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 time-worn 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.
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