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The Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton Part One

Part 3 out of 3

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palaces flinging out their wrought-iron torch-holders with a
gesture of arrogant suzerainty; the great council-chamber
emblazoned with civic allegories; the pageant of Pope Julius on
the Library walls; the Sodomas smiling balefully through the dusk
of mouldering chapels--and it was only when his first hunger was
appeased that he remembered that one course in the banquet was
still untasted.

He put the letter in his pocket and turned to leave the room,
with a nod to its only other occupant, an olive-skinned young man
with lustrous 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 on to the ante-chamber, where he paused
to light a cigarette. He was just restoring the case to his
pocket when he heard a hurried step behind him, and the lustrous-
eyed young man advanced through the glass doors of the dining-

"Pardon me, sir," he said in measured English, and with an
intonation of exquisite politeness; "you have let this letter

Wyant, recognizing his friend's note of introduction to Doctor
Lombard, took it with a word of thanks, and was about to turn
away when he perceived that the eyes of his fellow diner remained
fixed on him with a gaze of melancholy interrogation.

"Again pardon me," the young man at length ventured, "but are you
by chance the friend of the illustrious Doctor Lombard?"

"No," returned Wyant, with the instinctive Anglo-Saxon distrust
of foreign advances. Then, fearing to appear rude, he said with
a guarded politeness: "Perhaps, by the way, you can tell me the
number of his house. I see it is not given here."

The young man brightened perceptibly. "The number of the house
is thirteen; but any one can indicate it to you--it is well known
in Siena. It is called," he continued after a moment, "the House
of the Dead Hand."

Wyant stared. "What a queer name!" he said.

"The name comes from an antique hand of marble which for many
hundred years has been above the door."

Wyant was turning away with a gesture of thanks, when the other
added: "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 the
mid-blue, and a marshalling of slaty clouds behind the umber-
colored hills. For nearly an hour Wyant loitered on the Lizza,
watching the shadows race across the naked landscape and the
thunder blacken in the west; then he decided to set out for the
House of the Dead Hand. The map in his guidebook showed him that
the Via Papa Giulio was one of the streets which radiate from the
Piazza, and thither he bent his course, pausing at every other
step to fill his eye with some fresh image of weather-beaten
beauty. The clouds had rolled upward, obscuring the sunshine and
hanging like a funereal baldachin above the projecting cornices
of Doctor Lombard's street, and Wyant walked for some distance in
the shade of the beetling palace fronts before his eye fell on a
doorway surmounted by a sallow marble hand. He stood for a
moment staring up at the strange emblem. The hand was a woman's--
a dead drooping hand, which hung there convulsed and helpless,
as though it had been 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 that
the English doctor lived on the first floor, and Wyant, passing
through a glazed door, mounted the damp degrees of a vaulted
stairway with a plaster AEsculapius mouldering in a niche on the
landing. Facing the AEsculapius was another door, and as Wyant
put his hand on the bell-rope he remembered his unknown friend's
injunction, and rang twice.

His ring was answered by a peasant woman with a low forehead and
small close-set eyes, who, after a prolonged scrutiny of himself,
his card, and his letter of introduction, left him standing in a
high, cold ante-chamber floored with brick. He heard her wooden
pattens click down an interminable corridor, and after some delay
she returned and told him to follow her.

They passed through a long saloon, bare as the ante-chamber, but
loftily vaulted, and frescoed with a seventeenth-century Triumph
of Scipio or Alexander--martial figures following Wyant with the
filmed melancholy gaze of shades in limbo. At the end of this
apartment he was admitted to a smaller room, with the same
atmosphere of mortal cold, but showing more obvious signs of
occupancy. The walls were covered with tapestry which had faded
to the gray-brown tints of decaying vegetation, so that the young
man felt as though he were entering a sunless autumn wood.
Against these hangings stood a few tall cabinets on heavy gilt
feet, and at a table in the window three persons were seated: an
elderly lady who was warming her hands over a brazier, a girl
bent above a strip of needle-work, and an old man.

As the latter advanced toward Wyant, the young man was conscious
of staring 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 art-
loving despot of the Renaissance: a head combining the venerable
hair and large prominent eyes of the humanist with the greedy
profile of the adventurer. Wyant, in musing on the Italian
portrait-medals of the fifteenth century, had often fancied that
only in that period of fierce individualism could types so
paradoxical have been produced; yet the subtle craftsmen who
committed them to the bronze had never drawn a face more
strangely stamped with contradictory passions than that of Doctor

"I am glad to see you," he said to Wyant, extending a hand which
seemed a mere framework held together by knotted veins. "We lead
a quiet life here and receive few visitors, but any friend of
Professor Clyde's is welcome." Then, with a gesture which
included the two women, he added dryly: "My wife and daughter
often talk of Professor Clyde."

