From what I saw of him then and from what I heard from other people I made for myself what I think must have been a fairly accurate picture of the life he had led for the last fifteen years. It was certainly a very harmless one. He bathed; he walked a great deal, and he seemed never to lose his sense of the beauty of the island which he knew so intimately; he played the piano and he played patience; he read. When he was asked to a party he went and, though a trifle dull, was agreeable. He was not affronted if he was neglected. He liked people, but with an aloofness that prevented intimacy. He lived thriftily, but with sufficient comfort. He never owed a penny. I imagine he had never been a man whom s.e.x had greatly troubled, and if in his younger days he had had now and then a pa.s.sing affair with a visitor to the island whose head was turned by the atmosphere, his emotion, while it lasted, remained, I am pretty sure, well under his control. I think he was determined that nothing should interfere with his independence of spirit. His only pa.s.sion was for the beauty of nature, and he sought felicity in the simple and natural things that life offers to everyone. You may say that it was a grossly selfish existence. It was. He was of no use to anybody, but on the other hand he did n.o.body any harm. His only object was his own happiness, and it looked as though he had attained it. Very few people know where to look for happiness; fewer still find it. I don"t know whether he was a fool or a wise man. He was certainly a man who knew his own mind. The odd thing about him to me was that he was so immensely commonplace. I should never have given him a second thought but for what I knew, that on a certain day, ten years from then, unless a chance illness cut the thread before, he must deliberately take leave of the world he loved so well. I wondered whether it was the thought of this, never quite absent from his mind, that gave him the peculiar zest with which he enjoyed every moment of the day.
I should do him an injustice if I omitted to state that he was not at all in the habit of talking about himself I think the friend I was staying with was the only person in whom he had confided. I believe he only told me the story because he suspected I already knew it, and on the evening on which he told it me he had drunk a good deal of wine.
My visit drew to a close and I left the island. The year after, war broke out. A number of things happened to me, so that the course of my life was greatly altered, and it was thirteen years before I went to Capri again. My friend had been back some time, but he was no longer so well off, and had moved into a house that had no room for me; so I was putting up at the hotel. He came to meet me at the boat and we dined together. During dinner I asked him where exactly his house was.
"You know it," he answered. "It"s the little place Wilson had. I"ve built on a room and made it quite nice."
With so many other things to occupy my mind I had not given Wilson a thought for years; but now, with a little shock, I remembered. The ten years he had before him when I made his acquaintance must have elapsed long ago. Did he commit suicide as he said he would?"
"It"s rather a grim story."
Wilson"s plan was all right. There was only one flaw in it and this, I suppose, he could not have foreseen. It had never occurred to him that after twenty-five years of complete happiness, in this quiet backwater, with nothing in the world to disturb his serenity, his character would gradually lose its strength. The will needs obstacles in order to exercise its power; when it is never thwarted, when no effort is needed to achieve ones desires, because one has placed one"s desires only in the things that can be obtained by stretching out one"s hand, the will grows impotent. If you walk on a level all the time the muscles you need to climb a mountain will atrophy. These observations are trite, but there they are. When Wilson"s annuity expired he had no longer the resolution to make the end which was the price he had agreed to pay for that long period of happy tranquillity. I do not think, as far as I could gather, both from what my friend told me and afterwards from others, that he wanted courage. It was just that he couldn"t make up his mind. He put it off from day to day.
He had lived on the island for so long and had always settled his accounts so punctually that it was easy for him to get credit; never having borrowed money before, he found a number of people who were willing to lend him small sums when now he asked for them. He had paid his rent regularly for so many years that his landlord, whose wife a.s.sunta still acted as his servant, was content to let things slide for several months. Everyone believed him when he said that a relative had died and that he was temporarily embarra.s.sed because owing to legal formalities he could not for some time get the money that was due to him. He managed to hang on after this fashion for something over a year. Then he could get no more credit from the local tradesmen, and there was no one to lend him any more money. His landlord gave him notice to leave the house unless he paid up arrears of rent before a certain date.
