The conversation showing signs of becoming general, the officers, with visible reluctance, made their bows and gave place to the new-comers. The girl now found time to extend a cordial hand to Melville, while to the secretary she tossed a markedly careless, Good afternoon, Mr. Sybert. If Miss Marcias offhand manner conveyed something a trifle stronger than indifference, so Syberts half-amused smile as he talked to her suggested that her unkindness failed to hurt; that she was too young to count.
And what is this I hear about your moving out to a villa for the spring? he inquired, turning to Mrs. Copley.
Yes, we are thinking of it, but it is not decided yet.
We still have Uncle Howard to deal with, added the girl. He was the first one who suggested a villa, but now that exactly the right one presents itself, we very much suspect him of trying to back out.
That will never do, Miss Marcia, said Melville. You must hold him to his word.
We are going out to-morrow to inspect it, and if Aunt Katherine and I are pleased She broke off with a graceful gesture which intimated much.
Sybert laughed. Poor Uncle Howard! he murmured.
The arrival of fresh guests called their host away, and Mrs. Copley and Melville, turning aside to greet some friends, left Miss Copley for the moment to a tête à tête with Sybert. He maintained his side of the conversation in a half-perfunctory fashion, while the girl allowed a slight touch of hostility to creep beneath her animation.
And where is the villa to be, Miss Marciaat Frascati, I suppose?
Farther away than Frascati; at Castel Vivalanti.
Castel Vivalanti!
Up in the Sabine hills between Palestrina and Tivoli.
Oh, I know where it is; I have a vivid recollection of climbing the hill on a very hot day. I was merely exclaiming at the locality; its rather remote, isnt it?
Its remoteness is the best thing about it. Our object in moving into the hills is to escape from visitors, and if we go no farther than Frascati we shant do much escaping.
This to the familys most frequent visitor was scarcely a hospitable speech, and a smile of amusement crept to the corners of Syberts mouth.
Apparently just becoming aware of the content of her speech, she added with slightly exaggerated sweetness: Of course I dont mean you, Mr. Sybert. You come so often that I regard you as a member of the household.
The secretary apparently had it on his tongue to retort, but, thinking better of it, he maintained a discreet silence, while their host approached with the new arrivalsa lady whose name Miss Copley did not catch, but who was presented with the explanatory remark, she writes, and several young men who, she judged by their neckties, were artists also. The talk turned on the villa again, and Miss Copley was called upon for a description.
I havent seen it myself, she returned; but from the stewards account it is the most complete villa in Italy. It has a laurel walk and an ilex grove, balconies, fountains, a marble terrace, a view, and even a ghost.
A ghost? queried Dessart. But I thought they were extinctthat the railroads and tourists had driven them all back to the grave.
Not the ghost of the Bad Prince; we rent him with the placeand the most picturesque ghost you ever dreamed of! He hoarded his wheat while the peasants were starving, and they murdered him two hundred years ago. She repeated the story, mimicking in inimitable fashion the gestures and broken English of Prince Vivalantis steward.
A somewhat startled silence hung over the close of the recital, while her auditors glanced at each other in secret amazement. The question uppermost in their minds was whether it was ignorance or mere bravado that had tempted her into repeating just that particular tale. It was a subject which Miss Copley might have been expected to avoid. Laurence Sybert alone was aware that she did not know what a dangerous topic she was venturing on, and he received the performance with an appreciative laugh.
A very picturesque story, Miss Copley. The old fellow got what he deserved.
Marcia Copley assented with a smiling gesture, and the woman who wrote skilfully bridged over a second pause.
You were complaining the other day, Mr. Dessart, that the foreigners are making the Italians too modern. Why do you not catch the ghost? He is surely a true antique.
But I am not an impressionist, he pleaded.
Who is saying anything against impressionists? a young man asked in somewhat halting English as he paused beside the group.
No one, said Dessart; I was merely disclaiming all knowledge of them and their ways. Miss Copley, allow me to present Monsieur Benoit, the last Prix de Romehe is the man to paint your ghost. Hes an impressionist and paints nothing else.
I suppose you have ghosts enough in the Villa Medici, without having to search for them in the Sabine hills.
Ah, oui, mademoiselle; the Villa Medici has ghosts of many kindsghosts of dead hopes and dead ambitions among others.
