A Likely Story

by William De Morgan

Of course you recollect that Mr. Pelly, when he came back from his great-grandniece's wedding at Cowcester, was to read the manuscript Professor Schrudengesser had sent him from Florence, which had been the probable cause of all that fantastic dream-story he wrote out so cleverly from memory? Dear Uncle Christopher!—how lucky he should recollect it all like that! Especially now that it had all turned out real, because where was the use of denying it after Mrs. Aiken had heard the photograph speak, too? If a mere photograph could make itself audible, of course a picture could—the original!

Mr. Pelly's reading of Professor Schrudengesser's translation of the Florentine manuscript was fixed for the evening after Madeline's return to Surley Stakes. Uncle Christopher dined alone with his adopted niece and her parents, after which he was to read the manuscript aloud in the library where the picture was hanging. This was a sine qua non to Madeline. The picture simply must hear that story. But of course she said nothing of the reasons of her increased curiosity on this point to anyone, not even to Mr. Pelly himself.

Behold, therefore, the family and the old gentleman settling down to enjoy the manuscript before the picture and the log-fire beneath it. The reader preliminarises, of course; wavering, to do justice to his impending start.

"Now, Uncle Christopher dear, don't talk, but begin reading, and let's hear the picture-story." So spoke Miss Madeline when she thought Mr. Pelly had hesitated long enough.

But this did not accelerate matters, for the old gentleman, perceiving that her perusal of his dream-narrative had landed her somehow in the conclusion that the picture and the manuscript must be connected, felt bound to enter his protest against any such rash assumption. "We must bear in mind," he said, "that there is absolutely nothing to connect this manuscript with that picture over the chimneypiece except the name Raimondi. And although the picture was certainly purchased from a castle owned by a family of that name, there is no reason whatever to suppose it to be a portrait of a member of that family. And the fact that a portrait of a lady is spoken of—as we shall see directly—in this manuscript, no more connects the story with this picture than with any other picture. My friend Professor Schrudengesser, although it would be difficult to do justice to his erudition, and impossible to quarrel with most of his conclusions, is impulsive in the highest degree, and no one is more liable to be misled by a false clue. In this case, however, he admits that it is the merest surmise, and that at least we are on very doubtful ground."

Mr. Pelly felt contented, as with a satisfactory peroration, and was going to dive straight into the manuscript, which he had really folded to his liking, this time. But the Baronet, to claim a share in erudition for the landed gentry, must needs look weighty with tightly closed lips, and then open them to say, "Very doubtful—very doubtful—ve-ry doubtful!" And this, of course, provoked his daughter to a renewed attitude of parti pris, merely from contradiction, for really she knew no more about the matter than this story has shown, so far.

"Don't go on shaking your head backwards and forwards like that, Pupsey dear," said this disrespectful girl. "You'll shake it off. Besides, as to her not being a member of the Raimondi family, isn't it logical to assume that everybody is a member of any family till the contrary is proved? At least, you'd say it on your side, you know, if you wanted it, and I should be frightened to contradict you."

This provoked incredulity and even derision. After which, a remark about the clock caused Mr. Pelly actually to begin reading, with a word of apology about the probable imperfection of the translation. Even then he stopped to say that he hoped he had clearly stated the Herr Professor's opinion that the date of the manuscript would be about 1559, as it speaks to the "Duchessa Isabella," to whom it is written, of "your recent nuptials." He added that no doubt this lady was Isabella dei Medici, daughter of Cosmo, the second of the name, who in 1558 married Orsini, Duke of Bracciano.

"Never mind them," said Madeline, interrupting, "unless he poisoned her or there was something exciting and mediæval."

"Well," said Mr. Pelly, rather apologetically, "he certainly did poison her, strictly speaking. That is, if Webster's tragedy of Victoria Corombona is historically correct. If you get a conjurer to poison your portrait's lips, with a full knowledge that your wife makes a point of kissing them every night before she goes to bed...."