"Oh yes--he used to make me such nice toast; they don't
understand toast in Italy," said Mrs. Lombard in a high plaintive

It would have been difficult, from Doctor Lombard's manner and
appearance to guess his nationality; but his wife was so
inconsciently and ineradicably English that even the silhouette
of her cap seemed a protest against Continental laxities. She
was a stout fair woman, with pale cheeks netted with red lines.
A brooch with a miniature portrait sustained a bogwood watch-
chain upon her bosom, and at her elbow lay a heap of knitting and
an old copy of The Queen.

The young girl, who had remained standing, was a slim replica of
her mother, with an apple-cheeked face and opaque blue eyes. Her
small head was prodigally laden with braids of dull fair hair,
and she might have had a kind of transient prettiness but for the
sullen droop of her round mouth. It was hard to say whether her
expression implied ill-temper or apathy; but Wyant was struck by
the contrast between the fierce vitality of the doctor's age and
the inanimateness of his daughter's youth.

Seating himself in the chair which his host advanced, the young
man tried to open the conversation by addressing to Mrs. Lombard
some random remark on the beauties of Siena. The lady murmured a
resigned assent, and Doctor Lombard interposed with a smile: "My
dear sir, my wife considers Siena a most salubrious spot, and is
favorably impressed by the cheapness of the marketing; but she
deplores the total absence of muffins and cannel coal, and cannot
resign herself to the Italian method of dusting furniture."

"But they don't, you know--they don't dust it!" Mrs. Lombard
protested, without showing any resentment of her husband's

"Precisely--they don't dust it. Since we have lived in Siena we
have not once seen the cobwebs removed from the battlements of
the Mangia. Can you conceive of such housekeeping? My wife has
never yet dared to write it home to her aunts at Bonchurch."

Mrs. Lombard accepted in silence this remarkable statement of her
views, 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 crooning
deliberation, "that's the way they all behave--that's what they
all come for." He turned to his daughter with another variation
of mockery in his smile. "Don't fancy it's for your beaux yeux,
my dear; or for the mature charms of Mrs. Lombard," he added,
glaring suddenly at his wife, who had taken up her knitting and
was softly murmuring over the number of her stitches.

Neither lady appeared to notice his pleasantries, and he
continued, addressing himself to Wyant: "They all come--they all
come; but many are called and few are chosen." His voice sank to
solemnity. "While I live," he said, "no unworthy eye shall
desecrate that picture. But I will not do my friend Clyde the
injustice to suppose that he would send an unworthy
representative. He tells me he wishes a description of the
picture for his book; and you shall describe it to him--if you

Wyant hesitated, not knowing whether it was a propitious moment
to put in his appeal for a photograph.

"Well, sir," he said, "you know Clyde wants me to take away all I
can of it."

Doctor Lombard eyed him sardonically. "You're welcome to take
away all 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
key from a secret drawer in one of the cabinets, while the doctor
continued in the same note of grim jocularity: "For you must know
that the picture is not mine--it is my daughter's."

He followed with evident amusement the surprised glance which
Wyant turned on the young girl's impassive figure.

"Sybilla," he pursued, "is a votary of the arts; she has
inherited her fond father's passion for the unattainable.
Luckily, however, she also recently inherited a tidy legacy from
her grandmother; and having seen the Leonardo, on which its
discoverer had placed a price far beyond my reach, she took a
step which deserves to go down to history: she invested her whole
inheritance in the purchase of the picture, thus enabling me to
spend my closing years in communion with one of the world's
masterpieces. My dear sir, could Antigone do more?"

The object of this strange eulogy had meanwhile drawn aside one
of the tapestry hangings, and fitted her key into a concealed

"Come," said Doctor Lombard, "let us go before the light fails

Wyant glanced at Mrs. Lombard, who continued to knit impassively.

"No, no," said his host, "my wife will not come with us. You
might not 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 Victorian school."

"Frith's Railway Station, you know," said Mrs. Lombard, smiling.
"I like an animated picture."

Miss Lombard, who had unlocked the door, held back the tapestry
to let her father and Wyant pass out; then she followed them down
a narrow stone passage with another door at its end. This door
was iron-barred, and Wyant noticed that it had a complicated
patent lock. The girl fitted another key into the lock, and
Doctor Lombard led the way into a small room. The dark panelling
of this apartment was irradiated by streams of yellow light
slanting through the disbanded thunder clouds, and in the central
brightness hung a picture concealed by a curtain of faded velvet.

"A little too bright, Sybilla," said Doctor Lombard. His face
had grown solemn, and his mouth twitched nervously as his
daughter drew a linen drapery across the upper part of the

"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 behind
the velvet curtain.

"Ah," said the doctor, "one moment: I should like you, while
looking at the picture, to have in mind a few lines of verse.

