CHAPTER X. SIGNOR VERGILIO MANNETTI.
Sir Walter persisted in his purposeand went to Florence. He believed that here Mary might find distractionsand novelties to awaken interest which would come freshly into her lifewithout the pain and poignancy of any recollection to lessen the workof peace. For himself he only desired to see her returning to content.Happiness he knew must be a condition far removed from her spirit formany days.
They stood one evening on the Piazza of Michelangelo and saw Florence,like a city of dim, red gold extended beneath them. The setting sunlightwove an enchantment over towers and roofs. It spread a veil of ineffablebrightness upon the city and tinged green Arno also, where the riverwound through the midst.
Sir Walter was quietly happy, because he knew that in a fortnight hisfriends, Ernest and Nelly Travers, would be at Florence. Mary, too,prepared to welcome them gladly, for her father's sake. He left hisdaughter largely undisturbed, and while they took their walkstogether, the old man, to whom neither music nor pictures conveyed muchsignificance, let her wander at will, and the more readily becausehe found that art was beginning to exercise a precious influence overMary's mind. There was none to guide her studies, but she pursued themwith a plan of her own, and though at first the effort sometimes lefther weary, yet she persisted until she began to perceive at least theimmensity of the knowledge she desired to acquire.
Music soothed her mind; painting offered an interest, part sensuous,part intellectual. Perhaps she loved music best at first, since itbrought a direct anodyne. In the sound of music she could bear tothink of her brief love story. She even made her father come and listenpresently to things that she began to value.
Their minds inevitably proceeded by different channels of thought, andwhile she strove resolutely to occupy herself with the new interests,and put away the agony of the past, till thinking was bearable againand a road to peace under her feet once more, Sir Walter seldom foundhimself passing many hours without recurrence of painful memories anda sustained longing to strip the darkness which buried them. To hisforthright and simple intelligence, mystery was hateful, and thereflection that his home must for ever hold a profound and appallingmystery often thrust itself upon his thoughts, and even inclined him, insome moods, to see Chadlands no more. Yet a natural longing to returnto the old environment, in which he could move with ease and comfort,gradually mastered him, and as the spring advanced he often sighedfor Devonshire, yet wondered how he could do so. Then would return thegloomy history of the winter rolling over his spirit like a cloud, andthe thought of going home again grew distasteful.
Mary, however, knew her father well enough, and at this lustrous hour,while Florence stretched beneath them in its quiet, evening beauty, shedeclared that they must not much longer delay their return.
"Plenty of time," he said. "I am not too old to learn, I find, and a manwould indeed be a great fool if he could not learn in such a placeas this. But though art can never mean much to me now, your case isdifferent, and I am thankful to know that these things will be a greataddition and interest to your future life. I'm a Philistine, and shallalways so remain, but I'm a repentant one. I see my mistake too late."
"It's a new world, father," she said, "and it has done a great dealfor an unhappy woman--not only in taking my thoughts off myself, but inlessening my suffering, too. I do not know why, or how, but music, andthese great, solemn pictures painted by dead men, all touch my thoughtsof dear Tom. I seem to see that there are so many more mighty ones deadthan living. And yet not dead. They live in what they have made. And Tomlives in what he made--that was my love for him and his for me. He growsnearer and dearer than ever when I hear beautiful music. I can betterbear to think of him at such times, and it will always help me toremember him."
"God bless art if it does so much," he said. "We come to it as littlechildren, and I shall always be a child and never understand, but foryou the valuable message will be received. May life never turn you awayfrom these things in years to come."
"Never! Never!" she assured him. "Art has done too much for me. I shallnot try to live my life without it. Already I feel I could not."
"What have you seen to-day?" he asked.
"I was at the Pitti all the morning. I liked best Fra Bartolommeo'sgreat altar piece and Titian's portrait of Cardinal Ippolito dei Medici.You must see him--a strange, unhappy spirit only twenty-three years old.Two years afterwards he was poisoned, and his haunted, discontentedeyes closed for ever. And the 'Concert'--so wonderful, with such ahunger-starved expression in the soul of the player. And Andrea delSarto--how gracious and noble; but Henry James says he's second-rate,because his mind was second-rate, so I suppose he is, but not to me. Henever will be to me. To-morrow you must come and see some of the thingsI specially love. I won't bore you. I don't know enough to bore you yet.Oh, and Allori's 'Judith'--so lovely, but I wonder if Allori did justiceto her? Certainly his 'Judith' could never have done what the realJudith did. And there's a landscape by Rubens--dark and old--yet itreminded me of our woods where they open out above the valley."
