My wife, my dear lady, is at present in Capri and shows no intention of coming home. Your husband, pitying my loneliness, insisted on bringing me out for the night.
I am glad that he didwe shall hope to see you later, however, when Mrs. Melville can come too. Mr. Sybert, she added, turning toward the younger man, you cant know how we miss not having you drop in at all hours of the day. We didnt realize what a necessary member of the family you had become until we had to do without you.
Marcia, overhearing this speech, politely suppressed a smile as she presented the young painter. He was included in the general acclaim.
This is charming! Mrs. Copley declared. I was just complaining to the Contessa Torrenieri that not a soul had visited us since we came out to the villa, and here are three almost before the words are out of my mouth!
Pietro, appearing with a trayful of cups, put an end to these amenities; and, reinforced by Gerald, they had an unusually festive tea-party. Mr. Copley had once remarked concerning Paul Dessart that he would be an ornament to any dinner-table, and he undoubtedly proved himself an ornament to-day.
Melville, introducing the subject of a famous monastery lately suppressed by the government, gave rise to a discussion involving many and various opinions. The contessa and Dessart hotly defended the homeless monks; while the other men, from a political point of view, were inclined to applaud the action of the premier. Their arguments were strong, but the little contessa, two slender hands gesticulating excitedly, stanchly held her own; though a White in politics, her sympathies, on occasion, stuck persistently to the other side. The church had owned the property for five centuries, the government for a quarter of a century. Which had the better right? And aside from the justice of the questionDessart backed her upfor ascetic reasons alone, the monks should be allowed to stay. Who wished to have the beauties of frescoed chapels and carved choir-stalls pointed out by blue-uniformed government officials whose coats didnt fit? It spoiled the poetry. Names of cardinals and prelates and Italian princes passed glibly; and the politicians finally retired beaten. Marcia, listening, thought approvingly that the young artist was a match for the diplomats, and she could not help but acknowledge further that whatever faults the contessa might possess, dullness was not among them.
It was Gerald, however, who furnished the chief diversion that afternoon. Upon being forbidden to take a third maritozzo, he rose reluctantly, shook the crumbs from his blouse, and drifted off toward the ilex grove to occupy himself with the collection of lizards which he kept in a box under a stone garden seat. The group about the tea-table was shortly startled by a splash and a scream, and they hastened with one accord to the scene of the disaster. Mr. Copley, arriving first, was in time to pluck his son from the fountain, like Achilles, by a heel.
Whats the matter, Howard? Mrs. Copley called as the others anxiously hurried up.
Nothing serious, he reassured her. Gerald has merely been trying to identify himself with his environment.
Gerald, dripping and sputtering, came out at this point with the astounding assertion that Marietta had pushed him in. Marietta chimed into the general confusion with a volley of Latin ejaculations. She push him in! Madonna mia, what a fib! Why should she do such a thing as that when it would only put her to the trouble of dressing him again? She had told him repeatedly not to fall into the fountain, but the moment her back was turned he disobeyed.
Amid a chorus of laughter and suggestions, of wails and protestations, the nurse, the boy, and his father and mother set out for the house to settle the question, leaving the guests at the scene of the tragedy. As they strolled back to the terrace the contessa very adroitly held Sybert on one side and Dessart on the other, while with a great deal of animation and gesture she recounted a diverting bit of Roman gossip. Melville and Marcia followed after, the latter with a speculative eye on the group in front, and an amused appreciation of the fact that the young artist would very much have preferred dropping behind. Possibly the contessa divined this too; in any case, she held him fast. The consul-general was discussing a criticism he had recently read of the American diplomatic service, and his opinion of the writer was vigorous. Melvilles views were likely to be both vigorously conceived and vigorously expressed.
In any case, he summed up his remarks, America has no call to be ashamed of her representative to Italy. His Excellency is a fine example of the right man in the right place.
And his Excellencys nephew? she inquired, her eyes on the lounging figure in front of them.
Is an equally fine example of the right man in the wrong place.
I thought you were one of the people who stood up for him.
You thought I was one of the people who stood up for him? Well, certainly, why not? Melvilles tone contained the suggestion of a challenge; he had fought so many battles in Syberts behalf that a belligerent attitude over the question had become subconscious.
Oh, I dont know, said Marcia vaguely. Lots of people dont like him.
Melville struck a match, lit a cigar, and vigorously puffed it into a glow; then he observed: Lots of people are idiots.
Marcia laughed and apologized
Excuse me, but you are all so funny about Mr. Sybert. One day I hear the most extravagant things in his praise, and the next, the most disparaging things in his dispraise. Its difficult to know what to believe of such a changeable person as that.
