The House Of The Dead Hand
I"Above all," the letter ended, "don't leave Siena without seeing DoctorLombard's Leonardo. Lombard is a queer old Englishman, a mystic or amadman (if the two are not synonymous), and a devout student of theItalian Renaissance. He has lived for years in Italy, exploring itsremotest corners, and has lately picked up an undoubted Leonardo, whichcame to light in a farmhouse near Bergamo. It is believed to be one ofthe missing pictures mentioned by Vasari, and is at any rate, accordingto the most competent authorities, a genuine and almost untouchedexample of the best period."Lombard is a queer stick, and jealous of showing his treasures;but we struck up a friendship when I was working on the Sodomas in Sienathree years ago, and if you will give him the enclosed line you may geta peep at the Leonardo. Probably not more than a peep, though, for Ihear he refuses to have it reproduced. I want badly to use it in mymonograph on the Windsor drawings, so please see what you can do for me,and if you can't persuade him to let you take a photograph or make asketch, at least jot down a detailed description of the picture and getfrom him all the facts you can. I hear that the French and Italiangovernments have offered him a large advance on his purchase, but thathe refuses to sell at any price, though he certainly can't afford suchluxuries; in fact, I don't see where he got enough money to buy thepicture. He lives in the Via Papa Giulio."Wyant sat at the table d'hote of his hotel, re-reading his friend'sletter over a late luncheon. He had been five days in Siena withouthaving found time to call on Doctor Lombard; not from any indifferenceto the opportunity presented, but because it was his first visit to thestrange red city and he was still under the spell of its moreconspicuous wonders -- the brick palaces flinging out their wrought-irontorch-holders with a gesture of arrogant suzerainty; the greatcouncil-chamber emblazoned with civic allegories; the pageant of PopeJulius on the Library walls; the Sodomas smiling balefully through thedusk of mouldering chapels -- and it was only when his first hunger wasappeased that he remembered that one course in the banquet was stilluntasted.He put the letter in his pocket and turned to leave the room, witha nod to its only other occupant, an olive-skinned young man withlustrous eyes and a low collar, who sat on the other side of the table,perusing the Fanfulla di Domenica. This gentleman, his daily vis-a-vis,returned the nod with a Latin eloquence of gesture, and Wyant passed onto the ante-chamber, where he paused to light a cigarette. He was justrestoring the case to his pocket when he heard a hurried step behindhim, and the lustrouseyed young man advanced through the glass doors ofthe diningroom."Pardon me, sir," he said in measured English, and with anintonation of exquisite politeness; "you have let this letter fall."Wyant, recognizing his friend's note of introduction to DoctorLombard, took it with a word of thanks, and was about to turn away whenhe perceived that the eyes of his fellow diner remained fixed on himwith a gaze of melancholy interrogation."Again pardon me," the young man at length ventured, "but are youby chance the friend of the illustrious Doctor Lombard?""No," returned Wyant, with the instinctive Anglo-Saxon distrust offoreign advances. Then, fearing to appear rude, he said with a guardedpoliteness: "Perhaps, by the way, you can tell me the number of hishouse. I see it is not given here."The young man brightened perceptibly. "The number of the house isthirteen; but any one can indicate it to you -- it is well known inSiena. It is called," he continued after a moment, "the House of theDead Hand."Wyant stared. "What a queer name!" he said."The name comes from an antique hand of marble which for manyhundred years has been above the door."Wyant was turning away with a gesture of thanks, when the otheradded: "If you would have the kindness to ring twice.""To ring twice?""At the doctor's." The young man smiled. "It is the custom."It was a dazzling March afternoon, with a shower of sun from themid-blue, and a marshalling of slaty clouds behind the umbercoloredhills. For nearly an hour Wyant loitered on the Lizza, watching theshadows race across the naked landscape and the thunder blacken in thewest; then he decided to set out for the House of the Dead Hand. The mapin his guidebook showed him that the Via Papa Giulio was one of thestreets which radiate from the Piazza, and thither he bent his course,pausing at every other step to fill his eye with some fresh image ofweather-beaten beauty. The clouds had rolled upward, obscuring thesunshine and hanging like a funereal baldachin above the projectingcornices of Doctor Lombard's street, and Wyant walked for some distancein the shade of the beetling palace fronts before his eye fell on adoorway surmounted by a sallow marble hand. He stood for a momentstaring up at the strange emblem. The hand was a woman's -- a deaddrooping hand, which hung there convulsed and helpless, as though it hadbeen thrust forth in denunciation of some evil mystery within the house,and had sunk struggling into death.A girl who was drawing water from the well in the court said thatthe English doctor lived on the first floor, and Wyant, passing througha glazed door, mounted the damp degrees of a vaulted stairway with aplaster AEsculapius mouldering in a niche on the landing. Facing theAEsculapius was another door, and as Wyant put his hand on the bell-ropehe remembered his unknown friend's injunction, and rang twice.His ring was answered by a peasant woman with a low forehead andsmall close-set eyes, who, after a prolonged scrutiny of himself, hiscard, and his letter of introduction, left him standing in a high, coldante-chamber floored with brick. He heard her wooden pattens click downan interminable corridor, and after some delay she returned and told himto follow her.They passed through a long saloon, bare as the ante-chamber, butloftily vaulted, and frescoed with a seventeenth-century Triumph ofScipio or Alexander -- martial figures following Wyant with the filmedmelancholy gaze of shades in limbo. At the end of this apartment he wasadmitted to a smaller room, with the same atmosphere of mortal cold, butshowing more obvious signs of occupancy. The walls were covered withtapestry which had faded to the gray-brown tints of decaying vegetation,so that the young man felt as though he were entering a sunless autumnwood. Against these hangings stood a few tall cabinets on heavy giltfeet, and at a table in the window three persons were seated: an elderlylady who was warming her hands over a brazier, a girl bent above a stripof needle-work, and an old man.As the latter advanced toward Wyant, the young man was conscious ofstaring with unseemly intentness at his small round-backed figure,dressed with shabby disorder and surmounted by a wonderful head, lean,vulpine, eagle-beaked as that of some artloving despot of theRenaissance: a head combining the venerable hair and large prominenteyes of the humanist with the greedy profile of the adventurer. Wyant,in musing on the Italian portrait-medals of the fifteenth century, hadoften fancied that only in that period of fierce individualism couldtypes so paradoxical have been produced; yet the subtle craftsmen whocommitted them to the bronze had never drawn a face more strangelystamped with contradictory passions than that of Doctor Lombard."I am glad to see you," he said to Wyant, extending a hand whichseemed a mere framework held together by knotted veins. "We lead a quietlife here and receive few visitors, but any friend of Professor Clyde'sis welcome." Then, with a gesture which included the two women, he addeddryly: "My wife and daughter often talk of Professor Clyde.""Oh yes -- he used to make me such nice toast; they don'tunderstand toast in Italy," said Mrs. Lombard in a high plaintive voice.It would have been difficult, from Doctor Lombard's manner andappearance to guess his nationality; but his wife was so inconscientlyand ineradicably English that even the silhouette of her cap seemed aprotest against Continental laxities. She was a stout fair woman, withpale cheeks netted with red lines. A brooch with a miniature portraitsustained a bogwood watchchain upon her bosom, and at her elbow lay aheap of knitting and an old copy of The Queen.The young girl, who had remained standing, was a slim replica ofher mother, with an apple-cheeked face and opaque blue eyes. Her smallhead was prodigally laden with braids of dull fair hair, and she mighthave had a kind of transient prettiness but for the sullen droop of herround mouth. It was hard to say whether her expression impliedill-temper or apathy; but Wyant was struck by the contrast between thefierce vitality of the doctor's age and the inanimateness of hisdaughter's youth.Seating himself in the chair which his host advanced, the young mantried to open the conversation by addressing to Mrs. Lombard some randomremark on the beauties of Siena. The lady murmured a resigned assent,and Doctor Lombard interposed with a smile: "My dear sir, my wifeconsiders Siena a most salubrious spot, and is favorably impressed bythe cheapness of the marketing; but she deplores the total absence ofmuffins and cannel coal, and cannot resign herself to the Italian methodof dusting furniture.""But they don't, you know -- they don't dust it!" Mrs. Lombardprotested, without showing any resentment of her husband's manner."Precisely -- they don't dust it. Since we have lived in Siena wehave not once seen the cobwebs removed from the battlements of theMangia. Can you conceive of such housekeeping? My wife has never yetdared to write it home to her aunts at Bonchurch."Mrs. Lombard accepted in silence this remarkable statement of herviews, and her husband, with a malicious smile at Wyant's embarrassment,planted himself suddenly before the young man."And now," said he, "do you want to see my Leonardo?""Do I?" cried Wyant, on his feet in a flash.The doctor chuckled. "Ah," he said, with a kind of crooningdeliberation, "that's the way they all behave -- that's what they allcome for." He turned to his daughter with another variation of mockeryin his smile. "Don't fancy it's for your beaux yeux, my dear; or for themature charms of Mrs. Lombard," he added, glaring suddenly at his wife,who had taken up her knitting and was softly murmuring over the numberof her stitches.Neither lady appeared to notice his pleasantries, and he continued,addressing himself to Wyant: "They all come -- they all come; but manyare called and few are chosen." His voice sank to solemnity. "While Ilive," he said, "no unworthy eye shall desecrate that picture. But Iwill not do my friend Clyde the injustice to suppose that he would sendan unworthy representative. He tells me he wishes a description of thepicture for his book; and you shall describe it to him -- if you can."Wyant hesitated, not knowing whether it was a propitious moment toput in his appeal for a photograph."Well, sir," he said, "you know Clyde wants me to take away all Ican of it."Doctor Lombard eyed him sardonically. "You're welcome to take awayall you can carry," he replied; adding, as he turned to his daughter:"That is, if he has your permission, Sybilla."The girl rose without a word, and laying aside her work, took a keyfrom a secret drawer in one of the cabinets, while the doctor continuedin the same note of grim jocularity: "For you must know that the pictureis not mine -- it is my daughter's."He followed with evident amusement the surprised glance which Wyantturned on the young girl's impassive figure."Sybilla," he pursued, "is a votary of the arts; she has inheritedher fond father's passion for the unattainable. Luckily, however, shealso recently inherited a tidy legacy from her grandmother; and havingseen the Leonardo, on which its discoverer had placed a price far beyondmy reach, she took a step which deserves to go down to history: sheinvested her whole inheritance in the purchase of the picture, thusenabling me to spend my closing years in communion with one of theworld's masterpieces. My dear sir, could Antigone do more?"The object of this strange eulogy had meanwhile drawn aside one ofthe tapestry hangings, and fitted her key into a concealed door."Come," said Doctor Lombard, "let us go before the light fails us."Wyant glanced at Mrs. Lombard, who continued to knit impassively."No, no," said his host, "my wife will not come with us. You mightnot suspect it from her conversation, but my wife has no feeling for art-- Italian art, that is; for no one is fonder of our early Victorianschool.""Frith's Railway Station, you know," said Mrs. Lombard, smiling. "Ilike an animated picture."Miss Lombard, who had unlocked the door, held back the tapestry tolet her father and Wyant pass out; then she followed them down a narrowstone passage with another door at its end. This door was iron-barred,and Wyant noticed that it had a complicated patent lock. The girl fittedanother key into the lock, and Doctor Lombard led the way into a smallroom. The dark panelling of this apartment was irradiated by streams ofyellow light slanting through the disbanded thunder clouds, and in thecentral brightness hung a picture concealed by a curtain of faded velvet."A little too bright, Sybilla," said Doctor Lombard. His face hadgrown solemn, and his mouth twitched nervously as his daughter drew alinen drapery across the upper part of the window."That will do -- that will do." He turned impressively to Wyant."Do you see the pomegranate bud in this rug? Place yourself there --keep your left foot on it, please. And now, Sybilla, draw the cord."Miss Lombard advanced and placed her hand on a cord hidden behindthe velvet curtain."Ah," said the doctor, "one moment: I should like you, whilelooking at the picture, to have in mind a few lines of verse. Sybilla --"Without the slightest change of countenance, and with a promptnesswhich proved her to be prepared for the request, Miss Lombard began torecite, in a full round voice like her mother's, St. Bernard'sinvocation to the Virgin, in the thirty-third canto of the Paradise."Thank you, my dear," said her father, drawing a deep breath as sheended. "That unapproachable combination of vowel sounds prepares onebetter than anything I know for the contemplation of the picture."As he spoke the folds of velvet slowly parted, and the Leonardoappeared in its frame of tarnished gold:From the nature of Miss Lombard's recitation Wyant had expected asacred subject, and his surprise was therefore great as the compositionwas gradually revealed by the widening division of the curtain.In the background a steel-colored river wound through a palecalcareous landscape; while to the left, on a lonely peak, a crucifiedChrist hung livid against indigo clouds. The central figure of theforeground, however, was that of a woman seated in an antique chair ofmarble with bas-reliefs of dancing maenads. Her feet rested on a meadowsprinkled with minute wild-flowers, and her attitude of smiling majestyrecalled that of Dosso Dossi's Circe. She wore a red robe, flowing inclosely fluted lines from under a fancifully embroidered cloak. Aboveher high forehead the crinkled golden hair flowed sideways beneath aveil; one hand drooped on the arm of her chair; the other held up aninverted human skull, into which a young Dionysus, smooth, brown andsidelong as the St. John of the Louvre, poured a stream of wine from ahigh-poised flagon. At the lady's feet lay the symbols of art andluxury: a flute and a roll of music, a platter heaped with grapes androses, the torso of a Greek statuette, and a bowl overflowing with coinsand jewels; behind her, on the chalky hilltop, hung the crucifiedChrist. A scroll in a corner of the foreground bore the legend: Lux Mundi.Wyant, emerging from the first plunge of wonder, turned inquiringlytoward his companions. Neither had moved. Miss Lombard stood with herhand on the cord, her lids lowered, her mouth drooping; the doctor, hisstrange Thoth-like profile turned toward his guest, was still lost inrapt contemplation of his treasure.Wyant addressed the young girl."You are fortunate," he said, "to be the possessor of anything soperfect.""It is considered very beautiful," she said coldly."Beautiful -- beautiful!" the doctor burst out. "Ah, the poor,worn out, over-worked word! There are no adjectives in the languagefresh enough to describe such pristine brilliancy; all their brightnesshas been worn off by misuse. Think of the things that have been calledbeautiful, and then look at that!""It is worthy of a new vocabulary," Wyant agreed."Yes," Doctor Lombard continued, "my daughter is indeed fortunate.She has chosen what Catholics call the higher life -- the counsel ofperfection. What other private person enjoys the same opportunity ofunderstanding the master? Who else lives under the same roof with anuntouched masterpiece of Leonardo's? Think of the happiness of beingalways under the influence of such a creation; of living into it; ofpartaking of it in daily and hourly communion! This room is a chapel;the sight of that picture is a sacrament. What an atmosphere for a younglife to unfold itself in! My daughter is singularly blessed. Sybilla,point out some of the details to Mr. Wyant; I see that he willappreciate them."The girl turned her dense blue eyes toward Wyant; then, glancingaway from him, she pointed to the canvas."Notice the modeling of the left hand," she began in a monotonousvoice; "it recalls the hand of the Mona Lisa. The head of the nakedgenius will remind you of that of the St. John of the Louvre, but it ismore purely pagan and is turned a little less to the right. Theembroidery on the cloak is symbolic: you will see that the roots of thisplant have burst through the vase. This recalls the famous definition ofHamlet's character in Wilhelm Meister. Here are the mystic rose, theflame, and the serpent, emblem of eternity. Some of the other symbols wehave not yet been able to decipher."Wyant watched her curiously; she seemed to be reciting a lesson."And the picture itself?" he said. "How do you explain that? LuxMundi -- what a curious device to connect with such a subject! What canit mean?"Miss Lombard dropped her eyes: the answer was evidently notincluded in her lesson."What, indeed?" the doctor interposed. "What does life mean? As onemay define it in a hundred different ways, so one may find a hundreddifferent meanings in this picture. Its symbolism is as many-faceted asa well-cut diamond. Who, for instance, is that divine lady? Is it shewho is the true Lux Mundi -- the light reflected from jewels and youngeyes, from polished marble and clear waters and statues of bronze? Or isthat the Light of the World, extinguished on yonder stormy hill, and isthis lady the Pride of Life, feasting blindly on the wine of iniquity,with her back turned to the light which has shone for her in vain?Something of both these meanings may be traced in the picture; but to meit symbolizes rather the central truth of existence: that all that israised in incorruption is sown in corruption; art, beauty, love,religion; that all our wine is drunk out of skulls, and poured for us bythe mysterious genius of a remote and cruel past."The doctor's face blazed: his bent figure seemed to straightenitself and become taller."Ah," he cried, growing more dithyrambic, "how lightly you ask whatit means! How confidently you expect an answer! Yet here am I who havegiven my life to the study of the Renaissance; who have violated itstomb, laid open its dead body, and traced the course of every muscle,bone, and artery; who have sucked its very soul from the pages of poetsand humanists; who have wept and believed with Joachim of Flora, smiledand doubted with AEneas Sylvius Piccolomini; who have patiently followedto its source the least inspiration of the masters, and groped inneolithic caverns and Babylonian ruins for the first unfolding tendrilsof the arabesques of Mantegna and Crivelli; and I tell you that I standabashed and ignorant before the mystery of this picture. It meansnothing -- it means all things. It may represent the period which sawits creation; it may represent all ages past and to come. There arevolumes of meaning in the tiniest emblem on the lady's cloak; theblossoms of its border are rooted in the deepest soil of myth andtradition. Don't ask what it means, young man, but bow your head inthankfulness for having seen it!"Miss Lombard laid her hand on his arm."Don't excite yourself, father," she said in the detached tone of aprofessional nurse.He answered with a despairing gesture. "Ah, it's easy for you totalk. You have years and years to spend with it; I am an old man, andevery moment counts!""It's bad for you," she repeated with gentle obstinacy.The doctor's sacred fury had in fact burnt itself out. He droppedinto a seat with dull eyes and slackening lips, and his daughter drewthe curtain across the picture.Wyant turned away reluctantly. He felt that his opportunity wasslipping from him, yet he dared not refer to Clyde's wish for aphotograph. He now understood the meaning of the laugh with which DoctorLombard had given him leave to carry away all the details he couldremember. The picture was so dazzling, so unexpected, so crossed withelusive and contradictory suggestions, that the most alert observer,when placed suddenly before it, must lose his coordinating faculty in asense of confused wonder. Yet how valuable to Clyde the record of such awork would be! In some ways it seemed to be the summing up of themaster's thought, the key to his enigmatic philosophy.The doctor had risen and was walking slowly toward the door. Hisdaughter unlocked it, and Wyant followed them back in silence to theroom in which they had left Mrs. Lombard. That lady was no longer there,and he could think of no excuse for lingering.He thanked the doctor, and turned to Miss Lombard, who stood in themiddle of the room as though awaiting farther orders."It is very good of you," he said, "to allow one even a glimpse ofsuch a treasure."She looked at him with her odd directness. "You will come again?"she said quickly; and turning to her father she added: "You know whatProfessor Clyde asked. This gentleman cannot give him any account of thepicture without seeing it again."Doctor Lombard glanced at her vaguely; he was still like a personin a trance."Eh?" he said, rousing himself with an effort."I said, father, that Mr. Wyant must see the picture again if he isto tell Professor Clyde about it," Miss Lombard repeated withextraordinary precision of tone.Wyant was silent. He had the puzzled sense that his wishes werebeing divined and gratified for reasons with which he was in no wayconnected."Well, well," the doctor muttered, "I don't say no -- I don't sayno. I know what Clyde wants -- I don't refuse to help him." He turned toWyant. "You may come again -- you may make notes," he added with asudden effort. "Jot down what occurs to you. I'm willing to concede that."Wyant again caught the girl's eye, but its emphatic messageperplexed him."You're very good," he said tentatively, "but the fact is thepicture is so mysterious -- so full of complicated detail -- that I'mafraid no notes I could make would serve Clyde's purpose as well as --as a photograph, say. If you would allow me --"Miss Lombard's brow darkened, and her father raised his headfuriously."A photograph? A photograph, did you say? Good God, man, not tenpeople have been allowed to set foot in that room! A photograph?"Wyant saw his mistake, but saw also that he had gone too far toretreat."I know, sir, from what Clyde has told me, that you object tohaving any reproduction of the picture published; but he hoped you mightlet me take a photograph for his personal use -- not to be reproduced inhis book, but simply to give him something to work by. I should take thephotograph myself, and the negative would of course be yours. If youwished it, only one impression would be struck off, and that one Clydecould return to you when he had done with it."Doctor Lombard interrupted him with a snarl. "When he had done withit? Just so: I thank thee for that word! When it had beenre-photographed, drawn, traced, autotyped, passed about from hand tohand, defiled by every ignorant eye in England, vulgarized by theblundering praise of every art-scribbler in Europe! Bah! I'd as soongive you the picture itself: why don't you ask for that?""Well, sir," said Wyant calmly, "if you will trust me with it, I'llengage to take it safely to England and back, and to let no eye butClyde's see it while it is out of your keeping."The doctor received this remarkable proposal in silence; then heburst into a laugh."Upon my soul!" he said with sardonic good humor.It was Miss Lombard's turn to look perplexedly at Wyant. His lastwords and her father's unexpected reply had evidently carried her beyondher depth."Well, sir, am I to take the picture?" Wyant smilingly pursued."No, young man; nor a photograph of it. Nor a sketch, either; mindthat, -- nothing that can be reproduced. Sybilla," he cried with suddenpassion, "swear to me that the picture shall never be reproduced! Nophotograph, no sketch -- now or afterward. Do you hear me?""Yes, father," said the girl quietly."The vandals," he muttered, "the desecrators of beauty; if Ithought it would ever get into their hands I'd burn it first, by God!"He turned to Wyant, speaking more quietly. "I said you might come back-- I never retract what I say. But you must give me your word that noone but Clyde shall see the notes you make."Wyant was growing warm."If you won't trust me with a photograph I wonder you trust me notto show my notes!" he exclaimed.The doctor looked at him with a malicious smile."Humph!" he said; "would they be of much use to anybody?"Wyant saw that he was losing ground and controlled his impatience."To Clyde, I hope, at any rate," he answered, holding out his hand.The doctor shook it without a trace of resentment, and Wyant added:"When shall I come, sir?""To-morrow -- to-morrow morning," cried Miss Lombard, speakingsuddenly.She looked fixedly at her father, and he shrugged his shoulders."The picture is hers," he said to Wyant.In the ante-chamber the young man was met by the woman who hadadmitted him. She handed him his hat and stick, and turned to unbar thedoor. As the bolt slipped back he felt a touch on his arm."You have a letter?" she said in a low tone."A letter?" He stared. "What letter?"She shrugged her shoulders, and drew back to let him pass.
IIAs Wyant emerged from the house he paused once more to glance up at itsscarred brick facade. The marble hand drooped tragically above theentrance: in the waning light it seemed to have relaxed into thepassiveness of despair, and Wyant stood musing on its hidden meaning.But the Dead Hand was not the only mysterious thing about DoctorLombard's house. What were the relations between Miss Lombard and herfather? Above all, between Miss Lombard and her picture? She did notlook like a person capable of a disinterested passion for the arts; andthere had been moments when it struck Wyant that she hated the picture.The sky at the end of the street was flooded with turbulent yellowlight, and the young man turned his steps toward the church of SanDomenico, in the hope of catching the lingering brightness on Sodoma'sSt. Catherine.The great bare aisles were almost dark when he entered, and he hadto grope his way to the chapel steps. Under the momentary evocation ofthe sunset, the saint's figure emerged pale and swooning from the dusk,and the warm light gave a sensual tinge to her ecstasy. The flesh seemedto glow and heave, the eyelids to tremble; Wyant stood fascinated by theaccidental collaboration of light and color.Suddenly he noticed that something white had fluttered to theground at his feet. He stooped and picked up a small thin sheet ofnote-paper, folded and sealed like an old-fashioned letter, and bearingthe superscription: --To the Count Ottaviano Celsi.Wyant stared at this mysterious document. Where had it come from?He was distinctly