XX
In their sitting-room in the Hotel de Rome, at Vallanza, Anthony andAdrian were waiting for their breakfast. It is evident, therefore,that Susanna's will had prevailed, and a fool's errand was in processof accomplishment. The fool, no doubt, to the last moment, had renewedhis protests, his pleadings, his refusals; but, at each fresh outburst,coldly, firmly, the lady had reiterated her ultimatum, "Then all isover between you and me." And in the end, very conscious of his folly,very much incensed by her perversity, disgusted, dejected, and, as histravelling-companion had occasion to observe, in the very devil of atemper, he had left Victoria by the eleven o'clock Continental express."Never forget," Miss Sandus whispered in his ear, as he paid her hisadieux, "never forget that sound old adage--'journeys end in loversmeeting.'" This was oracular, and he had no opportunity to press foran interpretation; but it was clearly intended as of good omen. At thesame time, in another part of the room, Susanna was whispering toAdrian. As Adrian never again expressed the slightest curiosity anentthe motive of their hegira, I am led to wonder whether Susanna hadadmitted him to her confidence. She had intimated that she should n'tespecially mind doing so; and it is certain that he, from that timeforth, now and then smiled at the sky with an eye that looked veryknowing.
Those who have recently visited Sampaolo will remember the Hotel deRome as a small, new, spick-and-span establishment, built at the cornerof the Piazza San Guido and the Riva Vittorio Emmanuele, and presentingnone of that "local colour in the shape of dirt and discomfort" whichwe are warned to expect in Italy, if we depart from the track beaten bythe tourist. I am told that the modern Italian commercial gentleman(who is often a German, and not infrequently a Jew) has learned some ofthe tourist's exactions. It is thanks to him, presumably, that even atout-of-the-way Vallanza there exists a decent inn.
Our friends' sitting-room was on the first floor, a corner room, havingtwo sets of windows. One set commanded the Piazza, with its grey oldchurch (the Cathedral of St. Paul and St. Guy), its detached campanile,its big central fountain, and, occupying the entire eastern side, thecrumbling frescoed front of the Palazzo Rosso. The other set lookedacross the Riva, and its double row of palms, out upon the bay, withits anchored ships, its fishing-boats, its encircling olive-coveredhills, dotted high and low by villages and villas, and its embosomedIslets, Isola Nobile, Isola Fratello, Isola Sorella, the whole wideprospect glowing in the sun.
The Piazza, which opens to the north, lay in cool blue shadow; and justnow a market was in progress there, a jumble-scene of merchandise,animals, and humanity; men, women, and children, dogs and donkeys,goats, calves, pigs, poultry; vegetables and fruit--quartered melons,with green rind, black seeds, and rosy flesh, great golden pumpkins,onions in festoons, figs in pyramids; boots, head-gear, and roughshop-made clothing, for either sex; cheap jewellery also; and everymanner of requisite for the household, from pots and pans of wroughtcopper, brass lamps, iron bedsteads and husk-filled bedding, toportraits in brilliant oleograph of King and Queen and the inevitableGaribaldi. The din was stupendous. Humanity hawked, chaffered,haggled, laughed, vituperated. Donkeys brayed, calves mooed, dogsbarked, ducks quacked, pigs squealed. A dentist had set up his chairnear the fountain, and was brawling proffers of relief to thetooth-distressed. Sometimes a beglamoured sufferer would allow himselfto be taken in hand; and therewith, above the general blare and blur ofnoise, rose clear and lusty a series of shameless Latin howls. Thetown-crier, in a cocked hat, wandered hither and thither, like a soulin pain, feebly beating his drum, and droning out a nasal proclamationto which, so far as was apparent, no one listened. The women, for themost part, wore bright-coloured skirts,--striped green and red, or blueand yellow,--and long black veils, covering the head, and falling belowthe waist; the men, dark jerseys, corduroy trousers, red belts in lieuof braces, and red fishers' caps with tassels that dangled over theear. Two such men, at this moment, passed up the Piazza arm-in-arm,singing. I don't know what their song was, but they had good voices,and while one of them carried the melody, the other sang a second.
