Read Online She Walks in Darkness by Evangeline Walton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Evangeline Walton
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He was writing, his fine aquiline face set in lines of concentration. The beautiful fabric of his pinstripe gray suit looked as if he had just dressed to welcome an honored guest in his elegant drawing room.
Mattia Rossi’s master—the master of all here, above ground and below! Prince Mino Carenni.
He heard Roger’s movement and turned, smiling. “Welcome, signore. I hope that you are better.”
“Mattia told you I was here?” Roger himself could not have explained why he felt such surprise.
“Naturally.” A faint lift of the fine brows. “My servants are well trained.”
“You could get into trouble for harboring me, sir.”
“My dear boy, this is my house. At least it is a Carenni possession, on—or rather, under—Carenni land. Never yet has a Carenni surrendered a guest to enemies. Not even when they were civilized men of his own race, and their cause was just. I have no intention of surrendering you to barbarian invaders.” The prince still smiled, but his voice was dry.
I believe now that that was true! That Prince Mino would have borne torture without betraying to the Nazis any man whom he had received as a guest. Even though Roger Carstairs never was to come up out of that underworld beneath the Villa Carenni. Never again to see the sun....
Roger himself had no doubts whatsoever. “The Prince is a fine old boy; he’s being jolly decent. Couldn’t be doing more for me if he were my own father. Makes me ashamed to remember how, before the war, we young fellows used to think him such a queer fish.”
He liked and trusted his host at first; so much is clear. Certainly it never occurred to him that his diary might be read; but it was read, I think, from the very beginning. One stained page rather pathetically records his gratitude for the gift of the little leather notebook, made with one of Prince Mino’s most gracious smiles. “I remember that you write. Perhaps this will help to pass the time.”
“The time! There is no time down here. You can’t tell day from night. The kind of food old Mattia brings—breakfast, lunch, dinner—that’s your only clue.”
Writing did help. But when he had slept off his fatigue, Roger grew restless. Inexplicably uneasy too.
On May 14th he wrote: “Had breakfast. That seems to be all there is to say. I take exercises, I’ve got to keep fit, but I’ve had to slack up on even those. One day I took too many and got a crick in my back that crippled me for a couple of days. For the time it took old Mattia to bring six meals down, anyhow.
“Even a clock would be company down here; it would tick. You have to live in a place like this before you know what silence is. Real silence, not all the funny mess of tiny sounds that goes by that name up above. There’s nothing alive down here, in all this stone; it doesn’t shelter bugs, or make little snaps, the way wood does. Sometimes the silence seems as loud as a yell. Makes me feel like kicking the furniture and yelling too.”
I know how you felt, Roger Carstairs. Since I came to the Villa Carenni, I too have learned how loud silence can be. How very loud.
“May 17th: I hate to ask for anything more; the oldboy’s already done so much for me—but a clock would help. If I could count the time—just say, ‘This twelve hours is noon, that one’s midnight’—I could keep in touch with reality. Where there’s so much silence, it oughtn’t to be so easy to imagine sound.”
It had begun. Death had come, creeping, spying, on perhaps not quite noiseless feet....
Then: “May 20th: I think it’s that. Yesterday—I suppose it was yesterday, I’ve slept since then—Prince Mino came and I asked him for a clock. He said, ‘I am sorry that a guest of mine should be bored, but if I took one from its place the servants would wonder and talk among themselves.’ I said I understood, and he said, ‘I had hoped that books might entertain you. But youth—even scholarly youth—craves action, excitement.’
Mattia Rossi’s master—the master of all here, above ground and below! Prince Mino Carenni.
He heard Roger’s movement and turned, smiling. “Welcome, signore. I hope that you are better.”
“Mattia told you I was here?” Roger himself could not have explained why he felt such surprise.
“Naturally.” A faint lift of the fine brows. “My servants are well trained.”
“You could get into trouble for harboring me, sir.”
“My dear boy, this is my house. At least it is a Carenni possession, on—or rather, under—Carenni land. Never yet has a Carenni surrendered a guest to enemies. Not even when they were civilized men of his own race, and their cause was just. I have no intention of surrendering you to barbarian invaders.” The prince still smiled, but his voice was dry.
I believe now that that was true! That Prince Mino would have borne torture without betraying to the Nazis any man whom he had received as a guest. Even though Roger Carstairs never was to come up out of that underworld beneath the Villa Carenni. Never again to see the sun....
Roger himself had no doubts whatsoever. “The Prince is a fine old boy; he’s being jolly decent. Couldn’t be doing more for me if he were my own father. Makes me ashamed to remember how, before the war, we young fellows used to think him such a queer fish.”
He liked and trusted his host at first; so much is clear. Certainly it never occurred to him that his diary might be read; but it was read, I think, from the very beginning. One stained page rather pathetically records his gratitude for the gift of the little leather notebook, made with one of Prince Mino’s most gracious smiles. “I remember that you write. Perhaps this will help to pass the time.”
“The time! There is no time down here. You can’t tell day from night. The kind of food old Mattia brings—breakfast, lunch, dinner—that’s your only clue.”
Writing did help. But when he had slept off his fatigue, Roger grew restless. Inexplicably uneasy too.
On May 14th he wrote: “Had breakfast. That seems to be all there is to say. I take exercises, I’ve got to keep fit, but I’ve had to slack up on even those. One day I took too many and got a crick in my back that crippled me for a couple of days. For the time it took old Mattia to bring six meals down, anyhow.
“Even a clock would be company down here; it would tick. You have to live in a place like this before you know what silence is. Real silence, not all the funny mess of tiny sounds that goes by that name up above. There’s nothing alive down here, in all this stone; it doesn’t shelter bugs, or make little snaps, the way wood does. Sometimes the silence seems as loud as a yell. Makes me feel like kicking the furniture and yelling too.”
I know how you felt, Roger Carstairs. Since I came to the Villa Carenni, I too have learned how loud silence can be. How very loud.
“May 17th: I hate to ask for anything more; the oldboy’s already done so much for me—but a clock would help. If I could count the time—just say, ‘This twelve hours is noon, that one’s midnight’—I could keep in touch with reality. Where there’s so much silence, it oughtn’t to be so easy to imagine sound.”
It had begun. Death had come, creeping, spying, on perhaps not quite noiseless feet....
Then: “May 20th: I think it’s that. Yesterday—I suppose it was yesterday, I’ve slept since then—Prince Mino came and I asked him for a clock. He said, ‘I am sorry that a guest of mine should be bored, but if I took one from its place the servants would wonder and talk among themselves.’ I said I understood, and he said, ‘I had hoped that books might entertain you. But youth—even scholarly youth—craves action, excitement.’
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