Masques & Phases Part 3

'Good G.o.d! Newall,' he cried, 'that MS. after all is a forgery.'

This expression I thought unbecoming in a 'Disciple,' but I only smiled and said, 'Really, you think so?' Monteagle then made reference to our old friendship, our unfortunate dissensions. He asked for my help, and then really excited my pity. Some member of the High Church party in Oxbridge had apparently been to Greece to attend a Conference on the Union of the Greek and Anglican Churches. While there he met Sarpedon, Patriarch of Hermaphroditopolis, and in course of conversation told him of the renowned Dr. Groschen. Sarpedon became distant at mention of the Doctor's name. He denied all knowledge of the famous letter of introduction, and said the only thing he knew of the Professor was, that he was usually supposed to have been the thief who had made off with a large chest of parchments from the monastery of St. Basil.

The Greek Patriarch refused to give any further information. The English clergyman reported the incident privately to Girdelstone.

Dr. Groschen's other letters were examined, and found to be fabrications.

The Book of Jasher and Aulus Gellius were submitted to a like scrutiny.

Girdelstone and Monteagle came reluctantly to the conclusion that they were also vulgar and palpable forgeries. At the end of his story Monteagle almost burst into tears. I endeavoured to cheer him, although I was shrieking with laughter at the whole story.

Of course it was dreadful for him. If he exposed Dr. Groschen, his own reputation as an expert would be gone, and the Doctor was already paid half the purchase money. Monteagle was so agitated that it was with difficulty I could get his story out of him, and to this day I have never quite learned the truth. Controlling my laughter, I sent a note round to Professor Girdelstone, asking him to come to my rooms. In about ten minutes he appeared, looking as draggled and sheepish as poor Monteagle.

In his bosom he carried the fateful MS., which I now saw for the first time. If it was a forgery (and I have never been convinced) it was certainly a masterpiece. From what Girdelstone said to me, then and since, I think that the Aulus Gellius portion was genuine enough, and the Book of Jasher possibly the invention of Groschen; however, it will never be discovered if one or neither was genuine. Monteagle thought the ink used was a compound of tea and charcoal, but both he and Girdelstone were too suspicious to believe even each other by this time.

I tried to console them, and promised all help in my power. They were rather startled and alarmed when I laid out my plan of campaign. In the first place, I was to withdraw all opposition to the purchase of the MS.

Girdelstone and Monteagle, meanwhile, were to set about having the Aulus Gellius printed and facsimiled; for I thought it was a pity such a work should be lost to the world. The facsimile was only to be _announced_; and publication by the University Press to be put in hand at once. The text of Aulus Gellius can still be obtained, and a translation of those portions which can be rendered into English forms a volume of Mr. Bohn's excellent cla.s.sical library, which will satisfy the curious, who are unacquainted with Latin. Professor Girdelstone was to write a preface in very guarded terms. This will be familiar to all cla.s.sical scholars.

It was with great difficulty that I could persuade Girdelstone and Monteagle of the sincerity of my actions; but the poor fellows were ready to catch at any straw for hope from exposure, and they listened to every word I said. As the whole University knew I was not on speaking terms with Girdelstone, I told him to adopt a Nicodemus-like att.i.tude, and to come to me in the night-time, when we could hold consultation. To the outer world, during these anxious evenings, when I would see no one, I was supposed to be preparing my great syllabus of lectures on the ichthyosaurus. I communicated to my fellow-curators my plans bit by bit only, for I thought it would be better for their nerves. I made Monteagle send round a notice to the press:--'That the MS. about to become the property of the University Museum was being facsimiled prior to publication, and at the earliest possible date would be on view in the Galleries where Dr. Groschen's collections are now exhibited.' This was to quiet the complaints already being made by scholars and commentators about the difficulty of obtaining access to the MS. The importunities of several religious societies to examine the Book of Jasher became intolerable. The Dean of Rothbury, an old friend of Girdelstone's, came from the north on purpose to collate the new-found work. With permission he intended, he said, to write a small brochure for the S.P.C.K. on the Book of Jasher, though I believe that he also felt some curiosity in regard to Aulus Gellius. I may be wronging him. The subterfuges, lies, and devices to which we resorted were not very creditable to ourselves.

