Julian laughed again and again with nothing but gaiety in his voice.
“That is true,” he said. “I appeared no doubt to be merely fractious and troublesome after the manner of singers, Signor Williams. But I was putting great trust in your protection and I had a reason. I admit that I was fractious, but only for a part of me. I shall show you my reason.”
He went up to his room and came back with a slim book bound in white vellum and ornamented with gold which he laid on his place at the table in front of him. He turned to Elliot, his eyes dancing: “You, Sir, who, if I remember aright, are pleased to call yourself that happiest of all God’s creatures, a dilettante—” Julian was watching Elliot with a shy, impish look sideways under his eyelashes. He had the very air of the boy who had ridden with him one morning at Grest, and had talked of his ambitions and interspaced the talk now and then with some quite disarming piece of impudence. Elliot began to laugh, but was checked by the sudden wrench of the knowledge that the boy whom he seemed to see by the candlelight in this painted room at Ferrara, could never come to life again. But he was aware that Williams was looking at him curiously and he covered over his discomfort as best he could.
“I was speaking, you may perhaps remember, Giovanni, with reference to the treatment dilettantes might recommend for young singers.”
“And what was that, Sir James?” asked Williams. “Well,” replied Sir James easily, “I told Giovanni that in England we birched little boys who were impudent, whether they sang or not.”
Mr. Williams jumped. Not even impresarios talked in Italy to their famous singers in that strain, though, “by Gad!” he thought, “it would teach ’em better manners if they did.” But Giovanni was still laughing with amusement.
“My tutor, Sir, at the Conservatory, the Cavalier Durante, had no doubt the same views as you, but he had, perhaps, a subtler method of applying them. He gave me this book.”
“Yes?”
“He tied it in paper and he sealed it.”
“Yes.”
“I was forbidden to break the seals until I had made my début.”
“And then?”
“As soon as I was back at my lodging, I was to read it. I did. Written with a delicate pen, steeped in vinegar, it took the skin off my back. It was written by the Abbate Benedetto Marcello.”
“A patrician of Venice,” cried Williams.
“And a great composer,” Sir James exclaimed.
“And he lives at Padua,” Julian added. “I was hoping, Sir, that you knew him. I was sure that you had a letter of introduction to him. I was going to ask you to take me with you, so that I might offer to him my most respectful thanks.”
And Julian handed the little volume across the table to Elliot.
It was called Opera à la Mode, and it was written with all the simplicity of genuine conviction, as a manual of conduct for all concerned in the operatic theatre, from the tumblers up to the prima donnas and their mothers, if they wished to align themselves with the taste of the day. Sometimes a bear appeared on the scene, so there were rules for the bear. The three sacred unities of the drama were to be preserved and they were stated, but they were not quite the unities of the higher dramatic criticism. Place, time, action — certainly. But place meant the theatre at which the performance took place; time, the six hours after sundown; action, that was easy to define — the ruin of the manager. Proceeding with the same serious absurdity, the author instructed the singers. Never, never must they forget their private dignity, their great names. They represented, say, Artaxerxes or Dido. That really was of no importance. The audience must never be allowed to forget that this is really Signor Salimbeni or the Signora Cuzzoni. The effect can be properly gained if the singer carefully avoids listening whilst any other singer is singing and chooses that moment to smile at a friend in a box or crack a private joke with the leader of the orchestra. He must on principle make the librettist change his dialogue and the composer his harmonies. It would diminish him to be satisfied. In almost all operas, at some time or another, the hero appeared in chains. It was incumbent on the actor at such times to wear his best jewels and his prettiest sword and to see that his wig was well-powdered and his chains nice and bright. He was to shake them too and make them jingle in order to wake the compassion of the audience, especially if someone else was singing. All the follies and pretensions, all the conceit and impertinence of those strutting favourites were marked down and scarified in a phrase of two of droll recommendation. Sir James Elliot read extracts and if the light flickered, Julian, from his memory, could supply the word.