Without the slightest change of countenance, and with a
promptness which proved her to be prepared for the request, Miss
Lombard began to recite, in a full round voice like her mother's,
St. Bernard's invocation to the Virgin, in the thirty-third canto
of the Paradise.

"Thank you, my dear," said her father, drawing a deep breath as
she ended. "That unapproachable combination of vowel sounds
prepares one better than anything I know for the contemplation of
the picture."

As he spoke the folds of velvet slowly parted, and the Leonardo
appeared in its frame of tarnished gold:

From the nature of Miss Lombard's recitation Wyant had expected a
sacred subject, and his surprise was therefore great as the
composition was gradually revealed by the widening division of
the curtain.

In the background a steel-colored river wound through a pale
calcareous landscape; while to the left, on a lonely peak, a
crucified Christ hung livid against indigo clouds. The central
figure of the foreground, however, was that of a woman seated in
an antique chair of marble with bas-reliefs of dancing maenads.
Her feet rested on a meadow sprinkled with minute wild-flowers,
and her attitude of smiling majesty recalled that of Dosso
Dossi's Circe. She wore a red robe, flowing in closely fluted
lines from under a fancifully embroidered cloak. Above her high
forehead the crinkled golden hair flowed sideways beneath a veil;
one hand drooped on the arm of her chair; the other held up an
inverted human skull, into which a young Dionysus, smooth, brown
and sidelong as the St. John of the Louvre, poured a stream of
wine from a high-poised flagon. At the lady's feet lay the
symbols of art and luxury: a flute and a roll of music, a platter
heaped with grapes and roses, the torso of a Greek statuette, and
a bowl overflowing with coins and jewels; behind her, on the
chalky hilltop, hung the crucified Christ. A scroll in a corner
of the foreground bore the legend: Lux Mundi.

Wyant, emerging from the first plunge of wonder, turned
inquiringly toward his companions. Neither had moved. Miss
Lombard stood with her hand on the cord, her lids lowered, her
mouth drooping; the doctor, his strange Thoth-like profile turned
toward his guest, was still lost in rapt contemplation of his

Wyant addressed the young girl.

"You are fortunate," he said, "to be the possessor of anything so

"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
language fresh enough to describe such pristine brilliancy; all
their brightness has been worn off by misuse. Think of the
things that have been called beautiful, 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 of perfection. What other private person enjoys the
same opportunity of understanding the master? Who else lives
under the same roof with an untouched masterpiece of Leonardo's?
Think of the happiness of being always under the influence of
such a creation; of living INTO it; of partaking 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 young life to
unfold itself in! My daughter is singularly blessed. Sybilla,
point out some of the details to Mr. Wyant; I see that he will
appreciate them."

The girl turned her dense blue eyes toward Wyant; then, glancing
away from him, she pointed to the canvas.

"Notice the modeling of the left hand," she began in a monotonous
voice; "it recalls the hand of the Mona Lisa. The head of the
naked genius will remind you of that of the St. John of the
Louvre, but it is more purely pagan and is turned a little less
to the right. The embroidery on the cloak is symbolic: you will
see that the roots of this plant have burst through the vase.
This recalls the famous definition of Hamlet's character in
Wilhelm Meister. Here are the mystic rose, the flame, and the
serpent, emblem of eternity. Some of the other symbols we have
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?
Lux Mundi--what a curious device to connect with such a subject!
What can it mean?"

Miss Lombard dropped her eyes: the answer was evidently not
included in her lesson.

"What, indeed?" the doctor interposed. "What does life mean? As
one may define it in a hundred different ways, so one may find a
hundred different meanings in this picture. Its symbolism is as
many-faceted as a well-cut diamond. Who, for instance, is that
divine lady? Is it she who is the true Lux Mundi--the light
reflected from jewels and young eyes, from polished marble and
clear waters and statues of bronze? Or is that the Light of the
World, extinguished on yonder stormy hill, and is this 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 me it symbolizes rather the central truth of existence:
that all that is raised in incorruption is sown in corruption;
art, beauty, love, religion; that all our wine is drunk out of
skulls, and poured for us by the mysterious genius of a remote
and cruel past."

The doctor's face blazed: his bent figure seemed to straighten
itself and become taller.

"Ah," he cried, growing more dithyrambic, "how lightly you ask
what it means! How confidently you expect an answer! Yet here
am I who have given my life to the study of the Renaissance; who
have violated its tomb, 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 poets and humanists; who have wept
and believed with Joachim of Flora, smiled and doubted with
AEneas Sylvius Piccolomini; who have patiently followed to its
source the least inspiration of the masters, and groped in
neolithic caverns and Babylonian ruins for the first unfolding
tendrils of the arabesques of Mantegna and Crivelli; and I tell
you that I stand abashed and ignorant before the mystery of this
picture. It means nothing--it means all things. It may
represent the period which saw its creation; it may represent all
ages past and to come. There are volumes of meaning in the
tiniest emblem on the lady's cloak; the blossoms of its border
are rooted in the deepest soil of myth and tradition. Don't ask
what it means, young man, but bow your head in thankfulness for
having seen it!"

