CHAPTER II
How a little old gentleman was left alone in a Library, in frontof the picture Sairah had only just wiped gently. How hewoke up from a dream, which went on. The loquacity ofa picture, and how he pointed out to it its unreality. TheArtist's name. There was plenty of time to hear more.The exact date of Antiquity. The Rational way ofaccounting for it.
Old Mr. Pelly is the little grey-headed wrinkled manwith gold spectacles whom you have seen in Londonbookshops and curio-stores in late August and earlySeptember, when all the world has been away; thelittle old man who has seemed to you to have walkedout of the last century but one. You may not haveobserved him closely enough at the moment to havea clear recollection of details, but you will haveretained an image of knee-breeches and silkstockings; of something peculiar in the way of alow-crowned hat; of a watch and real seals; of a goldsnuff-box you would have liked to sell for your ownbenefit; and of an ebony walking-stick with a silverhead and a little silk tassel. On thinking this oldgentleman over you will probably feel sorry you didnot ask him a question about Mazarine Bibles orAldus Manutius, so certain were you he would nothave been rude.
But you did not do so, and very likely he wentback to Grewceham, in Worcestershire, where helives by himself, and you lost your opportunity thattime. However that may be, it is old Mr. Pelly ourstory has to do with now, and he is sitting before awood-fire out of all proportion to the little dry oldthing it was lighted to warm, and listening to theroaring of the wind in the big chimney of the libraryhe sits in.
But it is not his own library. That is at Grewceham,two miles off. This library is the fine oldlibrary at Surley Stakes, the country-seat of SirStopleigh Upwell, M.P., whose father was at schoolwith Mr. Pelly, over sixty years ago.
Mr. Pelly is stopping at "The Stakes," as it iscalled, to avoid the noise and fuss of the littlemarket-town during an election. And for that same reasonhas not accompanied Sir Stopleigh and his wife anddaughter to a festivity consequent on the return ofthat very old Bart, for the County. They will belate back; so Mr. Pelly can do no better than sit inthe firelight, rejecting lamps and candles, andthinking over the translation of an Italian manuscript, infragments, that his friend Professor Schrudengesserhas sent him from Florence. It has been supposedto have some connection with the cinque-centoportrait by an unknown Italian artist that hangs abovethe fire-blaze. And this portrait is the one the storysaw, a little over six months since, in the atelierof that picture-cleaner, Mr. Reginald Aiken, whomanaged to brew a quarrel with his wife by hisown silliness and bad taste.
It is only dimly visible in the half-light, butMr. Pelly knows it is there; knows, too, that its eyescan see him, if a picture's eyes can see, and that itslaugh is there on the parted lips, and that itsjewelled hand is wound into the great tress of goldthat falls on its bosom. For it is a portrait of ayoung and beautiful woman, such as GaluppiBaldassare wrote music about--you know, of course!And Mr. Pelly, as he thinks what it will look likewhen Stebbings, the butler, or his myrmidons, bringin lights, feels chilly and grown old.
But Stebbings' instructions were distinctly not tobring in lights till Mr. Pelly rang, and Mr. Pellydidn't ring. He drank the cup of coffee Stebbingshad provided, without putting any cognac in it, andthen fell into a doze. When he awoke, with a startand a sudden conviction that he indignantly foughtagainst that he had been asleep, it was to find thatthe log-flare had worn itself out, and the log it fedon was in its decrepitude. Just a wavering irresoluteflame on its saw-cut end, and a red glow, andthat was all it had left behind.
"Who spoke?" It was Mr. Pelly who asked thequestion. But no one had spoken, apparently.Yet he would have sworn that he heard a woman'svoice speaking in Italian. How funny that theassociations of an Italian manuscript should creepinto his dream!--that was all Mr. Pelly thoughtabout it. For the manuscript was almost entirelyEnglish rendering, and no one in it, so far as hecould recollect, had said as this voice did,"Good-evening, Signore!" It was a dream! He polishedhis spectacles and watched the glowing log thatbridged an incandescent valley, and wondered whatthe sudden births of little intense white light couldbe that came and lived on nothing and vanished,unaccounted for. He knew Science knew, andwould ask her, next time they met. But, for now,he would be content to sit still, and keep watchon that log. It must break across the middlesoon, and collapse into the valley in a blaze ofsparks.
