No, I said; Ive been enjoying your garden. Enclosed here by the church and by your house, right in the very centre of Florence, it is so quiet and old-world, so full of antiquity, that I have much enjoyed lingering here.
Yes, he answered reflectively; back in the turbulent days of the Medici that remarkable figure in Italian history, Fra Savonarola, owned this garden and sat beneath this very loggia, on this very bench, thinking out those wonderful discourses and prophecies which electrified all Florence. Nothing changes here. The place is just the same today, those white walls on the four sides, only the statuary perhaps is in worse condition than it was in 1498 when he concluded his remarkable career by defying the commands of the Pope as well as the injunctions of the signoria, and was hanged and burned amid riot and bloodshed. Ah, this garden of mine has seen many vicissitudes, signore, and yonder in my church the divine Dante himself invoked the blessing of the Almighty upon his efforts to effect peace with the Pisans.
Your house is a truly fitting receptacle for your splendid collection, I said, impressed by his words and yet wondering at his manner.
Do you know, he exclaimed a moment later, as though a thought had suddenly occurred to him, I cannot help fearing that you may have acted imprudently in purchasing this manuscript. If you wish, I am quite ready to return you your money. Really, I think it would be better if you did so, signore.
But I assure you I have no wish to return it to you, I declared, astonished at his words. If he believed he had made a bad bargain, I at least had his receipt for the amount and the book in my hand.
But it would be better, he urged. Better for you and for me, for the matter of that. Here are the notes you gave me; and taking them from his pocket he held them towards me.
I failed utterly to comprehend his intention or his motive. I had made a good bargain, and why should I relinquish it? Place yourself in my position for a moment, and think what you would have done.
Well, signor reverendo, I exclaimed, I paid the price you asked, and I really cannot see why you should attempt to cry off the deal. Truth to tell, I was a trifle annoyed.
You have paid the price, he repeated in a strange voice, looking at me seriously. Yes; that is true. You have paid the price in the currency of my country; but there is yet a price to pay.
What do you mean? I asked quickly, looking him squarely in the face.
I mean that it would be best for us both if you gave me back my receipt and took back your money.
Why?
I cannot be more explicit, he replied. I am a man of honour, he added, and you may trust me.
But I am desirous of adding the codex to my collection, I argued, mystified by his sudden desire to withdraw from his word. I asked you your price, and have paid it.
I admit that. The affair has been but a matter of business between two gentlemen, he replied, with just a touch of hauteur. Nevertheless, I am anxious that you should not be possessor of that manuscript.
But why? I am a collector. When you come to Leghorn I hope you will call and look through my treasures.
Treasures? he echoed. That is no treasure it is a curse, rather.
A curse! How can a splendid old book be a curse in the hands of a palaeographical enthusiast like myself?
I am a man of my word, he said in a low, distinct tone. I tell you, my dear signore, that your enthusiasm has led you away. You should not have purchased your so-called treasure. It was ill-advised; therefore I urge you to take back the sum you have paid.
And on my part I object to do so, I said a little warmly.
He shrugged his broad shoulders, and a pained look crossed his big features.
Will you not listen to me for your own good? he urged earnestly.
I do not think that sentiment need enter into it, I replied. I have purchased the book, and intend to retain it in my possession.
Very well, he sighed. I have warned you. One day, perhaps, you will know that at least Bernardo Landini acted as your friend.
But I cannot understand why you wish me to give you back the book, I argued. You must have some motive?
Certainly I have, was his frank response. I do not wish you to be its possessor.
You admit that the volume is precious, therefore of value. Yet you wish to withdraw from a bad bargain!
His lips pursed themselves for a moment, and a look of mingled regret and annoyance crossed his huge face.
I admit the first, but deny the second. The bargain is a good one for me, but a bad one for you.
Very well, I replied with self-satisfaction. I will abide by it.
You refuse to hear reason?
I refuse, with all due deference to you, signor reverendo, to return you the book I have bought.
Then I can only regret, he said in a voice of profound commiseration. You misconstrue my motive, but how can I blame you? I probably should, if I were in ignorance, as you are.
Then you should enlighten me.
Ah? he sighed again. I only wish it were admissible. But I cannot. If you refuse to forego your bargain, I can do nothing. When you entered here I treated you as a stranger; and now, although you do not see it, I am treating you as a friend.
