess, till I was sixteen. I’m eighteen now. How old
are you?” I had heard that girls always liked a man to be older than
themselves, and I answered that I was nearly twenty. Well, and isn’t
eighteen nearly twenty?.... Anyhow, as I walked back to my lodgings
that afternoon, through the busy, twisted, sunlit Roman streets, Cousin
Rosalys filled all my heart and all my thoughts with a white radiance.
You will conceive whether or not, during the months that followed, I was
an assiduous visitor at the Palazzo Zacchinelli. But I couldn’t spend
all my time there, and in my enforced absences I needed consolation. I
imagine I treated Aunt Elizabeth’s advice about avoiding bad company
as youth is wont to treat the counsels of crabbed age. Doubtless my most
frequent associates were those very painters and Bohemians against whom
she had particularly cautioned me—whether they were also republicans
and atheists, I don’t think I ever knew; I can’t remember that I
inquired, and religion and politics were subjects they seldom touched
upon spontaneously. I dare say I joined the artists’ club, in the
Via Margutta, the Circolo Internazionale degli Artisti; I am afraid
the Caffe Greco was my favourite café; I am afraid I even bought a
wide-awake hat, and wore it on the back of my head, and tried to look as
much like a painter and Bohemian myself as nature would permit.
Bad company? I don’t know. It seemed to me very good company indeed.
There was Jack Everett, tall and slim and athletic, with his eager
aquiline face, his dark curling hair, the most poetic-looking creature,
humorous, whimsical, melancholy, imaginative, who used to quote Byron,
and plan our best practical jokes, and do the loveliest little cupids
and roses in water-colours. He has since married the girl he was even
then in love with, and is still living in Rome, and painting cupids and
roses. And there was d’.vignac, le vicomte, a young Frenchman, who
had been in the Diplomatic Service, and—superlative
distinction!—“ruined himself for a woman,” and now was striving
to keep body and soul together by giving fencing lessons; witty, kindly,
pathetic d’.vignac—we have vanished altogether from each other’s
ken. There was Ulysse Tavoni, the musician, who, when somebody asked him
what instrument he played, answered cheerily, “All instruments.” I
can testify from personal observation that he played the piano and the
flute, the guitar, mandoline, fiddle, and French horn, the ’cello and
the zither. And there was Kônig, the Austrian sculptor, a tiny man with
a ferocious black moustache, whom my landlady (he having called upon
me one day when I was out), unable to remember his transalpine name,
described to perfection as “un Orlando Furioso—ma molto piccolo.”
There was a dear, dreamy, languid, sentimental Pole, blue-eyed and
yellow-haired, also a sculptor, whose name I have totally forgotten,
though we were sworn to “hearts’ brotherhood,” He had the most
astonishing talent for imitating the sounds of animals, the neighing of
a horse, the crowing of a cock; and when he brayed like a donkey, all
the donkeys within earshot were deceived, and answered him. And then
there was Father Flynn, a jolly old bibulous priest from Cork. An uncle
of his had fought at Waterloo; it was great to hear him tell of his
uncle’s part in the fortunes of the day. It was great, too (for Father
Flynn was a fervid Irish patriot), to hear him roar out the “Wearing
of the Green.” Between the stanzas he would brandish his blackthorn,
stick at Everett, and call him a “murthering English tyrant,” to our
huge delectation.
There were others and others and others; but these six are those who
come back first to my memory. They seemed to me very good company
indeed; very merry, and genial, and amusing; and the life we led
together seemed a very pleasant life. Oh, our pleasures were of the
simplest nature, the traditional pleasures of Bohemia; smoking and
drinking and talking, rambling arm-in-arm through the streets,
lounging in studios, going to the play or perhaps the circus, or making
excursions into the country. Only, the capital of our Bohemia was Rome.