Miss Lombard laid her hand on his arm.

"Don't excite yourself, father," she said in the detached tone of
a professional nurse.

He answered with a despairing gesture. "Ah, it's easy for you to
talk. You have years and years to spend with it; I am an old
man, and every moment counts!"

"It's bad for you," she repeated with gentle obstinacy.

The doctor's sacred fury had in fact burnt itself out. He
dropped into a seat with dull eyes and slackening lips, and his
daughter drew the curtain across the picture.

Wyant turned away reluctantly. He felt that his opportunity was
slipping from him, yet he dared not refer to Clyde's wish for a
photograph. He now understood the meaning of the laugh with
which Doctor Lombard had given him leave to carry away all the
details he could remember. The picture was so dazzling, so
unexpected, so crossed with elusive and contradictory
suggestions, that the most alert observer, when placed suddenly
before it, must lose his coordinating faculty in a sense of
confused wonder. Yet how valuable to Clyde the record of such a
work would be! In some ways it seemed to be the summing up of
the master's thought, the key to his enigmatic philosophy.

The doctor had risen and was walking slowly toward the door. His
daughter unlocked it, and Wyant followed them back in silence to
the room 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
the middle of the room as though awaiting farther orders.

"It is very good of you," he said, "to allow one even a glimpse
of such 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 what Professor Clyde asked. This gentleman cannot give
him any account of the picture without seeing it again."

Doctor Lombard glanced at her vaguely; he was still like a person
in a trance.

"Eh?" he said, rousing himself with an effort.

"I said, father, that Mr. Wyant must see the picture again if he
is to tell Professor Clyde about it," Miss Lombard repeated with
extraordinary precision of tone.

Wyant was silent. He had the puzzled sense that his wishes were
being divined and gratified for reasons with which he was in no
way connected.

"Well, well," the doctor muttered, "I don't say no--I don't say
no. I know what Clyde wants--I don't refuse to help him." He
turned to Wyant. "You may come again--you may make notes," he
added with a sudden effort. "Jot down what occurs to you. I'm
willing to concede that."

Wyant again caught the girl's eye, but its emphatic message
perplexed him.

"You're very good," he said tentatively, "but the fact is the
picture is so mysterious--so full of complicated detail--that I'm
afraid 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 head

"A photograph? A photograph, did you say? Good God, man, not
ten people have been allowed to set foot in that room! A

Wyant saw his mistake, but saw also that he had gone too far to

"I know, sir, from what Clyde has told me, that you object to
having any reproduction of the picture published; but he hoped
you might let me take a photograph for his personal use--not to
be reproduced in his book, but simply to give him something to
work by. I should take the photograph myself, and the negative
would of course be yours. If you wished it, only one impression
would be struck off, and that one Clyde could return to you when
he had done with it."

Doctor Lombard interrupted him with a snarl. "When he had done
with it? Just so: I thank thee for that word! When it had been
re-photographed, drawn, traced, autotyped, passed about from hand
to hand, defiled by every ignorant eye in England, vulgarized by
the blundering praise of every art-scribbler in Europe! Bah!
I'd as soon give you the picture itself: why don't you ask for

"Well, sir," said Wyant calmly, "if you will trust me with it,
I'll engage to take it safely to England and back, and to let no
eye but Clyde's see it while it is out of your keeping."

The doctor received this remarkable proposal in silence; then he
burst into a laugh.

"Upon my soul!" he said with sardonic good humor.

It was Miss Lombard's turn to look perplexedly at Wyant. His
last words and her father's unexpected reply had evidently
carried her beyond her depth.

"Well, sir, am I to take the picture?" Wyant smilingly pursued.

"No, young man; nor a photograph of it. Nor a sketch, either;
mind that,--nothing that can be reproduced. Sybilla," he cried
with sudden passion, "swear to me that the picture shall never be
reproduced! No photograph, no sketch--now or afterward. Do you
hear me?"

"Yes, father," said the girl quietly.

"The vandals," he muttered, "the desecrators of beauty; if I
thought 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 no one 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
not to 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

"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, speaking

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 had
admitted him. She handed him his hat and stick, and turned to
unbar the door. As the bolt slipped back he felt a touch on his

"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.


As Wyant emerged from the house he paused once more to glance up
at its scarred brick facade. The marble hand drooped tragically
above the entrance: in the waning light it seemed to have relaxed
into the passiveness of despair, and Wyant stood musing on its
hidden meaning. But the Dead Hand was not the only mysterious
thing about Doctor Lombard's house. What were the relations
between Miss Lombard and her father? Above all, between Miss
Lombard and her picture? She did not look like a person capable
of a disinterested passion for the arts; and there had been
moments when it struck Wyant that she hated the picture.