I smiled. Used as I was to the subtleness of the trading Tuscan, I was suspicious that he regretted having sold the book to me at such a low price, and was trying to obtain more without asking for it point-blank.
Well, signor priore, I said bluntly a moment later, suppose I gave you an extra hundred francs for it, would that make any difference to your desire to retain possession of it?
None whatever, he responded. If you gave me ten thousand more I would not willingly allow you to have it in your possession.
His reply was certainly a strange one, and caused me a few moments reflection.
But why did you sell it if you wish to retain it? I asked.
Because at the time you were not my friend, he replied evasively. You are now I know you, and for that reason I give you warning. If you take the book from this house, recollect it is at your risk, and you will assuredly regret having done so.
I shook my head, smiling, unconvinced by his argument and suspicious of his manner. Somehow I had grown to dislike the man. If he were actually my friend, as he assured me, he would certainly not seek to do me out of a bargain. So I laughed at his misgivings, saying:
Have no fear, signor reverendo. I shall treasure the old codex in a glass case, as I do the other rare manuscripts in my collection. I have a number of biblical manuscripts quite as valuable, and I take care of them, I assure you.
My eye caught the ancient window where I had seen the white, unshaven face of the old hunchback, and recollecting that there must be some mysterious connection between the two men, I tucked my precious parcel under my arm and rose to depart.
The prior knit his dark brows and crossed himself in silence.
Then the signore refuses to heed me? he asked in a tone of deep disappointment.
I do, I answered quite decisively. I have to catch my train back to Leghorn; therefore I will wish you addio.
As you wish, as you wish, sighed the ponderous priest. Then placing his big hand upon my shoulder in a paternal manner, he added, I know full well how strange my request must appear to you, my dear signore, but some day perhaps you will learn the reason. Recollect, however, that, whatever may occur, Bernardo Landini is a friend to whom you may come for counsel and advice. Addio, and may He protect you, guard you from misfortune, and prosper you. Addio.
As you wish, as you wish, sighed the ponderous priest. Then placing his big hand upon my shoulder in a paternal manner, he added, I know full well how strange my request must appear to you, my dear signore, but some day perhaps you will learn the reason. Recollect, however, that, whatever may occur, Bernardo Landini is a friend to whom you may come for counsel and advice. Addio, and may He protect you, guard you from misfortune, and prosper you. Addio.
I thanked him, and took the big, fat hand he offered.
Then, in silence, I looked into his good-humoured face and saw there a strange, indescribable expression of mingled dread and sympathy. But we parted; and, with old Teresa shuffling before me, I passed through the house and out into the white sun glare of the open piazza, bearing with me the precious burden that was destined to have such a curious and remarkable influence upon my being and my life.
Chapter Four
By the Tideless Sea
When a man secures a bargain, be it in his commerce or in his hobbies, he always endeavours to secure a second opinion. As I hurried across to hug the shadow of the Palazzo Pandolfini I glanced at my watch, and found that I had still an hour and a half before the treno lumaca, or snail-train, as the Florentines, with sarcastic humour, term it, would start down the Arno valley for Leghorn. Therefore I decided to carry my prize to Signor Leo Olschki, who, as you know, is one of the most renowned dealers in ancient manuscripts in the world, and whose shop is situated on the Lung Amo Acciajoli, close to the Ponte Vecchio. Many treasures of our British Museum have passed through his hands, and among bibliophiles his name is a household word.
Fortunately I found him in: a short, fair-bearded, and exceedingly courteous man, who himself is a lover of books although a dealer in them. Behind those glass cases in his shop were some magnificent illuminated manuscripts waiting to be bought by some millionaire collector or national museum, and all around from floor to ceiling were shelves full of the rarest books extant, some of the incunabula being the only known copies existing.
I had made many purchases of him; therefore he took me into the room at the rear of the shop, and I displayed my bargain before his expert eyes.
In a moment he pronounced it a genuine Arnoldus, a manuscript of exceeding rarity, and unique on account of several technical reasons with which it is useless to trouble those who read this curious record.
Well, now, Signor Olschki, what would you consider approximately its worth?
The great bibliophile stroked his beard slowly, at the same time turning over the evenly-written parchment folios.
