The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne Part 17

We talked about the book. I touched upon the great problem that requires solution--the harmonising and justifying of the contradictory opposites in Renaissance character: Fra Lippo Lippi breaking his own vows and breaking a nun's for her; Perugino leading his money-grubbing, morose life and painting ethereal saints and madonnas in his _bottega_, while the Baglioni filled the streets outside with slaughter; Lorenzo de'

Medici bleeding literally and figuratively his fellow-citizens, going from that occupation to his Platonic Academy and disputing on the immortality of the soul, winding up with orgies of sensual depravity with his boon companion Pulci, and all the time making himself an historic name for statecraft; Pope Sixtus IV, at the very heart of the Pazzi conspiracy to murder the Medici--

"And Pope Nicholas V when drunk ordering a man to be executed, and being sorry for it when sober," said Judith.

It is wonderful how Judith, with her quite unspecialised knowledge of history can now and then put her finger upon something vital. I have been racking my brain and searching my library for the past two or three days for an ill.u.s.tration of just that nature. I had not thought of it.

Here is Tomaso da Sarzana, a quiet, retired schoolmaster, like myself, an editor of cla.s.sical texts, a peaceful librarian of Cosmo de' Medici, a scholar and a gentleman to the tips of his fingers; he is made Pope, a King Log to save the cardinalate from a possible King Stork Colonna; the Porcari conspiracy breaks out, is discovered and the conspirators are hunted over Italy and put to death; a gentleman called Anguillara is slightly inculpated; he is invited to Rome by Nicholas, and given a safe-conduct; when he arrives the Pope is drunk (at least Stefano Infessura, the contemporary diarist, says so); the next morning his Holiness finds to his surprise and annoyance that the gentleman's head has been cut off by his orders. It is an amazing tale. To realise how amazing it is, one must picture the fantastic possibility of it happening at the Vatican nowadays. And the most astounding thing is this: that if all the dead and gone popes were alive, and the soul of the saintly Pontiff of to-day were to pa.s.s from him, the one who could most undetected occupy his simulacrum would be this very Thomas of Sarzana.

"Pardon me, my dear Judith," said I. "But this is a story lying somewhat up one of the back-waters of history. Where did you come across it?"

"I saw it the other day in a French comic paper," replied Judith.

I really don't know which to admire the more: the inconsequent way in which the French toss about scholarship, or the marvellous power of a.s.similation possessed by Judith.

Before we separated she returned to the subject of Carlotta.

"Am I to see this young creature?" she asked. "That is just as you choose," said I.

"Oh! as far as I am concerned, my dear Marcus, I am perfectly indifferent," replied Judith, a.s.suming the supercilious expression with which women invariably try to mask inordinate curiosity.

"Then," said I, with a touch of malice, "there is no reason why you should make her acquaintance."

"I should be able to see through her tricks and put you on your guard."

"Against what?"

She shrugged her shoulders as if it were vain to waste breath on so obtuse a person.

"You had better bring her round some afternoon," she said.

Have I acted wisely in confessing Carlotta to Judith? And why do I use the word "confess"? Far from having committed an evil action, I consider I have exhibited exemplary altruism. Did I want a "young savage from Syria" to come and interfere with my perfectly ordered life? Judith does not realise this. I had a presentiment of the prejudice she would conceive against the poor girl, and now it has been verified. I wish I had held my tongue. As Judith, for some feminine reason known only to herself, has steadily declined to put her foot inside my house, she might very well have remained unsuspicious of Carlotta's existence. And why not? The fact of the girl being my pensioner does not in the least affect the personality which I bring to Judith. The idea is absurd. Why wasn't I wise before the event? I might have spared myself considerable worry.

A letter from my Aunt Jessica enclosing a card for a fancy dress ball at the Empress Rooms. The preposterous lady!

"Do come. It is not right for a young man to lead the life of a recluse of seventy. Here we are in the height of the London season, and I am sure you haven't been into ten houses, when a hundred of the very best are open to you--" I loathe the term "best houses." The tinsel inept.i.tude of them! For entertainment I really would sooner attend a mothers' meeting or listen to the serious British Drama--Have I read so and so's novel? Am I going to Mrs. Chose's dance? Do I ride in the Park?

Do I know young Thingummy of the Guards, who is going to marry Lady Betty Something? What do I think of the Academy? As if one could have any sentiment with regard to the Academy save regret at such profusion of fresh paint! "You want shaking up," continued my aunt. Silly woman!