He devoted the next morning to Mary, and wandered among the pictureswith her. He strove to share her enthusiasm, and, indeed, did sosometimes. Then occurred a little incident, so trivial that they forgotall about it within an hour, yet were reminded of it at a very startlingmoment now fast approaching.
They had separated, and Sir Walter's eye was caught by a portrait. Buthe forgot it a moment later in passing interest of a blazoned coat ofarms upon the frame--a golden bull's head on a red ground. The heraldicemblem was tarnished and inconspicuous, yet the spectator felt curiouslyconscious that it was not unfamiliar. It seemed that he had seen italready somewhere. He challenged Mary with it presently; but she hadnever observed it before to her recollection.
Sir Walter enjoyed his daughter's interest, and finding that his companyamong the pictures added to Mary's pleasure, while his comments causedher no apparent pain, he declared his intention of seeing more.
"You must tell me what you know," he said.
"It will be the blind leading the blind, dearest," she answered, "but mydelight must be in finding things I think you'll like. The truth is thatneither of us knows anything about what we ought to like."
"That's a very small matter," he declared. "We must begin by learning tolike pictures at all. When Ernest comes, he will want us to live in hisgreat touring car and fly about, so we should use our present time tothe best advantage. Pictures do not attract him, and he will be verymuch surprised to hear that I have been looking at them."
"We must interest him, too, if we can."
"That would be impossible. Ernest does not understand pictures, andmusic gives him no pleasure. He regards art with suspicion, as asomewhat unmanly thing."
"Poor Mr. Travers!"
"Do not pity him, Mary. His life is sufficiently full without it."
"But I've lived to find out that no life can be." In due course Ernestand Nelly arrived, and, as Sir Walter had prophesied, their pleasureconsisted in long motor drives to neighboring places and scenes ofinterest and beauty. His daughter, in the new light that was glimmeringfor her, found her father's friends had shrunk a little. She could speakwith them and share their interests less whole-heartedly than of old;but they set it down to her tribulation and tried to "rouse" her. ErnestTravers even lamented her new-found interests and hoped they were "onlya passing phase."
"She appears to escape from reality into a world of pictures and music,"he said. "You must guard against that, my dear Walter. These things canbe of no permanent interest to a healthy mind."
For a fortnight they saw much of their friends, and Mary observedhow her father expanded in the atmosphere of Ernest and Nelly. Theyunderstood each other so well and echoed so many similar sentiments andconvictions.
Ernest entertained a poor opinion of the Italian character. He arguedthat a nation which depended for its prosperity on wines and silk--"andsuch wines"--must have too much of the feminine in it to excel. He had ashadowy ide
a that he understood the language, though he could not speaknor write it himself.
"We, who have been nurtured at Eton and Oxford, remember enough Latinto understand these people," he said, "for what is Italian but theemasculated tongue of ancient Rome?"
Nelly Travers committed herself to many utterances as idiotic asErnest's, and Mary secretly wondered to find how shadowy and ridiculoussuch solid people showed in a strange land. They carried their ignoranceand their parochial atmosphere with them as openly and unashamedly asthey carried their luggage. She was not sorry to leave them, for she andher father intended to stop for a while at Como before returning homeagain.
Their friends were going to motor over the battlefields of Francepresently, and both Ernest and Nelly came to see Sir Walter and hisdaughter off for Milan. Mr. Travers rushed to the door of the carriageand thrust in a newspaper as the train moved.
"I have secured a copy of last week's 'Field,' Walter," he said.
They passed over the Apennines on a night when the fire-flies flashedin every thicket under the starry gloom of a clear and moonless sky;and when the train stopped at little, silent stations the throb ofnightingales fell upon their ears.
But circumstances prevented their visit to the Larian Lake, for at Milanletters awaited Sir Walter from home, and among them one that hastenedhis return. From a stranger it came, and chance willed that the writer,an Italian, had actually made the journey from Rome to London in orderthat he might see Sir Walter, while all the time the master of Chadlandshappened to be within half a day's travel. Now, the writer was still inLondon, and proposed to stop there until he should receive an answerto his communication. He wrote guardedly, and made one statement ofextraordinary gravity. He was concerned with the mystery of the GreyRoom, and believed that he might throw some light upon the melancholyincidents recorded concerning it.
