“Wentworth is a bright young fellow, and a great help to me.” said Mr. Clemens, chuckling. “But I don’t think a Yale education quite prepared him for the likes of me, and I’m afraid he’s swallowed a few of my taller tales whole. I’ll hope you’ve taken his remarks with a few grains of salt.”
“Oh. he has not told me anything I would not believe of the author of Innocents Abroad.” she said. “I hope you find Florence more to your taste now than you did then.”
“I do.” he said. He took a sip of his whisky and soda— Stephens had inquired as to my employer’s taste in liquor, and on my advice made sure to lay in some good Scotch—and continued: “Of course. I didn’t have a villa back then, or a family, or any of a number of such conveniences. I hadn’t even met this sweet lady here”—he put a hand on his wife’s shoulder—”just her rascal of a brother, who did his best to lead me astray.”
Mrs. Clemens looked up at her husband with a mock-indignant expression, saying, “Youth! I’ll thank you not to blame my brother for your misdeeds. Pay my husband no mind. Miss Fleetwood. He is of ripe years, but far from mature. I have the greatest difficulty getting him to be serious in front of company.”
“Why, that’s what I pay Wentworth for,” said Mr. Clemens. smiling. “It’d be silly of me to put my efforts into something I’m not suited for. when he’s so natural and convincing at it.”
“So I can see.” said Virginia. “He really is a very earnest and capable young man. I’m sure that’s why my brother-in-law was so anxious to hire him…”
“Virginia!” I said in a whisper that everyone in the room must have heard, but the horse was already out the barn door.
“I’m sure you’ll miss him,” she continued blithely. “But of course he has to look to his future. He’d be foolish to pass up a chance at a settled occupation just to keep rambling from one place to another and looking after your papers.”
“I reckon he would,” said Mr. Clemens, peering at me under raised eyebrows. His voice was almost expressionless. Luckily for me, he made no further comment—but I did not look forward to what he would say when we were back in private. If I could have melted into the cracks of the floorboard. I would have done so in an instant.
6
After the fire had sufficiently warmed her. Mrs. Clemens put down her teacup and expressed a desire to see the Raphaels. We went over to the wall where they were hung, and stood in silence for a moment while my employer and his wife examined the three portraits. At last, Mr. Clemens said. “Well, they're mighty good. You don't often see old masters where they aren't swamped by five hundred other paintings. A fellow can really see them here.”
“Yes. even an old master benefits from a good hanging.” said our host, who had come to join us when he saw my employer looking at the paintings.
“A lot of 'em should’ve gotten a good hanging.” growled Mr. Clemens. “A fellow who could draw those bloodstained Medicis lounging around Heaven with the Virgin and a pack of saints was no better than the thieves who paid him. At least, these aren't Medicis—though for all I know, they were just as rotten.”
“Oh. I beg to differ.” said Isabella Stephens, who stood by her husband’s side. “An artist in those days had no recourse but to please the wealthy, or the Church. The common people could not support a Raphael. Even those among them who could appreciate what he had done could not buy his paintings.”
Mr. Clemens was about to say something, but I saw his wife give his arm a pinch, and he paused before continuing: “Well, I’ve been supported by the common people most of my life, and they haven’t done too bad by me. If I'm not a rich man. it’s my own bad judgment that's to blame. But nobody alive can claim he’s paid me to bite my tongue, or to whitewash an outrage. Raphael could paint a fine picture—that pretty blonde is as good as I’ve seen—but I wouldn't trade my conscience for his, not on a bet.” I could tell from the set of my employer’s jaw that this wasn’t just an attempt to draw his host into a humorous dispute. If anything. Mr. Clemens was more serious than usual.
“All three paintings are very fine,” said Mrs. Clemens, who gave her husband's arm another pinch. “But my husband has suggested an interesting question. Tell me. Mr. Stephens—do you have any information on who the artist's subjects were?”
“The old don who sold them to me said they were his ancestors.” Stephens replied. “The man was his several-times-great-grandfather, a prosperous vintner, I believe. The dark haired woman was his wife, and the blonde was their daughter, as I recall it. There must be family records to supply the names, but I don’t know how helpful the seller would be in such research.”