I should think the ghost of a dead ambition might be too illusive for even an impressionist to catch, she returned.
Perhaps an impressionist is better acquainted with them than with anything else, suggested Dessart, a trifle unkindly.
Not when hes young and a Prix de Rome, smiled the woman who wrote.
Mrs. Copley requiring her nieces presence on the other side of the room, the girl nodded to the group and withdrew. The writer looked after her with an air of puzzled interest.
And doesnt Miss Copley read the papers? she inquired mildly.
Evidently she does not, Sybert rejoined with a laugh as he made his adieus and withdrew.
Half an hour later, Marcia Copley, having made the rounds of the room, again found herself, as tea was being served, in the neighbourhood of her new acquaintance. She dropped down on the divan beside her with a slight feeling of relief at being for the moment out of the current of chatter. Her companion was a vivacious little woman approaching middle age; and though she spoke perfect English, she pronounced her words with a precision which suggested a foreign birth. Her conversation was diverting; it gave evidence of a vast amount of worldly wisdom as well as a wide acquaintance with other peoples affairs. And her range of subjects was wide. She flitted lightly from an artistic estimate of some intaglios of the Augustan age, that had just been dug up outside the Porta Pia, to a comparison of French and Italian dressmakers and a prophecy as to which cardinal would be the next pope.
A portfolio of sketches lay on a little stand beside them, and she presently drew them toward her, with the remark, We will see how our young man has been amusing himself lately!
There were a half-dozen or so of wash-drawings, and one or two outline sketches of figures in red chalk. None of them was at all finished, but the hasty blocking in showed considerable vigour, and the subjects were at least original. There was no Castle of St. Angelo with a boatman in the foreground, and no Temple of Vesta set off by a line of scarlet seminarists. One of the chalk drawings was of an old chestnut woman crouched over her charcoal fire; another was of the octroi officer under the tall arch of the San Giovanni gate, prodding the contents of a donkey-cart with his steel rod. There were corners of wall shaded by cypresses, bits of architectural adornment, a quick sketch of the lichen-covered elephants head spouting water at Villa Madama. They all, slight as they were, possessed a certain distinction, and suggested a very real impression of Roman atmosphere. Marcia examined them with interest.
They are extremely good, she said as she laid the last one down.
Yes, her companion agreed; they are so good that they ought to be betterbut they never will be.
How do you mean?
I know Paul Dessart well enough to know that he will never paint a picture. He has talent, and hes clever, but hes at everybodys service. The workers have no time to be polite. However, she finished, it is not for you and me to quarrel with him. If he set to work in earnest he would stop giving teas, and that would be a pity, would it not?
Indeed it would! she agreed. How pretty the studio looks this afternoon! I have seen it only by daylight before, and, like all the rest of us, it improves by candle-light. Her eyes wandered about the big room, with its furnishings of threadbare tapestry and antique carved chairs. The heavy curtains had been partly drawn over the windows, making a pleasant twilight within. A subtle odour of linseed oil and cigarette smoke, mingled with the fresh scent of violets, pervaded the air.
Paul Dessart, with the Prix de Rome man and a young English sculptor of rising fame, presently joined them; and the talk drifted into Roman politicsa subject concerning which, the artists declared with one accord, they knew nothing and cared less.
Oh, I used to get excited over their squabbles, said the Englishman; but I soon saw that I should have to choose between that and sculpture; I hadnt time for both.
I dont even know whos premier, put in Dessart.
A disgraceful lack of interest! maintained the American girl. I have only been in Rome two months, and I am an authority on the Triple Alliance and the Abyssinian war; I know what Cavour wanted to do, and what Crispi has done.
Thats not fair, Miss Copley, Dessart objected. Youve been going to functions at the Embassy, and one can absorb politics there through ones skin. But I warn you, it isnt a safe subject to get interested in; it becomes a disease, like the opium habit.
Hes not so far from the truth, agreed the sculptor. I was talking to a fellow this afternoon, named Sybert, whoperhaps you know him, Miss Copley?
Yes, I know him. What about him?
Ohernothing, in that case.
Pray slander Mr. Sybert if you wishIll promise not to tell. Hes one of my uncles friends, not one of mine.
Oh, I wasnt going to slander him, the young man expostulated a trifle sheepishly. The only thing I have against Sybert is the fact that my conversation bores him.