Anthony, morose and listless, Adrian, all agog with excitement, hadbeen looking down upon this spectacle for some minutes in silence. Itwas their first glimpse of daylit Sampaolo. They had arrived fromVenice last night after dark.
But now, as the men passed singing, Adrian was moved to utterance.
"Italia, oh, Italia!" he exclaimed. "I thought I knew my Italy. Ithought I had visited my Italy every year or two, for more years thanyou could shake a stick at. But this is too Italian to be true. Thisis not Italy--this is Italian opera."
Anthony gloomed.
"It's an infernal bore, whatever it is," he declared.
"Fie, fie," Adrian chid him. "Infernal? That is not at all a niceword. Don't let me hear it a second time. How animated and southernand picturesque that _arracheur-de-dents_ is, is n't he? Whatdistinction he confers upon the scene. Have you no teeth that needattending to? I should love to see you operated on by a practitionerlike that, in the fresh air, under the azure canopy of heaven, in theeye of the world, fearless and unashamed. The long, rather rustybuilding opposite, with the pictures fading from its walls, is noneother than the Palazzo Rosso, the cradle of your race. It can bevisited between ten and four. I 've had a talk with our landlord'sdaughter--such a pretty girl. Her name--what do you suppose her nameis? Her name is Pia. She has nice hair and eyes, and is a perfectcornucopia of information.--Ah, at last!" he sighed, pressing his handto his heart, as the door opened, and the waiter appeared, bearing atray.
Then, as the waiter set out the contents of his tray upon the table,Adrian, bending forward, examined them with the devoutness, with theintentness, of an impassioned connoisseur.
"Grilled ham, gallantine of chicken _aux truffes_, mortadella, anomelette _aux fines herbes_, coffee, hot milk, whipped cream, bread,figs, apricots," he enumerated. "And if it had n't been for my talkwith the landlord's daughter, do you know what we should have had? Weshould have had coffee and bread and _praeterea nihil_. That's what weshould have had," he pronounced tragically, shaking his head inretrospective consternation at the thing escaped. "Oh, thesestarveling Continental breakfasts! But I threw myself upon Pia'sclemency. I paid her compliments upon her hair, upon her toilet. Icalled her Pia mia. I said that if I had only met her earlier in life,I should have been a very different person. I appealed to the _woman_in her. I explained to her that my hollow-cheeked companion, with thelack-lustre eye, was a star-crossed lover, and must be treated withexceptional tenderness. I said that nothing mitigated the _tormentod'amore_ like beginning the day with a sustaining meal. I said youwere a man of an unbounded stomach. I said you were subject toparoxysms of the most violent rage, and if you did n't get the propervariety and quantity of food, you 'd smash the furniture. I smiledupon her with my bonniest, blithest eyne. I ogled her. I chucked herunder the chin. I did nothing of the sort. I was extremely dignified.But I told her of a dream I had last night--oh, such a lovelydream--and she was melted. What do you suppose I dreamed of? Idreamed of plump, juicy English sausages."
His face grew wistful, his voice sank. He piled his plate with ham andomelette.
"You 'd better write a song about it," fleered Anthony. "'The HomesickGlutton's Dream.'" Then, making a face, "Why did you order coffee?" hegrumbled. "Why did n't you order tea?"
"Tut, don't be peevish," said Adrian. "Sit up, and tie yourtable-napkin round your neck, and try to be polite when the kindgentleman speaks to you. I did order tea. But tea at Sampaolo isregarded in the light of a pharmaceutical preparation. Pia said shethought I might be able to procure some at the _farmacia_. Thisomelette really is n't bad. You 'd better take some--before itdisappears in the darkness."
But Anthony declined the omelette--and it disappeared in the darkness.