“These are very well preserved.” said Mr. Clemens, peering at the paintings from close range.
“You have a good eye,” Stephens commented. “These are in remarkable condition—the previous owner told me they were kept in a cool, dry storeroom, where there was no lamp- or wood-smoke to build up on the surface. He thought they might have been there since his grandfather’s time before he found them and put them on the market. They may never have to be cleaned now, if they’re hung someplace with electric lights and modem heating. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen a painting ruined by cleaning.”
“Well, they’re mighty good,” said Mr. Clemens again.
“If there were more old masters like that blonde. I might revise my opinion of the Renaissance.”
“Perhaps you ought to consider adding that one to your collection.” said Stephens.
“Collection? I don't have a collection.” said Mr. Clemens. “But if you’d like to take one up for me, I’ll accept it. I can’t afford to let too many such opportunities pass.” Everyone laughed, and just then the butler came to inform Mr. Stephens that dinner was served. We followed our host into the dining room, and proceeded to enjoy some of the best food I had had since arriving in Italy—with the added pleasure of the string quartet, which played between courses. The meal began with little fried dumplings stuffed with salty fish, followed by a soup containing chicken liver and flat noodles. Both these. I was told, were traditional Florentine dishes.
The main course was one I had eaten in several local restaurants, broiled chicken parts on the bone, with a hint of lemon. This was accompanied by stuffed artichokes—a delicacy I had not tasted before—and a dish of white beans, baked with olive oil and sage. I remarked how different this was from the New England style of baked beans, and Mrs. Atwater laughed. “The Italians were making this dish when there was nobody in America except Red Indians.” she said.
Frank Stephens picked up the subject Mr. Clemens had hinted at before we were called to dinner, saying. “It surprises me that you haven’t made any investment in art. Mr. Clemens. Believe me, it gives a fellow far more pleasure than stocks and bonds. If the market collapses, you’ve got something pleasant to look at—assuming you’ve done the smart thing and bought something you like. It’s a mistake to buy a piece one doesn’t like just on the theory it’ll increase in value.”
“Yes, I know what it’s like to look at something you paid thousands of dollars for and can’t get rid of at any price,” said Mr. Clemens. “There’s a typesetting machine back in Hartford that ate up more than a whole museum full of art would have—and believe me, it's the least enjoyable thing to look at you ever saw.”
“It’s never too late,” said Isabella Stephens, smiling. She was a very attractive woman with lively features and a quick wit, an older version of her sister. Virginia. I thought. “Frank will give you a very fair price on one of the Raphaels, or on something else, if they’re not to your taste.”
“I reckon I’ll pass,” said Mr. Clemens, chuckling. “Every time I see an old master, there’s two or three students out in front of it making copies, and the copies always look better than the original. Why shouldn’t I buy a copy at a hundredth of the price? I’d be just as happy. Why. I’d be just as happy with a good chromo “
‘That’s the same game everybody else plays,” Eddie Freeman
blurted out. in a strained voice. He gulped, leaned forward and said, somewhat more calmly. “I'm one of those people out front making copies, and half the time I can’t get a decent price for my stuff. What good’s art if you can’t pay the rent?”
“I am absolutely surrounded by Philistines,” said Penelope Atwater, placing the back of her wrist to her forehead and pretending to feel faint. “Mr. Clemens, I had hoped experience of the world might have changed your opinions since your previous visit to Florence, but I see you remain content to jeer at the productions of genius.” She shot a fierce stare at Mr. Clemens, challenging him to contradict her.
“No, ma’am. I’m a great admirer of genius,” said Mr. Clemens. “I just don’t think it was confined to the Renaissance, or the Silurian, or some other ancient period. Why, Tom Edison’s as much a genius as Leonardo da Vinci ever was.”
“I am not surprised that you would think so,” said Mrs. Atwater, with a ladylike little snort. “You think mechanics and tinkerers have as much to contribute to mankind as the old masters.”