Girdelstone gave him a dinner, and Monteagle and I persuaded the Senate to confer on him an honorary degree. We amused him with advance sheets of the commentary. He was quite a month at Oxbridge, but at last was recalled on business to the north by some lucky domestic family bereavement. Our next difficulty was the news that Sarpedon, Patriarch of Hermaphroditopolis, was about to visit England to attend an Anglican Synod. I thought Girdelstone would go off his head. Monteagle's hair became grey in a few weeks. Sarpedon was sure to be invited to Oxbridge.

He would meet Dr. Groschen and then expose him. Our fears, I soon found out, were shared by the _savant_, who left suddenly on one of those mysterious visits to the East. I saw that our action must be prompt; or Girdelstone and Monteagle would be lost. They were horrified when I told them I proposed placing the MS. on public view in the museum immediately.

A large plate-gla.s.s case was made by my orders, in which Girdelstone and Monteagle, who obeyed me like lambs, deposited their precious burden. It was placed in the Groschen Hall of the FitzTaylor. The crush that afternoon was terrible. All the University came to peer at the new acquisition. I must tell you that Dr. Groschen's antiquities occupied a temporary and fire-proof erection built of wood and tin, at the back of the museum, with which it was connected by a long stone gallery, adorned with plaster casts.

I mingled with the crowd, and heard the remarks; though I advised Girdelstone and Monteagle to keep out of the way, as it would only upset them. Various dons came up and chaffed me about the opposition I made to the MS. being purchased. A little man of dark, sallow complexion asked me if I was Professor Girdelstone. He wanted to obtain leave to examine the MS. I gave him my card, and asked him to call on me, when I would arrange a suitable day. He told me he was a Lutheran pastor from Pomerania.

I was the last to leave the museum that afternoon. I often remained in the library long after five, the usual closing hour. So I dismissed the attendants who locked up everything with the exception of a small door in the stone gallery always used on such occasions. I waited till six, and as I went out opened near this door a sash window, having removed the iron shutters. After dinner I went round to Monteagle's rooms. He and Girdelstone were sitting in a despondent way on each side of the fire, sipping weak coffee and nibbling Albert biscuits. They were startled at my entrance.

'What _have_ you decided?' asked Girdelstone, hoa.r.s.ely.

'All is arranged. Monteagle and I set fire to the museum to-night,' I said, quietly.

Girdelstone buried his face in his hands and began to sob.

'Anything but that--anything but that!' he cried. And Monteagle turned a little pale. At first they protested, but I overcame their scruples by saying they might get out of the mess how they liked. I advised Girdelstone to go to bed and plead illness for the next few days, for he really wanted rest. At eleven o'clock that night, Monteagle and myself crossed the meadows at the back of our college, and by a circuitous route reached the grounds surrounding the museum, which were planted with rhododendrons and other shrubs. The pouring rain was, unfortunately, not favourable for our enterprise. I brought however a small box of combustibles from the University Laboratories, and a dark lantern. When we climbed over the low wall not far from the stone gallery, I saw, to my horror, a light emerging from the Groschen Hall. Monteagle, who is fearfully superst.i.tious, began chattering his teeth. When we reached the small door I saw it was open. A thief had evidently forestalled us.

Monteagle suggested going back, and leaving the thief to make off with the MS.; but I would not hear of such a proposal.

The door opening to the Groschen Hall at the end of the gallery was open, and beyond, a man, whom I at once recognised as the little Lutheran, was busily engaged in picking the lock of the case where were deposited the Book of Jasher and Aulus Gellius. Telling Monteagle to guard the door, I approached very softly, keeping behind the plaster casts. I was within a yard of him before he heard my boots creak. Then he turned round, and I found myself face to face with Dr. Groschen. I have never seen such a look of terror on any one's face.

'You scoundrel!' I cried, collecting myself, 'drop those things at once!'

and I made for him with my fist. He dodged me. I ran after him; but he threaded his way like a rat through the statues and cases of antiquities, and bolted down the pa.s.sage out of the door, where he upset Monteagle and the lantern, and disappeared in the darkness and rain. I then returned to the scene of his labours. Monteagle was too frightened, owing to the rather ghostly appearance of the museum by the light of a feeble oil-lamp. In a small cupboard there was some dry sacking I had deposited there for the purpose some days before. This I ignited, along with certain native curiosities of straw and skin, wicker-work, and other ethnographical treasures.

