Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Dalrymple had found in the artist world a man who was something of a companion to him at times, — a very young man, whom he could not understand, though his own dogmatic temper made him as a rule believe that he understood most things and most men. But this particular individual alternately puzzled, delighted, and irritated the nervous Scotchman.

  They had made acquaintance at an artists’ supper in the previous year, had afterwards met accidentally at the bookseller’s in the Piazza di Spagna, where they both went from time to time to look at the English newspapers, and little by little they had fallen into the habit of meeting there of a morning, and of strolling in the direction of Dalrymple’s lodging afterwards. At last Dalrymple had asked his companion to come in and look at a book, and so the acquaintance had grown. Gloria watched the young stranger, and at first she disliked him.

  The aforesaid bookseller dealt, and deals still, in photographs and prints, as well as in foreign and Italian books. At the present time his establishment is distinctively a Roman Catholic one. In those days it was almost the only one of its kind, and was patronized alike by Romans and foreigners. Even Donna Francesca Campodonico went there from time to time for a book on art or an engraving which she and Reanda needed for their work. They occasionally walked all the way from the Palazzetto Borgia to the Piazza di Spagna together in the morning. When they had found what they wanted, Donna Francesca generally drove home in a cab, and Reanda went to his midday meal before returning. For the line of his intimacy with her was drawn at this point. He had never sat down at the same table with her, and he never expected to do so. As the two stood to one another at present, though Francesca would willingly have asked him to breakfast, she would have hesitated to do so, merely because the first invitation would inevitably call attention to the fact that the line had been drawn somewhere, whereas both were willing to believe that it had never existed at all. Under any pressure of necessity she would have driven with him in a cab, but not in her own carriage. They both knew it, and by tacit consent never allowed such unknown possibilities to suggest themselves. But in the mornings, there was nothing to prevent their walking together as far as the Piazza di Spagna, or anywhere else.

  They went to the bookseller’s one day soon after the conversation which had led Francesca to mention the Dalrymples. As they walked along the east side of the great square, they saw two men before them.

  “There goes the Gladiator,” said Reanda to his companion, suddenly. “There is no mistaking his walk, even at this distance.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Francesca. “Unless I am mistaken, the man who is a little the taller, the one in the rough English clothes, is Mr. Dalrymple. I spoke of him the other day, you know.”

  “Oh! Is that he? The other has a still more extraordinary name. He is Paul Griggs. He is the son of an American consul who died in Civita Vecchia twenty years ago, and left him a sort of waif, for he had no money and apparently no relatives. Somehow he has grown up, Heaven knows how, and gets a living by journalism. I believe he was at sea for some years as a boy. He is really as much Italian as American. I have met him with artists and literary people.”

  “Why do you call him the Gladiator?” asked Francesca, with some interest.

  “It is a nickname he has got. Cotogni, the sculptor, was in despair for a model last year. Griggs and two or three other men were in the studio, and somebody suggested that Griggs was very near the standard of the ancients in his proportions. They persuaded him to let them measure him. You know that in the ‘Canons’ of proportion, the Borghese Gladiator — the one in the Louvre — is given as the best example of an athlete. They measured Griggs then and there, and found that he was at all points the exact living image of the statue. The name has stuck to him. You see what a fellow he is, and how he walks.”

  “Yes, he looks strong,” said Francesca, watching the man with natural curiosity.

  The young American was a little shorter than Dalrymple, but evidently better proportioned. No one could fail to notice the vast breadth of shoulder, the firm, columnar throat, and the small athlete’s head with close-set ears. He moved without any of that swinging motion of the upper part of the body which is natural to many strong men and was noticeable in Dalrymple, but there was something peculiar in his walk, almost undefinable, but conveying the idea of very great strength with very great elasticity.

  “But he is an ugly man,” observed Reanda, almost immediately. “Ugly, but not repulsive. You will see, if he turns his head. His face is like a mask. It is not the face you would expect with such a body.”

  “How curious!” exclaimed Francesca, rather idly, for her interest in Paul Griggs was almost exhausted.

  They went on along the crowded pavement. When they reached the bookseller’s and went in, they saw that the two men were there before them, looking over the foreign papers, which were neatly arranged on a little table apart. Dalrymple looked up and recognized Francesca, to whom he had been introduced at a small concert given for a charity in a private house, on which occasion Gloria had sung. He lifted his hat from his head and laid it down upon the newspapers, when Francesca rather unexpectedly held out her hand to him in English fashion. He had left a card at her house on the day after their meeting, but as she was alone in the world, she had no means of returning the civility.

  “It would give me great pleasure if you would bring your daughter to see me,” she said graciously.

  “You are very kind,” answered Dalrymple, his steely blue eyes scrutinizing her pure young features.

