Though
it was of his golden period, and probably the finest instrument he ever
made, Stradivarius would never sell it, and it had hung for more than
thirty years in his shop. It was said that from some whim as he lay
dying he had given orders that it should be burnt; but if that were so,
the instructions were neglected, and after his death it came under the
hammer. Adrian Temple from the first recognised the great value of the
instrument. His notes show that he only used it on certain special
occasions, and it was no doubt for its better protection that he devised
the hidden cupboard where Sir John eventually found it. The later years of Temple's life were spent for the most part in Italy. On the Scoglio di Venere, near Naples, he built the Villa de Angelis,
and there henceforth passed all except the hottest months of the year. Shortly after the completion of the villa Jocelyn left him suddenly, and
became a Carthusian monk. A caustic note in his diary hinted that even
this foul parasite was shocked into the austerest form of religion by
something he had seen going forward. At Naples Temple's dark life became
still darker. He dallied, it is true, with Neo-Platonism, and boasts
that he, like Plotinus, had twice passed the circle of the _nous_ and
enjoyed the fruition of the deity; but the ideals of even that easy
doctrine grew in his evil life still more miserably debased. More than
once in the manuscript he made mention by name of the _Gagliarda_
of Graziani as having been played at pagan mysteries which these
enthusiasts revived at Naples, and the air had evidently impressed
itself deeply on his memory. The last entry in his diary is made on
the 16th of December, 1752. He was then in Oxford for a few days, but
shortly afterwards returned to Naples. The accident of his having just
completed a second volume, induced him, no doubt, to leave it behind him
in the secret cupboard. It is probable that he commenced a third, but if
so it was never found. In reading the manuscript I was struck with the author's clear and easy
style, and found the interest of the narrative increase rather than
diminish. At the same time its study was inexpressibly painful to me. Nothing could have supported me in my determination to thoroughly
master it but the conviction that if I was to be of any real assistance
to my poor friend Maltravers, I must know as far as possible every
circumstance connected with his malady. As it was, I felt myself
breathing an atmosphere of moral contagion during the perusal of the
manuscript, and certain passages have since returned at times to haunt
me in spite of all efforts to dislodge them from my memory. When I came
to Worth at Miss Maltravers's urgent invitation, I found my friend Sir
John terribly altered. It was not only that he was ill and physically
weak, but he had entirely lost the manner of youth, which, though
indefinable, is yet so appreciable, and draws so sharp a distinction
between the first period of life and middle age. But the most striking
feature of his illness was the extraordinary pallor of his complexion,
which made his face resemble a subtle counterfeit of white wax rather
than that of a living man. He welcomed me undemonstratively, but with
evident sincerity; and there was an entire absence of the constraint
which often accompanies the meeting again of friends whose cordial
relations have suffered interruption. From the time of my arrival at
Worth until his death we were constantly together; indeed I was much
struck by the almost childish dislike which he showed to be left alone
even for a few moments. As night approached this feeling became
intensified. Parnham slept always in his master's room; but if anything
called the servant away even for a minute, he would send for Carotenuto
or myself to be with him until his return. His nerves were weak; he
started violently at any unexpected noise, and above all, he dreaded
being in the dark. When night fell he had additional lamps brought into
his room, and even when he composed himself to sleep, insisted on a
strong light being kept by his bedside. I had often read in books of people wearing a "hunted" expression, and
had laughed at the phrase as conventional and unmeaning. But when I
came to Worth I knew its truth; for if any face ever wore a hunted--I
had almost written a haunted--look, it was the white face of Sir John
Maltravers. His air seemed that of a man who was constantly expecting
the arrival of some evil tidings, and at times reminded me painfully of
the guilty expectation of a felon who knows that a warrant is issued for
his arrest. During my visit he spoke to me frequently about his past life, and
instead of showing any reluctance to discuss the subject, seemed glad of
the opportunity of disburdening his mind. I gathered from him that the
reading of Adrian Temple's memoirs had made a deep impression on his
mind, which was no doubt intensified by the vision which he thought he
saw in his rooms at Oxford, and by the discovery of the portrait at
Royston. Of those singular phenomena I have no explanation to offer. The romantic element in his disposition rendered him peculiarly
susceptible to the fascination of that mysticism which breathed through
Temple's narrative. He told me that almost from the first time he read
it he was filled with a longing to visit the places and to revive the
strange life of which it spoke. This inclination he kept at first in
check, but by degrees it gathered strength enough to master him. There is no doubt in my mind that the music of the _Gagliarda_ of
Graziani helped materially in this process of mental degradation. It is
curious that Michael Prætorius in the "Syntagma musicum" should speak of
the Galliard generally as an "invention of the devil, full of shameful
and licentious gestures and immodest movements," and the singular melody
of the _Gagliarda_ in the "Areopagita" suite certainly exercised from
the first a strange influence over me. I shall not do more than touch
on the question here, because I see Miss Maltravers has spoken of it
at length, and will only say, that though since the day of Sir John's
death I have never heard a note of it, the air is still fresh in my
mind, and has at times presented itself to me unexpectedly, and always
with an unwholesome effect. This I have found happen generally in times
of physical depression, and the same air no doubt exerted a similar
influence on Sir John, which his impressionable nature rendered from the
first more deleterious to him. I say this advisedly, because I am sure that if some music is good for
man and elevates him, other melodies are equally bad and enervating. An
experience far wider than any we yet possess is necessary to enable us
to say how far this influence is capable of extension. How far, that
is, the mind may be directed on the one hand to ascetic abnegation by
the systematic use of certain music, or on the other to illicit and
dangerous pleasures by melodies of an opposite tendency.