would anyone want to burn Milton’s poems?” asked Mckella.
“Because of the English Civil War,” answered Uncle Julien. “Milton was a political activist. He was a pamphleteer who wrote tracts reflecting his belief that the English Crown wasn’t quite as sacrosanct as King Charles believed.”
Julien unfolded the letter and read:
My moste esteem’d Friend and Colleague,
I am ever grateful and humbl’d by your courageous defense of my scribblings. I honor your dedication to preserving knowledge and vouchsafeing authors safe harbour for theire works. Entrusted with my servant are the two volumes you requested, but moste importantly is the manuscript of my life’s most solemn labour. I beseeche you, in honour of the trust you hath hitherto shown me, to guard this manuscript well, and to let no man’s eyes see it, save yours. For this is not mere poesie, but an historical record of the utmost importance. I honor you with it’s safe-keeping; urge you to keep your counsel, until such time as it is claimed by it’s rightful heir. You will never see the man, but you know his name. One day he will hold your Moste Revere’d Poste, this Romarin.
Your Servant, John Milton, London 22 March in the Year of Our Lord, 1651
There was silence in the drawing room for a moment after Julien read the letter. Finally Natalie spoke, “This must be the letter Milton sent when he entrusted the manuscript we found to the Bodleian. But was there another Romarin who was head of the Bodleian before Uncle Richard?”
Julien shook his head. “No, never. It must have been passed down through the centuries, for the last 360 years it seems, until Richard inherited it.”
“Imagine!” Calvin exclaimed. “How could he have known? And Milton must have had considerable trust in John Rouse to give him such a thing.”
“That’s not all.” Uncle Julien removed a second letter, which looked as old as the one he just read. “This letter is from a Lucy Diodati, in Paris, France, to John Milton.” He adjusted his glasses and peered closely at the letter. “It’s dated February of 1651, just one month before the letter to John Rouse.” He looked up from the letter and shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s in Greek.”
Calvin asked to see the letter. “Uncle Richard insisted we learn Greek. I’m a little rusty, but I’ll have a go.” He translated in halting voice:
My Brother in Enlightenment,
I write you at your behest to assure you of the successful fruition of the solemn task we have undertaken. I thank you for your faithful service to me, and trust you know that we are well satisfied with your endeavor. I have left the poem in my uncle’s translation. Should anyone find it, they shall be entertained as by mere Lore. I shall now return to Geneva and be comforted that we have done all we must at present.
Ever your devoted Friend, Lucy Diodati
Natalie chewed on her thumbnail. “Now who on earth is she?” she asked.
Uncle Julien frowned. “I’ve never heard of a Lucy Diodati, but I know that Milton’s childhood friend was Charles Diodati.”
Randy had been sitting at a small writing desk in the corner, listening quietly. He opened a laptop and typed a search for Lucy and Charles Diodati. “I can’t find any mention of her, but but it says here that Charles Diodati died in 1638.”
“I believe he died relatively young,” Uncle Julien mused. “His family was originally from Italy, but were forced to flee to Geneva for its Protestant sympathies … Mon Dieu!” he cried suddenly, smacking his forehead. “Giovanni Diodati!” he declared with excitement.
“Who’s that, now?” Calvin asked, perplexed. “I must say, it’s a wonderfully lyrical name.”
“Of course! Now it makes perfect sense.” Julien continued. “Giovanni Diodati was Charles’ uncle, a very wise man, much like myself,” he finished with a wink.
“Go on,” Natalie chuckled.
“Giovanni was an important figure in the Reformation. He was a professor of Hebrew and theology at Geneva.”
“How does he relate to Milton, though?” asked Calvin.
“John Milton visited Giovanni in Switzerland when he was travelling through Europe,” Julien explained. “He was the uncle of his dear childhood friend, so it was only natural for him to stop there. If I’m not mistaken, that is when he found out that Charles Diodati had died.”
“So who is Lucy?” Randy asked. He’d been typing anything relating to the Diodati family on his laptop. “I still can’t find any mention of her.”
Uncle Julien looked confused as well. “She must be Giovanni’s niece, and sister to Charles, maybe. At any rate, she is apparently a person lost to history, save for this letter.” He frowned in concentration. “She says she left the poem in her uncle’s translation. She can only be referring to one book.”
Calvin leaned forward eagerly. “Which book?” he asked.
“The Bible,” said Julien simply. “Giovanni Diodati was the first person to translate it into Italian from Hebrew and Greek sources.”
“Her uncle’s translation,” Natalie mused aloud. “So according to this letter from Lucy, she placed Milton’s poem in a copy of her uncle’s translated Bible, currently residing in Paris …”
“That seems to be the most plausible theory we have at this time,” Julien said. “I shall think on it. In the meantime, there was one final item in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s book.” He brought forth a small engraving, which had been slipped into a protective plastic cover. It was obviously very old, and beautifully hand-colored. Julien handed it around to the group. The engraving was a minutely detailed depiction of some sort of tropical flower. It was creamy white and red, with a very curious looking caterpillar climbing on its petals.
When Natalie was handed the engraving she gave a start. “Why, I know who did this!” She examined the drawing closely. “This is most certainly an engraving by Maria Sibylla Merian. She was a highly gifted illustrator and naturalist from the seventeenth century. I don’t see her signature,” she said, examining it minutely, “but I’m sure this is her work. She had a very distinctive style, and was quite scientific in her method. Many botanists I know today still refer to her volumes of work.”
“May I see it?” asked Mckella. “I studied her as part of my art degree.” She took the engraving gingerly from her friend’s hand and peered closely at it. “Oh, you’re right, Natalie! This is definitely her work. And it’s an original piece, too. This is no copy.” She laid the piece carefully down on the table. “This is probably around 300 years old. We should definitely not be handling it so freely.”
“Good thing it’s in a plastic sheet,” noted Calvin. “I still have a little jam on my fingers.”
~
After a delicious dinner of roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, everyone decided to retire early and tackle their situation early the next morning.
Natalie had taken the book with
