Kitabı oku: «The Fortunes Of Glencore», sayfa 29
CHAPTER XLVII. A FRAGMENT OF A LETTER
Long before Lord Glencore had begun to rally from an attack which had revived all the symptoms of his former illness, Billy Traynor had perfectly recovered, and was assiduously occupied in attending him. Almost the first tidings which Glencore could comprehend assured him that the boy was safe, and living at Massa under the protection of the Chevalier Stubber, and waiting eagerly for Billy to join him. A brief extract from one of the youth’s letters to his warm-hearted follower will suffice to show how he himself regarded the incident which befell, and the fortune that lay before him.
It was a long swim, of a dark night too, Master Billy; and whenever the arm of a tree would jostle me, as it floated past, I felt as though that “blessed” courier was again upon me, and turned to give fight at once. If it were not that the river took a sudden bend as it nears the sea, I must infallibly have been carried out; but I found myself quite suddenly in slack water, and very soon after it shallowed so much that I could walk ashore. The thought of what became of my adversary weighed more heavily on me when I touched land; indeed, while my own chances of escape were few, I took his fate easily enough. With all its dangers, it was a glorious time, as, hurrying downward in the torrent, through the dark night, the thunder growling overhead, the breakers battering away on the bar, I was the only living thing there to confront that peril! What an emblem of my own fate in everything! A headlong course, an unknown ending, darkness – utter and day less darkness – around me, and not one single soul to say, “Courage!” There is something splendidly exciting in the notion of having felt thoughts that others have never felt, – of having set footsteps in that un tracked sand where no traveller has ever ventured. This impression never left me as I buffeted the murky waves, and struck out boldly through the surfy stream. Nay, more, it will never leave me while I live. I have now proved myself to my own heart! I have been, and for a considerable time too, face to face with death. I have regarded my fate as certain, and yet have I not quailed in spirit or flinched in coolness. No, Billy; I reviewed every step of my strange and wayward life. I bethought me of my childhood, with all its ambitious longings, and my boyish days as sorrow first broke upon me, and I felt that there was a fitness in this darksome and mysterious ending to a life that touched on no other existence. For am I not as much alone in the great world as when I swam there in the yellow flood of the Magra?
As the booming breakers of the sea met my ear, and I saw that I was nearing the wide ocean, I felt as might a soldier when charging an enemy’s battery at speed. I was wildly mad with impatience to get forward, and shouted till my voice rang out above the din around me. How the mad cheer echoed in my own heart! It was the trumpet-call of victory.
Was it reaction from all this excitement – the depression that follows past danger – that made me feel low and miserable afterwards? I know I walked along towards Lavenza in listlessness, and when a gendarme stopped to question me, and asked for my passport, I had not even energy to tell him how I came there. Even the intense desire to see that spot once more, – to walk that garden and sit upon that terrace, – all had left me; it was as though the waves had drowned the spirit, and left the limbs to move unguided. He led me beside the walls of the villa, by the little wicket itself, and still I felt no touch of feeling, no memory came back on me; I was indifferent to all! and yet you know how many a weary mile I have come just to see them once more, – to revisit a spot where the only day-dream of my life lingered, and where I gave way to the promptings of a hope that have not often warmed this sad heart.
What a sluggish swamp has this nature of mine become, when it needs a hurricane of passion to stir it! Here I am, living, breathing, walking, and sleeping, but without one sentiment that attaches me to existence; and yet do I feel as though whatever endangered life, or jeoparded fame would call me up to an effort and make me of some value to myself.
I went yesterday to see my old studio: sorry things were those strivings of mine, – false endeavors to realize conceptions that must have some other interpreter than marble. Forms are but weak appeals, words are coarse ones; music alone, my dear friend, is the true voice of the heart’s meanings.
How a little melody that a peasant girl was singing last night touched me! It was one that she used to warble, humming as we walked, like some stray waif thrown up by memory on the waste of life.
So then, at last, I feel I am not a sculptor; still as little, with all your teaching, am I a scholar. The world of active life offers to me none of its seductions; I only recognize what there is in it of vulgar contention and low rivalry. I cannot be any of the hundred things by which men eke out subsistence, and yet I long for the independence of being the arbiter of my own daily life. What is to become of me? Say, dearest, best of friends, – say but the word, and let me try to obey you. What of our old plans of ‘savagery’? The fascinations of civilized habits have made no stronger hold upon me since we relinquished that grand idea. Neither you nor I assuredly have any places assigned us at the feast of this old-world life; none have bidden us to it, nor have we even the fitting garments to grace it!