The sky at the end of the street was flooded with turbulent
yellow light, and the young man turned his steps toward the
church of San Domenico, in the hope of catching the lingering
brightness on Sodoma's St. Catherine.

The great bare aisles were almost dark when he entered, and he
had to grope his way to the chapel steps. Under the momentary
evocation of the 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 seemed to glow and heave, the eyelids
to tremble; Wyant stood fascinated by the accidental
collaboration of light and color.

Suddenly he noticed that something white had fluttered to the
ground at his feet. He stooped and picked up a small thin sheet
of note-paper, folded and sealed like an old-fashioned letter,
and bearing the 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; then he turned and looked about the church. There
was only one figure in it, that of a man who knelt near the high

Suddenly Wyant recalled the question of Doctor Lombard's maid-
servant. Was this the letter she had asked for? Had he been
unconsciously carrying it about with him all the afternoon? Who
was Count Ottaviano Celsi, and how came Wyant to have been chosen
to act as that nobleman's ambulant letter-box?

Wyant laid his hat and stick on the chapel steps and began to
explore his pockets, in the irrational hope of finding there some
clue to the mystery; but they held nothing which he had not
himself put there, and he was reduced to wondering how the
letter, supposing some unknown hand to have bestowed it on him,
had happened to fall out while he stood motionless before the

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
which our 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 he spoke.

Wyant, detecting the manoeuvre, murmured a brief assent.

"But it is cold here--mortally cold; you do not find it so?" The
intruder put on his hat. "It is permitted at this hour--when the
church 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 cover the 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 out
the hat with an ingratiating gesture.

A light flashed on Wyant.

"Perhaps," he said, looking straight at the young man, "you will
tell me your name. My own is Wyant."

The stranger, surprised, but not disconcerted, drew forth a
coroneted card, which he offered with a low bow. On the card was

Il Conte Ottaviano Celsi.

"I am much obliged to you," said Wyant; "and I may as well tell
you that the letter which you apparently expected to find in the
lining of my hat is not there, but in my pocket."

He drew it out and handed it to its owner, who had grown very

"And now," Wyant continued, "you will perhaps be good enough to
tell me what all this means."

There was no mistaking the effect produced on Count Ottaviano by
this request. His lips moved, but he achieved only an
ineffectual smile.

"I suppose you know," Wyant went on, his anger rising at the
sight of the other's discomfiture, "that you have taken an
unwarrantable liberty. I don't yet understand what part I have
been made to play, but it's evident that you have made use of me
to serve some purpose of your own, 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,
hearing the clank of the verger's keys. "It is growing dark, and
we shall be turned out in a few minutes."

He walked across the church, and Count Ottaviano followed him out
into the deserted square.

"Now," said Wyant, pausing on the steps.

The Count, who had regained some measure of self-possession,
began to speak in a high key, with an accompaniment of
conciliatory gesture.

"My dear sir--my dear Mr. Wyant--you find me in an abominable
position--that, as a man of honor, I immediately confess. I have
taken advantage of you--yes! I have counted on your amiability,
your chivalry--too far, perhaps? I confess it! But what could I
do? It was to oblige a lady"--he laid a hand on his heart--"a
lady whom I would die to serve!" He went on with increasing
volubility, his deliberate English swept away by a torrent of
Italian, through which Wyant, with some difficulty, struggled to
a comprehension of the case.

Count Ottaviano, according to his own statement, had come to
Siena some months previously, on business connected with his
mother's property; the paternal estate being near Orvieto, of
which ancient city his father was syndic. Soon after his arrival
in Siena the young Count had met the incomparable daughter of
Doctor Lombard, and falling deeply in love with her, had
prevailed on his parents to ask her hand in marriage. Doctor
Lombard had not opposed his suit, but when the question of
settlements arose it became known that Miss Lombard, who was
possessed of a small property in her own right, had a short time
before invested the whole amount in the purchase of the Bergamo
Leonardo. Thereupon Count Ottaviano's parents had politely
suggested that she should sell the picture and thus recover her
independence; and this proposal being met by a curt refusal from
Doctor Lombard, they had withdrawn their consent to their son's
marriage. The young lady's attitude had hitherto been one of
passive submission; she was horribly afraid of her father, and
would never venture openly to oppose him; but she had made known
to Ottaviano her intention of not giving him up, of waiting
patiently till events should take a more favorable turn. She
seemed hardly aware, the Count said with a sigh, that the means
of escape lay in her own hands; that she was of age, and had a
right to sell the picture, and to marry without asking her
father's consent. Meanwhile her suitor spared no pains to keep
himself before her, to remind her that he, too, was waiting and
would never give her up.