Sir Walter hesitated for Mary's sake, but was relieved when shesuggested a prompt return.
"It would be folly to delay," she said. "This means quite as much to meas to you, father, and I could not go to Como knowing there may be eventhe least gleam of light for us at home. Nothing can alter the past, butif it were possible to explain how and why--what an unutterable reliefto us both!"
"Henry was to meet us at Menaggio."
"He will be as thankful as we are if anything comes of this. He doesn'tleave England till Thursday, and can join us at Chadlands instead."
"I only live to explain these things," confessed her father. "I wouldgive all that I have to discover reasons for the death of your dearhusband. But there are terribly grave hints here. I can hardly imaginethis man is justified in speaking of 'crime.' Would the word mean lessto him than to us?"
"He writes perfect English. Whatever may be in store, we must face ithopefully. Such things do not happen by chance."
"He is evidently a gentleman--a man of refinement and delicate feeling.I am kindly disposed to him already. There is something chivalric andwhat is called 'old-fashioned' in his expressions. No young man writeslike this nowadays."
The letter, which both read many times, revealed the traits that SirWalter declared. It was written with Latin courtesy and distinction.There were also touches of humor in it, which neither he nor Maryperceived:
"Claridge's Hotel, London. April 9.
"Dear Sir Walter Lennox,--In common with the rest of the world that knows England, I have recently been profoundly interested and moved at the amazing events reported as happening at Chadlands, in the County of Devon, under your roof. The circumstances were related in Italian journals with no great detail, but I read them in the 'Times' newspaper, being familiar with your language and a great lover of your country.
"I had already conceived the idea of communicating with you when--so small is the world in this our time--accident actually threw me into the society of one of your personal friends. At an entertainment given by the British Ambassador at Rome, a young soldier, one Colonel Vane, was able to do me some service in a crush of people, and I enjoyed the privilege of his acquaintance as the result. I would not have inflicted myself upon another generation, but he took an interest in conversing with one who knew his own language. He was also intelligent--for a military man. Needless to say, he made no allusion to the tragedy at Chadlands, but when he spoke of espionage in war and kindred matters, I found him familiar with the details concerning the death of the great English detective, Peter Hardcastle. I then asked him, as being myself deeply interested in the matter, whether it would be possible to get further and fuller details of the story of 'the Grey Room,' whereupon he told me, to my amazement, that he had been at Chadlands when your lamented son-in-law, Captain Thomas May, passed out of life. I then recollected Colonel Vane's name, among others mentioned in the 'Times,' as at Chadlands when the disaster occurred.
"Finding that my curiosity was not idle, Colonel Vane accepted an invitation to dinner, and I enjoyed the pleasure of entertaining him and learning many personal and intimate particulars of the event. These were imparted in confidence, and he knew that I should not abuse his trust. Indeed, I had already told him that it was my determination to communicate with you upon the strength of his narrative.
"It seems improbable that anything I can say will bear upon the case, and I may presently find that I lack the means to serve you, or throw light where all is so profoundly buried in darkness. Yet I am not sure. Small things will often lead to greater, and though the past is unhappily beyond recall, since our Maker Himself cannot undo the work of yesterday, or obliterate events embalmed in vanished time, yet there is always the future; and if we could but read the past aright, which we never can, then the future would prove less of a painful riddle than mankind generally finds it.
"If, then, I can help you to read the past, I may at least modify your anxieties in the future; and should I, by a remote chance, be right in my suspicions, it is quite imperative that I place myself at your service for the sake of mankind. In a word, a great crime has been committed, and the situation is possibly such that further capital crimes will follow it. I affirm nothing, but I conceive the agency responsible for these murders to be still active, since the police have been so completely foiled. At Chadlands there may still remain an unsleeping danger to those who follow you--a danger, indeed, to all human life, so long as it is permitted to persist. I write, of course, assuming you to be desirous of clearing this abominable mystery, both for your own satisfaction and the credit of your house. "There is but little to hope from me, and I would beg you not to feel sanguine in any way. Yet this I do believe: that if there is one man in the world to-day who holds the key of your tribulation, I am that man. One lives in hope that one may empty the world of so great a horror; and to do so would give one the most active satisfaction. But I promise nothing.