"Come, cheer up, goodman Dull," Adrian exhorted him, selecting thetruffled portions from a plateful of gallantine. "'Men have died, andworms have eaten them, but not for lov
e.' Ginger is still hot in themouth, and there are more fish in the sea than have ever yet nibbled atyour bait and spurned it. Do you know why there are no mosquitoes atSampaolo, and no bandits? There are none--Pia gave me her word for it,Pia mia gave me her pretty feminine word. But do you know why? Piatold me why. The wind, Signore. The wind blows them away--away, away,and far away, over the bright blue sea. Every afternoon we get a wind,sweeping in from the north. Sometimes it is only a _venticello_,sometimes a _temporale_, sometimes an _orogano terribile_, but it isalways sufficient to blow away the mosquitoes and the bandits. Piatold me so. Sweet Pia."
"Humph," said Anthony.
"Humph, by all means," Adrian hastened to agree. "I have a sort ofhumphy feeling myself--a sort of unsatisfied yearning, that is scarcelyakin to pain, and resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles the rain.I think it may be imputed to inadequate nourishment. I think I willtry some of that mortadella, if you 'll be so good as to pass it.Thank you. And another cup of coffee, with plenty of whipped cream ontop, please. How cruel dairymaids must be, to whip such nice stuff ascream. But they 're cruel only to be kind, are n't they?--cruel to thecream, to be kind to us, the dear creatures. If you 'd give up smokingand drinking, you 'd have a healthy appetite yourself. Come! Becomforted. Cast off this green and yellow melancholy. Take me foryour exemplar. I too, when I first visited my ancestral home, I toowas filled with horror and resentment. I entered it screaming, as I amcredibly informed, kicking and screaming, protesting with all thepassion of latent genius, with all the force of a brand-new pair oflungs. But I 've enjoyed it very well ever since. Ah, the strangetale of Man. Conceived in sin, brought forth in pain, to live andamuse himself in an impenetrable environment of mystery--in animpenetrable fog. And never to see, of all things, his own face! Tosee the faces of others, to see the telescopic stars and themicroscopic microbes, yet never to see his own face. And even thereflection, the shadow of it, which he can see in a looking-glass, eventhat he perforce sees _a rebours_. You can't deny it's rum. But if Ihad a face as long as yours, I solemnly believe, I should deem itlikewise providential."
"To think, to think," Anthony, long-faced, was brooding, "that she inmere wilfulness has condemned me to a whole mortal week of this."
"We lunch," said Adrian, "at one, though Pia suggested twelve, and dineat seven, though Pia suggested six. At four we shall have a little_goute_--_caffe con pasticceria_--to take the place of tea. And now,if you can tear yourself from the pleasures of the table, let's be upand doing. We 'll begin with the Cathedral, and if we look sharp, we'll be in time to hear a Mass. There are Masses every half hour tillten. Then the Palazzo Rosso. After luncheon and a brief siesta, IsolaNobile. And after our _caffe con pasticceria_, a donkey-ride in thecountry."
When they had heard their Mass, they were approached by the Sacristan,a little, shrunken, brown old man in a cassock, who offered to servethem as a guide. The church was very dim and very silent. Here andthere a woman knelt at prayer; here and there a candle burned. TheSacristan removed the frontal from the High Altar, to show them thegolden reliquary that enshrines the dust of San Guido, and unveiled thethree fine altar-pieces, attributed to Giacomo Fiorentino, "San GuidoShipwrecked," "San Guide's Return," and "The Good Death of San Guido."He showed them also, in its glass case, the Sword of the Golden Thorn,reciting its history; and finally he conducted them to the crypt,where, under masses of sculptured ner'-antico, emblazoned with theirarmorials, some five-and-twenty generations of Valdeschi lie entombed.What were Anthony's emotions? He must have had emotions.
At the Palazzo Rosso they were invited to write their names andnationality in the visitors' book; and then a silver-haired,soft-voiced, gentle-mannered servitor in livery led them up the grandmarble staircase and through an endless suite of airy, statelyrooms--rooms with floors of polished concrete, displaying elaboratepatterns, with tapestried walls and frescoed ceilings, with sparse butancient and precious articles of furniture, chandeliers of Venetianglass, Venetian mirrors, and innumerable paintings, many of themportraits.
"It's astonishing," said Adrian, "how, by some occult process ofselection, in spite of perpetual marriage with new blood, in spite ofthe thousand vicissitudes of time and circumstance, in a given family aparticular feature will persist. There 's the Habsburg lip, forinstance. And here is the Valdeschi nose. From generation togeneration, from century to century, one can recognize in these deadforefathers of yours the identical nose that is on your face to-day."