  She only glanced at him, for she was suddenly conscious that his companion was looking at her. He, too, had laid down his hat, and she instantly understood what Reanda had meant by comparing his face to a mask. The features were certainly very far from handsome. If they were redeemed at all, it was by the very deep-set eyes, which gazed into hers in a strangely steady way, as though the lids never could droop from under the heavy overhanging brow, and then, still unwinking, turned in another direction. The man’s complexion was of that perfectly even but almost sallow colour which often belongs to very strong melancholic temperaments. His face was clean-shaven and unnaturally square and expressionless, excepting for such life as there was in the deep eyes. Dark, straight, closely cut hair grew thick and smooth as a priest’s skull-cap, low on the forehead and far forward at the temples. The level mouth, firmly closed, divided the lower part of the face like the scar of a straight sabre-cut. The nose was very thick between the eyes, relatively long, with unusually broad nostrils which ran upward from the point to the lean cheeks. The man wore very dark clothes of extreme simplicity, and at a time when pins and chains were much in fashion, he had not anything visible about him of gold or silver. He wore his watch on a short, doubled piece of black silk braid slipped through his buttonhole. He dressed almost as though he were in mourning.

  Francesca unconsciously looked at him so intently for a moment that Dalrymple thought it natural to introduce him, fancying that she might have heard of him and might wish to know him out of curiosity.

  “May I introduce Mr. Griggs?” he said, with the stiff inclination which was a part of his manner.

  Griggs bowed, and Donna Francesca bent her head a little. Reanda came up and shook hands with the American, and Francesca introduced the artist to Dalrymple.

  “I have long wished to have the pleasure of knowing you, Signor Reanda,” said the latter. “We have many mutual acquaintances among the artists here. I may say that I am a great admirer of your work, and my daughter, too, for that matter.”

  Reanda said something civil as his hand parted from the Scotchman’s. Francesca saw an opportunity of bringing Reanda and Gloria together.

  “As you like Signor Reanda’s painting so much,” she said to Dalrymple, “will you not bring your daughter this afternoon to see the frescoes he is doing in my house? You know the Palazzetto? Of course — you left a card, but I had no one to return it,” she added rather sadly. “Will you also come, Mr. Griggs?” she asked
, turning to the American. “It will give me much pleasure, and I see you know Signor Reanda. This afternoon, if you like, at any time after four o’clock.”

  Both Dalrymple and Griggs secretly wondered a little at receiving such an invitation from a Roman lady whom the one had met but once before, and to whom the other had but just been introduced. But they bowed their thanks, and promised to come.

  After a few more words they separated, Francesca and Reanda to pick out the engraving they wanted, and the other two men to return to their newspapers. By and bye Francesca passed them again, on her way out.

  “I shall expect you after four o’clock,” she said, nodding graciously as she went by.

  Dalrymple looked after her, till she had left the shop.

  “That woman is not like other women, I think,” he said thoughtfully, to his companion.

  The mask-like face turned itself deliberately towards him, with shadowy, unwinking eyes.

  “No,” answered Griggs, and he slowly took up his paper again.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  DONNA FRANCESCA RECEIVED her three guests in the drawing-room, on the side of the house which she inhabited. Reanda was at his work in the great hall.

  Gloria entered first, followed closely by her father, and Francesca was dazzled by the young girl’s brilliancy of colour and expression, though she had seen her once before. As she came in, the afternoon sun streamed upon her face and turned her auburn hair to red gold, and gleamed upon her small white teeth as her strong lips parted to speak the first words. She was tall and supple, graceful as a panther, and her voice rang and whispered and rang again in quick changes of tone, like a waterfall in the woods in summer. With much of her mother’s beauty, she had inherited from her father the violent vitality of his youth. Yet she was not noisy, though her manners were not like Francesca’s. Her voice rippled and rang, but she did not speak too loud. She moved swiftly and surely, but not with rude haste. Nevertheless, it seemed to Francesca that there must be some exaggeration somewhere. The elder woman at first set it down as a remnant of schoolgirl shyness, and then at once felt that she was mistaken, because there was not the smallest awkwardness nor lack of self-possession about it. The contrast between the young girl and Paul Griggs was so striking as to be almost violent. He was cold and funereal in his leonine strength, and his face was more like a mask than ever as he bowed and sat down in silence. When he did not remind her of a gladiator, he made her think of a black lion with a strange, human face, and eyes that were not exactly human, though they did not remind her of any animal’s eyes which she had ever seen.

