THE CABALA
By
THORNTON NIVEN WILDER
NEW YORK
ALBERT & CHARLES BONI
1926
To my friends at the American Academy
in Rome, 1920-1921
The Cabala
Book One: First Encounters
Book Two: Marcantonio
Book Three: Alix
Book Four: Astrée-Luce and the Cardinal
Book Five: The Dusk of the Gods
BOOK ONE: FIRST ENCOUNTERS
The train that first carried me into Rome was late, overcrowded andcold. There had been several unexplained waits in an open field, andmidnight found us still moving slowly across the Campagna toward thefaintly-colored clouds that hung above Rome. At intervals we stopped atplatforms where flaring lamps lit up for a moment some splendidweather-moulded head. Darkness surrounded these platforms, save forglimpses of a road and the dim outlines of a mountain ridge. It wasVirgil's country and there was a wind that seemed to rise from thefields and descend upon us in a long Virgilian sigh, for the land thathas inspired sentiment in the poet ultimately receives its sentimentfrom him.
The train was overcrowded, because some tourists had discovered on theprevious day that the beggars of Naples smelt of carbolic acid. Theyconcluded at once that the authorities had struck a case or two ofIndian cholera and were disinfecting the underworld by a system ofenforced baths. The air of Naples generates legend. In the sudden exodustickets for Rome became all but unprocurable, and First Class touristsrode Third, and interesting people rode First.
In the carriage it was cold. We sat in our overcoats meditating, oureyes glazed by resignation or the glare. In one compartment a partydrawn from that race that travels most and derives least pleasure fromit, talked tirelessly of bad hotels, the ladies sitting with theirskirts whipped about their ankles to discourage the ascent of fleas.Opposite them sprawled three American Italians returning to their homesin some Apennine village after twenty years of trade in fruit andjewelry on upper Broadway. They had invested their savings in thediamonds on their fingers, and their eyes were not less bright withanticipation of a family reunion. One foresaw their parents staring atthem, unable to understand the change whereby their sons had lost thecharm the Italian soil bestows upon the humblest of its children, notingonly that they have come back with bulbous features, employing barbarousidioms and bereft forever of the witty psychological intuition of theirrace. Ahead of them lay some sleepless bewildered nights above theirmothers' soil floors and muttering poultry.
In another compartment an adventuress in silver sables leaned one cheekagainst the shuddering windowpane. Opposite her a glittering-eyed matronstared with challenging persistency, ready to intercept any glance thegirl might cast upon her dozing husband. In the corridor two young armyofficers lolled and preened and angled for her glance, like thoseinsects in certain beautiful pages of Fabre, who go through the ritualof flirtation under futile conditions, before a stone, merely becausesome associative motors have been touched.
There was a Jesuit with his pupils, filling the ti