It was quite true. Again and again you saw repeated the samehigh-bridged, slenderly aquiline nose.
"Sala del trono," announced their cicerone (only, he pronounced it _Sa'do truno_).
And there, sure enough, at the end of a vast chamber, was "the greatscarlet throne, with the gilded coronet topping the canopy above," justas Susanna had described it. What were Anthony's emotions?
But the white-haired serving-man (as Adrian noticed) from time to timeallowed his eyes to fix themselves studiously upon Anthony's face, andappeared to fall into a muse. Now he stopped before a highwhite-and-gold double-door. "The entrance to the private apartments,"he said, and placed his hand upon the fancifully-wrought ormoludoor-knob.
"Are the public admitted to the private apartments," Anthony doubted,holding back.
"No, Signore," said the old man. "But I think, if the Signore willpardon me, that the Signore's Excellency will be a connection of thefamily."
Anthony all but jumped.
"Why on earth should you think that?" he wondered.
"It's the persistent feature," said Adrian, in English, with a chuckle."The Signore's Excellency is betrayed by the Signore's Excellency'sbeak."
"If the Signore will pardon me, I observed that the Signore's name,when he wrote in the visitors' book, was Crahforrdi of England," theold man explained. "But the Crahforrdi of England are a house cognateto ours. The consort of the Conte who was Conte when I had the honourof entering the family, nearly sixty years ago, was a Crahforrdi ofEngland, a lordessa. Moreover it is in the Signore's face. If theSignori will favour me, it will give me great pleasure to show themwhat they will think is the Signore's own portrait."
In size and shape the private apartments were simply a continuation ofthe state apartments, but they were furnished in modern fashion, with agreat deal of luxury, and, in so far as the enveloping brown hollandswould permit one to opine, with a great deal of taste. "The familyoccupy this palace during the cold months only. In summer they make avillegglatura to Isola Nobile. Therefore you do not see these rooms attheir best," the old man apologized. In what he described as the_gabine'o segre'o_ of the Countess, over the fireplace, hung thefull-length, life-size portrait of a gentleman, in the dress ofeighteen-forty-something--high stock, flowered waistcoat, close-fittingbuff trousers, and full-bottomed blue frock-coat, very tight above thehips.
"Count Antonio the Seventeenth, the last of our tyrants. The Signoriwill be aware that we were tyrants of Sampaolo for many centuries,"said the old man, not without a touch of pride. Then, bowing toAnthony, "One would think properly the portrait of your Excellency."
Indeed, the face of the last of the tyrants and his grandson's facewere surprisingly alike.
"Conte Antonio Decimose'mo was Conte when, as a lad, I had the honourto join the family," the old servant went on. "It was he who had forconsort the Lordessa Crahforrdi of England. After his death, there wasthe Revolution, by which we annexed to Sampaolo another island calledSardinia. The Lordessa was taken prisoner in these rooms, with theConte-figlio, and banished from the country. Then the King of Sardiniawas elected tyrant of both islands, and the government was removed fromVallanza to Turin. That was many years ago, fifty years ago. When thePope died, the government was again removed, and now it is at Rome."
"Oh? Is the Pope dead?" Adrian questioned.
"Che si, Signore--dupo lung' anni," the old man assured him.
They strolled about the town for a little, before returning to the
hotel--through the narrow cobble-paved streets, with their alternationsof splendour and squalor, their palaces, churches, hovels, their darklittle shops, their neglected shrines, their vociferous population,their heterogeneous smells--and along the Riva, with its watersidebustle, its ships loading and unloading, and its unexampled view of bayand mountains.
"Do you see this stick?" asked Adrian, holding up his walking-stick.
"What about it?" asked Anthony.
"I 'm coming to that," said Adrian. "But first you must truthfullyanswer a question. Which end of this stick would you prefer to be--thebright silver handle or the earth-stained ferrule?"
"Don't know," said Anthony, with an air of weariness.
