VIII
“How is the work at the library progressing?”
Helen asked her husband at breakfast a few mornings later.
“Famously,” Armstrong replied, pleased that she had referred to the subject.
“Is it nearly finished?”
“Finished?” Jack laughed indulgently. “You evidently don’t realize what a big thing I have undertaken. I find myself appalled by its possibilities.”
“Indeed.” Uncle Peabody looked up surprised. “Does this mean that you are likely to lengthen your stay in Florence beyond your original plans?”
“No, I think not,” Armstrong replied. “We have been here less than a month now, and I ought to be able to put my material into shape during the two months which remain—especially with the splendid assistance Miss Thayer is giving me. I can add the finishing touches after we return home, if necessary.”
“Will it take as long as that?” asked Helen, her color mounting.
“Surely you are not counting upon me for any such length of time!” exclaimed Inez, almost in the same breath. “My cousins are expecting me to join them in Berlin any day now.”
“You would not desert your post of duty?”
“I must follow the direction toward which it points.”
“Just what is this ‘big thing’ you have undertaken?” interrupted Uncle Peabody. “You forget that I have not yet been taken into your confidence.”
Armstrong turned to his questioner seriously. “I have really stumbled upon something which has not been done before and which ought to have been undertaken long ago. You see, Cerini has there at the library hundreds of letters which belong to the Buonarroti archives. Many of them were written by Michelangelo, and many more were written to him. The correspondence is between him and men in all walks of life—popes, kings, princes, tradesmen, and even some from the workmen in the Carrara quarries.”
“And you and Miss Thayer are translating these letters?” Uncle Peabody anticipated.
“Yes; but that is not the work which most interests me, except indirectly. Any number of volumes have been published upon the life and manners and customs of every age before and since that in which Michelangelo lived, yet practically nothing concerning this particular period. The artistic importance of the epoch has been written up with minute detail, but the intimate life of the people and its significance seems to have been wholly overlooked—probably because it was overshadowed. Very few of these letters have ever been printed, and they ought to form the basis of a great work upon this subject. Cerini has turned them over to me to see what I can do with them. At first I started with the idea of going through everything myself, but that would be a hopeless task unless we plan to live in Florence indefinitely. Now, Miss Thayer reads over the letters and takes out the important data, leaving me free to work on the book itself. We are really making splendid progress, and I shall be bitterly disappointed if Miss Thayer has to go away and leave me to finish it alone.”
“I am sure Inez will stay as long as she can, Jack,” Helen said, quietly. “She knows how welcome she has been, but we must not urge her beyond what she thinks is best.”
She broke off suddenly; then, with an assumed nonchalance, said: “I wonder if I could not help in some way and thus get the work completed just that much sooner. Of course, I don’t understand Italian, but perhaps I could do some copying or something. Don’t you think three would accomplish more than two, Jack, even if one of them was a weak sister?”
Helen looked over to her husband with obvious expectancy, but she could not fail to notice the momentary hush.
“I know how ridiculous my proposition sounds,” she continued, bravely, “but I would really like to try.”
“Why, of course,” Armstrong replied, hastily. “Miss Thayer’s suggestion to leave and your willingness at last to come to my rescue have combined to give me two unexpected shocks—one unpleasant, the other delightful. Let me see. Miss Thayer and I have been developing a kind of team work, so this means a little readjustment.”
“Never mind, if it is not perfectly convenient.” Helen made an effort to appear indifferent.
“Of course it is convenient,” Jack hastened to add, ashamed of his hesitation. “You know how much I have wanted you to do this, and I am perfectly delighted. I am sure it can be arranged and that you can help us a great deal.”
“I wish you knew Italian, Helen, so that you could take my place,” added Inez. “Then Mr. Armstrong would not accuse me of deserting my post of duty.”
“Not at all,” protested Armstrong, impulsively. “Even then I could not get along without your assistance. We can easily find something for Helen to do which will help the work along and encourage her in her budding enthusiasm. This is splendid! Helen interested at last in my dusty old divinities! Perhaps we can even infect Uncle Peabody.”