Watching a fire, without other light in the room,is fraught with sleep to one who has lately dined,even if he has a pipe or cigar in his mouth to burnhim awake when he drops it. Much more so to asecure non-smoker, like Mr. Pelly. Probably he didgo to sleep again--but who can say? He reallybelieved himself wide-awake, though, when the samevoice came again; not loud, to be sure, butunmistakable. And the way it startled him helped toconvince him he was awake. Because one is neversurprised at anything in a dream. When one findsoneself at Church in a stocking, and nothing more,one is vexed and embarrassed, certainly, but notsurprised. It dawns on one gradually. If this wasa dream, it was a very solid one, to surviveMr. Pelly's start of amazement. It brought him out ofhis chair, and set him looking about in thehalf-lighted room for a speaker, somewhere.
"Who are you, and _where_ are you?" said he.For there was no one to be seen. The firelightflickered on the portraits of Sir Stephen Upwell, theCavalier, who was killed at Naseby, and Marjory,his wife, who was a Parliamentarian fanatic; and aphenomenal trout in a glass case, with a picturebehind it showing the late Baronet in the distancestriving to catch it; but the door was shut, andMr. Pelly was alone in the library. He was ratherfrightened at his own voice in the stillness; itsounded like delirium. So it made him happierthat an answer should come, and justify it.
"I am here, before you. Look at me! I amLa Risvegliata--that is what you call me, atleast." This was spoken in Italian, but it must betranslated in the story. Very likely you understandItalian, but remember how many English do not.Mr. Pelly spoke Italian fluently--he spoke manylanguages--but _he_ must be turned into English,too, for the same reason.
"But _you_ are a picture," said he. "You cannotspeak." For he understood then that hishallucination--as he thought it, believing himselfawake--was that the picture-woman over the mantelpiecehad spoken to him. He felt indignant with himselffor so easily falling a victim to a delusion; andtransferred his indignation, naturally, to theblameless phantom of his own creation. Of course, hehad _imagined_ that the picture had spoken to him.For "La Risvegliata"--the awakened one--was thename that had been written on the frame at thewish of the Baronet's daughter, when a few monthsback he brought this picture, by an unknown Artist,from Italy.
"I can speak"--so it replied to Mr. Pelly--"andyou can hear me, as I have heard you all speakingabout me, ever since I came to this strangeland. Any picture can hear that is well enoughpainted."
"_Why_ have you never spoken before?" Mr. Pellywas dumbfounded at the unreasonableness ofthe position. A speaking picture was bad enough;but, at least, it might be rational. He fell in hisown good opinion, at this inconsistency of hisdistempered fancy.
"Why have you never listened? I have spokenmany a time. How do I know why you have notheard?" Mr. Pelly could not answer, and the voicecontinued, "Oh, how I have longed and waited forone of you to catch my voice! How I have criedout to the wooden _Marchese_ whose _Marchesa_ willnot allow him to speak, and to that beautiful Signoraherself, and to that sweet daughter most of all.Oh, why--why--have they not heard me?" Butstill Mr. Pelly was slow to answer. He foundsomething to say, though, in the end.
"I can entertain no reasonable doubt that yourvoice is a fiction of my imagination. But you willconfer a substantial favour on me if you will takeadvantage of it, while my hallucination lasts, to tellme the name of your author--of the artist whopainted you."
"_Lo Spazzolone_ painted me."
"_Lo_ ... who?"
"_Lo Spazzolone_. Surely, all men have heard ofhim. But it is his nickname--the big brush--fromhis great bush of black hair. Ah me!--howbeautiful it w
as!"