Doctor Lombard, who suspected the young man of trying to persuade
Sybilla to sell the picture, had forbidden the lovers to meet or
to correspond; they were thus driven to clandestine
communication, and had several times, the Count ingenuously
avowed, made use of the doctor's visitors 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. Could
Mr. Wyant blame him? He was young, he was ardent, he was
enamored! The young lady had done him the supreme honor of
avowing her attachment, of pledging her unalterable fidelity;
should he suffer his devotion to be outdone? But his purpose in
writing to her, he admitted, was not merely to reiterate his
fidelity; he was trying by every means in his power to induce her
to sell the picture. He had organized a plan of action; every
detail was complete; if she would but have the courage to carry
out his instructions he would answer for the result. His idea
was that she should secretly retire to a convent of which his
aunt was the Mother Superior, and from that stronghold should
transact the sale of the Leonardo. He had a purchaser ready, who
was willing to pay a large sum; a sum, Count Ottaviano whispered,
considerably in excess of the young lady's original inheritance;
once the picture sold, it could, if necessary, be removed by
force from Doctor Lombard's house, and his daughter, being safely
in the convent, would be spared the painful scenes incidental to
the removal. Finally, if Doctor Lombard were vindictive enough
to refuse his consent to her marriage, she had only to make a
sommation respectueuse, and at the end of the prescribed delay no
power on earth could prevent her becoming the wife of Count

Wyant's anger had fallen at the recital of this simple romance.
It was absurd to be angry with a young man who confided his
secrets to the first stranger he met in the streets, and placed
his hand on his heart whenever he mentioned the name of his
betrothed. The easiest way out of the business was to take it as
a joke. Wyant had played the wall to this new Pyramus and
Thisbe, and was philosophic enough to laugh at the part he 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 of
reading your letter."

"Oh, sir, a thousand thanks! And when you return to the casa
Lombard, you will take a message from me--the letter she expected
this afternoon?"

"The letter she expected?" Wyant paused. "No, thank you. I
thought you 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"--the
Count's expressive hands resented the doubt--"but remember that
if I am under obligations to any one in this matter, it is to her
father, who has 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 what
force, 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 an idiot; the father is terrible; she is in his
power; it is my belief that he would kill her if she resisted
him. Mr. Wyant, I tremble for her life while she remains in that

"Oh, come," said Wyant lightly, "they seem to understand each
other well enough. But in any case, you must see that I can't
interfere--at least you would if you were an Englishman," he
added with an escape of contempt.


Wyant's affiliations in Siena being restricted to an acquaintance
with his land-lady, he was forced to apply to her for the
verification of Count Ottaviano's story.

The young nobleman had, it appeared, given a perfectly correct
account of his situation. His father, Count Celsi-Mongirone, was
a man of distinguished family and some wealth. He was syndic of
Orvieto, and lived either in that town or on his neighboring
estate of Mongirone. His wife owned a large property near Siena,
and Count Ottaviano, who was the second 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 aunt of Count
Ottaviano's was Mother Superior of the Visitandine convent in
Siena. At one time it had been said that Count Ottaviano, who
was a most amiable and accomplished young man, was to marry the
daughter of the strange Englishman, Doctor Lombard, but
difficulties having arisen as to the adjustment of the young
lady's dower, Count Celsi-Mongirone had very properly 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 for coming to
Siena to inspect his mother's estate.

Viewed in the light of Count Ottaviano's personality the story
had a tinge of opera bouffe; but the next morning, as Wyant
mounted the stairs of the House of the Dead Hand, the situation
insensibly assumed another aspect. It was impossible to take
Doctor Lombard lightly; and there was a suggestion of fatality in
the appearance of his gaunt dwelling. Who could tell amid what
tragic records of domestic tyranny and fluttering broken purposes
the little drama of Miss Lombard's fate was being played out?
Might not the accumulated influences of such a house modify the
lives within it in a manner unguessed by the inmates of a
suburban villa with sanitary plumbing and a telephone?

One person, at least, remained unperturbed by such fanciful
problems; and that was Mrs. Lombard, who, at Wyant's entrance,
raised a placidly wrinkled brow from her knitting. The morning
was mild, and her chair had been wheeled into a bar of sunshine
near the window, so that she made a cheerful spot of prose in the
poetic gloom of her surroundings.

"What a nice morning!" she said; "it must be delightful weather
at Bonchurch."

Her dull blue glance wandered across the narrow street with its
threatening house fronts, and fluttered back baffled, like a bird
with clipped wings. It was evident, poor lady, that she had
never seen beyond the opposite houses.

Wyant was not sorry to find her alone. Seeing that she was
surprised at his reappearance he said at once: "I have come back
to study Miss Lombard's picture."

"Oh, the picture--" Mrs. Lombard's face expressed a gentle
disappointment, which might have been boredom in a person of
acuter sensibilities. "It's an original Leonardo, you know," she
said mechanically.