The day before this he went into his tiny bedroom, closed the door and the window, drew the curtain, and lit a brazier of charcoal. Next morning when a.s.sunta came to make his breakfast she found him insensible but still alive. The room was draughty, and though he had done this and that to keep out the fresh air he had not done it very thoroughly. It almost looked as though at the last moment, and desperate though his situation was, he had suffered from a certain infirmity of purpose. Wilson was taken to the hospital, and though very ill for some time he at last recovered. But as a result either of the charcoal poisoning or of the shock he was no longer in complete possession of his faculties. He was not insane, at all events not insane enough to be put in an asylum, but he was quite obviously no longer in his right mind.
"I went to see him," said my friend. "I tried to get him to talk, but he kept looking at me in a funny sort of way, as though he couldn"t quite make out where he"d seen me before. He looked rather awful lying there in bed, with a week"s growth of grey beard on his chin; but except for that funny look in his eyes he seemed quite normal."
"What funny look in his eyes?"
"I don"t know exactly how to describe it. Puzzled. It"s an absurd comparison, but suppose you threw a stone up into the air and it didn"t come down but just stayed there "It would be rather bewildering," I smiled.
"Well, that"s the sort of look he had."
It was difficult to know what to do with him. He had no money and no means of getting any. His effects were sold, but for too little to pay what he owed. He was English, and the Italian authorities did not wish to make themselves responsible for him. The British Consul in Naples had no funds to deal with the case. He could of course be sent back to England, but no one seemed to know what could be done with him when he got there. Then a.s.sunta, the servant, said that he had been a good master and a good tenant, and as long as he had the money had paid his way; he could sleep in the woodshed in the cottage in which she and her husband lived, and he could share their meals. This was suggested to him. It was difficult to know whether he understood or not. When a.s.sunta came to take him from the hospital he went with her without remark. He seemed to have no longer a will of his own. She had been keeping him now for two years.
"It"s not very comfortable, you know," said my friend. "They"ve rigged him up a ramshackle bed and given him a couple of blankets, but there"s no window, and it"s icy cold in winter and like an oven in summer. And the food"s pretty rough. You know how these peasants eat: macaroni on Sundays and meat once in a blue moon."
"What does he do with himself all the time?"
"He wanders about the hills. I"ve tried to see him two or three times, but it"s no good; when he sees you coming he runs like a hare. a.s.sunta comes down to have a chat with me now and then and I give her a bit of money so that she can buy him tobacco, but G.o.d knows if he ever gets it."
"Do they treat him all right?" I asked.
"I"m sure a.s.sunta"s kind enough. She treats him like a child. I"m afraid her husband"s not very nice to him. He grudges the cost of his keep. I don"t believe he"s cruel or anything like that, but I think he"s a bit sharp with him. He makes him fetch water and clean the cow-shed and that sort of thing."
"It sounds pretty rotten," I said.
"He brought it on himself After all, he"s only got what he deserved."
"I think on the whole we all get what we deserve," I said. "But that doesn"t prevent its being rather horrible."
Two or three days later my friend and I were taking a walk. We were strolling along a narrow path through an olive grove.
"There"s Wilson," said my friend suddenly. "Don"t look, you"ll only frighten him. Go straight on."
I walked with my eyes on the path, but out of the corners of them I saw a man hiding behind an olive tree. He did not move as we approached, but I felt that he was watching us. As soon as we had pa.s.sed I heard a scamper. Wilson, like a hunted animal, had made for safety. That was the last I ever saw of him.
He died last year. He had endured that life for six years. He was found one morning on the mountainside lying quite peacefully as though he had died in his sleep. From where he lay he had been able to see those two great rocks called the Faraglioni which stand out of the sea. It was full moon and he must have gone to see them by moonlight. Perhaps he died of the beauty of that night.
THE WASH-TUB.