There are moments, however, – one of them is on me while I write, – wherein I should like to storm that strong citadel of social exclusion, and test its strength. Who are they who garrison it? Are they better, and wiser, and purer than their fellows? Are they lifted by the accidents of fortune above the casualties and infirmities of nature? and are they more gentle-minded, more kindly-hearted, and more forgiving than others? This I should wish to know and learn for myself. Would they admit us, for the nonce, to see and judge them? let the Bastard and the Beggar sit down at their board, and make brotherhood with them? I trow not, Billy. They would hand us over to the police!
And my friend the courier was not so far astray when he called us vagabonds!
If I were free, I should, of course, be with you; but I am under a kind of mild bondage here, of which I don’t clearly comprehend the meaning. The chief minister has taken me, in some fashion, under his protection, and I am given to understand that no ill is intended me; and, indeed, so far as treatment and moderate liberty are concerned, I have every reason to be satisfied. Still is there something deeply wounding in all this mysterious “consideration.” It whispers to me of an interest in me on the part of those who are ashamed to avow it, – of kind feelings held in check by self-esteem. Good Heavens! what have I done, that this humiliation should be my portion? There is no need of any subtlety to teach me what I am, and what the world insists I must remain. There is no ambition I dare to strive for, no affection my heart may cherish, no honorable contest I may engage in, but that the utterance of one fatal word may not bar the gate against my entrance, and send me back in shame and confusion. Had I of myself incurred this penalty, there would be in me that stubborn sense of resistance that occurs to every one who counts the gain and loss of all his actions; but I have not done so! In the work of my own degradation I am blameless!
I have just been told that a certain Princess de Sabloukoff is to arrive here this evening, and that I am to wait upon her immediately. Good Heavens! can she be – ? The thought has just struck me, and my head is already wandering at the bare notion of it! How I pray that this may not be so; my own shame is enough, and more than I can bear; but to witness that of – I Can you tell me nothing of this? But even if you can, the tidings will come too late; I shall have already seen her.
I am unable to write more now; my brain is burning, and my hand trembles so that I cannot trace the letters. Adieu till this evening.
Midnight.
I was all in error, dear friend. I have seen her; for the last two hours we have conversed together, and my suspicion had no foundation. She evidently knows all my history, and almost gives me to believe that one day or other I may stand free of this terrible shame that oppresses me. If this were possible, what vengeance would be enough to wreak on those who have thus practised on me? Can you imagine any vendetta that would pay off the heart-corroding misery that has made my youth like a sorrowful old age, dried up hope within me, made my ambition to be a snare, and my love a mere mockery? I could spend a life in the search after this revenge, and think it all too short to exhaust it!
I have much to tell you of this Princess, but I doubt if I can remember it. Her manner meant so much, and yet so little; there was such elegance of expression with such perfect ease, – so much of the finest knowledge of life united to a kind of hopeful trust in mankind, that I kept eternally balancing in my mind whether her intelligence or her kindliness had the supremacy. She spoke to me much of the Harleys. Ida was well, and at Florence. She had refused Wahnsdorf’s offer of marriage, and though ardently solicited to let time test her decision, persisted in her rejection.
Whether she knew of my affection or not, I cannot say; but I opine not, for she talked of Ida as one whose haughty nature would decline alliance with even an imperial house if they deemed it a condescension; so that the refusal of Wahnsdorf may have been on this ground. But how can it matter to me?
I am to remain here a week, I think they said. Sir Horace Upton is coming on his way south, and wishes to see me; but you will be with me ere that time, and then we can plan our future together. As this web of intrigue – for so I cannot but feel it – draws more closely around me, I grow more and more impatient to break bounds and be away! It is evident enough that my destiny is to be the sport of some accident, lucky or unlucky, in the fate of others. Shall I await this?
And they have given me money, and fine clothes, and a servant to wait upon me, and treated me like one of condition. Is this but another act of the drama, the first scene of which was an old ruined castle in Ireland? They will fail signally if they think so; a heart can be broken only once! They may even feel sorry for what they have done, but I can never forgive them for what they have made me! Come to me, dear, kind friend, as soon as you can; you little know how far your presence reconciles me to the world and to yourself! – Ever yours,
C. M.
This letter Billy Traynor read over and over as he sat by Glencore’s bedside. It was his companion in the long, dreary hours of the night, and he pondered over it as he sat in the darkened room at noonday.
