04 - 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 four of A Mystery of the Campania by Anne Crawford.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part two
Robert Sutton's account of what happened at the Vigna Marziali,
Segment B. I must have been out of training and

(00:23):
tired by the morning's walk, for I fell asleep. When
I awoke, it was night, the stars were shining. A
dank mist made its way down my throat, and I
felt stiff and cold. I took a pull at my flask,
finding it nasty stuff, but it warmed me. Then I

(00:44):
rang my repeater, which struck a quarter to eleven, got
up and shook myself free of the leaves and brambles,
and went on down the lane. When I got to
the fence, I sat down and thought the thing over.
What did I expect to discover? What was there to discover? Nothing,

(01:07):
nothing but that Marcello was alive. And that was no
discovery at all, For I felt sure of it. I
was a fool and had let myself be allured by
the mere stage nonsense and mystery of the business. And
a mouse would creep out of this mountain of precautions. Well,

(01:28):
at least I could turn it to account by describing
my own absurd behavior in some story yet to be written,
And as it was not enough for a chapter, I
would add to it by further experience. Come along, I
said to myself, you're an ass, but it may prove instructive.

(01:51):
I raised the top board from the fence noiselessly. There
was a style just there, and the boards were easily moved.
I laid down my bridge with some difficulty, and stepped
carefully across, and made my way to the Laurel Grove
as quickly and noiselessly as possible. There all was thick darkness,

(02:13):
and my eyes only grew slowly accustomed to it. After all,
there was not much to see. Some stone seats in
a semicircle, and some fragments of column set upright with
antique busts upon them. Then a little to the right
a sort of arch with apparently some steps descending into

(02:34):
the ground, probably the entrance to some discovered branch of
a catacomb. In the midst of the enclosure, not a
very large one, stood a stone table deeply fixed in
the earth. No one was there, of that, I felt certain,
and I sat down, having now got used to the gloom,

(02:55):
and fell to eat my sandwiches, for I was desperately hung.
Now that I had come so far, was nothing to
take place to repay me for my trouble. It suddenly
struck me that it was absurd to expect Marcello to
come out to meet me and perform any mad antics.
He might be meditating there before my eyes for my

(03:19):
especial satisfaction. Why I had supposed that something would take
place in the grove, I do not know, except that
this seemed a fit place for it. I would go
and watch the house, and if I saw a light anywhere,
I might be sure that he was within. Any fool
might have thought of that. But a novelist lays the

(03:42):
scene of his drama and expects his characters to slide
about in the grooves like puppets. It is only when
mine surprise me that I feel they are alive. When
I reached the end of the alex alley, I saw
the house before me. There were more cabbages and onions
after I had left the trees, and I saw it.

(04:04):
In this open space, I could easily be perceived by
any one standing on the balcony above. As I drew
back again under the alexes. A window above, not the
one on the balcony, was suddenly lighted up, but the
light did not remain long, and presently a gleam shone

(04:25):
through the glass oval over the door below. I had
just time to spring behind the thickest trunk near me.
When the door opened. I took advantage of its creaking
to creep up the slanting tree like a cat and
lie out upon a projecting branch. As I expected, Marcellow

(04:46):
came out. He was very pale and moved mechanically, like
a sleep walker. I was shocked to see how hollow
his face had become as he held the candle still
lighted in his hand, and it cast deep shadows on
his sunken cheeks and fixed eyes, which burned wildly and
seemed to see nothing. His lips were quite white and

(05:10):
so drawn that I could see his gleaming teeth. Then
the candle fell from his hand, and he came slowly
and with a curiously regular step, on into the darkness
of the eyelexes. I watching him from above, but I
scarcely think he would have noticed me had I been

(05:30):
standing in his path. When he had passed. I let
myself down and followed him. I had taken off my
shoes and my tread was absolutely noiseless. Moreover, I felt
sure he would not turn round. On he went with
the same mechanical step until he reached the grove. There,

(05:52):
I knelt behind an old sarcophagus at the entrance and waited.
What would he do? He stood perfectly still, not looking
about him, but as though the clock work within him
had suddenly stopped. I felt that he was becoming psychologically
interesting after all. Suddenly he threw up his arms, as

(06:17):
men do when they are mortally wounded on the battlefield,
and I expected to see him fall at full length.
Instead of this, he made a step forward. I looked
in the same direction and saw a woman who must
have concealed herself there while I was waiting before the house,