I suppose, he answered, after a little hesitation, that you dont wish to sell it?
No. I tell you frankly that Ive brought it here to show you and ask your opinion as to its genuineness.
Genuine it is no doubt a magnificent codex. If I had it here to sell I would not part with it under twenty-five thousand francs a thousand pounds.
A thousand pounds? I echoed, for the price was far above what I had believed the manuscript to be worth.
Rosenthal had one in his catalogue two years ago priced at sixteen thousand francs. I saw it when I was in Munich, and it was not nearly so good or well preserved as yours. Besides this writing at the end: have you any idea what it is about?
Some family record, I answered. The usual rambling statements regarding personal possessions, I expect.
Of course, he answered. In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries they habitually disfigured their books in this way, as you know. It was a great pity.
Having obtained the information I desired, I repacked my treasured tome while he brought out several precious volumes for my inspection, including a magnificent French Psalteriolum seu preces pia cum calendario, with miniatures of the thirteenth century, which he had catalogued at four hundred and fifty pounds; and an Italian Psalterium ad usum ord. S. Benedicti, of two hundred leaves, written at Padua in 1428, that he had just sold to the National Museum at Berlin for fifteen thousand marks. In addition to being an expert and dealer, he was a true lover of books and manuscripts; and, knowing that my pocket would not allow me to indulge in such treasures, he would often exhibit to me his best volumes and gossip about them as every bibliophile will gossip, handling them tenderly the while.
I caught my train and returned to the white villa facing the sea, outside Leghorn, which was my bachelor home, entirely satisfied with my visit to the Tuscan capital.
Three miles beyond the noisy seaport, close down where the clear waters of the Mediterranean lazily lapped the shingly beach at the little watering-place of Antignano, stood the square, sun-blanched house, with its wide balcony, and its green sun-shutters now open to the soft breeze that came across the water with the brilliant sundown. The faithful Nello, my old Tuscan man-servant, who was cook, housekeeper, and valet all in one, had been watching for my arrival; and as I rang at the big iron gate before my garden the old fellow came hurrying to admit me, with his pleasant bow and words of welcome on his lips:
Ben tornato, signore; ben tornato.
I thanked him, carried my precious parcel to the study upstairs, and then, descending again, ate hurriedly the dinner he placed before me, anxious to examine my purchase.
My old servitor moved noiselessly in and out as I ate, fidgeting as though he wished to speak with me. But I was looking through my letters, and took but little notice of him. Italian servants are always a nuisance, being too loquacious and too ready to offer opinions or advice. I had suffered for years from a succession of unsatisfactory men, until my friend Fra Antonio of the Capuchin monastery brought old Nello to me. He had little in exterior appearance to recommend him, for his countenance was that of a Mephistopheles, and his attire neglected and shabby. He was an old soldier who had served Italy well in the days of Garibaldi, and had for years been engaged as steward on board one of the Prince line of steamers between Naples and New York.
Fra Antonio knew him well; therefore I took him on trial, and very quickly discovered that even though he had a wife and family living high up in one of the odorous back streets of Leghorn, to whom some of my provisions secretly found their way, he was a treasure of a servant.
Although old in years, he was not decrepit. His physical strength often amazed me, and after three years of service his devotion to me was often remarked by my friends. His only vice was smoking; and as he consumed the very rankest of tobacco, which clung about the house for days afterwards, I had set apart an arbour in the garden beneath the vines where he might poison the air whenever he wished.
Having dined, I ascended the wide marble staircase to my study, a big, high room, with frescoed ceiling, that looked out across the open sea. Houses are large and cheap in Italy mine was far too large for a lonely man like myself. There were half a dozen rooms into which I never entered, and I opened my drawing-room only when I had visitors, for I have a mans dislike for silk-covered furniture, mirrors, and standard lamps.
The long windows of my study were open, and the place was at that moment filled with the crimson afterglow. I stood upon the balcony and breathed the pure air from the sea, delightfully refreshing after the stifling heat of the day. Across, in the far distance, the islands of Corsica, Capraja, and Gorgona loomed purple against the blood-red sunset, while up from the beach the evening stillness was broken by a young fisherman playing his mandolin and singing in a fine musical voice the old love-song with that chorus which every one in Italy knows so well: