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There is the very tenderness of desolation upon the Appian Way. To me it suggested nothing of the splendour of Roman villas and the tragedy of flying Emperors. It spoke only of itself, lying over the wide silence of the noon-day fields, historic doubtless, but noon-day certainly. Something lives upon the warm stretches of the Appian Way, something that talks of the eternal and unchangeable, and yet has the pathos of the fragmentary and the lost. Perhaps it is the ghost of a genius that has failed of reincarnation, and inspires the weeds and the leaf-shadows instead. Thinking of it, one remembers only an almond tree in flower, that grew beside a ruined arch by the wayside—both quite alone in the sunlight—and perhaps of a meek, young, marble Cecilia, unquestioningly prostrate, submissive to the axe.
We were on our way to the Catacombs, momma, the Senator, and Mrs. Portheris in one carriage, R. Dod, Mr. Mafferton, Isabel, and I in the other. I approved of the arrangement, because the mutually distant understanding that existed between Mr. Mafferton and me had already been the subject of remark by my parents. ("For old London acquaintances you and Mr. Mafferton seem to have very little to say to each other," momma had observed that very morning.) It was borne in upon me that this was absurd. People have no business to be estranged for life because one of them has happened to propose to the other, unless, of course, he has been accepted and afterwards divorced, which is quite a different thing. Besides, there was Dicky to think of. I decided that there was a medium in all things, and to help me to find it I wore a blouse from Madame Valerie in the Rue de l'Opera, which cost seven times its value, and was naturally becoming. Perhaps this was going to extreme measures; but he was a recalcitrant Englishman, and for Dicky's sake one had to think of everything.
Englishmen have a genius for looking uncomfortable. Their feelings are terribly mixed up with their personal appearance. It was some time before Mr. Mafferton would consent to be even tolerably at his ease, though I made a distinct effort to show that I bore no malice. It must have been the mere memory of the past that embarrassed him, for the other two were as completely unaware of his existence as they well could be in the same carriage. For a time, as I talked in commonplaces, Mr. Mafferton in monosyllables, and Mr. Dod and Miss Portheris in regards, the most sordid realist would have hesitated to chronicle our conversation.
"When," I inquired casually, "are you thinking of going back, Mr. Mafferton?"
"To town? Not before October, I fancy!"
"Even in Rome," I observed, "London is 'town' to you, isn't it? What a curious thing insular tradition is!"
"I suppose Rome was invented first," he replied haughtily.
"Why yes," I said; "while the ancestors of Eaton-square were running about in blue paint and bear-skins, and Albert Gate, in the directory, was a mere cave. What do you suppose," I went on, following up this line of thought, "when you were untutored savages, was your substitute for the Red Book?"
"Really," said this Englishman, "I haven't an idea. Perhaps as you have suggested they had no ad dresses ."
For a moment I felt quite depressed. "Did you think it was a conundrum?" I asked. "You so often remind me of Punch , Mr. Mafferton."
I shouldn't have liked anyone to say that to me, but it seemed to have quite a mollifying effect upon Mr. Mafferton. He smiled and pulled his moustache in the way Englishmen always do, when endeavouring to absorb a compliment.
"Dear old London," I went on reminiscently, "what a funny experience it was!"
"To the Transatlantic mind," responded Mr. Mafferton stiffly, "one can imagine it instructive."
"It was a revelation to mine," I said earnestly—"a revelation." Then, remembering Mr. Mafferton's somewhat painful connection with the revelation, I added carefully, "From a historic point of view. The Tower, you know, and all that."
"Ah!" said Mr. Mafferton, with a distant eye upon the Campagna.
It was really very difficult.
"Do you remember the day we went to Madame Tussaud's?" I asked. Perhaps my intonation was a little dreamy. "I shall never forget William the Conqueror—never."
"Yes—yes, I think I do." It was clearly an effort of memory.
"And now," I said regretfully, "it can never be the same again."
"Certainly not." He used quite unnecessary emphasis.
"William and the others having been since destroyed by fire," I continued. Mr. Mafferton looked foolish. "What a terrible scene that must have been! Didn't you feel when all that royal wax melted as if the dynasties of England had been wrecked over again! What effect did it have on dear old Victoria?"
"One question at a time," said Mr. Mafferton, and I think he smiled.
"Now you remind me of Sandford and Merton," I said, "and a place for everything and everything in its place. And punctuality is the thief of time. And many others."
"You haven't got it quite right," said Mr. Mafferton with incipient animation. "May I correct you? 'Procrastination,' not 'punctuality.'"
"Thanks," I said. I could not help observing that for quite five minutes Mr. Mafferton had made no effort to overhear the conversation between Mr. Dod and Miss Portheris. It was a trifle, but life is made up of little things.
"I don't believe we adorn our conversation with proverbs in America as much as we did," I continued. "I guess it takes too long. If you make use of a proverb you see, you've got to allow for reflection first, and reflection afterwards, and a sigh, and very few of us have time for that. It is one of our disadvantages."
Mr. Mafferton heard me with attention.
"Really!" he said in quite his old manner when we used to discuss Presidential elections and peanuts and other features of life in my republic. "That is a fact of some interest—but I see you cling to one little Americanism, Miss Wick. Do you remember"—he actually looked arch—"once assuring me that you intended to abandon the verb to 'guess'?"
"I don't know why we should leave all the good words to Shakespeare," I said, "but I was under a great many hallucinations about the American language in England, and I daresay I did."
If I responded coldly, it was at the thought of my last interview with poor dear Arthur, and his misprised larynx. But at this moment a wildly encouraging sign from Dicky reminded me that his interests and not my own emotions were to be considered.
"We mustn't reproach each other, must we," I said softly. " I don't bear a particle of malice—really and truly."
Mr. Mafferton cast a glance of alarm at Mr. Dod and Miss Portheris, who were raptly exchanging views as to the respective merits of a cleek and a brassey shot given certain peculiar bunkers and a sandy green—as if two infatuated people talking golf would have ears for anything else!
"Not on any account," he said hurriedly.
"The best quality of friendship sometimes arises out of the most unfortunate circumstances," I added. The sympathy in my voice was for Dicky and Isabel.
Mr. Mafferton looked at me expressively and the carriage drew up at the Catacombs of St. Callistus. Mrs. Portheris was awaiting us by the gate, however, so in getting out I gave my hand to Dicky.
Inside and outside the gate, how quiet it was. Nothing on the Appian Way but dust and sunlight, nothing in the field within the walls but yellowing grass and here and there a field-daisy bending in the silence. It made one think of an old faded water-colour, washed in with tears, that clings to its significance though all its reality is gone. Then we saw a little bare house to the left with an open door, and inside found Brothers Demetrius and Eusebius in Trappist gowns and ropes, who would sell us beads for the profitable employment of our souls, and chocolate and photographs, and wonderful eucalyptus liqueur from the Three Fountains, and when we had well bought would show us the city of the long, long dead of which they were custodians. They were both obliging enough to speak English, Brother Demetrius imperfectly and haltingly, and without the assistance of those four front teeth which are so especially necessary to a foreign tongue, Brother Eusebius fluently, and with such richness of dialect that we were not at all surprised to learn that he had served his Pope for some years in the State of New York.
"For de ladi de chocolate. Ith it not?" said Brother Demetrius, with an inducive smile. "It ith de betht in de worl', dis chocolate."
"Don't you believe him," said Brother Eusebius, "he's known as the oldest of the Roman frauds. Wants your money, that's what he wants." Brother Demetrius shook his fist in amicable, wagging protest. "That's the way he goes on, you know—quarrelsome old party. But I don't say it's bad chocolate. Try it, young lady, try it."
He handed a bit to Isabel, who looked at her momma.
"There is no possible objection, my dear," said Mrs. Portheris, and she nibbled it.
Dicky invested wildly.
"Dese photograff dey are very pritty," remarked Brother Demetrius to momma, who was turning over some St. Stephens and St. Cecilias.
"He'd say anything to sell them," put in Brother Eusebius. "He never thinks of his immortal soul, any more than if he was a poor miserable heretic. He'll tell you they're originals next, taken by Nero at the time. You're all good Catholics, of course?"
"We are not any kind of Catholics," said Mrs. Portheris severely.
"I'll give you my blessing all the same, and no extra charge. But the saints forbid that I should be selling beads made out of their precious bones to Protestants."
"I'll take that string," said momma.
"I wouldn't do it on any account," continued Brother Eusebius, as he wrapped them up in blue paper, but momma still attaches a certain amount of veneration to those beads.
"And what can I do for you, sir?" continued Brother Eusebius to the Senator, rubbing his hands. "What'll be the next thing?"
"The Early Christians," replied poppa laconically, "if it's all the same to you."
"Just in half a shake. Don't hurry yourselves. They'll keep, you know—they've kept a good long while already. Now you, madam," said Brother Eusebius to Mrs. Portheris, "have never had the influenza, I know. It only attacks people advanced in life."
"Indeed I have," replied that lady. "Twice."
"Is that so! Well, you never would have had it if you'd been protected with this liqueur of ours. It's death and burial on influenza," and Brother Eusebius shook the bottle.
"I consider," said Mrs. Portheris solemnly, "that eucalyptus in another form saved my life. But I inhaled it."
"Tho," ventured Brother Demetrius, "tho did I. But the wine ith for internal drinking."
"Listen to him! E ternal drinking, that's what he means. You never saw such an old boy for the influenza—gets it every week or so. How many bottles, madam? Just a nip, after dinner, and you don't know how poetic it will make you feel into the bargain."
"One bottle," replied Mrs. Portheris, "the larger size, please. Anything with eucalyptus in it must be salutary. And as we are going underground, where it is bound to be damp, I think I'll have a little now."
"That's what I call English common-sense," exclaimed Brother Eusebius, getting out a glass. "Will nobody keep the lady company? It's Popish, but it's good."
Nobody would. Momma observed rather uncautiously that the smell of it was enough, at which Mrs. Portheris remarked, with some asperity, that she hoped Mrs. Wick would never be obliged to be indebted to the "smell." "It is quite excellent," she said, " most cordial. I really think, as a precaution, I'll take another glass."
"Isn't it pretty strong?" asked poppa.
"The influenza is stronger," replied Mrs. Portheris oracularly, and finished her second potation.
"And nothing," said Brother Eusebius sadly, "for the gentleman standing outside the door, who doesn't approve of encouraging the Roman Catholic Church in any respect whatever. Dear me! dear me! we do get some queer customers." At which Mr. Mafferton frowned portentously. But nothing seemed to have any effect on Brother Eusebius.
"There are such a lot of you, and you are sure to be so inquisitive, that we'll both go with you," said he, and took candles from a shelf. Not ordinary candles at all—coils of long, slender strips, with one end turned up to burn. At the sight of them momma shuddered and said she hadn't thought it would be dark, and took the Senator's arm as a precautionary measure. Then we followed the monks Eusebius and Demetrius, who wrapped shawls round their sloping shoulders and hurried across the grass towards the little brick entrance to the Catacombs, shading their candles from the wind that twisted their brown gowns round their legs, with all the anxiety to get it over shown by janitors of buildings of this world.