Positano stands on the side of a steep hill, a disarray of huddled white houses, their tiled roofs washed pale by the suns of a hundred years; but unlike many of these Italian towns perched out of harm"s way on a rocky eminence it does not offer you at one delightful glance all it has to give. It has quaint streets that zigzag up the hill, and battered, painted houses in the baroque style, but very late, in which Neapolitan n.o.blemen led for a season lives of penurious grandeur. It is indeed almost excessively picturesque and in winter its two or three modest hotels are crowded with painters, male and female, who in their different ways acknowledge by their daily labours the emotion it has excited in them. Some take infinite pains to place on canvas every window and every tile their peering eyes can discover and doubtless achieve the satisfaction that rewards honest industry. "At all events it"s sincere," they say modestly when they show you their work. Some, rugged and dashing, in a fine frenzy attack their canvas with a pallet knife charged with a wad of paint, and they say: "You see, what I was trying to bring out was my personality." They slightly close their eyes and tentatively murmur: "I think it"s rather me, don"t you?" And there are some who give you highly entertaining arrangements of spheres and cubes and utter sombrely: "That"s how I see it!" These for the most part are strong silent men who waste no words.
But Positano looks full south and the chances are that in summer you will have it to yourself The hotel is clean and cool and there is a terrace, overhung with vines, where you can sit at night and look at the sea bespangled with dim stars. Down at the Marine, on the quay, is a little tavern where you can dine under an archway off anchovies and ham, macaroni and fresh-caught mullet, and drink cold wine. Once a day the steamer from Naples comes in, bringing the mail, and for a quarter of an hour gives the beach (there is no port and the pa.s.sengers are landed in small boats) an air of animation.
One August, tiring of Capri where I had been staying, I made up my mind to spend a few days at Positano, so I hired a fishing-boat and rowed over. I stopped on the way in a shady cove to bathe and lunch and sleep, and did not arrive till evening. I strolled up the hill, my two bags following me on the heads of two st.u.r.dy women, to the hotel, and was surprised to learn that I was not its only guest. The waiter, whose name was Giuseppe, was an old friend of mine, and at that season he was boots, porter, chambermaid, and cook as well. He told me that an American signore had been staying there for three months.
"Is he a painter or writer or something?" I asked.
"No, Signore, he"s a gentleman."
Odd, I thought. No foreigners came to Positano at that time of year but German Wanderoogel, looking hot and dusty, with satchels on their backs, and they only stayed overnight. I could not imagine anyone wishing to spend three months there; unless of course he were hiding. And since all London had been excited by the flight earlier in the year of an eminent, but dishonest, financier, the amusing thought occurred to me that this mysterious stranger was perhaps he. I knew him slightly and trusted that my sudden arrival would not disconcert him.
"You"ll see the Signore at the Marina," said Giuseppe, as I was setting out to go down again. "He always dines there."
He was certainly not there when I arrived. I asked what there was for dinner and drank an americano, which is by no means a bad subst.i.tute for a c.o.c.ktail. In a few minutes, however, a man walked in who could be no other than my fellow-guest at the hotel and I had a moment"s disappointment when I saw that it was not the absconding financier. A tall, elderly man, bronzed after his summer on the Mediterranean, with a handsome, thin face. He wore a very neat, even smart, suit of cream-coloured silk and no hat. His grey hair was cut very short, but was still thick. There was ease in his bearing, and elegance. He looked round the half-dozen tables under the archway at which the natives of the place were playing cards or dominoes and his eyes rested on me. They smiled pleasantly. He came up.
"I hear you have just arrived at the hotel. Giuseppe suggested that as he couldn"t come down here to effect an introduction you wouldn"t mind if I introduced myself Would it bore you to dine with a total stranger?"
"Of course not. Sit down."
He turned to the maid who was laying a cover for me and in beautiful Italian told her that I would eat with him. He looked at my americano.
"I have got them to stock a little gin and French vermouth for me. Would you allow me to mix you a very dry Martini?"
"Without hesitation."
"It gives an exotic note to the surroundings which brings out the local colour."
He certainly made a very good c.o.c.ktail and with added appet.i.te we ate the ham and anchovies with which our dinner began. My host had a pleasant humour and his fluent conversation was agreeable.
"You must forgive me if I talk too much," he said presently. "This is the first chance I"ve had to speak English for three months. I don"t suppose you will stay here long and I mean to make the most of it."
"Three months is a long time to stay at Positano."
"I"ve hired a boat and I bathe and fish. I read a great deal. I have a good many books here and if there"s anything I can lend you I shall be very glad."
