A Rich Full Death

excitement to apathetic stupor, culminating in the final death agony lasting for days, in which the throat muscles seize up completely and the sufferer, tormented by extreme hunger and thirst, tries in vain to swallow, unable to bear the sight of food or drink. When I thought of the manner in which Maurice Purdy had lived, this terrible fate put me in mind of some moralistic painting of the Middle Ages. I said as much to Browning, who nodded gravely.

‘Indeed. But I fear that something more than just pure coincidence is involved. I inspected the cadaver of the dog which attacked Mr Purdy at the doctor’s just now. That beast was no wolfhound-although he had some wolf blood in him, I shouldn’t wonder. As for that piece of rope we saw attached to the chain at the villa, the rest of it was still tied roughly round the animal’s neck.

The implication is only too clear. Maurice Purdy has been-or rather is going to be-the victim of a fiendishly cunning murder; a murder which has not yet occurred, but which cannot be prevented. His dog was removed-and no doubt killed-and a rabid animal substituted. In the dark Purdy did not notice the difference until it was too late.’

‘And what about the writing on the villa wall? The word “pig”-is that some comment on Purdy’s gulosity?’

‘Taken in conjunction with the manner in which the victim will die, I think there can be not the slightest doubt of that. It appears to be a classic case of poetic justice, of the punishment fitting the crime. But what disturbs me is the fact that the writing was in Florentine dialect-the word was “ciacco,” not “porco”.’

‘Are we then dealing with a Florentine murderer? A native? Perhaps some vendetta against the foreign community is intended.’

‘Perhaps. But do not forget the letter you received last night. That was certainly not written by an Italian, and yet it obliquely foretold the tragedy at Purdy’s villa, brought us out to witness its effects, and-most strikingly-linked it to the deaths of Mrs Eakin and DeVere. Now if the attack on Purdy was, as I have suggested, a cold-blooded murder, then it brings the number of such crimes to three; and the number three, you will recall, accompanied the word scrawled at the scene of that attack. In short, a pattern begins to emerge-a pattern which I suspect we may equate with that “more ambitious criminal project whose full scope and extent is only beginning to become apparent” mentioned in the letter.’

I suggested that the simplest way of verifying this hypothesis would be to inspect the scenes of the other two crimes which had occurred, and see whether some sort of inscription was not also to be found there-and as it transpired that this was precisely what was in Browning’s mind, we set off without more ado.

12

As we passed the end of Via Dante Aligheri I thought once again of the strange scene the night before, which the horrors at Purdy’s villa had then thrust out of my memory. Of one thing I was sure: Browning’s tale of charitable visits had been a shift devised on the spur of the moment to forestall further questions. But why? What is the secret of that house in the meanest area of town, which he visits with such regularity? More and more I am convinced that it is connected in some way with that secret of his which continues to stand between us, despite the superficial familiarity we have resumed as a result of his interest in these murders. I must find it out, and soon! Perhaps if I do so, and then confront him with my knowledge of the truth, then I can exorcise this ghost which, till then, must continue to haunt our friendship.

At length we reached the south end of the Ponte Vecchio, and Browning immediately flung out his hand, pointing.

Took!’

I could as yet see nothing beyond a white blur on the undressed stone wall outside the house where a few days before the crowd had gathered at the news of a death. But as we drew nearer to the spot I made out the following writing, scrawled up in white chalk on the wall, as at Purdy’s:

‘“Argenti”-silverware,’ mused Browning. ‘What possible significance can that have?’

‘It might be a reference to DeVere’s well-known mania for collecting,’ I suggested.

Browning looked happier.

That’s very true. Bravo! I had not thought of that. Yes, indeed. This man had a weakness for objets d’art, for precious trinkets. That, then, was his “crime”, as greed was Purdy’s. Are we dealing with a secret society I wonder? Some nasty little terrorist sect who find Mazzini grown too tepid, the Carbonari too moderate, and mean to hack their way to Liberty with a dagger? But then what of the number? Three for Purdy, but five for DeVere. So much for our theory about that’

I had no idea to suggest, other than to walk up to Bellosguardo, and see whether the inscription at the scene of the first crime-assuming there were one-might not resolve the mystery.

As we walked along, I tried to turn the conversation to something more inspiring than the murky business in hand — in short, to Browning’s own work-and mentioned one of the poems in the volume I had purchased. The verse is entided ‘Porphyria’s Lover’, and is yet another example of that strain which I so strongly deprecate in Browning’s work. If I chose to mention it, it was because the story closely resembles his theory about the manner in which Isabel Eakin was murdered.

The poem-as so often in those pieces where Browning exhibits the darker side of his nature-is narrated in the first person, and is set on an evening just like that of Isabel’s death, with rain and a high wind. But the position here is reversed; it is the woman, Porphyria, who comes to call upon her lover, who is waiting not in a villa but a humble cottage, situated not upon a hill-top but beside a lake. The inversion is so complete, so striking, as to form an exact mirror-image of the real event.

As there are no servants there, Porphyria sets about making a fire, after which she ‘from her form withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, and laid her soiled gloves by, and let the damp hair fall’-no doubt these lines remind you, as they did me, of Isabel laid out on that cold marble tabletop. She sits beside her lover, who does not answer when she speaks to him. And so the woman does a very natural, womanly thing: ‘She put her arm about my waist, and made her smooth white shoulder bare, and all her yellow hair displaced, and, stooping, made my cheek lie there, and spread o’er all her yellow hair’.

We now learn two very interesting things: that Porphyria has come secretly from a dinner party to visit her lover; and that although she loves him, she is not willing to make the final sacrifice, and break the presumably illustrious ties that make their love illicit: ‘She too weak, for all her heart’s endeavour, to set its struggling passion free from pride, and vainer ties dissever, and give herself to me for ever.’ At that moment, however, she loves him; ‘happy and proud’-for he too is proud! — ‘I knew Porphyria worshipped me.’

What is he to do, her lover? He knows the moment will not, cannot last, for she must return to the realities of her dreary marriage, contracted for base motives, but which she has not the spirit, or the will-call it what you like-to break. ‘… I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, perfectly pure and good: I found a thing to do, and all her hair in one long yellow string I wound three times her little throat around, and strangled her.’

Is that not disgusting? I find it so-or rather the total lack of any hint of censure on the poet’s part. To discuss these things so calmly, so coolly-well, it is beyond me. But there is worse to come, for what does the lover do now? Recoil in horror at the deed he has unthinkingly committed in an instant of frenzy he can never sufficiently regret?

No! On the contrary, like the vilest fiend in existence, he glories in the dead body at his side-glories in it equally as it is a beautiful female body, and as it is dead, and therefore will-less, utterly passive and given up to him. What use he makes of his opportunity is left to the reader’s imagination, but so heated is the language Mr Browning employs that there can be little doubt as to what is intended: ‘As a shut bud that holds a bee I warily oped her lids: again laughed the blue (!) eyes … and I untightened next the tress … her cheek once more blushed bright beneath my burning kiss …’

The almost hysterical alliteration in that last phrase could hardly be clearer in its implications, I think.

But the vilest cut is saved for last, where the ‘lover’ seeks to possess not merely Porphyria’s body but her soul as well. For, all passion spent, he lays her head upon his shoulder-commenting upon how the situation is