“No, ma’am.” Mr. Clemens said again. “I think Edison's done more than any of the old masters, and without kowtowing to the Medicis, or the Popes, or other such impostors. I don’t deny myself the pleasure of looking at fine paintings, but, with apologies to our artist friend here”— he nodded to Eddie—”I know where they belong in the scale of human values.” He smiled benignly, and took a bite of the chicken.
“Do you think Mr. Clemens will convert Mrs. Atwater to his position?” said Virginia Fleetwood, who was seated next to me. some distance from my employer and his wife. “Could you pass the butter, please?”
“No, nor will she convert him,” I said, reaching for the butter plate. I was not as comfortable being seated next to her as I might have been. She had put me in a very awkward position by taking it for granted that I would be accepting Stephens's job offer—and by saying so to my current employer. But I couldn’t upbraid her for her indiscretion in front of company. It would have to wait for later. Almost as if she had read my mind. Virginia said smugly. “If he is so blind to the value of great artists, you shan't regret leaving his employment. I hope you won’t delay it much longer.”
That was rubbing salt in the wound. “Perhaps you should let me make my own decisions.” I said, a bit more hotly than might have been politic. Across the table. Sarah Woods raised an eyebrow, and I lowered my voice. “Even if I had made such a decision. I didn’t ask you to announce it for me.”
Virginia leaned close to my car and whispered. “I am surprised at you, Wentworth. I hope Frank hasn’t overheard you—he might change his mind about offering a job to someone so hesitant to accept it. But we ought to be discreet in front of company. After supper, we’ll discuss this in private.”
I was tempted to point out that it had been she who had first been indiscreet in front of company, but thought better of it. Starting a public argument would compound the offense. I bit back my rejoinder, nodded my agreement, and returned to my food. It had been mere moments since my previous mouthful, but somehow I seemed to have lost my appetite. Indeed, I had a hard time doing the rest of the dinner justice.
As dessert, we were offered chestnuts cooked in a sweet sauce and—a special surprise!—ice cream in the American style. Accompanying this was a sweet wine, not port or Madeira but another local product. Vino Santo, our host called it. I began to calculate how many pounds this meal was going to add to my weight, and how many hours of exercise—something I got far too little of these days—it would take to counteract it.
Although Mrs. Clemens had recovered some of her strength and her spirits at the Stephenses’ fireside, during dinner it became clear that she was by no means over her illness. She had picked at her food, and had several coughing spells. One of these was so persistent that she left the table (assisted by her husband) for perhaps ten minutes to recover her breath. When she returned. I could see that the color had drained from her face, and I was frankly more worried about her condition than about what I was going to say to Frank Stephens—or to Virginia.
At last. Mr. Clemens leaned over to our host, and I could see that he was giving his regrets at having to retire early. I excused myself to my tablemates, and joined him. His nod was enough to signal his intention, and I went downstairs to call our carriage around front, and asked the butler to fetch our topcoats. Mrs. Clemens huddled in a chair in the hallway, shivering. Her husband's arm over her shoulder was all she had to warm her. Luckily, the mist outside had lifted, though the air was still chilly.
The wait was brief—we had warned the driver that he might be needed on short notice, and evidently he had taken the admonition to heart. I was all ready to leave with my employer and his wife, when Mr. Clemens looked at me and said. “You might as well stay here, Wentworth. There’s nothing for you to do back at the villa tonight—you might as well enjoy the party with your new friends. I’ll send the driver back, and you can come home when you’re ready.”
“If you’re certain, sir,” I said, and he nodded. I helped them on with their coats, stepped outside long enough to assist Mrs. Clemens into the carriage, and watched them drive off. It was not until I turned to go back inside that I felt the delayed sting of the phrase he had used: “new friends.”
Thinking about that phrase. I began to worry about my future with Mr. Clemens. It was not easy to dismiss the implication that choosing to stay with new friends might cost me my old ones. Or was I imagining it? I saw that I would need to clear the air with Mr. Clemens upon my return to Villa Viviani. It would be a disaster to discover that I had lost my employer’s confidence just as I had resolved to cast my lot with him.