Just let me tell you one thing, Miss Marcia, and that is, that in this world a man who has no enemies is not to be trustedI dont know how it may be in the world to come. At for Sybert, you may safely believe what his friends say of him.
In that case he certainly does not show his best side to the world.
He probably thinks his best side nobodys business but his own. And then, as a thought re-occurred to him, he glanced at her a moment in silence, while a brief smile flickered across his aggressively forceful face. She could not interpret the smile, but it was vaguely irritating, and as he did not have anything further to say, she pursued her theme rough-shod.
When you see a person who doesnt take any interest in his own country; whose only aim is to be thought a cosmopolitan, a man of the world; whose business in life is to attend social functions and make after-dinner speecheswell, naturally, you cant blame people for not taking him very seriously. She finished with a gesture of disdain.
You were telling me a little while ago, Miss Marcia, about some of the people in Castel Vivalanti. You appear to be rather proud of your broad-mindedness in occasionally being able to detect the real man underneath the peasantdont you think you might push your penetration just one step further and discover a real man, a personality, beneath the man of the world? Once in a while it exists.
You cant argue me into liking Mr. Sybert, she laughed; Uncle Howard has tried it and failed.
Mr. and Mrs. Copley returned shortly to their guests; and the contessa, bemoaning the nine miles, announced that she must go. Mr. Copley suggested that nine miles would be no longer after dinner than before, but the lady was obdurate and her carriage was ordered. She took her departure amid a graceful flurry of farewell. The contessa had an unerring instinct for effect, and her exits and her entrances were divertingly spectacular. She bade Mrs. Copley, Marcia, and the consul-general good-bye upon the terrace, and trailed across the marble flagging, attendedat a careful distance from her trainby the three remaining men. Sybert handed her into the carriage, Dessart arranged the lap-robe, while Copley brought up the rear, gingerly bearing her lace parasol. With a gay little tilt of her white-plumed hat toward the group on the terrace and an all-inclusive flash of black eyes, she was finally off, followed by the courtly bows of her three cavaliers.
Marcia, with Sybert and Dessart on either hand, continued to stroll up and down the terrace, while her aunt and uncle entertained Melville amid the furnished comfort of the loggia. Sybert would ordinarily have joined the group on the loggia, but he happened to be in the middle of a discussion with Dessart regarding the new and, according to most people, scandalous proposition for levelling the Seven Hills. The two men seemed to be diametrically opposed to all their views, and were equally far apart in their methods of arguing. Dessart would lunge into flights of exaggerated rhetoric, piling up adjectives and metaphors until by sheer weight he had carried his listeners off their feet; while Sybert, with a curt phrase, would knock the corner-stone from under the finished edifice. The latters method of fencing had always irritated Marcia beyond measure. He had a fashion of stating his point, and then abandoning his adversarys eloquence in mid-air, as if it were not worth his while to argue further. To-day, having come to a deadlock in the matter of the piano regolatore, they dropped the subject, and pausing by the terrace parapet, they stood looking down on the plain below.
Dessart scanned it eagerly with eyes quick to catch every contrast and tone; he noted the varying purples of the distance, the narrow ribbon of glimmering gold where sky and plain met the sea, the misty whiteness of Rome, the sharply cut outline of Monte Soracte. It was perfect as a picturecomposition, perspective, colour-schemenothing might be bettered. He sighed a contented sigh.
Even I, he murmured, couldnt suggest a single change.
A slight smile crept over Syberts sombre face.
I could suggest a number.
The young painter brought a reproachful gaze to bear upon him.
Ah, he agreed, and I can imagine the direction theyd take! Miss Copley, he added, turning to Marcia, let me tell you of the thing I saw the other day on the Roman Campagna: a sight which was enough to make a right-minded man sick. I saw there was a tragic pausea McCormick reaper and binder!
Sybert uttered a short laugh.
I am glad that you did; and I only wish it were possible for one to see more.
Man! Man! You dont know what you are saying! Paul cried. There were tears in his voice. A McCormick reaper, I tell you, painted red and yellow and bluethe man who did it should have been compelled to drink his paint.
Marcia laughed, and he added disgustedly: The thing sows and reaps and binds all at once. One shudders to think of its activitiesand that in the Agra Romana, which picturesque peasants have spaded and planted and mowed by hand for thousands of years.
Not, however, a particularly economical way of cultivating the Campagna, Sybert observed.