"I think I have enough reading matter. But I should love to look at what you have. It"s always fun looking at other people"s books."
He gave me a sharp look and his eyes twinkled.
"It also tells you a good deal about them," he murmured.
When we finished dinner we went on talking. The stranger was well-read and interested in a diversity of topics. He spoke with so much knowledge of painting that I wondered if he was an art critic or a dealer. But then it appeared that he had been reading Suetonius and I came to the conclusion that he was a college professor. I asked him his name.
"Barnaby," he answered.
"That"s a name that has recently acquired an amazing celebrity."
"Oh, how so?"
"Have you never heard of the celebrated Mrs Barnaby? She"s a compatriot of yours."
"I admit that I"ve seen her name in the papers rather frequently of late. Do you know her?"
"Yes, quite well. She gave the grandest parties all last season and I went to them whenever she asked me. Everyone did. She"s an astounding woman. She came to London to do the season, and, by George, she did it. She just swept everything before her."
"I understand she"s very rich?"
"Fabulously, I believe, but it"s not that that has made her success. Plenty of American women have money. Mrs Barnaby has got where she has by sheer force of character. She never pretends to be anything but what she is. She"s natural. She"s priceless. You know her history, of course?"
My friend smiled.
"Mrs Barnaby may be a great celebrity in London, but to the best of my belief in America she is almost inconceivably unknown."
I smiled also, but within me; I could well imagine how shocked this distinguished and cultured man would be by the rollicking humour, the frankness, with its tang of the soil, and the rich and vital experience of the amazing Mrs Barnaby.
"Well, I"ll tell you about her. Her husband appears to be a very rough diamond; he"s a great hulking fellow, she says, who could fell a steer with his fist. He"s known in Arizona as One-Bullet Mike."
"Good gracious! Why?"
"Well, years ago in the old days he killed two men with a single shot She says he"s handier with his gun even now than any man West of the Rockies. He"s a miner, but he"s been a cowpuncher, a gun-runner, and G.o.d knows what in his day."
"A thoroughly Western type," said my professor a trifle acidly, I thought.
"Something of a desperado, I imagine. Mrs Barnaby"s stories about him are a real treat. Of course everyone"s been begging her to let him come over, but she says he"d never leave the wide open s.p.a.ces. He struck oil a year or two ago and now he"s got all the money in the world. He must be a great character. I"ve heard her keep the whole dinner-table spellbound when she"s talked of the old days when they roughed it together. It gives you quite a thrill when you see this grey-haired woman, not at all pretty, but exquisitely dressed, with the most wonderful pearls, and hear her tell how she washed the miners" clothes and cooked for the camp. Your American women have an adaptability that"s really stupendous. When you see Mrs Barnaby sitting at the head of her table, perfectly at home with princes of the blood, amba.s.sadors, cabinet ministers, and the duke of this and the duke of that, it seems almost incredible that only a few years ago she was cooking the food of seventy miners."
"Can she read or write?"
"I suppose her invitations are written by her secretary, but she"s by no means an ignorant woman. She told me she used to make a point of reading for an hour every night after the fellows in camp had gone to bed."
"Remarkable!"
"On the other hand One-Bullet Mike only learnt to write his name when he suddenly found himself under the necessity of signing cheques."
We walked up the hill to our hotel and before separating for the night arranged to take our luncheon with us next day and row over to a cove that my friend had discovered. We spent a charming day bathing, reading, eating, sleeping, and talking, and we dined together in the evening. The following morning, after breakfast on the terrace, I reminded Barnaby of his promise to show me his books.
"Come right along."
I accompanied him to his bedroom, where Giuseppe, the waiter, was making his bed. The first thing I caught sight of was a photograph in a gorgeous frame of the celebrated Mrs Barnaby. My friend caught sight of it too and suddenly turned pale with anger.
"You fool, Giuseppe. Why have you taken that photograph out of my wardrobe? Why the devil did you think I put it away?"
"I didn"t know, Signore. That"s why I put it back on the Signore"s table. I thought he liked to see the portrait of his signora."
I was staggered.
"Is my Mrs Barnaby your wife?" I cried.
She is."
"Good Lord, are you One-Bullet Mike?"