(06:37):
come from out of the gloom. And as she slowly
approached and laid her head upon his shoulder, the outstretched
arms clasped themselves closely around her, so that her face
was hidden upon his neck. So this was the hall matter,
and I had been sent off on a wild goose

(06:59):
chaise to spy out a common love affair. His opera
and his seclusion for the sake of work, his tyrannical
refusal to see detire unless he sent for him. All
this was but a mask to a vulgar intrigue, which,
for reasons best known to himself, could not be indulged

(07:20):
in the city. I was thoroughly angry if Marcelo passed
his time mooning about in that damp hole all night,
no wonder that he looked so wretchedly ill and seemed
half mad. I knew very well that Marcello was no saint,
why should he be? But I had not taken him

(07:43):
for a fool. He had had plenty of romantic episodes,
and as he was discreet without being uselessly mysterious, no
one had ever unduly pride into them, nor should we
have done so. Now I said to myself that that
mixture of French and Italian blood was at the bottom

(08:03):
of it, French flimsiness and light headedness and Italian love
of cunning. I looked back upon all the details of
my mysterious expedition. I suppose at the root of my
anger lay a certain dramatic disappointment at not finding him
lying murdered, and I despised myself, for all the trouble

(08:25):
I had taken to this ridiculous end just to see
him holding a woman in his arms. I could not
see her face, and her figure was enveloped from head
to foot in something long and dark, but I could
make out that she was tall and slender, and that
a pair of white hands gleamed from her drapery. As

(08:48):
I was looking intently, for all my indignation, the couple
moved on, and, still clinging to one another, descended the steps.
So oh, even the solitude of the lonely Laurel Grove
could not satisfy Marcello's insane love of secrecy. I kept

(09:10):
still awhile. Then I stole to where they had disappeared
and listened. But all was silent, and I cautiously struck
a match and peered down. I could see the steps
for a short distance below me, and then the darkness
seemed to rise and swallow them. It must be a catacomb,

(09:32):
as I had imagined, or an old Roman bath, perhaps
which Marcello had made comfortable enough, no doubt, and as
likely as not, they were having a nice little cold
supper there. My empty stomach told me that I could
have forgiven him. Even then could I have shared it.

(09:52):
I was, in truth frightfully hungry as well as angry,
and sat down on one of the stone benches to
finish my sandwiches. The thought of waiting to see this
love sick pair returned to upper Earth never for a
moment occurred to me. I had found out the whole thing,
and a great humberget was now. I wanted to get

(10:16):
back to Rome before my temper had cooled, and to
tell Manya on what a fool's errand he had sent me.
If he liked to quarrel with me, all the better.
All the way home I composed cutting French speeches, but
they suddenly cooled and petrified, like a gust of lava

(10:36):
from a volcano. When I discovered that the gate was closed,
I had never thought of getting a pass, and Manya
ought to have warned me another grievance against the fellow.
I enjoyed my resentment, and it kept me warm as
I patrolled up and down. There are houses and even

(10:57):
small eating shops outside the gate, but no light was visible,
and I did not care to attract attention by pounding
at the doors in the middle of the night, so
I crept behind a bit of wall. I was getting
used to hiding by this time, and made myself as
comfortable as I could with my ulster, took another pull

(11:18):
at my flask and waited. At last the gate was opened,
and I slipped through, trying not to look as though
I had been out all night like a bundit. The
guard looked at me narrowly, evidently wondering at my lack
of luggage. Had I a knapsack, I might have been

(11:38):
taken for some innocently mad English tourist indulging in the
mistaken pleasure of trodging in from Frascotti or Albano. But
a man in an ulster, with his hands in his pockets,
sauntering in at the gate of the city at break
of day as though returning from a straw, naturally puzzled

(11:59):
the officials, who looked after me and shrugged their shoulders. Luckily,
I found an early cab in the piazza of the
latterin for I was dead beat, and was soon at
my lodgings in the Via dela Croce, when my landlady
let me in very speedily. Then at last I had

(12:20):
the comfort of throwing off my clothes, all damp with
the night dew and turning in. My roarth had cooled
to a certain point, and I did not fear to
lower its temperature too greatly. By yielding to an overwhelming
desire for sleep. An hour or two could make no
great difference to Manya. Let him fancy me still hanging

(12:43):
about the Vigna Marziali. Sleep I must have, no matter
what he thought. End of Section four.