“What is that you are crumpling up there? From whom is the letter?” said Lord Glencore, as Billy hurriedly endeavored to conceal the oft-perused epistle. “Nay,” cried he, suddenly correcting himself, “you need not tell me; I asked without forethought.” He paused a few seconds, and then went on: “I am now as much recovered as I ever hope to be, and you may leave me to-morrow. I know that both your wish and your duty call you elsewhere. Whatever future fortune may betide any of us, you at least have been a true and faithful friend, and shall never want! As I count upon your honesty to keep a pledge, I reckon on your delicacy not asking the reasons for it. You will, therefore, not speak of having been with me here. To mention me would be but to bring up bitter memories.”
In the pause which now ensued, Billy Traynor’s feelings underwent a sore trial; for while he bethought him that now or never had come the moment to reconcile the father and the son, thus mysteriously separated, his fears also whispered the danger of any ill-advised step on his part, and the injury he might by possibility inflict on one he loved best on earth.
“You make me this pledge, therefore, before we part,” said Lord Glencore, who continued to ruminate on what he had spoken. “It is less for my sake than that of another.” Billy took the hand Glencore tendered towards him respectfully in his own, and kissed it twice.
“There are men who have no need of oaths to ratify their faith and trustfulness. You are one of them, Tray-nor,” said Glencore, affectionately.
Billy tried to speak, but his heart was too full, and he could not utter a word.
“A dying man’s words have ever their solemn weight,” said Glencore, “and mine beseech you not to desert one who has no prize in life equal to your friendship. Promise me nothing, but do not forget my prayer to you.” And with this, Lord Glencore turned away, and buried his face between his hands.
“And in the name of Heaven,” muttered Billy to himself as he stole away, “what is it that keeps them apart and won’t let them love one another? Sure it wasn’t in nature that a boy of his years could ever do what would separate them this way. What could he possibly say or do that his father might n’t forget and forgive by this time? And then if it was n’t the child’s fault at all, where’s the justice in makin’ him pay for another’s crime? Sure enough, great people must be unlike poor craytures like me, in their hearts and feelin’s as well as in their grandeur; and there must be things that we never mind nor think of, that are thought to be mortial injuries by them. Ay, and that is raysonable too! We see the same in the matayrial world. There’s fevers that some never takes; and there’s climates some can live in, and no others can bear!
“I suppose, now,” said he, with a wise shake of the head, “pride – pride is at the root of it all, some way or other; and if it is, I may give up the investigation at onst, for divil a one o’ me knows what pride is, – barrin’ it’s the delight one feels in consthruin’ a hard bit in a Greek chorus, or hittin’ the manin’ of a doubtful passage in ould Æschylus. But what’s the good o’ me puzzlin’ myself? If I was to speculate for fifty years, I ‘d never be able to think like a lord, after all!” And with this conclusion he began to prepare for his journey.
CHAPTER XLVIII. HOW A SOVEREIGN TREATS WITH HIS MINISTER
“What can have brought them here, Stubber?” said the Duke of Massa, as he walked to and fro in his dressing-room, with an air of considerable perturbation. “Be assured of one thing, they have come for mischief! I know that Sabloukoff well. She it was separated Prince Max from my sister, and that Montenegro affair was all her doing also.”
“I don’t suspect – ”
“Don’t you? Well, then, I do, sir; and that’s enough,” said he, interrupting. “And as to Upton, he’s well known throughout Europe, – a ‘mauvais coucheur,’ Stubber; that’s what the Emperor Franz called him, – a ‘mauvais coucheur,’ one of those fellows England employs to get up the embarrassments she so deeply deplores. Eh, Stubber, that’s the phrase: ‘While we deeply deplore the condition of the kingdom,’ – that’s always the exordium to sending out a fleet or an impertinent despatch. But I’ll not endure it here. I have my sovereign rights, my independence, my allies. By the way, haven’t my allies taken possession of the Opera House for a barrack?”
“That they have, sir; and they threaten an encampment in the Court gardens.”
“An open insult, an outrage! And have you endured and submitted to this?”
“I have refused the permission; but they may very possibly take no heed of my protest.”
“And you ‘ll tell me that I am the ruler of this state?”
“No, but I ‘ll say you might, if you liked to be so.”
“How so, Stubber? Come, my worthy fellow, what’s your plan? You have a plan, I’m certain – but I guess it: turn Protestant, hunt out the Jesuits, close the churches, demolish the monasteries, and send for an English frigate down to the Marina, where there’s not water to float a fishing-boat. But no, sir, I ‘ll have no such alliances; I ‘ll throw myself upon the loyalty and attachment of my people, and – I’ll raise the taxes. Eh, Stubber? We’ll tax the ‘colza’ and the quarries! If they demur, we ‘ll abdicate; that’s my last word, – abdicate.”