“I should have liked Signor Marcello to have written his name in the cover,” he said with a smile of regret as he took back the book. “For I owe to him the abstention from many sins.”
“Do you?”
Williams, more curious than ever, shot the question at Julian with a thrust of his chin.
“Do you now?”
Williams shook his head.
“For my part I think that primer was put into the hands of the one scholar in his class who didn’t need to study it.”
Julian pushed back his chair abruptly enough to startle his companions.
“You are wrong, I think, Mr. Williams,” he said, but quite gently, and he sat with the little book upon his knees. A look of concern clouded Elliot’s face, and he moved his shoulders uneasily. Once or twice he had seen the breastplate of gaiety and patience and conformity which Julian wore, split and had been forced to watch with anger and horror, a boy whom he loved eating his heart out in a distress which no one could ever allay. The leads of the Doge’s Palace! After all something could have been done. Ambassadors raised to enquiry and protest, a Foreign Office stirred to threats, and the doors opened. But here, nothing — nothing at all — ever. What other young life had budded to wither so soon in so much pain! Once or twice, since Julian had stumbled into the lobby at Venice, Elliot had been a helpless witness of that pain and he hated the sight of it. Even now in his middle age the tears were springing to his eyes.
“You are wrong, if you’ll pardon the contradiction from one who knows,” Julian repeated, not looking at either of his friends. But though his face was not visible, his fingers tightened on the book upon his knees.
“All the students of my special class need the lesson of this little book,” he continued in a low and troubled voice. “Vanity — impertinence — coxcombry — affectations, even in dress — we all succumb to them. Did you ever see before such a Harlequin as me at Rocca’s party? But you will again. Vanity! It’s our defence against the world. It’s our refusal to submit. A few inches of lace more than others wear, a few more jewels — to match, no, to defeat the women. They come naturally to the students of my class. You have made us different, you have put us outside the pale. What have we got for a consolation? Vanity, Sir, and I am sure we are all very grateful.”
The bitter words were spoken as quietly as a lover’s plea to his mistress in a crowded room, but they were as passionate; and they seared both the men who listened, as they might have done, had those men been guilty of the crime.
Julian raised his face. For a fraction of a second Elliot saw it ravaged with despair, then the mask shot over it again. Julian rose.
“But we are in danger of becoming serious and that would never do,” he said lightly. “I leave at daybreak for Bologna, for even my six horses can hardly cope with the road there. So I take my leave of two unforgettable friends.”
He shook hands with them both and went from the room. Mr. Williams said “Ha!” and resumed his seat. Then he said “Hm,” and after that it seemed that he had no more to say. Sir James had a little trouble with his throat which impeded his utterance. Finally he banged the table and cried with an exasperated bellow.
“I know what we want.”
“And what’s that?” asked Mr. Williams.
“A ratafia,” Sir James shouted defiantly.
“My dear fellow, I haven’t the slightest objection,” said Mr. Williams.
/> Over the ratafia, however, Sir James became once more gloomy.
“I can’t let that boy go just so,” he said. “There was something I had it in mind to ask him. But I can’t remem... by Gad, I’ve got it. Of course! I’ll be with you again in a minute.”
He went quickly out into the hall where a porter waited with the candles. Elliot took one and mounted the stairs. He knocked upon Julian’s door.
“Come in!”
Julian was in his shirt and his breeches, stooping over his portmanteau. He stood up.
“I wanted to make sure that you had money for your journey.”
Julian lifted from the mantelshelf a bag which jangled, tied with a string.
“Thank you, old friend,” he said warmly. “I packed more than enough in my portmanteau, and I have a banker at Naples.”
Then he moved with two quick steps over to Elliot and said:
“Do you, Sir, remember an evening when you were brought to see me in bed, and I was supposed to be asleep, and at the last moment I opened my eyes and showed you that I was awake?”
“Yes,” Elliot answered, looking over the lighted candle at Julian. “Yes, I remember it very well.”