Some new unpacked cases left by the attendants the previous afternoon materially a.s.sisted the conflagration.

It was an impressive scene, to witness the flames playing round the pedestals of the torsos, statues, and cases. I only waited for a few moments to make sure that my work was complete. I shut the iron door between the gallery and the hall to avoid the possibility of the fire spreading to the rest of the building. Then I seized Monteagle by the arm and hurried him through the rhododendrons, over the wall, into the meadows. I turned back once, and just caught a glimpse of red flame bursting through the windows. Having seen Monteagle half-way back to the college, I returned to see if any alarm was given. Already a small crowd was collecting. A fire-engine arrived, and a local pump was almost set going. I returned to college, where I found the porter standing in the gateway.

'The FitzTaylor is burning,' he said. 'I have been looking out for you, sir.'

There is nothing more to tell. To this day no one suspects that the fire was the work of an incendiary. The Professor has returned from the East, but lives in great retirement. His friends say he has never quite recovered the shock occasioned by the loss of his collection. The rest of the museum was uninjured.

The death of Sarpedon, Patriarch of Hermaphroditopolis, at Naples, was a sudden and melancholy catastrophe, which people think affected Dr.

Groschen more than the fire. Strangely enough, he had just been dining with the Doctor the evening before. They met at Naples purposely to bury the hatchet. Sometimes I ask myself if I did right in setting fire to the museum. You see, it was for the sake of others, not myself, and Monteagle was an old friend.

THE HOOTAWA VANDYCK.

'My own experience,' said an expert to a group of mostly middle-aged men, who spent their whole life in investigating spiritual phenomena, 'is a peculiar one.

'It was in the early autumn of 1900. I was at Rome, where I went to investigate the relative artistic affinity between Pietro Cavallini and Giotto (whose position, I think, will have to be adjusted). There were as yet only a few visitors at the Hotel Russie, chiefly maiden ladies and casual tourists, besides a certain Scotch family and myself. Colonel Brodie, formerly of the 69th Highlanders, was a retired officer of that rather peppery type which always seems to belong to the stage rather than real life, though you meet so many examples on the Continent. He possessed an extraordinary topographical knowledge of modern Rome, the tramway system, and the hours at which churches and galleries were open.

He would waylay you in the entrance-hall and inquire severely if you had been to the Catacombs. In the case of an affirmative answer he would describe an unvisited tomb or ruin, far better worth seeing; in that of a negative, he would smile, tell you the shortest and cheapest route, and the amount which should be tendered to the Trappist Father. Later on in the evening, over coffee, if he was pleased with you, he would mention in a very impressive manner, "I am, as you probably know, Colonel Brodie, of Hootawa." His wife, beside whom I sat at table d'hote, retained traces of former beauty. She was thin, and still tight-laced; was somewhat acid in manner; censorious concerning the other visitors; singularly devoted to her tedious husband, and fretfully attached to the beautiful daughter, for whose pleasure and education they were visiting Rome. I gathered that they were fairly well-to-do.

It was Mrs. Brodie who first broke the ice by asking if I was interested in pictures. Miss Brodie, who sat between her parents, turned very red, and said, "Oh, mamma, you are talking to one of the greatest experts in Europe!" I was surprised and somewhat gratified by her knowledge (indeed, it chilled me some days later when she confessed to having learnt the information only that day by overhearing an argument between myself and a friend at the Colonna Gallery on Stefano de Zevio, and the indebtedness of Northern Italian art to Teutonic influences).

Mrs. Brodie took the intelligence quite calmly, and merely inspected me through her lorgnettes as if I were an object in a museum.

"Ah, you must talk to Flora about pictures. I have no doubt that she will tell you a good deal that even _you_ do not know. We have some very interesting pictures up in Scotland. My husband is Colonel Brodie of Hootawa (no relation to the Brodie of Brodie). His grandfather was a great collector, and originally we possessed seven Raphaels."

"Indeed," I replied, eagerly, "might I ask the names of the pictures? I should know them at once."