“Perhaps,” assented Uncle Peabody; “but for the present I shall devote myself to my own researches—even though your masterpiece is forced to suffer thereby. But I will ride down with you as far as the Duomo.”
No one in the automobile, unless it was the chauffeur, could help feeling a certain tenseness in the situation as the car conveyed the party to its destination. Helen’s action was the result of a sudden decision, quite at variance with all the conclusions at which she had arrived during the wakeful hours of the preceding nights. Armstrong had so long since given up all thought of having his wife co-operate with him in this particular expression of himself, and the work upon which he and Miss Thayer were engaged had settled down into so regular a routine, that he was really disturbed by Helen’s change of base, although he had been entirely unwilling to admit it. Inez inwardly resented the intrusion, at the same time blaming herself severely for her attitude; and Uncle Peabody, who saw in the whole affair only a clever ruse on Helen’s part instigated by a tardily aroused jealousy, was in danger, for the first time, of not knowing just what to do.
As a result of all these conflicting emotions, the efforts at conversation during the ride would have seemed ludicrous had the situation been less serious. Armstrong kept up a continuous and irrelevant conversation into which each of the others joined weakly with equal irrelevance. Each was trying to talk and think at the same time. The car reached the Piazza del Duomo almost abruptly, as it seemed, and Uncle Peabody alighted with considerable alacrity, waving a good-bye which was mechanically acknowledged as the machine slowly moved into the narrow Borgo San Lorenzo. At the library, Armstrong led the way through the cloister and up the stone stairs to the little door where Maritelli was this time waiting to give them entrance.
“I will take you to meet Cerini,” said Armstrong.
“While I,” interrupted Inez, “will seek out our table and get all in readiness for our triple labors.”
A gentle voice called “Avanti,” in answer to Jack’s tap upon the door of Cerini’s study, and the old man rose hastily as he saw a new figure by Armstrong’s side.
“My wife, padre.” Jack smiled at the admiration in Cerini’s face as he took Helen’s hand and raised it to his lips. “She could not longer resist the magnet which draws us to you and to your treasures.”
“Your wife,” repeated the old man, looking from Helen to Armstrong. “I have looked forward to this day when I might meet her here. But where is your sister-worker? Surely she has not given up the splendid task which she has so well begun?”
Helen flushed consciously at Cerini’s praise of Inez. “No, father; Miss Thayer is already at her work, and Mr. Armstrong is equally eager to return to it. May I not stay a little while with you?”
“Have you time to show her some of the things here which we know and love so well?” asked Armstrong.
“Most certainly.”
He turned to Helen. “If you will accept my guidance we can let these humanists resume their labors while we enjoy the accomplishments of those who have gone before.”
Armstrong left them, and Cerini conducted Helen through the library, explaining to her the various objects of interest. It was quite apparent to Helen that the old man was studying her minutely, and she felt ill at ease in spite of his unfailing courtesy.
“You have known my husband for a long while, have you not?” Helen asked as they passed from one case to another.
“Yes, indeed—even before he came to know himself.”
“Then you must know him very well.”
Helen smiled, but the old man was serious.
“Better than you know him, even though you are his wife. But see this choir-book. It was illuminated by Lorenzo Monaco, teacher of Fra Angelico. Can anything be more wonderful than these miniatures, in the beauty of their line and color?”
Helen assented with a show of interest, but she was not thinking of the blazoned page before her. The old man’s words were burning in her heart. Passing through a smaller room to reach Cerini’s study, they came suddenly to a corner lighted only by a small window where Armstrong and Inez were at work. So intent were they that the approach of Helen and the librarian had not been noticed. Cerini held up his hand warningly.
“Quiet!” he commanded, softly. “Let us not disturb them. I have never seen two individualities cast in so identical a mould. One sometimes sees it in two men, but rarely in a man and a woman.”
