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Page 17
"And this?" I asked, pointing to the marks upon the leathern
neck.
"She was a cruel tigress," said Dacre, as he turned away. "I
think it is evident that like other tigresses her teeth were both
strong and sharp."
The New Catacomb
"Look here, Burger," said Kennedy, "I do wish that you would
confide in me."
The two famous students of Roman remains sat together in
Kennedy's comfortable room overlooking the Corso. The night
was cold, and they had both pulled up their chairs to the
unsatisfactory Italian stove which threw out a zone of stuffiness
rather than of warmth. Outside under the bright winter stars lay
the modern Rome, the long, double chain of the electric lamps, the
brilliantly lighted cafes, the rushing carriages, and the dense
throng upon the footpaths. But inside, in the sumptuous chamber of
the rich young English archaeologist, there was only old Rome to be
seen. Cracked and timeworn friezes hung upon the walls, grey old
busts of senators and soldiers with their fighting heads and their
hard, cruel faces peered out from the corners. On the centre
table, amidst a litter of inscriptions, fragments, and ornaments,
there stood the famous reconstruction by Kennedy of the Baths of
Caracalla, which excited such interest and admiration when it was
exhibited in Berlin. Amphorae hung from the ceiling, and a litter
of curiosities strewed the rich red Turkey carpet. And of them all
there was not one which was not of the most unimpeachable
authenticity, and of the utmost rarity and value; for Kennedy,
though little more than thirty, had a European reputation in this
particular branch of research, and was, moreover, provided with
that long purse which either proves to be a fatal handicap to the
student's energies, or, if his mind is still true to its purpose,
gives him an enormous advantage in the race for fame. Kennedy had
often been seduced by whim and pleasure from his studies, but his
mind was an incisive one, capable of long and concentrated efforts
which ended in sharp reactions of sensuous languor. His handsome
face, with its high, white forehead, its aggressive nose, and its
somewhat loose and sensual mouth, was a fair index of the
compromise between strength and weakness in his nature.
Of a very different type was his companion, Julius Burger. He
came of a curious blend, a German father and an Italian mother,
with the robust qualities of the North mingling strangely with the
softer graces of the South. Blue Teutonic eyes lightened his sun-
browned face, and above them rose a square, massive forehead, with
a fringe of close yellow curls lying round it. His strong, firm
jaw was clean-shaven, and his companion had frequently remarked how
much it suggested those old Roman busts which peered out from the
shadows in the corners of his chamber. Under its bluff German
strength there lay always a suggestion of Italian subtlety, but
the smile was so honest, and the eyes so frank, that one understood
that this was only an indication of his ancestry, with no actual
bearing upon his character. In age and in reputation, he was on
the same level as his English companion, but his life and his work
had both been far more arduous. Twelve years before, he had come
as a poor student to Rome, and had lived ever since upon some small
endowment for research which had been awarded to him by the
University of Bonn. Painfully, slowly, and doggedly, with
extraordinary tenacity and single-mindedness, he had climbed from
rung to rung of the ladder of fame, until now he was a member of
the Berlin Academy, and there was every reason to believe that he
would shortly be promoted to the Chair of the greatest of German
Universities. But the singleness of purpose which had brought him
to the same high level as the rich and brilliant Englishman, had
caused him in everything outside their work to stand infinitely
below him. He had never found a pause in his studies in which to
cultivate the social graces. It was only when he spoke of his own
subject that his face was filled with life and soul. At other
times he was silent and embarrassed, too conscious of his own
limitations in larger subjects, and impatient of that small talk
which is the conventional refuge of those who have no thoughts to
express.
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