01 - Mystery of the Campagna by Anne Crawford

In the enchanting backdrop of Rome, a group of artists is immersed in their creative pursuits. But when one of them retreats to a secluded villa for solitude, his friends are drawn to visit. What they discover is unsettling‚a mere ‚òshadowy likeness‚ of Marcello, who has inexplicably taken up sleepwalking. As they delve deeper into the mystery, a strange woman emerges from the shadows of the grounds each night. Who is she, and what secrets does she hold? - Summary by Newgatenovelist

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
Section one of A Mystery of the Campagna. This is
a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
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A Mystery of the Campagna by Anne Crawford, Part one

(00:24):
Martyr Detaire's account of what happened at the Vigna Marziale
Segment A. Marcello's voice is pleading with me now, perhaps
because after years of separation, I have met an old
acquaintance who had a part in his strange story. I

(00:44):
have a longing to tell it and have asked Monsieur
Sutton to help me. He noted down the circumstances at
the time, and he is willing to join his share
to mine that Marcello may be remembered. One day, it
was in this he appeared in my little studio among
the laurels and green alleys of the Villa Medici. Come mon, infant,

(01:08):
he said, put up your paints, and he unceremoniously took
my palette out of my hand. I have a cab
waiting outside, and we are going in search of a hermitage.
He was already washing my brushes as he spoke, and
this softened my heart, for I hate to do it myself.
Then he pulled off my velvet jacket and took down

(01:30):
my respectable coat from a nail on the wall. I'll
let him dress me like a child. We always did
his will, and he knew it. And in a moment
we were sitting in the cab driving through the Via Cestina,
on our way to the Porta San Giovanni, whither he
had directed the coachman to go. I must tell my

(01:52):
story as I can, for though I have been told
by my comrades, who cannot know very well, that I
can speak good English. Writing it is another thing. Monsieur
Sutton has asked me to use his tongue, because he
has so far forgotten mine that he will not trust
himself in it. Though he has promised to correct my mistakes,

(02:13):
that what I have to tell you may not seem
ridiculous and make people laugh when they read of Marcello.
I tell him I wish to write this for my countrymen,
not his, But he reminds me that Marcello had many
English friends who still live, and that the English do
not forget as we do. It is of no use
to reason with him, for neither do they yield as

(02:36):
we do. And so I have consented to his wish.
I think he has a reason, which he does not
tell me. But let it go. I will translate it
all into my own language for my own people. Your
English phrases seem to me to be always walking sideways,
or trying to look round the corner, or stand upon

(02:57):
their heads, and they have as many little ales as
a kite. I will try not to have recourse to
my own language. But he must pardon me if I
forget myself. He may be sure I do not do
it to offend him. Now that I have explained so much,
let me go on. When we had passed out of

(03:18):
the porter San Giovanni, the coachman drove as slowly as
he liked. The pay is more outside the gates, and
they always pretend then that their horses are tired and
creep as slowly as possible. But Marcella was never practical.
How could he be, I ask you, with an opera
in his head. So we crawled along, and he gazed

(03:40):
dreamily before him. At last, when we had reached the
part where the little wheelers and vineyards begin, he began
to look about him. You all know how it is
out there. Iron gates with rusty names or initials over them,
and beyond them straight walks bordered with roses and lavender,
leading up to a forlorn little casino with trees and

(04:04):
a wilderness behind it, sloping down to the Campagna, lonely
enough to be murdered in and no one to hear
you cry. We stopped at several of these gates, and
Marsillo stood looking in, but none of the places were
to his taste. He seemed not to doubt that he
might have whatever pleased him, but nothing did. So he

(04:26):
would jump out and run to the gate and return,
saying the shape of those windows would disturb my inspiration,
or that yellow paint would make me fail my duet
and the second act. And once he liked the air
of the house well enough, but there were marigolds growing
in the walk, and he hated them. So we drove

(04:47):
on and on until I thought we should find nothing
more to reject. At last we came to one which
suited him, though it was terribly lonely, and I should
have fancied it very Agasson lives so far away from
the world, with nothing but those melancholy olives and green
oaks alexes, you call them for company. I shall live