The streets through which we rambled were Roman streets, with their
inexhaustible picturesqueness, their unending vicissitudes: with their
pink and yellow houses, their shrines, their fountains, their gardens,
their motley wayfarers—monks and soldiers; shaggy pifferari, and
contadine in their gaudy costumes, and models masquerading as contadine;
penitents, beggars, water-carriers, hawkers; priests in their vestments,
bearing the Host, attended by acolytes, with burning tapers, who rang
little bells, whilst men uncovered and women crossed themselves; and
everywhere, everywhere, English tourists, with their noses in Baedeker.
It was Rome with its bright sun, and its deep shadows; with its Ghetto,
its Tiber, its Castel Sant’ Angelo; with its churches, and palaces,
and ruins; with its Villa Borghese and its Pincian Hill; with its waving
green Campagna at its gates. We smoked and talked and drank—Chianti,
of course, and sunny Orvieto, and fabled Est-Est-Est, all in those
delightful pear-shaped, wicker-covered flasks, which of themselves, I
fancy, would confer a flavour upon indifferent wine. We made excursions
to Tivoli and Frascati, to Monte Cavo and Nemi, to Acqua Acetosa. We
patronised Pulcinella, and the marionettes, and (better still) the
imitation marionettes. We blew horns on the night of Epiphany, we danced
at masked balls, we put on dominoes and romped in the Corso during
carnival, throwing flowers and confetti, and struggling to extinguish
other people’s moccoli. And on rainy days (with an effort I can
remember that there were some rainy days) Everett and I would sit with
d’.vignac in his fencing gallery, and talk and smoke, and smoke and
talk and talk. D’.vignac was six-and-twenty, Everett was twenty-two,
and I was “nearly twenty.” D’.vignac would tell us of his past, of
his adventures in Spain and Japan and South America, and of the lady
for the love of whom he had come to grief. Everett and I would sigh
profoundly, and shake our heads, and exchange sympathetic glances, and
assure him that we knew what love was—we were victims of unfortunate
attachments ourselves. To each other we had confided everything, Everett
and I. He had told me all about his unrequited passion for Maud Eaton,
and I had rhapsodised to him by the hour about Cousin Rosalys. “But
you, old chap, you’re to be envied,” he would cry. “Here you are
in the same town with her, by Jove! You can see her, you can plead your
cause. Think of that. I wish I had half your luck. Maud is far away in
England, buried in a country-house down in Lancashire. She might as well
be on another planet, for all the good I get of her. But you—why, you
can see your Cousin Rosalys this very hour if you like! Oh, heavens,
what wouldn’t I give for half your luck!” The wheel of Time, the
wheel of Time! Everett and Maud are married, but Cousin Rosalys and
I.... Heigh-ho! I wonder whether, in our thoughts of ancient days, it is
more what we remember or what we forget that makes them sweet? Anyhow,
for the moment, we forget the dismal things that have happened since.
Yes, I was in the same town with her, by Jove; I could see her. And
indeed I did see her many times every week. Like the villain in a
melodrama, I led a double life. When I was not disguised as a Bohemian,
in a velvet jacket and a wide-awake, smoking and talking and holding
wassail with my boon companions, you might have observed a young
man attired in the height of the prevailing fashion (his top-hat and
varnished boots flashing fire in the eyes of the Roman populace), going
to call on his Aunt Elizabeth. And his Aunt Elizabeth, pleased by such
dutiful attentions, rewarded him with frequent invitations to dinner.
Her other guests would be old ladies like herself, and old gentlemen,
and priests, priests, priests. So that Rosalys and I, the only young
ones present, were naturally paired together. After dinner Rosalys would
play and sing, while I hung over her piano. Oh, how beautifully she
played Chopin! How ravishingly she sang! Schubert’s Wohin, and
Rôslein, Rôslein, Rôslein roth; and Gounod’s Sérénade and his
Barcarolle:
“Dites la jeune belle,
Où voulez-vous aller?”