"I have never seen them," said Mrs. Brodie; "they were not left to my husband, who quarrelled with his father. Fortunately none of us cared for Raphaels; but the most valuable pictures, including a Vandyck, were entailed. Flora is particularly attached to Vandyck. He is always so romantic, I think."

Flora, embarra.s.sed by her mother's eulogy of family heirlooms, leaned across, as if to address me, and said, "Oh, mamma, I don't think they really were Raphaels; they were probably only by pupils--Giulio Romano, Perino del Vaga, or Luca Penni."

"As you never saw them, my dear," said Mrs. Brodie, severely, "I don't think you can possibly tell. Your grandfather" (she glared at me) "was considered _the_ greatest expert in Europe, and described them in his will as Raphaels. It would be impious to suggest that they are by any one else. There were _two_ Holy Families. One of them was given to your grandfather by the King of Holland in recognition of his services; and a third was purchased direct from the Queen of Naples. But your father is getting impatient for his cigar."

They rose, and bowed sweetly. I joined them in the gla.s.s winter-garden a few minutes later.

"Have you been to the Pincio? But I forgot, of course you know Rome. I do love the Pincio," sighed Mrs. Brodie over some needlework, and then, as an afterthought, "Do you know the two things that have impressed me most since I came here?"

"I could not dare to guess any more than I dare tell you what has impressed me most," I replied, gazing softly at Flora.

"The two things which have really and truly impressed me most," continued Mrs. Brodie, "more than anything else, more than the Pantheon, or the Forum, are--St. Peter's and the Colosseum." She almost looked young again.

The next day we visited the Borghese; and I was able to explain to Flora why the circular "Madonna and Angels" was not by Botticelli. And, indeed, there was hardly a picture in Rome I was unable to reattribute to its rightful owner. In the apt Flora I found a receptive pupil. She even grew suspicious about the great Velasquez at the Doria, in which she fancied, with all the enthusiasm of youth, that she detected the handling of Mazo. I soon found that it was better for her training to discourage her from looking at pictures at all--we confined ourselves to photographs. In a photograph you are not disturbed by colour, or by impasto. You are able to study the morphic values in a picture, by which means you arrive at the attribution without any disturbing aesthetic considerations.

One afternoon, returning from some church ceremony, Flora said to me, "Oh, Aleister" (we were already engaged secretly), "papa is going to ask you next winter to stay at Hootawa. Before I forget, I want to warn you never to criticise the pictures. They are mostly of the Dutch and English School, and I dare say you will find a great many of the names wrong; but, you know, papa is irritable, and it would offend him if you said that the 'Terborch' was really by Pieter de Hooghe. You can easily avoid saying anything--and then, you will really admire the Vandyck."

"Darling Flora, of course I promise. By the way, you never speak of your family ghost, although Mrs. Brodie always refers to it as if I knew all about it; and the Colonel has often told me of Sir Rupert's military achievements."

"Oh, Aleister, I don't know whether you believe in ghosts: it _is_ very extraordinary. Whenever any disaster, or any good fortune happens to our family, Sir Rupert Brodie's figure, just as he appears in the Vandyck, is seen walking in the Long Gallery; and every night he appears at twelve o'clock in the green spare bedroom; but only guests and servants ever see him there. We have a saying at Hootawa, that servants will not stay unless they are able to see Sir Rupert the first month after their arrival. Only members of the family are able to see him in the Long Gallery, and, of course, we never know whether he betokens good or ill luck. The last time he appeared there, papa was so nervous that he sold out of Consols, which went down an eighth the day after. We were all very much relieved. But he invested the money in some concern called "The Imperial Federation Stylograph Pen Company," and lost most of it; so it was not of much use."

"Tell me, darling, of your father's other investments," I asked anxiously.

"Oh, you must ask papa about them, I don't understand business; but I want to tell you about Sir Rupert. The Society for Psychical Research sent down a Committee to inquire into the credibility of the ghost, and recorded four authentic apparitions in the spare bedroom; and on family evidence accepted at least three events in the Long Gallery. It was just after their report was issued that papa was invited to lease the house to some Americans for the summer. He always gets a good price for it now, simply on account of the ghost. I always think that rather horrid. I don't believe poor Sir Rupert would like it."

"Perhaps he doesn't know," I suggested.

"Of course, you don't believe in him," she said in rather an offended way.