“I rode with you the next day. I was drawn to explain to you why I sent that appeal to you — for it was an appeal.”
“Yes. It was an appeal. So much I understood, but only so much.”
“But I wasn’t sure,” Julian continued. “I was the merest boy. I said nothing — although every look, every word of yours, invited my confidence.”
“I couldn’t pry,” said Elliot.
“No, it was for me to speak,” answered Julian. “I think I made the deadly mistake. I believe that if I had been open with you,” he laughed like some desolate creature away in the moon, “old Timbertoes might have stumped the Italian Garden at Grest with his wife on his arm and his children shouting about the hedges. For you would have stood by me.”
“I hope that I should,” Elliot answered.
For a moment or two Julian looked into the candle flame with a smile, as though the Italian Garden, ringing with the laughter of his children, was there, visible, audible.
“She used to come every night to my room and bend over me when I was asleep,” he continued. “She tried with all her will to poison my dreams — like a witch — just like a witch — only she was beautiful — a witch who hated a boy of twelve who stood in her way.”
Elliot felt his flesh creep, so vividly he remembered Frances Scoble’s intense concentration as she hovered over the child and the one fixed frightening stare she turned her head aside to give to him, the visitor. The horror of the recollection was made all the more real by the quiet certain tone which Julian used.
“And she was succeeding,” he resumed. “I was tormented. Great swollen faces, horribly bright, swam and dipped over me in the darkness, but quite low, almost brushing my forehead and my cheeks, and whispering words I could never hear. I was so frightened that I thought that I was dying. I used to wake up screaming and then she would hold me close to her, consoling me, but so pleased — oh, so pleased. In myself I knew.”
“So you kept awake?” said Elliot as quietly as Julian had spoken. But it seemed to him that he was looking right through the kind and friendly world into a wild carnival of Hell.
“I had to keep awake. I took things to bed with me, horse-chestnuts — prickly things. I showed you that I was awake. I asked you to keep my secret, for I was terrified what else she might do, if she guessed that I was awake. And you did, of course.” He ended his story with a smile.
“I never heard of anything so wicked,” said Elliot.
“It was hatred,” said Julian, “stark, unvarnished hatred. But, oh, how I wish that I had told you when we rode together at Grest rather than to-night here in Ferrara.”
He broke off, and the longing dying out of his voice, added:
“Well, Sir, I shall see you again at the end of the year.”
“Where?” Elliot exclaimed eagerly. “In Florence? In Naples? I shall come to your first night.”
“You will not have to travel so far. I sing for Count Heidegger, or rather,” and Julian smiled, “for Mr. Paul Sawl, the greengrocer, at the King’s Theatre, in the Haymarket.”
For a moment Elliot’s heart stood still. Julian stood so motionless, his voice was again so quiet, so sure. The plans of a man wronged behind that boy’s face of pure beauty were working out to some deadly climax. Step by step Julian was moving forwards, unhurried, yet swift, like some avenger of old Greece upon an accursed family.
“What will you do, Julian?” he cried.
“In good time, Sir, you, to whom I owe so much, will know. I must have my knowledge proved. Till then, I beg you to keep my secret.”
He laid his finger on his lips with that impish smile which had bound Elliot to secrecy long ago on the little staircase in the corridor of Grest.
“Good night!”
“No,” said Elliot very gravely. He remained standing with the candle in his hand. “You shall tell me, as you say, in your good time. But you should know what there is to know — now.”
“I am not to be dissuaded,” Julian returned.
Elliot inclined his head.
“And I am not trespassing on your secrets or your plans.”
Julian looked steadily into the flame of Elliot’s candle, with a face set and mutinous.
“I am listening, Sir.”
“They are married.”
“Frances Scoble and Henry? No doubt. For decency they would let a year pass.”
“Wrong! They married within three months of their return to England.”
Julian lifted his eyes from the flame of the candle to Elliot’s face.
“Yes,” said Elliot. “There were reasons. A child was born in February of the next year.”
“Yes?”
“A son,” Elliot answered.
The dreadful, bitter smile which a few months before had frightened Mr. Paul Sawl swept all the beauty out of Julian’s face. For a few moments he stood in silence. Then he said:
“Whilst I was at school in the Conservatory of St. Onofrio;” and he stood without moving. He did not even answer Elliot’s second farewell; for he had not heard it.
There was certainly to be no good night for Sir James. He tossed from side to side in his bed. He had been in the right when he told Julian of the marriage of Henry, the new Earl, to Frances Scoble and of the son born to them. Ought he to have told more — that the pair of them were happy, liked, respected and notable for their wise management and benefactions; that Henry was making a reputation as a speaker in the House of Lords and was marked for office? But Julian’s last words, “Whilst I was at school at the Conservatory of St. Onofrio,” stopped him altogether. There would have been too sharp a cruelty. Moreover, the horror of the story which Julian had told him — the witch and the boy — burnt in his brain.
Then by one of those leaps of thought with which a sleepless night makes everyone familiar, he remembered a conversation on a balcony below his window which he had overheard at the Inn of “The Golden Ox” at Naples. He had made a note of it — yes — at once — after it had been exchanged. He searched in an old letter case which he carried about with him on his travels, and found it tucked away in a pocket. A conspiracy — yes, in which the woman Frances Scoble, now Countess of Linchcombe, had faltered, and the man Henry Scoble, now Earl of Linchcombe, had reassured her. But there were a question and an answer, yes, and a comment on the answer, which he had omitted and had remembered afterwards and inserted. Yes, here it was:
“Wouldn’t it be better if we waited?”
“Not unless there is something you have planned of which you have never told me.”
Frances Scoble had put the question. Henry Scoble had replied to it. Elliot seemed to hear her too eager answer. “Nothing, Henry, I swear,” and Henry’s doubtful comment. “I am not sure that I trust you once you’re t’other side of the hedge.”
There was a conspiracy — yes — in which Frances Scoble was concealing something from her lover. And suddenly Elliot remembered more, and was looking once more into the very pit of Hell. Frances Scoble had talked with him, played with him, played with him on the same balcony the next day. Did he think — oh, and how anxiously she had asked — that Julian could become a great singer? And he had answered “No,” — no, with all the complacency of the dilettante comparing the amateur with the professional, but never understanding, poor fool, that the amateur with the professional’s training added on, might excel them all. It was not Julian’s reticence which had destroyed him. It was Elliot’s own easy confidence in his judgment.
XXIII. THE PROOFS ARE FOUND
THE HOUSE WAS not an inn, nor was it a private house. It stood in a valley of the green island of Ischia under Monte Epomeo, above the track from Casamicciola. A small vineyard rose in earth terraces on the hill-side behind it and it stood in the midst of an orchard of cherry trees and pomegranates, of limes and oranges, offering with two or three little tables under brightly-coloured awnings an irresistible attraction to the few travellers who passed that way. On some days there were none. But on others, visitors to the convent of San Nicola or curious tourists to the crater of the dead volcano rode by on asses or mules, and few of them but broke their journey there to gossip for half an hour over their host’s white wine or his wife’s ice-cold lemonade. For the little estate had a clean and prosperous look.
Three men at all events turned off from the track towards it on this afternoon of May and leaving their mules to the care of the muleteer, took their seats at one of the tables. One of them — from his dried-up face, his sober, shabby dress, his horn-rimmed spectacles and a certain musty air as though he had become himself an old yellow document from one of his shelves, he smelt the attorney a mile away — did all the talking.
“The world has gone well with the fellow, not a doubt of it. He has kept his pace with it too. Squalor for the squalid is a maxim, Sirs, which is not so often contradicted but that a man may be astonished and pleased when it is. Let us try whether he brews a white wine to match the daintiness of his upholstery.”
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 745