"If I should be on the right track, however, let me explain the direction in which my mind is moving. Human knowledge may not be equal to any solution, and I may fail accordingly. It may even be possible that the Rev. Septimus May did not err, and that at the cost of his life he exorcised some spirit whose operations were permitted for reasons hid in the mind of its Creator; but, so far as I am concerned, I believe otherwise. And if I should prove correct, it will be possible to show that all has fallen out in a manner consonant with human reason and explicable by human understanding. I therefore came to England, glad of the excuse to do so, and waited upon you at your manor, only to hear, much to my chagrin, that you were not in residence, but had gone to Florence, a bird's journey from my own home!
"Now I write to the post-office at Milan, where your servant directed me that letters should for the moment be sent. If you are returning soon, I wait for you. If not, it may be possible to meet in Italy. But I should prefer to think you re
turn ere long, for I cannot be of practical service until I have myself, with your permission, visited your house and seen the Grey Room with my own eyes.
"I beg you will accept my assurances of kindly regard and sympathy in the great sufferings you and Madame May have been called upon to endure.
"Until I hear from you, I remain at Claridge's Hotel in London.
"I have the honor to be, "Faithfully yours, "Vergilio Mannetti."
To this communication, albeit he felt little hope, Sir Walter madespeedy response. He declared his intention of returning to Englandduring the following week, after which he hoped that Signor Mannettiwould visit Chadlands at any time convenient to himself. He thanked himgratefully, but feared that, since the Italian based his theory on acrime, he could not feel particularly sanguine, for the possibility ofsuch a thing had proved non-existent.
Mary, however, looked deeper into the letter. She even suspected thatthe writer himself entertained a greater belief in his powers than hedeclared.
"One has always felt the Grey Room is somehow associated with Italy,"she said. "The ceiling we know was moulded by Italians in Elizabeth'sday."
"It was; but so are all the other moulded ceilings in the house aswell."
"He may understand Italian workmanship, and know some similar roof thathid a secret."
"The roof cannot conceal an assassin, and he clearly believes himself onthe track of a crime." Nevertheless, Sir Walter's interest increased asthe hour approached for their return home. Only when that was decideddid he discover how much he longed to be there. For the horror andsuffering of the past were a little dimmed already; he thirsted to seehis woods and meadows in their vernal dress, to hear the murmur of hisriver, and move again among familiar voices and familiar paths.
Chadlands welcomed them on a rare evening of May, and the very genuinejoy of his people moved Sir Walter not a little. Henry Lennox wasalready arrived, and deeply interested to read the Italian's letter. Heand Mary walked presently in the gardens and he found her changed. Shespoke more slowly, laughed not at all. But she had welcomed him withaffection, and been interested to learn all that he had to tell her ofhimself.
"I felt that it would disappoint you to be stopped at the last moment,"she said, "but I knew the reason would satisfy you well enough. I feelhopeful somehow; father does not. Yet it is hope mixed with fear, forSignor Mannetti speaks of a great crime."
"A vain theory, I'm afraid. Tell me about yourself. You are well?"
"Yes, very well. You must come to Italy some day, Henry, and let me showyou the wonderful things I have seen."
"I should dearly love it. I'm such a Goth. But it's only brutallaziness. I want to take up art and understand a little of what itreally matters."
"You have it in you. Are you writing any more poetry?"
"Nothing worth showing you."
She exercised the old fascination; but he indulged in no hope of thefuture. He knew what her husband had been to Mary, despite the shortnessof their union; and, rightly, he felt positive that she would nevermarry again.
A mournful spectacle appeared, drawn by the sound of well-known voices,and the old spaniel, Prince, crept to Mary's feet. He offered feeblehomage, and she made much of him, but the dog had sunk to a shadow.
"He must be put away, poor old beggar; it's cruel to keep him alive.Only Masters said he was determined he should not go while Uncle Walterwas abroad. Masters has been a mother to him."
"Tell father that; he may blame Masters for letting him linger on likethis. He rather hoped, I know, that poor Prince would be painlesslydestroyed, or die, before he came back."