“I wonder who this sick man can be that accompanies Upton,” said Stubber, who never suffered himself to be moved by his master’s violence.
“Another firebrand, – another emissary of English disturbance. Hardenberg was perfectly right when he said the English nation pays off the meanest subserviency to their own aristocracy by hunting down all that is noble in every state of Europe. There, sir, he hit the mark in the very centre. Slaves at home, rebels abroad, – that’s your code!”
“We contrive to mix up a fair share of liberty with our bondage, sir.”
“In your talk, – only in your talk; and in the newspapers, Stubber. I have studied you closely and attentively. You submit to more social indignities than any nation, ancient or modern. I was in London in ‘15, and I remember, at a race-course, – Ascot, they called it, – the Prince had a certain horse called Rufus.”
“I rode him,” said Stubber, dryly.
“You rode him?”
“Yes, sir. I was his jock for the King’s Plate. There was a matter of twenty-eight started, – the largest field ever known for the Cup, – and Rufus reared, and, falling back, killed his rider; and the Duke of Dunrobin sent for me, and told me to mount. That’s the way I came to be there.”
“Per Bacco! it was a splendid race, and I’m sure I never suspected when I cheered you coming in, that I was welcoming my future minister. Eh, Stubber, only fancy what a change!”
Stubber only shrugged his shoulders, as though the alteration in fortune was no such great prize after all.
“I won two thousand guineas on that day, Stubber. Lord Heddleworth paid me in gold, I remember; for they picked my pocket of three rouleaux on the course. The Prince laughed so at dinner about it, and said it was pure patriotism not to suffer exportation of bullion. A great people the English, that I must say! The display of wealth was the grandest spectacle I ever beheld; and such beauty too! By the way, Stubber, our ballet here is detestable. Where did they gather together that gang of horrors?”
“What? signifies it, sir, if the Austrian Jagers are bivouacked in the theatre?”
“Very true, by Jove!” said the Duke, pondering. “Can’t we hit upon something, – have you no happy suggestion? I have it, Stubber, – an admirable thought. We ‘ll have Upton to dinner. We ‘ll make it appear that he has come here specially to treat with us. There is a great coldness just now between St. James’s and Vienna. Upton will be charmed with the thought of an intrigue; so will be La Sabloukoff. We ‘ll not invite the Field-Marshal Rosen-krantz: that will itself offend Austria. Eh, Stubber, is n’t it good? Say to-morrow at six, and go yourself with the invitation.”
And, overjoyed with the notion of his own subtlety, the Prince walked up and down, laughing heartily, and rubbing his hands in glee.
Stubber, however, was too well versed in the changeability of his master’s nature to exhibit any rash promptitude in obeying him.
“You must manage to let the English papers speak of this, Stubber. The ‘Augsburg Gazette’ will be sure to copy the paragraph, and what a sensation it will create at Vienna!”
“I am inclined to think Upton has come here about that young fellow we gave up to the Austrians last autumn, and for whom he desires to claim some compensation and an ample apology.”
“Apology, of course, Stubber, – humiliation to any extent. I’ll send the Minister Landelli into exile, – to the galleys, if they insist; but I ‘ll not pay a scudo, – my royal word on it! But who says that such is the reason of his presence here?”
“I had a hint of it last night, and I received a polite note from Upton this morning, asking when he might have a few moments’ conversation with me.”
“Go to him, Stubber, with our invitation. Ask him if he likes shooting. Say I am going to Serravezza on Saturday; sound him if he desires to have the Red Cross of Massa; hint that I am an ardent admirer of his public career; and be sure to tell me something he has said or done, if he come to dinner.”
“There is to be a dinner, then, sir?” asked Stubber, with the air of one partly struggling with a conviction.
“I have said so, Chevalier!” replied the Prince, haughtily, and in the tone of a man whose decisions were irrevocable. “I mean to dine in the state apartments, and to have a reception in the evening, just to show Rosenkrantz how cheaply we hold him. Eh, Stubber? It will half kill him to come with the general company!”
Stubber gave a faint sigh, as though fresh complications and more troubles would be the sole results of this brilliant tactique.
“If I were well served and faithfully obeyed, there is not a sovereign in Europe who would boast a more independent position, – protected by my bold people, environed by my native Apennines, and sustained by the proud consciousness – the proud consciousness – that I cannot injure a state which has not sixpence in the treasury! Eh, Stubber?” cried he, with a burst of merry laughter. “That’s the grand feature of composure and dignity, to know you can’t be worse! and this, we Italian princes can all indulge in. Look at the Pope himself, he is collecting the imposts a year in advance!”
