<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2 class="p4">CHAPTER XXV</h2>
<p class="pch">HOMAGE</p>
<p class="drop-cap16">LUCINDA’S mental idiosyncrasy resisted any
attempt at idealization; for all that she had
accused me of making the attempt. Though
she would not persist in cruelty, and would remove
herself from the temptation to it when once she had
realized what it was, yet she could be, and had
been, cruel. In like manner she could be hard and
callous, very inaccessible to sentimentality, to that
obvious appeal to the emotions which takes its
strength from our common humanity, with its common
incidents—its battle, murder, and sudden death—and
so on. She did not accept these things at
their face value, or in what one may call their universal
aspect. In her inner mind—she was not very
articulate, or at all theoretical, about it—but in her
inner mind she seemed to re-value each of such
incidents by an individual and personal standard
which, in its coolness and intellectual detachment,
certainly approached what most of us good human
creatures—so ready to cry, as we are so ready to
laugh—would call a degree of callousness. There
was a considerable clear-sightedness in this disposition<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</SPAN></span>
of hers, but also fully that amount of error
which (as I suppose) our own personality always introduces
into our judgments of people. We see them
through our own spectacles, which sometimes harden
and sometimes soften the outlines of the objects regarded—among
which is included the wearer of the
spectacles.</p>
<p>She had loved Arsenio once; she had cleaved unto
him with a fidelity to which—in these days—her
own word “primitive” must be allowed to be the
most obviously applicable; remorse had smitten her
over her cruelty to him. All the same, in a measure
she erred about him, judging his love solely by
the standard of his conduct, his romance in the light
of his frivolity and shamelessness, his sensibility by
his failure adequately to understand a subtle and
specialized sensibility in herself. That, at least, was
the attitude to which her years of association with
him—now intimate, now distant and aloof—had
brought her. It was not, of course, to be attributed
in anything like its entirety to the girl whom he had
kissed at Cragsfoot, or whom he had loved at Venice,
or carried off from Waldo. Her final judgment
of him was the result of what is called, in quite another
connection, a progressive revelation.</p>
<p>Thus it happened that his tragic death was—to
put it moderately—no more tragic to her than it
was to me his friend rather by circumstances than
choice or taste, by interest and amusement more
than by affection. She took him at his word, so<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</SPAN></span>
to say, and accepted the note of ironical comedy
which he himself was responsible for importing into
the occurrence. Keen-eyed for that aspect, and in
a bitter way keenly appreciative of it, she was blind
to any other, and indeed reluctant to try to see it—almost
afraid that, even dead, he might befool
her again, still irremediably suspicious that he was
deceiving her by lies and posturings. As a result,
she was really and truly—in the depths of her soul—unmoved
by the catastrophe, and not unamused by
the trappings with which Arsenio had be-draped it—or,
rather, his previously rehearsed but never actually
presented, version of it.</p>
<p>For the outside observer—comparatively outside,
anyhow—and for the amateur of comedy and its
material—human foibles, prejudices, ambitions—there
was amusement to be had. As soon as Lucinda’s
decision to renounce the inheritance—except
the <i>palazzo</i> which, as she observed to me, had
been honestly come by, and honestly preserved by
being let out in lodgings—Arsenio’s last will and
testament became an animated topic of the day—and
a rather controversial one. The clericals and
their journals—Signor Panizzi’s black reactionaries
and pro-Austrians—paid lip-service to the ten
thousand lire for masses, but could not refrain from
some surprise at the choice of trustees which the
lamented Don Arsenio—a good Catholic and of
old noble stock—had made (the trustees were all
pestilent, as I had suspected); while the other side—the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</SPAN></span>
patriots, the enlightened, the radicals, the pestilents,
while most gratefully acknowledging his
munificence, and belauding the eminent gentlemen
to whom he had confided his trust, pointed out with
satisfaction how the spirit of progress and enlightenment
had proved too strong in the end even for
a man of Don Arsenio’s clerical antecedents and
proclivities. As for Signor Panizzi, both sides
agreed that his finger had been in the pie; his position
as first and dominating trustee was for the one
a formidable menace to, and for the other a sufficient
guarantee of, a wise, beneficial, and honest administration
of the fund.</p>
<p>Under the spur of this public interest and discussion,
Don Arsenio’s funeral assumed considerable
dimensions, and was in fact quite an affair—with a
sprinkling of “Blacks,” a larger sprinkling of “pestilents,”
a big crowd of curious Venetian citizens, a
religious service of much pomp conducted by Father
Garcia, followed at the graveside (the priests and
the “Blacks” having withdrawn with significant ceremony)
by a fiery panegyric from Signor Panizzi.