"Could you give me his real name, and tell mesomething about him?" Mr. Pelly took from hispocket a notebook and pencil.
"Giacinto Boldrini, of course!"
"Ought I to know him? I have never heard his name."
"How strange! And it is but the other day thathe was murdered--oh, so foully murdered! Butno!--I am wrong, and I forget. It is near fourhundred years ago."
Mr. Pelly was deeply interested. The questionof whether this was a dream, a hallucination, or avision, or the result of exceeding by two ounces hisusual allowance of glasses of Madeira, he could notanswer offhand. Besides, there would be plenty oftime for that after. His present object should beto let nothing slip, however much he felt convincedof its illusory character. It could be sifted later.He would be passive, and not allow an ill-timedincredulity to mar a good delusion in the middle.He switched off scepticism for the time being, andspoke sympathetically.
"Is it possible? Did you know him? But ofcourse you must have known him, or he couldscarcely have painted you. Dear me!" Mr. Pellychecked a disposition to gasp; that would neverdo--he might wake himself up, and spoil all. Thesweet voice of the picture--it was like a voice, mindyou, not like a gramophone--was prompt with itsreply:
"I knew him well. But, oh, so long ago! Onegets to doubt everything--all that was most realonce, that made the very core of our lives.Sometimes I think it was a dream--a sweet dream withterror at the end--a nectar-cup a basilisk waswatching, all the while. Four hundred years!Can I be sure it was true? Yet I remember itall--could tell it now and miss nothing."
Mr. Pelly was silent a moment before answering.He reflected that if his reply led to acircumstantial narrative of events four hundred years old,it would be a bitter disappointment to be wakedby the return of the family, and to have it allspoiled. However, it was only ten o'clock, andthey might be three hours yet. Besides, it waswell known that dreams have no real duration--arein fact compressed into a second or so of waking.He would risk it.
"I have a keen interest, Signora," said he, "inthe forgotten traditions of antiquity. It wouldindeed be a source of satisfaction to me if you wouldconsider me worthy of your confidence, and entrustto me some portion at least of your family history,and that of your painter. I can assure you thatno portion of what you tell me shall be publishedwithout your express permission. No one candetest more keenly than myself the modernAmerican practice of intrusion into private life...." Hestopped. Surely that sound was a sigh, if nota sob. In a moment the voice of the picture cameagain, but with even more of sadness in it thanbefore:
"Was it Antiquity, then, in those days? Wedid not know it then. We woke to the day thatwas to come--that had not been, before--even asyou do now; and the voices of yesterday were notforgotten in our ears. We flung aside the thing ofthe hour; as you do now, with little thought ofwhat we lost, and lived alone for hope, and thethings that were to be. I cannot tell you howyoung we were then. And remember! I amtwenty now; as I was then, and have been, eversince.
"I see," said Mr. Pelly. "Your original wastwenty when you were painted. And you naturallyremained twenty." He felt rather prosaic and dry,and to soften matters added, "Tell me of yourfirst painting, and what is earliest in yourrecollection."
"Then you will not interrupt me?" Mr. Pellygave a promise the voice seemed to wait for, andthen it continued, and, as it seemed to the listener,told the tale that follows, which is printed ascontinuous. The only omissions are a few interruptionsof Mr. Pelly's, which, so far as they wereinquiries or points he had not understood, are madeup for by very slight variations in the text, whichhe himself has sanctioned, as useful and explanatory.
Whether he was awake or dreaming, he neverrightly knew. But his extraordinary memory--heis quite a celebrity on this score--enabled himto write the whole down in the course of the next dayor two, noting his own interruptions, now omitted.
The most rational way of accounting for theoccurrence undoubtedly is that the old gentlemanhad a very vivid dream, suggested by his havingread several pages--this he admits--of the manuscripttranslation, in which a too ready credulity hasdetected a sequel to the story itself. None knowsbetter than the student of alleged supernaturalphenomena how frequent is this confusion of causeand effect.