"And Miss Lombard is very proud of it, I suppose? She seems to
have inherited her father's love for art."

Mrs. Lombard counted her stitches, and he went on: "It's unusual
in so young a girl. Such tastes generally develop later."

Mrs. Lombard looked up eagerly. "That's what I say! I was quite
different at her age, you know. I liked dancing, and doing a
pretty bit of fancy-work. Not that I couldn't sketch, too; I had
a master down from London. My aunts have some of my crayons hung
up in their drawing-room now--I did a view of Kenilworth which
was thought pleasing. But I liked a picnic, too, or a pretty
walk through the woods with young people of my own age. I say
it's more natural, Mr. Wyant; one may have a feeling for art, and
do crayons that are worth framing, and yet not give up everything
else. I was taught that there were other things."

Wyant, half-ashamed of provoking these innocent confidences,
could not 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 how
self-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 respected them. He says himself that he
wouldn't for the world miss hearing my opinion on any subject;
you may have noticed that he often refers to my tastes. He has
always respected my preference for living in England; he likes to
hear me give my reasons for it. He is so much interested in my
ideas that he often says he knows just what I am going to say
before I speak. 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 eye turned 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 rubbed
his hooked fingers, with a smile.

"Mrs. Lombard's aunts are very superior women. They subscribe to
the circulating library, and borrow Good Words and the Monthly
Packet from the curate's wife across the way. They have the
rector to tea twice a year, and keep a page-boy, and are visited
by two baronets' wives. They devoted themselves to the education
of their orphan niece, and I think I may say without boasting
that Mrs. Lombard's conversation shows marked 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 in
anything but linen, and that Miss Sophia puts away the furs and
blankets every spring with her own hands? Both those facts are
interesting to the student of human nature." Doctor Lombard
glanced at his watch. "But we are missing an incomparable
moment; the light is perfect at this hour."

Wyant rose, and the doctor led him through the tapestried door
and down the passageway.

The light was, in fact, perfect, and the picture shone with an
inner radiancy, as though a lamp burned behind the soft screen of
the lady's flesh. Every detail of the foreground detached itself
with jewel-like precision. Wyant noticed a dozen accessories
which had escaped him on the previous day.

He drew out his note-book, and the doctor, who had dropped his
sardonic grin for a look of devout contemplation, pushed a chair
forward, and seated himself on a carved settle against the wall.

"Now, then," he said, "tell Clyde what you can; but the letter

He sank down, his hands hanging on the arm of the settle like the
claws of a dead bird, his eyes fixed on Wyant's notebook with the
obvious intention of detecting any attempt at a surreptitious

Wyant, nettled at this surveillance, and disturbed by the
speculations which Doctor Lombard's strange household excited,
sat motionless for a few minutes, staring first at the picture
and then at the blank pages of the note-book. The thought that
Doctor Lombard was enjoying his discomfiture at length roused
him, and he began to write.

He was interrupted by a knock on the iron door. Doctor Lombard
rose to 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 to
come back this morning with an answer about the bas-relief? He
is here now; 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 you
must 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 any
surprise at being locked in with him; but it was his turn to be
surprised, for hardly had they heard the key withdrawn when she
moved close to him, her small face pale and tumultuous.

"I arranged it--I must speak to you," she gasped. "He'll be back
in five minutes."

Her courage seemed to fail, and she looked at him helplessly.

Wyant had a sense of stepping among explosives. He glanced about
him at the dusky vaulted room, at the haunting smile of the
strange picture overhead, and at the pink-and-white girl
whispering of conspiracies 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's so 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 to be 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 here again this afternoon--at about five?" she

"Come here again?"

"Yes--you can ask to see the picture,--make some excuse. He will
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 the
house--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 the
settle 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 hunted
rabbit 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
way is 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
the picture?"


"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't

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 of
ravaged brick looked down on him with the startlingness of a
strange face, seen momentarily in a crowd, and impressing itself
on the brain as part of an inevitable future. Above the doorway,
the marble hand reached out like the cry of an imprisoned

Wyant turned away impatiently.

"Rubbish!" he said to himself. "SHE isn't walled in; she can get
out if she wants to."


Wyant had any number of plans for coming to Miss Lombard's aid:
he was elaborating the twentieth when, on the same afternoon, he
stepped into the express train for Florence. By the time the
train reached Certaldo he was convinced that, in thus hastening
his departure, he had followed the only reasonable course; at
Empoli, he began to reflect that the priest and the Levite had
probably justified themselves in much the same manner.

A month later, after his return to England, he was unexpectedly
relieved from these alternatives of extenuation and approval. A
paragraph in the morning paper announced the sudden death of
Doctor Lombard, the distinguished English dilettante who had long
resided in Siena. Wyant's justification was complete. Our
blindest impulses become evidence of perspicacity when they fall
in with the course of events.