Altogether, when I next go to Venice, I shall not
be surprised to see a statue of Arsenio there; I hope
that the image will wear a smile on its face—a smile
of his old variety.</p>
<p>Lucinda did not attend the ceremony; it would
have been too much for her feelings—for some of
her feelings, at all events. But to my surprise I saw
Godfrey Frost there. I had been thrust, against<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</SPAN></span>
my will, into the position of one of the chief mourners;
he kept himself more in the background, and
did not join me until the affair was finished. Then
we extricated ourselves from the crowd as soon as
we could, and made our way back together, ending
up by sitting down to a cup of coffee on the Piazza.
I had seen and heard nothing of him since his disordered
exit from my apartment, just before the
catastrophe. I had indeed been inclined to conclude
that he had left Venice and, not thinking that his
condolences would be well received, had left none
behind him. But here he was—and in a gloomy
and disgruntled state of mind, as it seemed. He had
been thinking things over, no doubt—with the natural
conclusion that he had not got much profit or
pleasure out of the whole business, out of that acquaintance
with the Valdez’s, which he had once
pursued so ardently.</p>
<p>“I didn’t choose to seem to run away,” he told
me, “in case there was any investigation, or a trial,
or anything of that kind. Besides”—he added this
rather reluctantly—“I had a curiosity to see the
last of the fellow. But they tell me I shan’t be
wanted, as things have turned out, and I’m off to-morrow—going
home, Julius.”</p>
<p>There was evidently more that he wanted to say.
I smoked in silence.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to see Lucinda—Madame Valdez,”
he blurted out, after a pause. “But I wish you’d
just say that I’m sorry if I annoyed her. I’ve made<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</SPAN></span>
a fool of myself; I’m pretty good at business; but a
fool outside it—so far, at least. I don’t understand
what she was up to, but—well, I’m willing to suppose——”</p>
<p>I helped him out. “You’re willing to give a lady
the benefit of the doubt? It’s usual, you know. I’ve
very little doubt that she’ll make friends with you
now, if you like.”</p>
<p>He turned to me with a smile, rather sour, yet
shrewd. “Would you think that good enough yourself?”</p>
<p>At first I thought that he was questioning me as
to the state of my own affections. But the words
which he immediately added—in a more precise definition
of his question—showed that he was occupied
with his own more important case. “In my
place—situated as I am, you know?”</p>
<p>As a result of shock, or of meditation thereupon,
or of contemplation of the lamentable life and death
of Arsenio Valdez, Mr. Godfrey Frost was becoming
himself again! I do not think that the Wesleyan
strain had anything to do with the matter at this
stage. It was the Frost business instinct that had
revived, the business view. Godfrey might have
counted the world well lost for Lucinda’s love—at
all events, well risked; business-risked, so to put it.
But not for the mere friendship, the hope of which
I had held out to him. “In my place—situated as
I am.” The phrases carried a good deal to me, a
tremendous lot to him. The world—such a world<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</SPAN></span>
as his—was not to be lost, or bartered, for less
than a full recompense. After all, whoever did talk
of losing his world for friendship? Most people
think themselves meritorious if they lose a hundred
pounds on that score. And Godfrey had in all likelihood—the
precise figures were unknown—already
dropped a good deal more than that, and had taken
in return little but hard words and buffeting. No
wonder the Frost instinct looked suspiciously at any
further venture! Not of actual money, of course;
that stood only as a symbol; and to be even an adequate
symbol would have required immense multiplication.
If a symbol were to be used in any seriousness,
the old one served best—the old personification
of all that he, in an hour of urgent impulse,
had been willing to lose or to risk for Lucinda.</p>
<p>“Well, my dear fellow,” I said urbanely, “there
were always circumstances, to which we needn’t refer
in detail, that made any intimate acquaintance
between you and the Valdez’s—well, difficult. Affectation
to deny it! I’ve even felt it myself; of
course in a minor degree.”</p>
<p>“Why a minor degree?” he asked rather aggressively.