And how angelically beautiful she looked! Her delicate, pale face,
and her dark, undulating hair, and her soft red lips; and then her
eyes—her luminous, mysterious dark eyes, in whose depths, far, far
within, you could discern her spirit shining starlike. And her hands,
white and slender and graceful, images in miniature of herself; with
what incommunicable wonder and admiration I used to watch them as they
moved above the keys. “A woman who plays Chopin ought to have three
hands—two to play with, and one for the man who’s listening to
hold.” That was a pleasantry which I meditated much in secret, and a
thousand times aspired to murmur in the player’s ear, but invariably,
when it came to the point of doing so, my courage failed me. “You
can see her, you can plead your cause.” Bless me, I never dared even
vaguely to hint that I had any cause to plead. I imagine young love
is always terribly afraid of revealing itself to its object, terribly
afraid and terribly desirous. Whenever I was not in Cousin Rosalys’s
presence, my heart was consumed with longing to tell her that I loved
her, to ask her whether perhaps she might be not wholly indifferent
to me; I made the boldest resolutions, committed to memory the most
persuasive declarations. But from the instant I was in her presence
again—mercy, what panic seized me!
I could have died sooner than speak the words that I was dying to speak,
ask the question I was dying to ask.
I called assiduously at the Palazzo Zacchinelli, and my aunt bade me to
dinner a good deal, and then one afternoon every week she used to drive
with Rosalys on the Pincian. There was one afternoon every week when all
Rome drove on the Pincian; was it Saturday? At any rate, you may be very
sure I did not let such opportunities escape me for getting a bow and
a smile from my cousin. Sometimes she would leave the carriage and join
me, while Aunt Elizabeth, with Sandro in her lap, drove on, round
and round the consecrated circle; and we would stroll together in the
winding alleys, or stand by the terrace and look off over the roofs of
the city, and watch the sunset blaze and fade behind St. Peter’s. You
know that unexampled view—the roofs of Rome spread out beneath you
like the surface of a troubled sea, and the dome of St. Peter’s, an
island rising in the distance, and the sunset sky behind it. We would
stand there in silence perhaps, at most saying very little, while the
sunset burned itself out; and for one of us, at least, it was a moment
of ineffable, impossible enchantment. She was so near to me—so near,
the slender figure in the pretty frock, with the dark hair, and the
captivating hat, and the furs; with her soft glowing eyes, with her
exquisite fragrance of girlhood; she was so near to me, so alone with
me, despite the crowd about us, and I loved her so! Oh, why couldn’t
I tell her? Why couldn’t she divine it? People said that women always
knew by intuition when men were in love with them. Why couldn’t
Rosalys divine that I loved her, how I loved her, and make me a sign,
and so enable me to speak?
Presently—and all too soon—she would return to the carriage, and
drive away with Aunt Elizabeth; and I, in the lugubrious twilight, would
descend the great marble Spanish staircase (a perilous path, amongst
models and beggars and other things) to the Piazza, and seek out Jack
Everett at the Caffé Greco. Thence he and I would go off to dine
together somewhere, condoling with each other upon our ill-starred
passions. After dinner, pulling our hats over our eyes, two desperately
tragic forms, we would set ourselves upon the traces of d’.vignac and
Kônig and Father Flynn, determined to forget our sorrows in an evening
of dissipation, saying regretfully, “These are the evil courses to
which the love of woman has reduced us—a couple of the best-meaning
fellows in Christendom, and surely born for better ends.” When we were
children (hasn’t Kenneth Grahame written it for us in a golden book?)
we played at conspirators and pirates. When we were a little older, and
Byron or Musset had superseded Fenimore Cooper, some of us found there
was an unique excitement to be got from the game of Blighted Beings.
Oh, why couldn’t I tell her? Why couldn’t she divine it, and make me
an encouraging sign?
But, of course, in the end I did tell her. It was on the night of my
birthday. I had dined at the Palazzo Zacchinelli, and with the dessert
a great cake was brought in and set before me. A number of little red
candles were burning round it, and embossed upon it in frosting was this
device: