In the contemplation of its perfection I experienced a curious mental
sensation, which I can only compare to the physical oppression produced
on some persons by the heavy and cloying perfume of a bouquet of
gardenias or other too highly scented exotics. In my brother's room was a medieval reproduction in mellow alabaster of
a classic group of a dolphin encircling a Cupid. It was, I think, the
fairest work of art I ever saw, but it jarred upon my sense of propriety
that close by it should hang an ivory crucifix. I would rather, I think,
have seen all things material and pagan entirely, with every view of
the future life shut out, than have found a medley of things sacred and
profane, where the emblems of our highest hopes and aspirations were
placed in insulting indifference side by side with the embodied forms of
sensuality. Here, in this scene of magical beauty, it seemed to me for
a moment that the years had rolled back, that Christianity had still to
fight with a _living_ Paganism, and that the battle was not yet won. It
was the same all through the house; and there were many other matters
which filled me with regret, mingled with vague and apprehensive
surmises which I shall not here repeat. At one end of the house was a small library, but it contained few works
except Latin and Greek classics. I had gone thither one day to look for
a book that John had asked for, when in turning out some drawers I found
a number of letters written from Worth by my lost Constance to her
husband. The shock of being brought suddenly face to face with a
handwriting that evoked memories at once so dear and sad was in itself
a sharp one; but its bitterness was immeasurably increased by the
discovery that not one of these envelopes had ever been opened. While
that dear heart, now at rest, was pouring forth her love and sorrow to
the ears that should have been above all others ready to receive them,
her letters, as they arrived, were flung uncared for, unread, even
unopened, into any haphazard receptacle. The days passed one by one at the Villa de Angelis with but little
incident, nor did my brother's health either visibly improve or decline. Though the weather was still more than usually warm, a grateful breeze
came morning and evening from the sea and tempered the heat so much as
to render it always supportable. John would sometimes in the evening sit
propped up with cushions on the trellised balcony looking towards Baia,
and watch the fishermen setting their nets. We could hear the melody
of their deep-voiced songs carried up on the night air. "It was here,
Sophy," my brother said, as we sat one evening looking on a scene like
this,--"It was here that the great epicure Pollio built himself a famous
house, and called it by two Greek words meaning a 'truce to care,' from
which our name of Posilipo is derived. It was his _sans-souci_, and here
he cast aside his vexations; but they were lighter than mine. Posilipo
has brought no cessation of care to me. I do not think I shall find any
truce this side the grave; and beyond, who knows?" This was the first time John had spoken in this strain, and he seemed
stirred to an unusual activity, as though his own words had suddenly
reminded him how frail was his state. He called Raffaelle to him and
despatched him on an errand to Naples. The next morning he sent for me
earlier than usual, and begged that a carriage might be ready by six in
the evening, as he desired to drive into the city. I tried at first to
dissuade him from his project, urging him to consider his weak state of
health. He replied that he felt somewhat stronger, and had something
that he particularly wished me to see in Naples. This done, it would be
better to return at once to England: he could, he thought, bear the
journey if we travelled by very short stages. CHAPTER XIV


Shortly after six o'clock in the evening we left the Villa de Angelis. The day had been as usual cloudlessly serene; but a gentle sea-breeze,
of which I have spoken, rose in the afternoon and brought with it a
refreshing coolness. We had arranged a sort of couch in the landau with
many cushions for my brother, and he mounted into the carriage with more
ease than I had expected. I sat beside him, with Raffaelle facing me
on the opposite seat. We drove down the hill of Posilipo through the
ilex-trees and tamarisk-bushes that then skirted the sea, and so into
the town. John spoke little except to remark that the carriage was an
easy one. As we were passing through one of the principal streets he
bent over to me and said, "You must not be alarmed if I show you to-day
a strange sight. Some women might perhaps be frightened at what we are
going to see; but my poor sister has known already so much of trouble
that a light thing like this will not affect her." In spite of his
encomiums upon my supposed courage, I felt alarmed and agitated by his
words. There was a vagueness in them which frightened me, and bred that
indefinite apprehension which is often infinitely more terrifying than
the actual object which inspires it. To my inquiries he would give no
further response than to say that he had whilst at Posilipo made some
investigations in Naples leading to a strange discovery, which he was
anxious to communicate to me. After traversing a considerable distance,
we had penetrated apparently into the heart of the town. The streets
grew narrower and more densely thronged; the houses were more dirty and
tumbledown, and the appearance of the people themselves suggested that
we had reached some of the lower quarters of the city. Here we passed
through a further network of small streets of the name of which I took
no note, and found ourselves at last in a very dark and narrow lane
called the _Via del Giardino_. Although my brother had, so far as I had
observed, given no orders to the coachman, the latter seemed to have
no difficulty in finding his way, driving rapidly in the Neapolitan
fashion, and proceeding direct as to a place with which he was already
familiar. In the Via del Giardino the houses were of great height, and overhung
the street so as nearly to touch one another. It seemed that this
quarter had been formerly inhabited, if not by the aristocracy, at least
by a class very much superior to that which now lived there; and many
of the houses were large and dignified, though long since parcelled
out into smaller tenements. It was before such a house that we at last
brought up. Here must have been at one time a house or palace of some
person of distinction, having a long and fine façade adorned with
delicate pilasters, and much florid ornamentation of the Renaissance
period. The ground-floor was divided into a series of small shops, and
its upper storeys were evidently peopled by sordid families of the
lowest class. Before one of these little shops, now closed and having
its windows carefully blocked with boards, our carriage stopped.