Do I look it?"
I began to laugh.
"I"m bound to say you don"t."
I glanced at his hands. He smiled grimly and held them out.
"No, sir. I have never felled a steer with my naked fist."
For a moment we stared at one another in silence.
"She"ll never forgive me," he moaned. She wanted me to take a false name, and when I wouldn"t she was quite vexed with me. She said it wasn"t safe. I said it was bad enough to hide myself in Positano for three months, but I"d be d.a.m.ned if I"d use any other name than my own." He hesitated. "I throw myself on your mercy. I can do nothing but trust to your generosity not to disclose a secret that you have discovered by the most unlikely chance."
"I will be as silent as the grave, but honestly I don"t understand. What does it all mean?"
"I am a doctor by profession and for the last thirty years my wife and I have lived in Pennsylvania. I don"t know if I have struck you as a roughneck, but I venture to say that Mrs Barnaby is one of the most cultivated women I have ever known. Then a cousin of hers died and left her a very large fortune. There"s no mistake about that. My wife is a very, very rich woman. She has always read a great deal of English fiction and her one desire was to have a London season and entertain and do all the grand things she had read about in books. It was her money and although the prospect did not particularly tempt me, I was very glad that she should gratify her wish. We sailed last April. The young Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Hereford happened to be on board."
"I know. It was they who first launched Mrs Barnaby. They were crazy about her. They"ve boomed her like an army of press-agents."
"I was ill when we sailed, I had a carbuncle which confined me to my stateroom, and Mrs Barnaby was left to look after herself Her deck-chair happened to be next the d.u.c.h.ess"s, and from a remark she overheard it occurred to her that the English aristocracy were not so wrapped up in our social leaders as one might have expected. My wife is a quick little woman and she remarked to me that if you had an ancestor who signed Magna Carta perhaps you were not excessively impressed because the grandfather of one of your acquaintances sold skunks and the grandfather of another ran ferryboats. My wife has a very keen sense of humour. Getting into conversation with the d.u.c.h.ess, she told her a little Western anecdote, and to make it more interesting told it as having happened to herself Its success was immediate. The d.u.c.h.ess begged for another and my wife ventured a little further. Twenty-four hours later she had the duke and d.u.c.h.ess eating out of her hand. She used to come down to my stateroom at intervals and tell me of her progress. In the innocence of my heart, I was tickled to death and since I had nothing else to do, I sent to the library for the works of Bret Harte and primed her with effective touches."
I slapped my forehead.
"We said she was as good as Bret Harte," I cried.
"I had a grand time thinking of the consternation of my wife"s friends when at the end of the voyage I appeared and we told them the truth. But I reckoned without my wife. The day before we reached Southampton Mrs Barnaby told me that the Herefords were arranging parties for her. The d.u.c.h.ess was crazy to introduce her to all sorts of wonderful people. It was a chance in a thousand; but of course I should spoil everything, she admitted that she had been forced by the course of events to represent me as very different from what I was. I did not know that she had already transformed me into One-Bullet Mike, but I had a shrewd suspicion that she had forgotten to mention that I was on board. Well, to make a long story short, she asked me to go to Paris for a week or two till she had consolidated her position. I didn"t mind that. I was much more inclined to do a little work at the Sorbonne than to go to parties in Mayfair, and so leaving her to go on to Southampton, I got off at Cherbourg. But when I had been in Paris ten days she flew over to see me. She told me that her success had exceeded her wildest dreams: it was ten times more wonderful than any of the novels; but my appearance would ruin it all. Very well, I said, I would stay in Paris. She didn"t like the idea of that; she said she"d never have a moment"s peace so long as I was so near and I might run across someone who knew me. I suggested Vienna or Rome. They wouldn"t do either, and at last I came here and here have I been hiding like a criminal for three interminable months."
"Do you mean to say you never killed the two gamblers, shooting one with your right hand and the other with your left?"
"Sir, I have never fired a pistol in my life."
"And what about the attack on your log-cabin by the Mexican bandits when your wife loaded your guns for you and you stood the siege for three days till the Federal troops rescued you?"
Mr Barnaby smiled grimly.