Helen felt her breath come faster as she watched them for a moment longer. Inez was pointing out something in the text of the original letter which lay before them. Armstrong’s head was bent, studying it intently. Then Inez spoke, and her companion answered loud enough for Helen to hear.
“Splendid! And to think that we are the first ones to put these facts together!”
The expression of sheer joy upon her husband’s face held Helen spellbound, and Cerini was obliged to repeat his suggestion that they return to his study by another route.
“It is just as you have seen it, day after day,” said the librarian as he closed the door quietly, and Helen seated herself in the Savonarola chair beside his desk. “When I heard from him that he was to be married I hoped that his wife might be able to enter into this joy of his life; but, since that could not be, it is well that he has found a friend so sympathetic.”
Helen told herself that the old man could not intend deliberately to wound her as he was doing.
“Why are you so sure that his wife cannot enter into it also?” she asked, quietly.
Cerini looked at her in evident surprise. “Because what I have seen during these weeks, and what you have seen to-day, can happen but once in a lifetime. You are more beautiful than his companion, but you are not so intellectual.”
It was impossible to take offence at the old man’s frankness because of his absolute sincerity. He spoke of her beauty exactly as he spoke of one of the magnificent bindings he had just shown her, and of Inez’ intellectuality as if it were the content of one of his priceless tomes.
“I came to the library to-day for the definite purpose of joining in their work—” Helen began, hesitatingly.
“Surely not!” replied Cerini, emphatically. “You would not disturb these labors which mean so much in the development of them both? It would mean stopping them where they are.”
“Could I not assist them at some point, even to a slight extent, and participate in this development myself?”
Cerini was mildly indulgent at her lack of understanding. “My daughter,” he said, kindly, “some one has written that it is no kindness to a spider, no matter how gentle the touch, to aid it in the spinning of its web. Any one can work at translating, truly—almost any one can write a book—but few can accomplish what your husband and Miss Thayer are doing now. The book they are engaged upon in itself is the least of value. They do not themselves realize, as I do, that it is the influence of this work upon their own characters which is making it a success. They were humanists before they knew the meaning of the word. They come into the highest expression of themselves here in this atmosphere. You were born for other things, my daughter—perhaps far more important things—but not for this.”
“You cannot understand, father,” Helen replied, desperately. “I am his wife, and it is my place, rather than that of any other woman, to share with him any development which affects his life as deeply as you say this does. It must be so.”
“Forgive me if I offend you, but this is not a matter which you or I can settle. It is perhaps natural that I cannot understand your viewpoint. The nature of my life and work gives me little knowledge of women; but this is not a question of sex—it is the kinship of intellects. You are his wife, and, as you say, it is your privilege to share with your husband any development, but it must be along a path which you are able to tread. I mean this in no unkind way, my daughter. I doubt not that you, perhaps, in all other ways, are quite capable of doing so, but this one single portion of his life it is quite impossible that you should share.”
Helen had no response. Her heart told her that all Cerini said was literally true. She felt herself to be absolutely unfitted to understand or to supplement that particular expression of her husband’s character. But the matter-of-fact suggestion of the librarian that Inez should fulfil to him that which she, his wife, lacked, almost paralyzed her power to think or speak. Cerini seemed instinctively to read what was passing through her mind.
“You think me unreal, my daughter—you think me impractical. I may be both. Here, within these old walls, I am not limited by the world’s conventions, so perhaps I disregard them more than is right. Those whom I love signify nothing to me as to their personal appearance or their families or their personalities except in so far as these attributes may be expressions of themselves. Life to me would not be worth the living if in debating whether or not I ought to do a certain thing I was obliged to consider also what the world would think or what some other person might think. Let me ask you a question: Was your motive in coming here this morning the result of a desire to put yourself in touch with the spirit of your husband’s work, or was it to separate these two persons in the labor they have undertaken?”
Cerini’s question brought Helen to herself.