"Masters would never have let him die unless directed to do so."
"And I'm sure father could never have written the words down and postedthem. You know father."
Letters awaited the returned travellers, one from Colonel Vane, whodescribed his meeting with Signor Mannetti, and hoped somethingmight come of it; and another from the stranger himself. He expressedsatisfaction at his invitation, and proposed arriving at Chadlands onthe following Monday, unless directions reached him to the contrary.
When the time came, Sir Walter himself went into Exeter to meet hisguest and bring him back by motor-car. At first sight of the signor, hishost experienced a slight shock of astonishment to mark the Italian'sage. For Vergilio Mannetti was an ancient man. He had been tall, butnow stooped, and, though not decrepit, yet he needed assistance, andwas accompanied and attended by a middle-aged Italian. The travellerdisplayed a distinguished bearing. He had a brown, clean-shaved face,the skin of which appeared to have shrunk rather than wrinkled, yet nosuggestion of a mummy accompanied this physical accident. His hair wasstill plentiful, and white as snow; his dark eyes were undimmed, andproved not only brilliant but wonderfully keen. He told them morethan once, and indeed proved, that behind large glasses, that lent anowl-like expression to his face, his long sight was unimpaired. Hisrather round face sparkled with intelligence and humor.
He owned to eighty years, yet presented an amazing vitality and a keeninterest in life and its fulness. The old man had played the looker-onat human existence, and seemed to know as much, if not more, of the gamethan the players. He confessed to this attitude and blamed himself forit.
"I have never done a stroke of honest work in my life," he said. "Iwas born with the silver spoon in my mouth. Alas, I have been amazinglylazy; it was my metier to look on. I ought, at least, to have written abook; but then all the things I wanted to say have been so exquisitelysaid by Count Gobineau in his immortal volumes, that I should only havebeen an echo. The world is too full of echoes as it is. Believe me, ifI had been called to work for my living, I should have cut a respectablefigure, for I have an excellent brain."
"You know England, signor?"
"When I tell you that I married an English-woman, and that both my sonshave English blood in their veins, you will realize the sincerity of mydevotion. My dear wife was a Somerset."
Mary May always declared that the old Italian won her heart and evenawakened something akin to affection before she had known him half anhour. There was a fascination in his admixture of childish simplicityand varied knowledge. None, indeed, could resist his gracious humor andold-world courtesies. The old man could be simple and ingenuous,too; but only when it pleased him so to be; and it was not the secondchildishness of age, for his intellect remained keen and moved far moreswiftly than any at Chadlands. But he was modest and loved a jest. Thehand of time had indeed touched him, and sometimes his memory brokedown and he faltered with a verbal difficulty; but this only appeared tohappen when he was weary.
"The morning is my good time," he told them. "You will, I fear, find mea stupid old fellow after dinner."
Signor Mannetti proved a tremendous talker, and implicitly revealedthat he belonged to the nobility of his country, and that he enjoyedthe friendship of many notable men. The subject of his visit was notmentioned on the day of his arrival. He spoke only of Italy, laughed tothink he had passed through Florence to seek Sir Walter in England,and then, finding his hostess a neophyte at the shrines of art, attunedhimself to the subject for her benefit.
"If you found pictures answer to an unknown need within yourself, thatis very well," he declared. "About music I know little; but concerningpainting a great deal. And you desire to know, too, I see. The spirit iswilling, but the spirit probably does not know yet what lies in frontof it. You are groping--blind, childlike--without a hand to guard andan authority to guide. That is merely to waste time. When you go backto Italy, you must begin at the beginning, if you are in earnest--not atthe middle. Only ignorance measures art in terms of skill, for there areno degrees in art. None has transcended Giotto, because technique anddraughtsmanship are accidents of time; they lie outside the soul of thematter. Art is in fact a static thing. It changes as the face of the seachanges, from hour to hour; but it does not progress. There are greatand small ar
tists and great and small movements, as there are great andsmall waves, brisk breezes and terrific tempests; but all are mouldedof like substance. In the one case art, in the other, the ocean, remainsunchanged. I shall plan your instruction for you, if you please,and send you to the primitives first--the mighty ones who laid thefoundations. I lived five years at Siena--for love of the beginnings;and you must also learn to love and reverence the beginnings, if youwould understand that light in the darkness men call the Renaissance."