Economical way of cultivating the Campagna! Dessart repeated the words with a groan. Is there no place in the world sacred to beauty? Must America flood every corner of the habitable globe with reapers and sewing-machines and trolley-cars? The way theyre sophisticating these adorably antique peasants is criminal.
Thats the way it seems to me, Marcia agreed cordially. Uncle Howard says they havent enough to eat; but they certainly do look happy, and they dont look thin. I cant help believing he exaggerates the trouble.
An Italian, Miss Copley, who doesnt know where his next meal is coming from, will lie on his back in the sunshine, thinking how pretty the sky looks; and he will get as much pleasure from the prospect as he would from his dinner. If that isnt the art of being happy, I dont know what is. And that is why I hate to have Italy spoiled.
Well, Dessart, I fancy we all hate that, Sybert returned. Though I am afraid we should quarrel over definitions. He stretched out his hand toward the west, where the plain joined the sea by the ruins of Ostia and the Pontine Marshes. It was a great, barren, desolate waste; unpeopled, uncultivated, fever-stricken.
Dont you think it would be rather a fine thing, he asked, to see that land drained and planted and lived on again as it was perhaps two thousand years ago?
Marcia shook her head. I should rather have it left just as it is. Possibly a few might gain, but think of the poetry and picturesqueness and romance that the many would lose! Once in a while, Mr. Sybert, it seems as if utility might give way to poetryespecially on the Roman Campagna. It is more fitting that it should be desolate and bare, with only a few wandering shepherds and herds, and no buildings but ruined towers and Latin tombsa sort of burial-place for Ancient Rome.
The living have a few rightseven in Rome.
They seem to have a good many, Dessart agreed. Oh, I know what you reformers want! Youd like to see the city full of smoke-stacks and machinery, and the Campagna laid out in garden plots, and everybody getting good wages and six per cent. interest; with all the people dressed alike in ready-made clothing instead of peasant costume, and nobody poor and nobody picturesque.
Sybert did not reply for a moment, as with half-shut eyes he studied the distance. He was thinking of a ride he had taken three days before. He had gone out with a hunting-party to one of the great Campagna estates, owned by a Roman prince whose only interest in the land was to draw from it every possible centesime of income. They had stopped to water their horses at a cluster of straw huts where the farm labourers lived, and Sybert had dismounted and gone into one of them to talk to the people. It was dark and damp, with a dirt floor and rude bunks along the sides. There, fifty human beings lived crowded together, breathing the heavy, pestilential air. They had come down to bands from their mountain homes, searching for work, and had sold their lives to the prince for thirty cents a day.
The picture flashed across him now of their pale, apathetic faces, of the dumb reproach in their eyes, and for a second he felt tempted to describe it. But with the reflection that neither of the two before him would care any more about it than had the landlord prince, he changed his expression into a careless shrug.
It will be some time before well see that, he answered Dessarts speech.
But youd like it, wouldnt you? Marcia persisted.
Yes; wouldnt you?
No, she laughed, I cant say that I should! I decidedly prefer the peasants as they are. They are far more attractive when they are poor, and since they are happy in spite of it, I dont see why it is our place to object.
Sybert eyed the pavement impassively a moment: then he raised his head and turned to Marcia. He swept her a glance from head to foot which took in every detail of her dainty gown, her careless grace as she leaned against the balustrade, and he made no endeavour to conceal the look of critically cold contempt in his eyes. Marcia returned his glance with an air of angry challenge; not a word was spoken, but it was an open declaration of war.
CHAPTER VII
The Roystons approached Rome by easy stages along the Riviera, and as their prospective movements were but vaguely outlined even to themselves, they suffered their approach to remain unheralded. Paul Dessart, since his talk with Marcia, had taken a little dip into the future, with the result that he had decided to swallow any hurt feelings he might possess and pay dutiful court to his relatives. The immediate rewards of such a course were evident.
One sunny morning early in April (he had been right in his forecast of the time: Palm Sunday loomed a week ahead) a carriage drew up before the door of his studio, and Mrs. Royston and the Misses Royston alighted, squabbled with the driver over the fare, and told him he need not wait. They rang the bell, and during the pause that followed stood upon the door-step, dubiously scanning the neighbourhood. It was one of the narrow, tortuous streets between the Corso and the river; a street of many colours and many smells, with party-coloured washings fluttering from the windows, with pretty tumble-haired children in gold ear-rings and shockingly scanty clothing sprawling underfoot. The house itself presented a blank face of peeling stucco to the street, with nothing but the heavily barred windows below and an ornamental cornice four stories up to suggest that it had once been a palace and a stronghold.