"Don't you?" marvelled Adrian. "How funny. Well, then, you mustunderstand that this stick is but an emblem--a thing's sign. Now forthe thing signified. Have you ever paused to moralize over the ironythat determines the fates of families? Take, for example, a familythat begins with a great man--a great soldier, a great saint, forinstance--and then for evermore thereafter produces none butmediocrities. I hope you perceive the irony of that. Butcontrariwise, take a family that goes on for centuries producingmediocrities, and suddenly ends with the production of a genius. Takemy family, just for a case in point. Here I come of a chain ofprogenitors reaching straight back to Adam; and of not one of them saveAdam and myself, has the world ever heard. And even Adam owes hiscelebrity not in the least to his personal endowments, but solely tothe unique character of his position. The First Man could n't helpgetting a certain reputation, would he, n'ould he. But from Adam toAdrian--silence. Then sudden silvery music. And Adrian--mark thepredestination--Adrian is childless. He is the last link. With himthe chain, five thousand years long, stops. He is the sudden brilliantflare-up of the fire before it goes out. Well, now, tell me--which endof this stick would you prefer to be? The shining silver handle, orthe dull iron other end?"
They were conveyed to Isola Nobile in one of those long slenderSampaolese _vipere_--boats that are a good deal like gondolas, exceptthat they have no felze, and carry a short mast at the bow, with a sailthat is only spread when the wind is directly aft. I suppose thepalace at Isola Nobile is one of the most beautiful in the world, withits four mellow-toned marble facades rising sheer out of the water,with its long colonnades, its graceful moresque windows, and thevariety, profusion, and lace-like delicacy of its carved and inciseddetails. Here again they had to write their names in the visitors'book, and again a servant (this time a young and rather taciturnperson) led them through countless vast and splendid rooms, far moresplendid than those at the Palazzo Rosso, rooms rich with porphyry,alabaster, mosaics, gilded flourishes and arabesques of stucco, andcontaining many treasures of painting and sculpture, some of which, Ibelieve, even the sceptical Morellists allow to be actually thehandiwork of the artists to whom they are ascribed. But so far fromthere being any question of their visiting the private apartments atIsola Nobile, their guide, at one point in their progress, sprangforward and hurriedly closed a door that had stood open, and throughwhich they had caught a glimpse of a pleasantly furnished library. Byand by they were passed on to a gardener, who showed them the gardenson Isola Fratello and Isola Sorella, with their camphor-trees andcedars, their oranges, oleanders, magnolias, laurels, their terraces,whence thousands of lizards whisked away at the approach of Man, theirfountains, grottoes, temples, their peacocks, flamingoes, and tamering-doves, and always, always, with that wonderful outlook upon thebay and its girdle of sun-bathed hills. The gardener plucked manyflowers for them, so that they returned to Vallanza with armfuls ofroses, lilies, oleanders, and jessamine.
Later that afternoon, Adrian having gone alone for his donkey-ride inthe country (more power to the back of the donkey!), Anthony was seatedby the open window of his bedroom, in a state of deep depression. Allat once, between the two promontories that form the entrance to thebay, the Capo del Papa and the Capo del Turco, appeared, heading forVallanza, a white steamer, clearly, from its size and lines, a yacht--avery bright and gay object to look upon, as it gleamed in the sun andcrisped the blue waters. And all at once, his eye automaticallyfollowing it, Anthony experienced a perfectly inexplicable lighteningof the heart,--as if, indeed, the white yacht were bringing somethinggood to him. It was absurd, but he could not help it. Somehow, hisdepression left him, and a feeling almost of joyousness took its place.
"She said she loved me--she said she loved me," he remembered. "And atthe farthest," he reflected, "at the farthest I shall be with her againin nine little days."
He got out the fan that he had stolen, and pressed it to his face. Hegot out his writing-materials, and wrote her a long, cheerful,impassioned letter.
His change of mood was all the more noteworthy, perhaps, because theyacht chanced to be the _Fiorimondo_, bearing the Countess of Sampaoloand her suite from Venice, whither it had proceeded two days before,upon orders telegraphed from Paris.