“If you are really free from the world’s conventions,” she responded, quickly, “you will understand my answer. My husband is everything to me that a wife could ask, and his happiness is the highest object my life contains. Miss Thayer is the dearest friend I have, and my affection for her is second only to the love I bear my husband. While this side of his nature was not unknown to me, until we came to Florence—even until to-day—I have never fully appreciated its intensity. Yet when I feel that to a certain extent, at least, his welfare depends upon a gratification of this expression, is it unnatural that I, his wife, should wish to be the one person to experience that development with him?”
“You did not feel this strong desire when you first came to Florence?”
“I did not understand it.”
“Would your present comprehension have come at all if his companion had been a man rather than a woman?”
Helen flushed. “You are not so free from the world’s conventions as you think.”
“But you do not answer the question,” the old man pursued, relentlessly.
“You think, then, that my desire is prompted by jealousy? Let us speak frankly,” continued Helen as Cerini held up his hand deprecatingly. “The distinction in my own mind may be a fine one and difficult for another to comprehend, but I can say truly that no jealous thought has entered into any of my considerations. I could not love my husband and be jealous of him at the same time. On the other hand, it is probably quite true that were his companion a man I should not have recognized so strongly the importance of joining him in this particular work.”
Cerini rose quietly, and took from the bookcase near his desk a copy of a modern classic.
“The author has expressed an idea here which I think explains your position exactly.” He turned the pages quickly. “See here,” he said, drawing closer to Helen and pointing to a paragraph marked with a double score in the margin. “‘No man objects to the admiration his wife receives from his friends; it is the woman herself who makes the trouble.’ Now I suppose the reverse of that proposition is equally true.”
Helen smiled. “You mean that the reason I am not jealous of my husband in this instance is because he has given me no occasion?”
“Exactly.”
“That is perfectly true.”
“But you fear that it may not always be true?”
Helen was no match for the old man in argument, yet she struggled to meet him.
“Perhaps,” she said; “there is always that danger. Why not avoid it by making this other companionship unnecessary?”
“But suppose you yourself are not temperamentally fitted to gratify this particular craving in your husband’s life?” Cerini watched the effect of his words upon his companion. She was silent for several moments before she raised her eyes to his.
“I know that you are right,” she answered, simply. “I have felt it always, but my husband has insisted that in my case it was lack of application rather than of temperament. I came here to-day to try the experiment, and you have shown me that my own judgment is correct.”
“It is correct,” agreed Cerini, delighted by Helen’s unexpected acquiescence. “It was your husband’s heart rather than his head which led him astray in his advice. You have just shown me your intelligence by coming so promptly to this conclusion; now you are going to manifest your devotion to him by leaving him undisturbed in this work which he has undertaken. It can only last during a limited period at best. It is the expression of but one side of his nature. Before many weeks have passed you and he will be returning to your great country into a complexity of conditions where this experience will become only a memory. These conditions will call to the surface the expression of his other characteristics into which you can fully enter. By not interfering with this character-building now going on, you, his wife, will later reap rich returns.”
A tap sounded on the door of the study.
“There is your husband now,” said Cerini, taking Helen’s hand. “Tell me that you forgive me for my frankness.”
Helen pressed his hand silently as he turned from her to admit Armstrong.
“Here you are!” cried Jack, as he entered with Inez. “We became so engrossed that I am ashamed to say I completely forgot our new convert.”
“Your forgetfulness has given me the opportunity to become well acquainted with your charming wife,” replied Cerini. “Is your work completed for the day?”
“Yes, but we shall be at it again to-morrow. You will come with us of course?” he asked, turning to his wife.
“I am not quite sure, Jack,” Helen replied. “Monsignor Cerini has suggested to me another way in which I can help you, which may prove to be equally important.”
She turned to Inez with an unflinching smile. “Our friend has been explaining to me the nature of what you and Jack are doing together. You must certainly plan to stay on for a while longer. I am sure Jack could never finish it without you.”