  As for Dalrymple, she thought that he was singularly haggard and worn for a man apparently only in middle age. There was a certain imposing air about him, which she liked. Besides, she rarely met foreigners, and they interested her. She noticed that both men wore black coats and carried their tall hats in their hands. They were therefore not artists, nor to be classed with artists. She was still young enough to judge them to some extent by details, to which people attached a good deal more importance at that time than at present. She made up her mind in the course of the next few minutes that both Dalrymple and Griggs belonged to her own class, though she did not ask herself where the young American had got his manners. But somehow, though Gloria fascinated her eyes and her ears, she set down the girl as being inferior to her father. She wondered whether Gloria’s mother had not been an actress; which was a curious reflexion, considering that the dead woman had been of her own house and name.

  After exchanging a few words with her guests, Francesca suggested that they should cross to the other side and see the frescoes, adding that Reanda was probably still at work.

  “You know him, Mr. Griggs?” she said, as they all rose to leave the room.

  “Yes,” he answered, “as one man knows another.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Francesca, moving towards the door to lead the way.

  “It does not mean much,” replied the young man, with curious ambiguity.

  He was very gentle in his manner, and spoke in a low voice and rather diffidently. She looked at him as though mentally determining to renew the question at some other time. Her first impression was that of a sort of duality about the man, as she found the possibility of a double meaning in his answer. His magnificent frame seemed to belong to one person, his voice and manner to another. Both might be good in their way, but her curiosity was excited by the side which was the less apparent.

  They all went through the house till they came to a door which divided the inhabited part from the hall in which Reanda was working. She knocked gently upon it with her knuckles, and then smiled as she saw Gloria looking at her.

  “We keep it locked,” she said. “The masons come in the morning to lay on the stucco. One never trusts those people. Signor Reanda keeps the key of this door.”

  The artist opened from within, and stood aside to let the party pass. He started perceptibly when he first saw Gloria. As a boy he had seen Maria Braccio more than once before she had entered the convent, and he was struck by the girl’s strong resemblance to her. Francesca, following Gloria, saw his movement of surprise, and attributed it merely to admiration or astonishment such as she had felt herself a quarter of an hour earlier. She smiled a little as she went by, and Reanda knew that the smile was for him because he had shown surprise. He understood the misinterpretation, and resented it a little.

  But she knew Reanda well, and before ten minutes had passed she had convinced herself that he was repelled rather than attracted by the young girl, in spite of the latter’s undisguised admiration of his work. It was not mere unintelligent enthusiasm, either, and he might well have been pleased and flattered by her unaffected praise.

  She was interested, too, in the technical mechanics of fresco-painting, which she had never before been able to see at close quarters. Everything interested Gloria, and especially everything connected with art. As soon as they had all spoken their first words of compliment and appreciation, she entered into conversation with the painter, asking him all sorts of questions, and listening earnestly to what he said, until he realized that she was certainly not assuming an appearance of admiration for the sake of flattering him.

  Meanwhile Francesca talked with Griggs, and Dalrymple, having gone slowly round the hall alone after all the others, came and stood beside the two and watched Francesca, occasionally offering a rather dry remark in a somewhat absent-minded way. It was all rather commonplace and decidedly quiet, and he was not much amused, though from time to time he seemed to become absorbed in studying Francesca’s face, as though he saw something there which was past his comprehension. She noticed that he watched her, and felt a little uncomfortable under his steely blue eyes, so that she turned her head and talked more with Griggs than with him. Remembering what Reanda had told her of the young man’s origin, she did not like to ask him the common questions about residence in Rome and his liking for Italy. She was self-possessed and ready enough at conversation, and she chose to talk of general subjects. They talked in Italian, of course. Dalrymple, as of old, spoke fluently, but with a strange accent. Any one would have taken Paul Griggs for a Roman. At last, almost in spite of herself, she made a remark about his speech.

  “I was born here,” answered Griggs. “It is much more remarkable that Miss Dalrymple should speak Italian as she does, having been born in Scotland.”

  “Are you talking about me?” asked the young girl, turning her head quickly, though she was standing with Reanda at some distance from the others.

  “I was speaking of your accent in Italian,” said Griggs.

  “Is there anything wrong about it?” asked Gloria, with an anxiety that seemed exaggerated.

  “On the contrary,” answered Donna Francesca, “Mr. Griggs was telling me how perfectly you speak. But I had noticed it.”

  “Oh! I thought Mr. Griggs was finding fault,” answered Gloria, turning to Reanda again.

  Dalrymple looked at his daughter as though he
were annoyed. The eyes of Francesca and Griggs met for a moment. All three were aware that they resented the young girl’s quick question as one which they themselves would not have asked in her place, had they accidentally heard their names mentioned in a distant conversation. But Francesca instantly went on with the subject.

  “To us Italians,” she said, “it seems incredible that any one should speak our language and English equally well. It is as though you were two persons, Mr. Griggs,” she added, smiling at the covered expression of her thought about him.

  “I sometimes think so myself,” answered Griggs, with one of his steady looks. “In a way, every one must have a sort of duality — a good and evil principle.”