“I hope that this country is more equitably administered,” said Stubber.
“So do I, sir. Were I not impressed with the full conviction that the subjects of this realm were in the very fullest enjoyment of every liberty consistent with public tranquillity, protected in the maintenance of every privilege – By the way, talking of privileges, they must n’t play ‘Trottolo’ on the high roads; they sent one of those cursed wheels flying between the legs of my horse yesterday, so that if I had n’t been an old cavalry soldier, I must have been thrown! I ordered the whole village to be fined three hundred scudi, one half of which to be sent to the shrine of our Lady of Loretta, who really, I believe, kept me in my saddle!”
“If the people had sufficient occupation, they ‘d not play ‘Trottolo,’” said Stubber, sternly.
“And whose the fault if they have not, sir? How many months have I been entreating to have those terraced gardens finished towards the sea? I want that olive wood, too, all stubbed up, and the ground laid out in handsome parterres. How repeatedly have I asked for a bridge over that ornamental lake; and as to the island, there’s not a magnolia planted in it yet. Public works, indeed; find me the money, Stubber, and I ‘ll suggest the works. Then, there ‘s that villa, the residence of those English people, – have we not made a purchase of it?”
“No, your Highness; we could not agree about the terms, and I have just heard that the stranger who is travelling with Upton is going to buy it.”
“Stepping in between me and an object I have in view! And in my own Duchy, too! And you have the hardihood to tell me that you knew of and permitted this negotiation to go on?”
“There is nothing in the law to prevent it, sir.”
“The law! What impertinence to tell me of the law I Why, sir, it is I am the law, – I am the head and fountain of all law here; without my sanction, what can presume to be legal?”
“I opine that the Act which admits foreigners to possess property in the state was passed in the life of your Highness’s father.”
“I repeal it, then! It saps the nationality of a people; it is a blow aimed at the very heart of independent sovereignty. I may stand alone in all Europe on this point, but I will maintain it. And as to this stranger, let his passport be sent to him on the spot.”
“He may possibly be an Englishman, your Highness: and remember that we have already a troublesome affair on our hands with that other youth, who in some way claims Upton’s protection. Had we not better go more cautiously to work? I can see and speak with him.”
“What a tyranny is this English interference! There is not a land, from Sweden to Sicily, where, on some assumed ground of humanity, your Government have not dared to impose their opinions! You presume to assert that all men must feel precisely like your dogged and hard-headed countrymen, and that what are deemed grievances in your land should be thought so elsewhere. You write up a code for the whole world, built out of the materials of all your national prejudices, your insular conceit, – ay, and out of the very exigencies of your bad climate; and then you say to us, blessed in the enjoyment of light hearts and God’s sunshine, that we must think and feel as you do! I am not astonished that my nobles are discontented with the share you possess of my confidence; they must long have seen how little suited the maxims of your national policy are to the habits of a happier population!”
“The people are far better than their nobles, – that I ‘m sure of,” said Stubber, stoutly.
“You want to preach socialism to me, and hope to convert me to that splendid doctrine of communism we hear so much of. You are a dangerous fellow, – a very dangerous fellow. It was precisely men of your stamp sapped the monarchy in France, and with it all monarchy in Europe.”
“If your Highness intends Proserpine to run at Bologna, she ought to be put in training at once,” said Stubber, gravely; “and we might send up some of the weeds at the same time, and sell them off.”
“Well thought of, Stubber; and there was something else in my head, – what was it?”
“The suppression of the San Lorenzo convent, perhaps; it is all completed, and only waits your Highness to sign the deed.”
“What sum does it give us, Stubber, eh?”
“About one hundred and eighty thousand scudi, sir, of which some twenty thousand go to the National Mortgage Fund.”
“Not one crown of it, – not a single bajocco, as I am a Christian knight and a true gentleman. I need it all, if it were twice as much. If we incur the anger of the Pope and the Sacred College, – if we risk the thunders of the Vatican, – let us have the worldly consolation of a full purse.”
“I advised the measure on wiser grounds, sir. It was not fair and just that a set of lazy friars should be leading lives of indolence and abundance in the midst of a hard-worked and ill-fed peasantry.”
“Quite true; and on these wise grounds, as you call them, we have rooted them out. We only wish that the game were more plenty, for the sport amuses us vastly.” And he clapped Stubber familiarly on the shoulder, and laughed heartily at his jest.
It was in this happy frame of mind that Stubber always liked to leave his master; and so, promising to attend to the different subjects discussed between them, he bowed and withdrew.
