Then he went to his dressing room and collapsed with a heart attack. He did not die immediately, but there were only two days left to us. I was with him every minute and I believe he was conscious of me there for now and then his dark soulful eyes would look into mine, half mocking, half loving as though to say he had scored over me yet again. Then he died and I was free from bondage to mourn forever and long for those beloved chains.
Roma, like the good sister she was, left her dig and came to Paris for the funeral, which was a grand affair. Musicians from all over the world sent tributes; and many came to pay personal homage. Pietro had never been so famous alive as he was dead. And how he would have reveled in it!
But the shouting and the tumult was over and I was left in an abyss so dark and so desolate that I was in greater despair than I thought possible.
Dear Roma! What a solace she was at that time! She showed so clearly that she would have done anything for me, and I was deeply touched. I had sometimes felt shut out when I had heard her and my parents discussing their work together; I no longer felt that. It was a wonderful comfort to belong, to feel these family ties; and I was grateful to Roma.
She offered me the greatest consolation that she could imagine. “Come to England,” she said. “Come down to the dig. Our finds were beyond expectations—one of the best Roman villas outside Verulamium.”
I smiled at her and wanted to tell her how I appreciated her. “I shouldn’t be of any use,” I protested. “Only a hindrance.”
“What nonsense!” She was the elder sister again and going to take care of me whether I liked it or not. “In any case, you’re coming.”
So I went to Lovat Stacy and found comfort in the company of my sister. I was proud of her when she introduced me to friends on the dig, for it was clear what respect they had for her. She would talk to me with that enthusiasm of hers, and because I was so glad of her company and that affection which she had always tried not to show but which was so obviously there, I became mildly interested in the work. These people were so fervent that it was impossible to be unaffected. There was a small cottage, not far from the Roman villa, which Sir William Stacy allowed Roma to use and I shared this with her. It was primitive and had a couple of beds and a table and a few chairs and little else. The lower room was cluttered with archaeological tools—shovels and forks and picks, trowels and bellows. Roma was delighted with the place because as she said, it was so close to the dig and the others were scattered about the place lodging in cottages and at the local inn.
She took me over the finds and showed me the mosaic pavement, which was the delight of her life; she pointed out the geometrical patterns of white chalk and red sandstone; she insisted on my examining the three baths they had discovered which showed, she informed me, that the house had belonged to a nobleman of some wealth. There was the tepidarium, the calidarium and the frigidarium. The Roman terms rolled off her tongue in a kind of ecstasy and I felt alive again as I listened to her enthusiasm.
We went for walks together and I grew closer to my sister than I had ever been before. She took me to Folkestone to show me Caesar’s Camp; and I walked with her to Sugar Loaf Hill and St. Thomas’s Well at which the pilgrims on their way to the shrine of St. Thomas à Becket had paused to drink. Together we climbed the four hundred feet or so to the summit of Caesar’s Camp and I shall never forget her standing there with the wind ruffling her fine hair, her eyes brilliant with delight as she indicated the earthworks and entrenchments. It was a clear day and as I looked across that twenty miles or so of calm translucent sea I could clearly make out the land which was Caesar’s Gaul and it was not difficult to imagine the legions on the march.
On another occasion we went to Richborough Castle—one of the most remarkable relics of Roman Britain, Roma told me. “Rutupiae,” she called it.
“Claudius made it the principal landing place for his legions crossing from Boulogne. These walls give you a good idea of what a formidable fortress it must have been.”
She took great delight in showing me the wine cellars, the granaries and the remains of the temples, and it was impossible not to share in her excitement as she pointed out these wonders to me—the remains of massive walls of Portland stone, the bastion and its postern gate, the subterranean passage.
“You should take up archaeology as a hobby,” she told me half wistfully, half hopefully. She really believed that if I would I could not fail to find the compensation in life which I so badly needed. I wanted to tell her that she herself was a compensation; I wanted her to know that her care of me and her affection had helped me so much because she had made me feel that I was not alone.
One could not, however, talk of such things to Roma; she would have cried: “Nonsense!” if I had tried to thank her. But I promised myself that in the future I would see more of her; I would interest myself in her work; I would let her know how glad I was that I had a sister.
And trying to lure me to forgetfulness she set me to help in restoring a mosaic plaque which had been found on the spot. It was specialized work and my task was merely confined to fetching the brushes and solutions which were needed. It was a yellowish disc on which was some sort of picture and the object was to restore that picture to something like it had originally been. It was too delicate a job for the pieces to be moved, Roma told me, but when it was completed it would have a place in the British Museum. I was fascinated by the care and minute attention which went into the restoration and again I was catching some of the excitement as the pieces were fitted together.
And then I discovered Lovat Stacy itself—the big house which dominated the neighborhood and by the grace of whose owner Roma and her friends had been allowed to excavate.
I came upon it suddenly and caught my breath with wonder. The great Gate Tower stood dominating the landscape. This consisted of a central tower flanked on either side by two higher and projecting octagonal towers. As I looked up at these battlements I was impressed by the aggressive aspect of power and strength. Tall narrow windows looked out from the tower. I could see through the gate the high stone walls beyond. Leading to the gateway was a road flanked on both sides by stone walls on which grew moss and lichen. I was enchanted and for the first time since Pietro’s death I ceased to think of him for some few minutes and experienced an almost irresistible urge to walk up that road and pass under the gateway to see what was on the other side. I even began to but as I started up the road I saw the carved gargoyles over the gateway—venomous, cruel-looking creatures—and I hesitated. It was almost as though they were warning me to keep out, and I stopped myself in time. One simply did not go walking into people’s houses merely because they excited one.
I went back to the cottage full of what I had seen.
“Oh that’s Lovat Stacy,” explained Roma. “Thank goodness they didn’t build the house over the villa.”
“What about these Stacys,” I asked. “Is there a family?”
“Oh yes.”
“I’d like to know about people who live in a house like that.”
“My concern was with Sir William—the old man. He’s the lord and master, so he was the one who could give the permission we wanted.”
Dear Roma. I would get nothing from her. She saw life only in the terms of archaeology.