That put me in a delicate position with Frank Stephens. Only the impending party had kept me from informing him of my decision—I wouldn't be comfortable visiting his home after turning down his job offer. But after Virginia’s plain statement that I was about to accept the job, announcing my real intentions was likely to create an even more awkward situation. I would have to speak frankly with her and (despite my original intention not to spoil the party by talking business) with my host. Resigned to a pair of unpleasant confrontations. I made my way back upstairs.
The ladies had already left the table and were gathered by the fireplace in the room at the head of the stairs. While I wanted to talk with Virginia, I thought it proper first to spend a short while with my host and the other men. I took my old seat, responded to inquiries as to Mrs. Clemens’s health, and let Stephens pour me a glass of brandy. Then Jonathan Wilson, who had been speaking when I came in, resumed what turned out to be a long and confusing story (at least to me, who had missed the beginning). I sipped my brandy, trying to sort out the characters, and the odd situation they seemed to have gotten themselves into. At this I had little success—perhaps in part because my mind was distracted by what I meant to say to Virginia. So when Wilson’s story ended with a round of boisterous laughter. I hadn't the slightest idea what everyone else found so humorous.
Stephens, noting my abstraction, leaned over to me and said. “You’re looking a bit glum. Cabot. Here, this’ll fix you up,” and topped up my brandy. I was surprised that I had drunk so much of it. and resolved to nurse the rest of my glass, not wanting to get too tipsy before going home. Besides. I needed my wits about me before I spoke with Virginia.
My chain of thought was broken by Bob Danvers, who leaned over to me and said. “Any luck finding a new bike, Cabot?”
“I’m afraid not,” I told him. “Mr. Clemens has had me working like a Trojan all week, and I've had no chance to get into town before this evening.”
“Well, damn it, you said you’d have it before Monday,” said Danvers, a bit louder than I thought tactful. I realized he was drunk. “Nobody'll be selling them on Sunday, you know. You might as well just give me the money for it now.”
“I’m sorry.” I said, quite sincerely. “I meant to get the matter settled before now, but I couldn't leave Mr. Clemens in the lurch. Can I have
till Wednesday?”
“You’ll be leaving Clemens in the lurch soon enough.” said Danvers, more belligerently. “Besides, we agreed on Monday, and I need the money for my landlady—the old witch won’t listen to sense. Why don't you just hand it over?”
I could see there was no arguing with him. “Very well, I don’t want to cheat you. How much is it again?”
“I paid seventy-five lira for it,” Danvers said. “Since it was used, let’s make it sixty.”
“Sixty?” I said, frowning. “You already told me you paid too much for it—why, I bet I could get as good a bike as the stolen one for no more than fifty. Besides, I’ve paid you over thirty in rental. That ought to count for something.”
Eddie Freeman snickered and said, “No wonder Stephens wants you to run his art gallery. If that’s the way you’re going to squeeze the customers, you’ll bring in a fortune. Old man Battista could lake lessons from you.”
The others at the table laughed, although I saw nothing humorous in it. I thought Stephens’s expression was a bit strained, as well. Nor was Danvers amused at his friend’s quip. He pounded a fist on the table. “I should’ve known you’d try to worm out of the deal,” he said. “I want sixty lira, and that’s the last I’m going to say about it.”
I was surprised at how adamant he was. Sixty lira was far too much for the bicycle. For that price, I could have bought a fine new one in America. “I’ll give you fifty right now. and that’s my last offer.” I said. “You’re lucky I have that much on me, to tell the truth.”
Danvers half rose out of his seat. “Damn you. I’ll take the other ten out of your hide,” he said. He made a step toward me. and I tried to decide whether to stand and defend myself, or keep my seat and try to reason with him.
Stephens saved me the trouble. “Bob, stop being foolish and sit down “ he said. “Cabot’s been working for Clemens, so sixty lira seems like a lot to him. I’ll pay you the whole thing now and Cabot can pay me back when he’s working for me. I won’t have my friends arguing over money at my table.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler Page 7