Marcia laughed with a certain sense of fellow-feeling.
Say anything you please, she repeated cordially. My conversation bores him too.
Well, what I was going to say is that he has had about all the Roman politics that are good for him. If he doesnt look out, hell be getting in too deep.
Too deep? she queried.
It was Dessart who pursued the subject with just a touch of malice. Laurence Sybert, apparently, was not so popular a person as a diplomat should be.
Hes lived in Rome a good many years, and people are beginning to wonder what hes up to. The Embassy does very well for a blind, for he doesnt take any more interest in it than he does in whether or not Tammany runs New York. All that Sybert knows anything about or cares anything about is Italian politics, and there are some who think that he knows a good sight more about them than he ought. Hes in with the Church party, in with the Governmentfirst friends with the Right, and then with the Left.
Monsieur Sybert is what you call an eclectic, suggested Benoit. He chooses the best of each.
Im not so sure of that, Dessart hinted darkly. Hes interested in other factions besides the Vatican and the Quirinal. There are one or two pretty anarchistic societies in Rome, and Ive heard it whispered
You dont mean she asked, with wide-open eyes.
The woman who wrote shook her head, with a laugh. I suspect that Mr. Syberts long residence in Rome might be reduced to a simpler formula than that. It was a very wise person who first said, Cherchez la femme.
Oh, really? said Marcia, with a new note of interest. Laurence Sybert was not a man whom she had ever credited with having emotions, and the suggestion came as a surprise.
Rumour says that he still takes a very strong interest in the pretty little Contessa Torrenieri. All I know is that nine or ten years ago, when she was Margarita Carretti, he was openly among her admirers; but she naturally preferred a countor at least her parents did, which in Italy amounts to the same.
The girls eyes opened still wider; the Contessa Torrenieri was also a frequent guest at the palazzo. But Dessart received the suggestion with a very sceptical smile.
And you think that he is only waiting until, in the ripeness of time, old Count Torrenieri goes the way of all counts? I know you are the authority on gossip, madame, but, nevertheless, I doubt very much if that is Laurence Syberts trouble.
You dont really mean that he is an anarchist? Marcia demanded.
I give him up, Miss Copley. The young man shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands in a gesture purely Italian.
Are you talking politics? asked Mrs. Copley as she joined the group in company with Mr. and Mrs. Melville.
Always politics, laughed her nieceor is it Mr. Sybert now?
Theyre practically interchangeable, said Dessart.
And did I hear you calling him an anarchist, Miss Marcia? Melville demanded.
She repudiated the charge with a laugh. Im afraid Mr. Dessarts the guilty one.
Here, here! that will never do! Syberts a special friend of mine. I cant allow you to be accusing him of anything like that.
A little applied anarchy wouldnt be out of place, the young man returned. I feel tempted to use some dynamite myself when I see the way this precious government is scattering statues of Victor Emmanuel broadcast through the land.
If you are going to get back into politics, said Mrs. Copley, rising, I fear we must leave. I know from experience that it is a long subject.
The two turned away, escorted to the carriage by Dessart and the Frenchman, while the rest of the group resettled themselves in the empty places. The woman who wrote listened a moment to the badinage and laughter which floated back through the open door; then, Mr. Dessarts heiress is very attractive, she suggested.
Why Mr. Dessarts? Melville inquired.
Perhaps I was a little premature, she concededthough, I venture to prophesy, not incorrect.
My dear lady, said Mrs. Melville impressively, you do not know Mrs. Copley. Her niece is more likely to marry an Italian prince than a nameless young artist.
Shes no more likely to marry an Italian prince than she is a South African chief, her husband affirmed. Miss Marcia is a young woman who will marry whom she pleasesthough, he added upon reflection, I am not at all sure it will be Paul Dessart.
She might do worse, said his wife. Paul is a nice boy.
Ahand she might do better. Ill tell you exactly the man, he added, in a burst of enthusiasm, and that is Laurence Sybert.
The suggestion was met by an amused smile from the ladies and a shrug from the sculptor.
My dear James, said Mrs. Melville, you may be a very good business man, but you are no match-maker. That is a matter you would best leave to the women. As for your Laurence Sybert, he hasnt the ghost of a chanceand he doesnt want it.