“If I’m Nina’s cousin, you’re Waldo’s!”</p>
<p>“There’s all the difference,” I said decisively,
though I was not at all prepared to put the difference
into words. However, I made a weak and
conventional effort: “Old Waldo’s so happy now
that he can’t bear any malice——”</p>
<p>He cut across the lame inadequacy of this explanation<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</SPAN></span>
(not that there wasn’t a bit of truth in it).</p>
<p>“I’m damned rich,” he observed moodily, “and
everybody behaves to me as if I was damned important—except
you and the Valdez’s, of course.
But I’m not free. Let’s have a liqueur to wash
down that coffee, shall we?”</p>
<p>I agreed, and we had one. It was not a moment
to refuse him creature comforts.</p>
<p>“I’m part of the concern,” he resumed, after a
large sip. “And jolly lucky to be, of course—I see
that. But it limits what one may call one’s independence.
It doesn’t matter a hang what you do,
Julius (This to me, London representative of Coldston’s!)—Oh,
privately, I mean, of course. But
with me, private life—well, family life, I mean—and
business are so infernally mixed up together.
Nina can’t absolutely give me the sack, but it would
be infernally inconvenient not to be on terms with
her.” He paused, and added impressively: “It
might in the end break up the business.”</p>
<p>One might as well think of breaking up the great
Pyramid or Mount Popocatepetl! Too large an order
even for an age of revolution!</p>
<p>“But you and Nina have nothing to quarrel
about,” I expostulated—dishonestly.</p>
<p>He eyed me, again smiling sourly. “Oh, come,
you know better than that!” his smile said, though
his tongue didn’t. “And, besides, it would upset
that idea that she and I talked over, and that rather<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</SPAN></span>
particularly attracted me. I think I spoke to you
about it? About Cragsfoot, you know.”</p>
<p>“Have you heard from Lady Dundrannan
lately?” I inquired.</p>
<p>“No—not since I left the Villa.” He made this
admission rather sulkily.</p>
<p>“Ah, then you’re not up-to-date! Cragsfoot’s all
arranged. I’m to have it.” And I told him about
the family arrangement.</p>
<p>Here I must confess to a bit of malicious triumph.
The things envisaged itself to me as a fight between
Rillington and Frost, and Rillington had won.
Waldo’s old allegiance had resisted complete absorption.
But my feeling was—at the moment—rather
ungenerous; he was a good deal humbled already.</p>
<p>He took the disappointment very well. “Well,
it was a fancy of mine, but of course you ought to
have the first call, if Waldo sells out. So you’ll be
living at Cragsfoot after Sir Paget’s death?” He
appeared to ruminate over this prospect.</p>
<p>“Yes—and I hope to be there a good deal of my
time, even before that.”</p>
<p>“With Nina and Waldo for your neighbors at
Briarmount?”</p>
<p>“Of course. Why not? What do you mean? I
shall see you there too sometimes, I hope.”</p>
<p>“I hope you’ll get on well with her.” He was
smiling still, though in a moody, malicious way—as
one is apt to smile when contemplating the difficulties<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</SPAN></span>
or vexations of others. “You and your family,”
he added the next moment. And with that
he rose from his chair. “No good asking you to
dine to-night, I suppose?” I shook my head. “No,
you’ll have to be on hand, of course! Well, good-by,
then. I’m off early to-morrow.” He held out his
hand. “It’ll interest Nina to hear about all this.”