If there is a thing I should abhor it would be to be shaken up. "Come and dine with us at seven-thirty _in costume_, and I'll promise you a delightful time. And think how proud the girls would be of showing off their _beau cousin_." _Et pat.i.ti et pat.i.ta._ I am again reminded that I owe it to my position, my t.i.tle. G.o.d ha' mercy on us! To bedeck myself like a decayed mummer in a booth and frisk about in a pestilential atmosphere with a crowd of strange and uninteresting young females is the correct way of fulfilling the obligations that the sovereign laid upon the successors to the t.i.tle, when he conferred the dignity of a baronetcy on my great-grandfather! Now I come to think of it the Prince Regent was that sovereign, and my ancestor did things for him at Brighton. Perhaps after all there is a savage irony of truth in Aunt Jessica's suggestion!

And a _beau cousin_ should I be indeed. What does she think I would go as? A mousquetaire? or a troubadour in blue satin trunks and cloak, white silk tights and shoes and a Grecian helmet, like Mr. Snodgra.s.s at Mrs. Leo Hunter's _fete champetre?_

I wish I could fathom Aunt Jessica's reasons for her attempts at involving me in her social mountebankery. If the girls get no better dance-partners than me, heaven help them!

Only a fortnight ago I drove with them to Hurlingham. My aunt and Gwendolen disappeared in an unaccountable manner with another man, leaving me under an umbrella tent to take charge of Dora. I had an hour and a half of undiluted Dora. The dose was too strong, and it made my head ache. I think I prefer neat Carlotta.

CHAPTER IX

July 5th

I lunched at home, and read drowsily before the open window till four o'clock. Then the splendour of the day invited me forth. Whither should I go? I thought of Judith and Hampstead Heath; I also thought of Carlotta and Hyde Park. The sound of the lions roaring for their afternoon tea reached me through the still air, and I put from me a strong temptation to wander alone and meditative in the Zoological Gardens close by. I must not forget, I reflected, that I am responsible for Carlotta's education, whereas I am in no wise responsible for the animals or for Judith. If Judith and I had claims one on the other, the entire charm of our relationship would be broken.

I resolved to take Carlotta to the park, in order to improve her mind.

She would see how well-bred Englishwomen comport themselves externally.

It would be a lesson in decorum.

I do not despise convention. Indeed, I follow it up to the point when it puts on the airs of revealed religion. My neighbours and I decide on a certain code of manners which will enable us to meet without mutual offence. I agree to put my handkerchief up to my nose when I sneeze in his presence, and he contracts not to wipe muddy boots on my sofa. I undertake not to shock his wife by parading my hideous immorality before her eyes, and he binds himself not to aggravate my celibacy by beating her or kissing her when I am paying a call. I agree, by wearing an arbitrarily fixed costume when I dine with him, to brand myself with the stamp of a certain cla.s.s of society, so that his guests shall receive me without question, and he in return gives me a well-ordered dinner served with the minimum amount of inconvenience to myself that his circ.u.mstances allow. Many folks make what they are pleased to call unconventionality a mere cloak for selfish disregard of the feelings and tastes of others. Bohemianism too often means piggish sloth or slatternly inept.i.tude.

Convention is solely a matter of manners. That is why I desire to instil some convention into what, for want of a more accurate term, I may allude to as Carlotta's mind. It will save me much trouble in the future.

I summoned Carlotta.

"Carlotta," I said, "I am going to take you to Hyde Park and show you the English aristocracy wearing their best clothes and their best behaviour. You must do the same."

"My best clothes?" cried Carlotta, her face lighting up.

"Your very best. Make haste."

I smiled. She ran from the room and in an incredibly short time reappeared unblushingly bare-necked and bare-armed in the evening dress that had caused her such dismay on Sat.u.r.day.

I jumped to my feet. There is no denying that she looked amazingly beautiful. She looked, in fact, disconcertingly beautiful. I found it hard to tell her to take the dress off again.

"Is it wrong?" she asked Nvith a pucker of her baby lips.

"Yes, indeed," said I. "People would be shocked."

"But on Sat.u.r.day evening--" she began.

"I know, my child," I interrupted. "In society you are scarcely respectable unless you go about half naked at night; but to do so in the daytime would be the grossest indecency. I'll explain some other time."

"I shall never understand," said Carlotta.

Two great tears stood, one on each eyelid, and fell simultaneously down her cheeks.

"What on earth are you crying for?" I asked aghast.

"You are not pleased with me," said Carlotta, with a choke in her voice.

The two tears fell like rain-drops on to her bosom, and she stood before me a picture of exquisite woe. Then I did a very foolish thing.

Last week a little gold brooch in a jeweller's window caught my fancy.

I bought it with the idea of presenting it to Carlotta, when an occasion offered, as a reward for peculiar merit. Now, however, to show her that I was in no way angry, I abstracted the bauble from the drawer of my writing-table, and put it in her hand.

"You please me so much, Carlotta," said I, "that I have bought this for you."

Before I had completed the sentence, and before I knew what she was after, her arms were round my neck and she was hugging me like a child.