(05:10):
here and become famous, he said decidedly, as he pulled
the iron rod, which rang a great bell. Inside. We waited,
and then he rang again, very impatiently, and stamped his foot.
No one lives here, montvieux. Come, it is getting late,
and it is so damp out here, and you know
that the damp for a tenor voice. He stamped his

(05:33):
foot again and interrupted me angrily. Why then, have you
got a tenor? You are stupid? A bass would be
more sensible, nothing hurts it, but you have not got one,
and you call yourself my friend. Go home without me?
How could I, so far on foot, go and sing
your love sick songs to your lean English missus. They

(05:55):
will thank you with a cup of abominable tea, and
you will be in paradise. This is my paradise, and
I shall stay until the angel comes to open it.
He was very cross and unreasonable, and those were just
the times when one loved him most. So I waited
and enveloped my throat and my pocket handkerchief, and sang

(06:16):
a passage or two, just to prevent my voice from
becoming stiff in that damp air. Be still, silence yourself,
he cried, I cannot hear if any one is coming.
Some one came at last, a rough looking sort of keeper,
or guardiano, as they are called there, who looked at
us as though he thought we were mad. One of

(06:39):
us certainly was, but it was not I. Marsilo spoke
pretty good Italian with a French accent. It is true,
but the man understood him, especially as he held his
purse in his hand. I heard him say a great
many impetuously persuasive things, all in a breath. Then he
slipped a gold piece into the guardian's horny hand, and

(07:01):
the two turned toward the house, the man shrugging his
shoulders in a resigned sort of way, and Marcello called
out to me over his shoulder, go home in the
cab or you will be late for your horrible English party.
I am going to stay here to night, ma FOI.
I took his permission and left him for a ton

(07:23):
of voices, as tyrannical as a jealous woman. Besides, I
was furious, and yet I laughed. His was the artist temperament,
and appeared to us by turns absurd, sublime and intensely irritating.
But this last never for long, and we all felt
that were we more like him, our pictures would be

(07:45):
worth more. I had not got as far as the
city gate when my temper had cooled, and I began
to reproach myself for leaving him in that lonely place,
with his purse full of money, for he was not
poor at all, and tempting and the dark guardiano to
murder him. Nothing could be easier than to kill him
in his sleep and bury him away somewhere under the

(08:07):
olive trees, or in some old vault of a ruined catacomb.
So common on the borders of the Campania, there was
sure to be a hundred such convenient places. I stopped
the coachman and told him to turn back, but he
shook his head and said something about having to be
in the Piazza of Saint Peter. At eight o'clock. His

(08:28):
horse began to go lame, as though he had understood
his master, and were his accomplice. What could I do?
I said to myself that it was fate, and I
let him take me back to the Villa Medici, where
I had to pay him a pretty sum for our
crazy expedition, and then he rattled off the horse, not
lame at all, leaving me bewildered at this strange afternoon.

(08:54):
I did not sleep well that night, though my tenor
song had been applauded and the English missus had caressed
me much. I tried not to think of Marcello, and
he did not trouble me much until I went to bed.
But then I could not sleep. As I have told you,
I fancied him already murdered and being buried in the

(09:15):
darkness by the Guardiano. I saw the man dragging his
body with the beautiful head, thumping against the stones, down
dark passages, and at last leaving it all bloody and
covered with earth under a black arch in a recess,
and coming back to count the gold pieces. But then
again I fell asleep and dreamed that Marcello was standing

(09:37):
at the gate and stamping his foot. And then I
slept no more, but got up as soon as the
dawn came, and dressed myself and went to my studio.
At the end of the Laurel walk, I took down
my painting jacket and remembered how he had pulled it
off my shoulders. I took up the brushes he had
washed for me. They were only half cleaned, after all,

(10:00):
and stiff with paint and soap. I felt glad to
be angry with him, and soacreed a little, for it
made me sure that he was yet alive if I
could scold at him. Then I pulled out my study
of his head for my picture of Mucius Scaveloor, holding
his hand in the flame, and then I forgave him,
for who could look upon that face and not love it?