He broke from Mary presently, strove to interest Sir Walter, andsucceeded.
"A benevolent autocracy is the ideal government, my friend--the idealof all supreme thinkers--a Machiavelli, a Nietzsche, a Stendhal, aGobineau. Liberty and equality are terms mutually destructive, theycannot exist together; for, given liberty, the strong instantly look toit that equality shall perish. And rightly so. Equality is a war cryfor fools--a negation of nature, an abortion. The very ants know better.Doubtless you view with considerable distrust the growing spirit ofdemocracy, or what is called by that name?"
"I do," admitted Sir Walter.
"Your monarch and mine are a little bitten by this tarantula. I amconcerned for them. We must not pander to the mob's leaders, for theyare not, and never have been, the many-headed thing itself. They, notthe mob, are 'out to kill,' as you say. But that State will soonperish that thinks to prosper under the rule of the proletariat. Such aconstitution would be opposed to natural law and, therefore, containthe seeds of its own dissolution. And its death would be inconceivablyhorrible; for the death of huge, coarse organisms is always horrible.Only distinguished creatures are beautiful in death, or know how to dielike gentlemen."
"Who are on your side to-day, signor?" asked Henry Lennox.
"More than I know, I hope. Gobineau is my lighthouse in the storm. Youmust read him, if you have not done so. He was the incarnate spirit ofthe Renaissance. He radiated from his bosom its effulgence and shot itforth, like the light of a pharos over dark waters; he, best of all men,understood it, and, most of all men, mourned to see its bright hope andglory perish out of the earth under the unconquerable superstition ofmankind and the lamentable infliction of the Jewish race. Alas! The Jewshave destroyed many other things besides the Saviour of us all."
They found the Renaissance to be the favorite theme of Signor Mannetti.He returned again and again to it, and it was typical of him that hecould combine assurances of being a devout Catholic with sentimentspurely pagan.
"Christianity has operated in the making of many slaves and charlatans,"he said. "One mourns the fact, but must be honest. It has too oftenscourged the only really precious members of society from the temple oflife. It has cast the brave and clean and virile into outer darkness,and exalted the staple of humanity, which is never brave, or virile, andseldom really clean. A hideous wave submerges everything that matters.The proud, the beautiful--the only beings that justify the existenceof mankind--will soon be on the hills with the hawks and leopards, andhunted like them--outcast, pariah, unwanted, hated."
"The spirit of christianity is socialistic, I fear," said Sir Walter."It is one of those things I do not pretend to understand, but themodern clergy speak with a clear voice on the subject."
"Do your clergy indeed speak with a clear voice?"
"They do; and we must, of course, listen. Truth is apt to be painful.And how can we reconcile our aristocratic instincts with our faith? Iask for information and you will forgive the personality. I find myselfin almost entire agreement with your noble sentiments. But, as a goodChristian, ought I to be so? How do you stand with the one true faith inyour heart and these opinions in your head, signor?"
The old man twinkled and a boyish smile lighted his aged countenance.
"A good question--a shrewd thrust, Sir Walter. There can be only oneanswer to that, my friend. With God all things are possible."
Henry laughed; his uncle was puzzled.
"You think that is no answer," continued the Italian. "But reason alsomust have a place in the sun, though we have to hide it in our pocketsometimes. So many great men would not extinguish their light--and hadit extinguished for them. A difficult subject. Let us continue to thinkin compartments. It is safer so. If you are over eighty years old, youlove safety. But I love joy and romance also, and is not religion almostthe only joy and romance left to us? It is affirmation remember, notnegation, that makes the world go round! The 'intellectuals' forgetthat, and they are sterile accordingly."
Signor Mannetti's wits were something too nimble for his hearers. Hetalked and talked--about everything but the matter in their minds--untilhalf-past ten o'clock, when his man came after him. Thereupon he rose,like an obedient child, and wished them "Good-night."
"Stephano is my guardian angel," he said--"a being of painfulpunctuality. But he adds years to my life. He forgets nothing. I wishyou a kind farewell until to-morrow and offer grateful thanks for yourwelcome. I breakfast in my room, if you please, and shall be readyat eleven o'clock to put myself at your service. Then you will be sogracious as to answer me some questions, and I shall, please God, try tohelp you."