conscious of having seen it fall through the air,close to his feet. He glanced up at the dark ceiling of the chapel; thenhe turned and looked about the church. There was only one figure in it,that of a man who knelt near the high altar.Suddenly Wyant recalled the question of Doctor Lombard'smaidservant. Was this the letter she had asked for? Had he beenunconsciously carrying it about with him all the afternoon? Who wasCount Ottaviano Celsi, and how came Wyant to have been chosen to act asthat nobleman's ambulant letter-box?Wyant laid his hat and stick on the chapel steps and began toexplore his pockets, in the irrational hope of finding there some clueto the mystery; but they held nothing which he had not himself putthere, and he was reduced to wondering how the letter, supposing someunknown hand to have bestowed it on him, had happened to fall out whilehe stood motionless before the picture.At this point he was disturbed by a step on the floor of the aisle,and turning, he saw his lustrous-eyed neighbor of the table d'hote.The young man bowed and waved an apologetic hand."I do not intrude?" he inquired suavely.Without waiting for a reply, he mounted the steps of the chapel,glancing about him with the affable air of an afternoon caller."I see," he remarked with a smile, "that you know the hour at whichour saint should be visited."Wyant agreed that the hour was indeed felicitous.The stranger stood beamingly before the picture."What grace! What poetry!" he murmured, apostrophizing the St.Catherine, but letting his glance slip rapidly about the chapel as hespoke.Wyant, detecting the manoeuvre, murmured a brief assent."But it is cold here -- mortally cold; you do not find it so?" Theintruder put on his hat. "It is permitted at this hour -- when thechurch is empty. And you, my dear sir -- do you not feel the dampness?You are an artist, are you not? And to artists it is permitted to coverthe head when they are engaged in the study of the paintings."He darted suddenly toward the steps and bent over Wyant's hat."Permit me -- cover yourself!" he said a moment later, holding outthe hat with an ingratiating gesture.A light flashed on Wyant."Perhaps," he said, looking straight at the young man, "you willtell me your name. My own is Wyant."The stranger, surprised, but not disconcerted, drew forth acoroneted card, which he offered with a low bow. On the card wasengraved: --Il Conte Ottaviano Celsi."I am much obliged to you," said Wyant; "and I may as well tell youthat the letter which you apparently expected to find in the lining ofmy hat is not there, but in my pocket."He drew it out and handed it to its owner, who had grown very pale."And now," Wyant continued, "you will perhaps be good enough totell me what all this means."There was no mistaking the effect produced on Count Ottaviano bythis request. His lips moved, but he achieved only an ineffectual smile."I suppose you know," Wyant went on, his anger rising at the sightof the other's discomfiture, "that you have taken an unwarrantableliberty. I don't yet understand what part I have been made to play, butit's evident that you have made use of me to serve some purpose of yourown, and I propose to know the reason why."Count Ottaviano advanced with an imploring gesture."Sir," he pleaded, "you permit me to speak?""I expect you to," cried Wyant. "But not here," he added, hearingthe clank of the verger's keys. "It is growing dark, and we shall beturned out in a few minutes."He walked across the church, and Count Ottaviano followed him outinto the deserted square."Now," said Wyant, pausing on the steps.The Count, who had regained some measure of self-possession, beganto speak in a high key, with an accompaniment of conciliatory gesture."My dear sir -- my dear Mr. Wyant -- you find me in an abominableposition -- that, as a man of honor, I immediately confess. I have takenadvantage of you -- yes! I have counted on your amiability, yourchivalry -- too far, perhaps? I confess it! But what could I do? It wasto oblige a lady" -- he laid a hand on his heart --"a lady whom I woulddie to serve!" He went on with increasing volubility, his deliberateEnglish swept away by a torrent of Italian, through which Wyant, withsome difficulty, struggled to a comprehension of the case.Count Ottaviano, according to his own statement, had come to Sienasome months previously, on business connected with his mother'sproperty; the paternal estate being near Orvieto, of which ancient cityhis father was syndic. Soon after his arrival in Siena the young Counthad met the incomparable daughter of Doctor Lombard, and falling deeplyin love with her, had prevailed on his parents to ask her hand inmarriage. Doctor Lombard had not opposed his suit, but when the questionof settlements arose it became known that Miss Lombard, who waspossessed of a small property in her own right, had a short time beforeinvested the whole amount in the purchase of the Bergamo Leonardo.Thereupon Count Ottaviano's parents had politely suggested that sheshould sell the picture and thus recover her independence; and thisproposal being met by a curt refusal from Doctor Lombard, they hadwithdrawn their consent to their son's marriage. The young lady'sattitude had hitherto been one of passive submission; she was horriblyafraid of her father, and would never venture openly to oppose him; butshe had made known to Ottaviano her intention of not giving him up, ofwaiting patiently till events should take a more favorable turn. Sheseemed hardly aware, the Count said with a sigh, that the means ofescape lay in her own hands; that she was of age, and had a right tosell the picture, and to marry without asking her father's consent.Meanwhile her suitor spared no pains to keep himself before her, toremind her that he, too, was waiting and would never give her up.Doctor Lombard, who suspected the young man of trying to persuadeSybilla to sell the picture, had forbidden the lovers to meet or tocorrespond; they were thus driven to clandestine communication, and hadseveral times, the Count ingenuously avowed, made use of the doctor'svisitors as a means of exchanging letters."And you told the visitors to ring twice?" Wyant interposed.The young man extended his hands in a deprecating gesture. CouldMr. Wyant blame him? He was young, he was ardent, he was enamored! Theyoung lady had done him the supreme honor of avowing her attachment, ofpledging her unalterable fidelity; should he suffer his devotion to beoutdone? But his purpose in writing to her, he admitted, was not merelyto reiterate his fidelity; he was trying by every means in his power toinduce her to sell the picture. He had organized a plan of action; everydetail was complete; if she would but have the courage to carry out hisinstructions he would answer for the result. His idea was that sheshould secretly retire to a convent of which his aunt was the MotherSuperior, and from that stronghold should transact the sale of theLeonardo. He had a purchaser ready, who was willing to pay a large sum;a sum, Count Ottaviano whispered, considerably in excess of the younglady's original inheritance; once the picture sold, it could, ifnecessary, be removed by force from Doctor Lombard's house, and hisdaughter, being safely in the convent, would be spared the painfulscenes incidental to the removal. Finally, if Doctor Lombard werevindictive enough to refuse his consent to her marriage, she had only tomake a sommation respectueuse, and at the end of the prescribed delay nopower on earth could prevent her becoming the wife of Count Ottaviano.Wyant's anger had fallen at the recital of this simple romance. Itwas absurd to be angry with a young man who confided his secrets to thefirst stranger he met in the streets, and placed his hand on his heartwhenever he mentioned the name of his betrothed. The easiest way out ofthe business was to take it as a joke. Wyant had played the wall to thisnew Pyramus and Thisbe, and was philosophic enough to laugh at the parthe had unwittingly performed.He held out his hand with a smile to Count Ottaviano."I won't deprive you any longer," he said, "of the pleasure ofreading your letter.""Oh, sir, a thousand thanks! And when you return to the casaLombard, you will take a message from me -- the letter she expected thisafternoon?""The letter she expected?" Wyant paused. "No, thank you. I thoughtyou understood that where I come from we don't do that kind of thing --knowingly.""But, sir, to serve a young lady!""I'm sorry for the young lady, if what you tell me is true" -- theCount's expressive hands resented the doubt --"but remember that if I amunder obligations to any one in this matter, it is to her father, whohas admitted me to his house and has allowed me to see his picture.""His picture? Hers!""Well, the house is his, at all events.""Unhappily -- since to her it is a dungeon!""Why doesn't she leave it, then?" exclaimed Wyant impatiently.The Count clasped his hands. "Ah, how you say that -- with whatforce, with what virility! If you would but say it to her in that tone-- you, her countryman! She has no one to advise her; the mother is anidiot; the father is terrible; she is in his power; it is my belief thathe would kill her if she resisted him. Mr. Wyant, I tremble for her lifewhile she remains in that house!""Oh, come," said Wyant lightly, "they seem to understand each otherwell enough. But in any case, you must see that I can't interfere -- atleast you would if you were an Englishman," he added with an escape ofcontempt.
IIIWyant's affiliations in Siena being restricted to an acquaintance withhis land-lady, he was forced to apply to her for the verification ofCount Ottaviano's story.The young nobleman had, it appeared, given a perfectly correctaccount of his situation. His father, Count Celsi-Mongirone, was a manof distinguished family and some wealth. He was syndic of Orvieto, andlived either in that town or on his neighboring estate of Mongirone. Hiswife owned a large property near Siena, and Count Ottaviano, who was thesecond son, came there from time to time to look into its management.The eldest son was in the army, the youngest in the Church; and an auntof Count Ottaviano's was Mother Superior of the Visitandine convent inSiena. At one time it had been said that Count Ottaviano, who was a mostamiable and accomplished young man, was to marry the daughter of thestrange Englishman, Doctor Lombard, but difficulties having arisen as tothe adjustment of the young lady's dower, Count Celsi-Mongirone had veryproperly broken off the match. It was sad for the young man, however,who was said to be deeply in love, and to find frequent excuses forcoming to Siena to inspect his mother's estate.Viewed in the light of Count Ottaviano's personality the story hada tinge of opera bouffe; but the next morning, as Wyant mounted thestairs of the House of the Dead Hand, the situation insensibly assumedanother aspect. It was impossible to take Doctor Lombard lightly; andthere was a suggestion of fatality in the appearance of his gauntdwelling. Who could tell amid what tragic records of domestic tyrannyand fluttering broken purposes the little drama of Miss Lombard's fatewas being played out? Might not the accumulated influences of such ahouse modify the lives within it in a manner unguessed by the inmates ofa suburban villa with sanitary plumbing and a telephone?One person, at least, remained unperturbed by such fancifulproblems; and that was Mrs. Lombard, who, at Wyant's entrance, raised aplacidly wrinkled brow from her knitting. The morning was mild, and herchair had been wheeled into a bar of sunshine near the window, so thatshe made a cheerful spot of prose in the poetic gloom of her surroundings."What a nice morning!" she said; "it must be delightful weather atBonchurch."Her dull blue glance wandered across the narrow street with itsthreatening house fronts, and fluttered back baffled, like a bird withclipped wings. It was evident, poor lady, that she had never seen beyondthe opposite houses.Wyant was not sorry to find her alone. Seeing that she wassurprised at his reappearance he said at once: "I have come back tostudy Miss Lombard's picture.""Oh, the picture --" Mrs. Lombard's face expressed a gentledisappointment, which might have been boredom in a person of acutersensibilities. "It's an original Leonardo, you know," she saidmechanically."And Miss Lombard is very proud of it, I suppose? She seems to haveinherited her father's love for art."Mrs. Lombard counted her stitches, and he went on: "It's unusual inso young a girl. Such tastes generally develop later."Mrs. Lombard looked up eagerly. "That's what I say! I was quitedifferent at her age, you know. I liked dancing, and doing a pretty bitof fancy-work. Not that I couldn't sketch, too; I had a master down fromLondon. My aunts have some of my crayons hung up in their drawing-roomnow -- I did a view of Kenilworth which was thought pleasing. But Iliked a picnic, too, or a pretty walk through the woods with youngpeople of my own age. I say it's more natural, Mr. Wyant; one may have afeeling for art, and do crayons that are worth framing, and yet not giveup everything else. I was taught that there were other things."Wyant, half-ashamed of provoking these innocent confidences, couldnot resist another question. "And Miss Lombard cares for nothing else?"Her mother looked troubled."Sybilla is so clever -- she says I don't understand. You know howself-confident young people are! My husband never said that of me, now-- he knows I had an excellent education. My aunts were very particular;I was brought up to have opinions, and my husband has always respectedthem. He says himself that he wouldn't for the world miss hearing myopinion on any subject; you may have noticed that he often refers to mytastes. He has always respected my preference for living in England; helikes to hear me give my reasons for it. He is so much interested in myideas that he often says he knows just what I am going to say before Ispeak. But Sybilla does not care for what I think --"At this point Doctor Lombard entered. He glanced sharply at Wyant."The servant is a fool; she didn't tell me you were here." His eyeturned to his wife. "Well, my dear, what have you been telling Mr.Wyant? About the aunts at Bonchurch, I'll be bound!"Mrs. Lombard looked triumphantly at Wyant, and her husband rubbedhis hooked fingers, with a smile."Mrs. Lombard's aunts are very superior women. They subscribe tothe circulating library, and borrow Good Words and the Monthly Packetfrom the curate's wife across the way. They have the rector to tea twicea year, and keep a page-boy, and are visited by two baronets' wives.They devoted themselves to the education of their orphan niece, and Ithink I may say without boasting that Mrs. Lombard's conversation showsmarked traces of the advantages she enjoyed."Mrs. Lombard colored with pleasure."I was telling Mr. Wyant that my aunts were very particular.""Quite so, my dear; and did you mention that they never sleep inanything but linen, and that Miss Sophia puts away the furs and blanketsevery spring with her own hands? Both those facts are interesting to thestudent of human nature." Doctor Lombard glanced at his watch. "But weare missing an incomparable moment; the light is perfect at this hour."Wyant rose, and the doctor led him through the tapestried door anddown the passageway.The light was, in fact, perfect, and the picture shone with aninner radiancy, as though a lamp burned behind the soft screen of thelady's flesh. Every detail of the foreground detached itself withjewel-like precision. Wyant noticed a dozen accessories which hadescaped him on the previous day.He drew out his note-book, and the doctor, who had dropped hissardonic grin for a look of devout contemplation, pushed a chairforward, and seated himself on a carved settle against the wall."Now, then," he said, "tell Clyde what you can; but the letterkilleth."He sank down, his hands hanging on the arm of the settle like theclaws of a dead bird, his eyes fixed on Wyant's notebook with theobvious intention of detecting any attempt at a surreptitious sketch.Wyant, nettled at this surveillance, and disturbed by thespeculations which Doctor Lombard's strange household excited, satmotionless for a few minutes, staring first at the picture and then atthe blank pages of the note-book. The thought that Doctor Lombard wasenjoying his discomfiture at length roused him, and he began to write.He was interrupted by a knock on the iron door. Doctor Lombard roseto unlock it, and his daughter entered.She bowed hurriedly to Wyant, without looking at him."Father, had you forgotten that the man from Monte Amiato was tocome back this morning with an answer about the bas-relief? He is herenow; he says he can't wait.""The devil!" cried her father impatiently. "Didn't you tell him --""Yes; but he says he can't come back. If you want to see him youmust come now.""Then you think there's a chance? --"She nodded.He turned and looked at Wyant, who was writing assiduously."You will stay here, Sybilla; I shall be back in a moment."He hurried out, locking the door behind him.Wyant had looked up, wondering if Miss Lombard would show anysurprise at being locked in with him; but it was his turn to besurprised, for hardly had they heard the key withdrawn when she movedclose to him, her small face pale and tumultuous."I arranged it -- I must speak to you," she gasped. "He'll be backin five minutes."Her courage seemed to fail, and she looked at him helplessly.Wyant had a sense of stepping among explosives. He glanced abouthim at the dusky vaulted room, at the haunting smile of the strangepicture overhead, and at the pink-and-white girl whispering ofconspiracies in a voice meant to exchange platitudes with a curate."How can I help you?" he said with a rush of compassion."Oh, if you would! I never have a chance to speak to any one; it'sso difficult -- he watches me -- he'll be back immediately.""Try to tell me what I can do.""I don't dare; I feel as if he were behind me." She turned away,fixing her eyes on the picture. A sound startled her. "There he comes,and I haven't spoken! It was my only chance; but it bewilders me so tobe hurried.""I don't hear any one," said Wyant, listening. "Try to tell me.""How can I make you understand? It would take so long to explain."She drew a deep breath, and then with a plunge --"Will you come hereagain this afternoon -- at about five?" she whispered."Come here again?""Yes -- you can ask to see the picture, -- make some excuse. Hewill come with you, of course; I will open the door for you -- and --and lock you both in" -- she gasped."Lock us in?""You see? You understand? It's the only way for me to leave thehouse -- if I am ever to do it" -- She drew another difficult breath."The key will be returned -- by a safe person -- in half an hour, --perhaps sooner --"She trembled so much that she was obliged to lean against thesettle for support."Wyant looked at her steadily; he was very sorry for her."I can't, Miss Lombard," he said at length."You can't?""I'm sorry; I must seem cruel; but consider --"He was stopped by the futility of the word: as well ask a huntedrabbit to pause in its dash for a hole!Wyant took her hand; it was cold and nerveless."I will serve you in any way I can; but you must see that this wayis impossible. Can't I talk to you again? Perhaps --""Oh," she cried, starting up, "there he comes!"Doctor Lombard's step sounded in the passage.Wyant held her fast. "Tell me one thing: he won't let you sell thepicture?""No -- hush!""Make no pledges for the future, then; promise me that.""The future?""In case he should die: your father is an old man. You haven'tpromised?"She shook her head."Don't, then; remember that."She made no answer, and the key turned in the lock.As he passed out of the house, its scowling cornice and facade ofravaged brick looked down on him with the startlingness of a strangeface, seen momentarily in a crowd, and impressing itself on the brain aspart of an inevitable future. Above the doorway, the marble hand reachedout like the cry of an imprisoned anguish.Wyant turned away impatiently."Rubbish!" he said to himself. "She isn't walled in; she can getout if she wants to."