(10:24):
I worked with the fire of friendship in my brush
and did my best to endow the features with the
expression of scorn and obstinacy I had seen at the gate.
He could not have been more suitable to my subject,
had I seen it for the last time, you will
ask me why I did not leave my work and
go to see if anything had happened to him. But

(10:46):
against this there were several reasons. Our yearly exhibition was
not far off, and my picture was barely painted in,
and my comrades had sworn that it would not be ready.
I was expecting a mod for the king of the Etruscans,
a man who cooked chestnuts in the Piazza Montenada, and
who had consented to stoop to sit to me as

(11:08):
a great favor, and then to tell the truth. The
morning was beginning to dispel my fancies. I had a
good northern light to work by, with nothing sentimental about it,
and I was not fanciful by nature. So when I
sat down to my easel, I told myself that I
had been a fool, and that Marsilla was perfectly safe,

(11:30):
the smell of the paints helping me to feel practical again. Indeed,
I thought every moment that he would come in, tired
of his caprice already, and was even preparing and practicing
a little lecture for him. Some one knocked at my door,
and I cried entree, thinking it was he at last,
But no, it was Pierre Mania. There is a curious man,

(11:55):
a man of the country who wants you. He said.
He has your address on a dirty piece of paper
in Marcello's handwriting, and a letter for you. But he
won't give it up. He says he must see ill
signor Martino. He'd make a superb model for a murderer.
Come and speak to him and keep him while I

(12:15):
get a sketch of his head. I followed Manya through
the garden and outside, for the porter had not allowed
him to enter. I found the guardiano of yesterday. He
showed his white teeth and said good day, Signora, like
a Christian, and here in Rome he did not look
half so murderous, only a stupid brown country fellow. He

(12:40):
had a rough peasant cart waiting, and he had tied
up his shaggy horse to a ring in the wall.
I held out my hand for the latter, and pretended
to find it difficult to read, for I saw Mania
standing with his sketch book in the shadow of the
entrance hall. The note said this, I have it still,
and I will it. It was written in pencil on

(13:02):
a leaf torn from his pocket book montvieux. I have
passed a good night here, and the man will keep
me as long as I like. Nothing will happen to me,
except that I shall be divinely quiet, and I have
already a famous motif in my head. Go to my
lodgings and pack up some clothes and all my manuscripts,

(13:22):
with plenty of music paper and a few bottles of bordeaux,
and give them to my messenger. Be quick about it.
Fame is preparing to descend upon me. If you care
to see me, do not come before eight days. The
gate will not be opened if you come sooner. The
Guardiano is my slave, and he has instructions to kill
any intruder who, in the guise of a friend, tries

(13:45):
to get in uninvited. He will do it, for he
has confessed to me that he has murdered three men already.
Of course this was a joke. I knew Marcello's way.
When you come, go to the post restaurant and fetch
my letters, Here is my card to legitimate you don't
forget pens and a bottle of ink. Your Marcello. There

(14:09):
was nothing for it but to jump into the cart,
tell Manna, who had finished his sketch, to lock up
my studio and go bumping off. To obey these commands,
we drove to his lodgings in the Via del Governo Vecchio,
and there I made a bundle of all that I
could think of. The landlady hindering me by a thousand

(14:29):
questions about when the Signory would return. He had paid
for the rooms in advance, so she had no need
to be anxious about her rent. When I told her
where he was. She shook her head and talked a
good deal about the bad hour out there, and said
poor Signorino in a melancholy way, as though he were

(14:50):
already buried, and looked mournfully after us from the window.
When we drove away. She irritated me and made me
feel superstitious. At the corner of the Via del Tritone,
I jumped down and gave the man a frank out
of pure sentimentality, and cried after him greet the senori.

(15:10):
But he did not hear me and jogged away stupidly,
while I was longing to be with him. Marcella was
across to us sometimes, but we loved him always. End
of Section one.