53
A little dead grey mouse

End of November 1816

The following evening in a room where Venetian gloom and Venetian magnificence mingled in a highly romantic and satisfactory manner, the Greysteels and Strange sat down to dinner together. The floor was of cracked, worn marble, all the colours of a Venetian winter. Aunt Greysteel’s head, in its neat white cap, was set off by the vast, dark door that loomed in the distance behind her. The door was surmounted by dim carvings and resembled nothing so much as some funerary monument wreathed in dreary shadows. On the plaster walls, were the ghosts of frescoes painted in the ghosts of colours, all glorifying some ancient Venetian family whose last heir had drowned long ago. The present owners were as poor as church mice and had not been able to repair their house for many years. It was raining outside and, what was more surprizing, inside too; from somewhere in the room came the disagreeable sound of large quantities of water dripping liberally upon floor and furniture. But the Greysteels were not to be made gloomy, nor put off a very good dinner, by such trifles as these. They had banished the funereal shadows with a good blaze of candlelight and were masking the sound of dripping water with laughter and conversation. They were generally bestowing a cheerful Englishness on that part of the room where they sat.

“But I do not understand,” said Strange, “Who takes care of the old woman?”

Dr Greysteel said, “The Jewish gentleman – who seems a very charitable old person – provides her with a place to live, and his servants put dishes of food for her at the foot of the stairs.”

“But as to how the food is conveyed to her,” exclaimed Miss Greysteel, “no one knows for certain. Signor Tosetti believes that her cats carry it up to her.”

“Such nonsense!” declared Dr Greysteel. “Whoever heard of cats doing anything useful!”

“Except for staring at one in a supercilious manner,” said Strange. “That has a sort of moral usefulness, I suppose, in making one feel uncomfortable and encouraging sober reflection upon one’s imperfections.”

The Greysteels’ odd adventure had supplied a subject of conversation since they had sat down to dinner. “Flora, my dear,” said Aunt Greysteel, “Mr Strange will begin to think we cannot talk of any thing else.”

“Oh! Do not trouble upon my account,” said Strange. “It is curious and we magicians collect curiosities, you know.”

“Could you cure her by magic, Mr Strange?” asked Miss Greysteel.

“Cure madness? No. Though it is not for want of trying. I was once asked to visit a mad old gentleman to see what I could do for him and I believe I cast stronger spells upon that occasion than upon any other, but at the end of my visit he was just as mad as ever.”

“But there might be recipes for curing madness, might there not?” asked Miss Greysteel eagerly. “I dare say the Aureate magicians might have had one.” Miss Greysteel had begun to interest herself in magical history and her conversation these days was full of words like Aureate and Argentine.