IVWyant had any number of plans for coming to Miss Lombard's aid: he waselaborating the twentieth when, on the same afternoon, he stepped intothe express train for Florence. By the time the train reached Certaldohe was convinced that, in thus hastening his departure, he had followedthe only reasonable course; at Empoli, he began to reflect that thepriest and the Levite had probably justified themselves in much the samemanner.A month later, after his return to England, he was unexpectedlyrelieved from these alternatives of extenuation and approval. Aparagraph in the morning paper announced the sudden death of DoctorLombard, the distinguished English dilettante who had long resided inSiena. Wyant's justification was complete. Our blindest impulses becomeevidence of perspicacity when they fall in with the course of events.Wyant could now comfortably speculate on the particularcomplications from which his foresight had probably saved him. Theclimax was unexpectedly dramatic. Miss Lombard, on the brink of a stepwhich, whatever its issue, would have burdened her with retrospectivecompunction, had been set free before her suitor's ardor could have hadtime to cool, and was now doubtless planning a life of domestic felicityon the proceeds of the Leonardo. One thing, however, struck Wyant as odd-- he saw no mention of the sale of the picture. He had scanned thepapers for an immediate announcement of its transfer to one of the greatmuseums; but presently concluding that Miss Lombard, out of filialpiety, had wished to avoid an appearance of unseemly haste in thedisposal of her treasure, he dismissed the matter from his mind. Otheraffairs happened to engage him; the months slipped by, and gradually thelady and the picture dwelt less vividly in his mind.It was not till five or six years later, when chance took him againto Siena, that the recollection started from some inner fold of memory.He found himself, as it happened, at the head of Doctor Lombard'sstreet, and glancing down that grim thoroughfare, caught an obliqueglimpse of the doctor's house front, with the Dead Hand projecting aboveits threshold. The sight revived his interest, and that evening, over anadmirable frittata, he questioned his landlady about Miss Lombard'smarriage."The daughter of the English doctor? But she has never married,signore.""Never married? What, then, became of Count Ottaviano?""For a long time he waited; but last year he married a noble ladyof the Maremma.""But what happened -- why was the marriage broken?"The landlady enacted a pantomime of baffled interrogation."And Miss Lombard still lives in her father's house?""Yes, signore; she is still there.""And the Leonardo --""The Leonardo, also, is still there."The next day, as Wyant entered the House of the Dead Hand, heremembered Count Ottaviano's injunction to ring twice, and smiledmournfully to think that so much subtlety had been vain. But what couldhave prevented the marriage? If Doctor Lombard's death had been longdelayed, time might have acted as a dissolvent, or the young lady'sresolve have failed; but it seemed impossible that the white heat ofardor in which Wyant had left the lovers should have cooled in a fewshort weeks.As he ascended the vaulted stairway the atmosphere of the placeseemed a reply to his conjectures. The same numbing air fell on him,like an emanation from some persistent will-power, a something fierceand imminent which might reduce to impotence every impulse within itsrange. Wyant could almost fancy a hand on his shoulder, guiding himupward with the ironical intent of confronting him with the evidence ofits work.A strange servant opened the door, and he was presently introducedto the tapestried room, where, from their usual seats in the window,Mrs. Lombard and her daughter advanced to welcome him with faintejaculations of surprise.Both had grown oddly old, but in a dry, smooth way, as fruits mightshrivel on a shelf instead of ripening on the tree. Mrs. Lombard wasstill knitting, and pausing now and then to warm her swollen hands abovethe brazier; and Miss Lombard, in rising, had laid aside a strip ofneedle-work which might have been the same on which Wyant had first seenher engaged.Their visitor inquired discreetly how they had fared in theinterval, and learned that they had thought of returning to England, buthad somehow never done so."I am sorry not to see my aunts again," Mrs. Lombard saidresignedly; "but Sybilla thinks it best that we should not go this year.""Next year, perhaps," murmured Miss Lombard, in a voice whichseemed to suggest that they had a great waste of time to fill.She had returned to her seat, and sat bending over her work. Herhair enveloped her head in the same thick braids, but the rose color ofher cheeks had turned to blotches of dull red, like some pigment whichhas darkened in drying."And Professor Clyde -- is he well?" Mrs. Lombard asked affably;continuing, as her daughter raised a startled eye: "Surely, Sybilla, Mr.Wyant was the gentleman who was sent by Professor Clyde to see theLeonardo?"Miss Lombard was silent, but Wyant hastened to assure the elderlady of his friend's well-being."Ah -- perhaps, then, he will come back some day to Siena," shesaid, sighing. Wyant declared that it was more than likely; and thereensued a pause, which he presently broke by saying to Miss Lombard: "Andyou still have the picture?"She raised her eyes and looked at him. "Should you like to see it?"she asked.On his assenting, she rose, and extracting the same key from thesame secret drawer, unlocked the door beneath the tapestry. They walkeddown the passage in silence, and she stood aside with a grave gesture,making Wyant pass before her into the room. Then she crossed over anddrew the curtain back from the picture.The light of the early afternoon poured full on it: its surfaceappeared to ripple and heave with a fluid splendor. The colors had lostnone of their warmth, the outlines none of their pure precision; itseemed to Wyant like some magical flower which had burst suddenly fromthe mould of darkness and oblivion.He turned to Miss Lombard with a movement of comprehension."Ah, I understand -- you couldn't part with it, after all!" he cried."No -- I couldn't part with it," she answered."It's too beautiful, -- too beautiful," -- he assented."Too beautiful?" She turned on him with a curious stare. "I havenever thought it beautiful, you know."He gave back the stare. "You have never --"She shook her head. "It's not that. I hate it; I've always hatedit. But he wouldn't let me -- he will never let me now."Wyant was startled by her use of the present tense. Her looksurprised him, too: there was a strange fixity of resentment in herinnocuous eye. Was it possible that she was laboring under somedelusion? Or did the pronoun not refer to her father?"You mean that Doctor Lombard did not wish you to part with thepicture?""No -- he prevented me; he will always prevent me."There was another pause. "You promised him, then, before his death --""No; I promised nothing. He died too suddenly to make me." Hervoice sank to a whisper. "I was free -- perfectly free -- or I thought Iwas till I tried.""Till you tried?""To disobey him -- to sell the picture. Then I found it wasimpossible. I tried again and again; but he was always in the room withme."She glanced over her shoulder as though she had heard a step; andto Wyant, too, for a moment, the room seemed full of a third presence."And you can't" -- he faltered, unconsciously dropping his voice tothe pitch of hers.She shook her head, gazing at him mystically. "I can't lock himout; I can never lock him out now. I told you I should never haveanother chance."Wyant felt the chill of her words like a cold breath in his hair."Oh" -- he groaned; but she cut him off with a grave gesture."It is too late," she said; "but you ought to have helped me thatday."
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