Wyant could now comfortably speculate on the particular
complications from which his foresight had probably saved him.
The climax was unexpectedly dramatic. Miss Lombard, on the brink
of a step which, whatever its issue, would have burdened her with
retrospective compunction, had been set free before her suitor's
ardor could have had time to cool, and was now doubtless planning
a life of domestic felicity on 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 the papers for an immediate
announcement of its transfer to one of the great museums; but
presently concluding that Miss Lombard, out of filial piety, had
wished to avoid an appearance of unseemly haste in the disposal
of her treasure, he dismissed the matter from his mind. Other
affairs happened to engage him; the months slipped by, and
gradually the lady and the picture dwelt less vividly in his

It was not till five or six years later, when chance took him
again to Siena, that the recollection started from some inner
fold of memory. He found himself, as it happened, at the head of
Doctor Lombard's street, and glancing down that grim
thoroughfare, caught an oblique glimpse of the doctor's house
front, with the Dead Hand projecting above its threshold.
The sight revived his interest, and that evening, over an
admirable frittata, he questioned his landlady about Miss
Lombard's marriage.

"The daughter of the English doctor? But she has never married,

"Never married? What, then, became of Count Ottaviano?"

"For a long time he waited; but last year he married a noble lady
of 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, he
remembered Count Ottaviano's injunction to ring twice, and smiled
mournfully to think that so much subtlety had been vain. But
what could have prevented the marriage? If Doctor Lombard's
death had been long delayed, time might have acted as a
dissolvent, or the young lady's resolve have failed; but it
seemed impossible that the white heat of ardor in which Wyant had
left the lovers should have cooled in a few short weeks.

As he ascended the vaulted stairway the atmosphere of the place
seemed a reply to his conjectures. The same numbing air fell on
him, like an emanation from some persistent will-power, a
something fierce and imminent which might reduce to impotence
every impulse within its range. Wyant could almost fancy a hand
on his shoulder, guiding him upward with the ironical intent of
confronting him with the evidence of its work.

A strange servant opened the door, and he was presently
introduced to the tapestried room, where, from their usual seats
in the window, Mrs. Lombard and her daughter advanced to welcome
him with faint ejaculations of surprise.

Both had grown oddly old, but in a dry, smooth way, as fruits
might shrivel on a shelf instead of ripening on the tree. Mrs.
Lombard was still knitting, and pausing now and then to warm her
swollen hands above the brazier; and Miss Lombard, in rising, had
laid aside a strip of needle-work which might have been the same
on which Wyant had first seen her engaged.

Their visitor inquired discreetly how they had fared in the
interval, and learned that they had thought of returning to
England, but had somehow never done so.

"I am sorry not to see my aunts again," Mrs. Lombard said
resignedly; "but Sybilla thinks it best that we should not go
this year."

"Next year, perhaps," murmured Miss Lombard, in a voice which
seemed to suggest that they had a great waste of time to fill.

She had returned to her seat, and sat bending over her work. Her
hair enveloped her head in the same thick braids, but the rose
color of her cheeks had turned to blotches of dull red, like some
pigment which has 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 the Leonardo?"

Miss Lombard was silent, but Wyant hastened to assure the elder
lady of his friend's well-being.

"Ah--perhaps, then, he will come back some day to Siena," she
said, sighing. Wyant declared that it was more than likely; and
there ensued a pause, which he presently broke by saying to Miss
Lombard: "And you 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 the
same secret drawer, unlocked the door beneath the tapestry. They
walked down the passage in silence, and she stood aside with a
grave gesture, making Wyant pass before her into the room. Then
she crossed over and drew the curtain back from the picture.

The light of the early afternoon poured full on it: its surface
appeared to ripple and heave with a fluid splendor. The colors
had lost none of their warmth, the outlines none of their pure
precision; it seemed to Wyant like some magical flower which had
burst suddenly from the 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
have never 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
hated it. But he wouldn't let me--he will never let me now."

Wyant was startled by her use of the present tense. Her look
surprised him, too: there was a strange fixity of resentment in
her innocuous eye. Was it possible that she was laboring under
some delusion? Or did the pronoun not refer to her father?

"You mean that Doctor Lombard did not wish you to part with the

"No--he prevented me; he will always prevent me."

There was another pause. "You promised him, then, before his

"No; I promised nothing. He died too suddenly to make me." Her
voice sank to a whisper. "I was free--perfectly free--or I
thought I was till I tried."

"Till you tried?"

"To disobey him--to sell the picture. Then I found it was
impossible. I tried again and again; but he was always in the
room with me."

She glanced over her shoulder as though she had heard a step; and
to Wyant, too, for a moment, the room seemed full of a third

"And you can't"--he faltered, unconsciously dropping his voice to
the pitch of hers.

She shook her head, gazing at him mystically. "I can't lock him
out; I can never lock him out now. I told you I should never
have another 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 that day."

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