He waved his hand round Venice, but no doubt he
referred especially to the death and burial of the
eminent Don Arsenio Valdez.</p>
<p>“Pray give her my best regards. Pave the way
for me as a neighbor, Godfrey!”</p>
<p>“Taking everything together, it’ll need a bit of
smoothing, perhaps.” He nodded to me, and
strolled away across the Piazza.</p>
<p>His words had given me material for a half-amused,
half-scared reflection—the mood which the
neighborhood of Lady Dundrannan—and much
more the possibility of any conflict with Lady Dundrannan—always
aroused in me. Sir Paget’s letter
had reflected—in a humor slightly spiced with restiveness—the
present relations between Cragsfoot
and Briarmount. What would they be with me in
residence, and presently in possession? With me
and my family there, as Godfrey Frost said? My
family which did not exist at present!</p>
<p>But I did not sit there reflecting. I paid for our
refreshments—Godfrey, in his preoccupation, had
omitted even to offer to do so—and went back to the
<i>palazzo</i>. Old Amedeo waylaid me in the hall and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</SPAN></span>
told me that Donna Lucinda had requested me to
pay her a visit as soon as I returned from the funeral;
but he prevented me from obeying her invitation
for a few minutes. He was in a state of
exultation that had to find expression.</p>
<p>“Ah, what a funeral! You saw me there? No!
But I was, of course. A triumph! The name of
Valdez will stand high in Venice henceforth! Oh,
I don’t like Panizzi and that lot, any more than
Father Garcia does. My sympathies are clerical.
None the less, it was remarkable! Alas, what
wouldn’t Don Arsenio have done if he hadn’t been
cut off in his youth!”</p>
<p>That was a question which I felt—and feel—quite
incapable of answering, save in the most general
and non-committal terms. “Something astonishing!”
I said with a nod, as I dodged past the
broad barrier of Amedeo’s figure and succeeded in
reaching the staircase.</p>
<p>Right up to the top of the tall old house I had
to go this time—past Father Garcia and his noble
“Black” friends, past the scene of the banquet and
the scene of the catastrophe. I think that Lucinda
must have been listening for my steps; she opened
the door herself before I had time to knock on it.</p>
<p>She was back in the needlewoman’s costume now—her
black frock, with her shawl about her shoulders.
Perhaps this attire solved the problem of
mourning in the easiest way; or perhaps it was a
declaration of her intentions. I did not wait to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</SPAN></span>
ask myself that; the expression of her face caught
my immediate attention. It was one of irrepressible
amusement—of the eager amusement which seeks
to share itself with another appreciative soul. She
caught me by the hand, and drew me in, leading me
through the narrow passage to the door of her sitting
room—much of a replica of Arsenio’s on the
floor below, though the ceiling was less lofty and
the windows narrower.</p>
<p>Then I saw what had evoked the expression on
her face. Between the windows, propped up
against the discolored old hangings on the wall,
stood the largest wreath of <i>immortelles</i> which I have
ever seen on or off a grave, in or out of a shop window;
and, occupying about half of the interior of
the circle, there was a shield, or plaque, of purple
velvet—Oh, very sumptuous!—bearing an inscription
in large letters of gold:</p>
<p>“To the Illustrious Donna Lucinda Valdez and
to the Immortal Memory of the Illustrious Señor
Don Arsenio Valdez, the City and Citizens of Venice
offer Gratitude and Homage.”</p>
<p>“Isn’t it—tremendous?” whispered Lucinda, her
arm now in mine.</p>
<p>“It certainly is some size,” I admitted, eyeing
the creation ruefully.</p>
<p>“No, no! The whole thing, I mean! Arsenio
himself! Oh, how I should like to tell them the
truth!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“The funeral too was—tremendous,” I remarked.
“But I suppose Amedeo’s told you?”</p>
<p>“Yes, he has! Also Father Garcia, who paid
me a visit of condolence. And a number of Arsenio’s
noble friends have sent condolences by stately,
seedy menservants. Oh, and those trustees have left
their cards, of course! Panizzi and the others!”</p>
<p>All this time we had been standing arm in arm,
opposite the portentous monument of grief, gratitude,
and homage. Now Lucinda withdrew her
hand from my arm, and sank into a chair.</p>
<p>“I’m having fame thrust upon me! I’m being
immortalized. The munificent widow of the munificent
Arsenio Valdez! I’m becoming a public character!
Oh, he is having his revenge on me, isn’t
he? Julius, I can’t stand it! I must fly from
Venice!”</p>
<p>My attention stuck on the monstrous wreath.
“What are you going to do with that?”</p>
<p>“I wonder if there would ever be a dark enough
night to tie a flat-iron to it, steal out with it round
our necks, and drop it in the Grand Canal!” Lucinda
speculated wistfully.</p>
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