CHAPTER XI. LAST DAYS AT THE TANA
If Gerald breathed more freely the next morning, on hearing that SignorGabriel had departed, it is, perhaps, no great wonder. The Tana was nota very agreeable abode. Dreariness within doors and without, a povertyunredeemed by that graceful content which so often sheds its influenceover humble fortune, a wearisome round of life--these were thecharacteristics of a spot which, in a manner, was associated in his mindwith all the sufferings of a sickbed. Yet no sooner had he learned thatGabriel was gone, than he felt as if a load were removed from his heart,and that even by the shores of that gloomy lake, or on the sides ofthose barren hills, he might now indulge his own teeming fancies, andlive in a world of his own thoughts.
It was no common terror that possessed him; his studies as a child hadstored his memory with many a dreadful story of satanic temptation. Onein particular he remembered well, of St. Francis, who, accompanied by achance traveller, had made a journey of several days; but whenever thesaint, passing some holy shrine or sacred spot, would kneel to pray, themost terrible blasphemies would issue from his lips instead of prayer;for his fellow-traveller was the Evil One himself. What if Gabriel hadsome horrible mission of this kind? There was enough in his look, hismanner, and his conversation to warrant the belief. He half laughedwhen the thought first crossed his mind, but it came up again andagain, gaining strength and consistency at each recurrence; nor was themelancholy desolation of the scene itself ill suited to aid the drearyconjecture. Though Gabriel had confided to him the key of his chamberwhere all his books were kept, Gerald passed days before he could summonresolution to enter it. A vague terror--a dread to which he could notgive shape or form--arrested his steps, and he would turn away fromthe door and creep noiselessly down the stairs, as though afraid ofconfessing, even to himself, what his errand had been.
At last, ashamed of yielding to this childish fear, he took a momentwhen old Pippo and his niece were at work in the garden, to explorethe long-dreaded chamber. The room was very different from what he hadanticipated, and presented a degree of comfort singularly in contrast tothe rest of the Tana. Maps and book-shelves covered the walls, withhere and there prints, mostly portraits of celebrated actresses. A largetable was littered with letters and papers, left just as Gabriel hadquitted the spot. Great piles of manuscript, too, showed what laborioushours had been spent there, while books of reference were strewn about,the pages marked by pencil-notes and interlineations. All indicated alife of study and labour. One trait alone gave another and differentimpression; it was a long rapier that hung over the fire-place, aroundwhose blade, at about a foot from the point, was tied a small bow ofsky-blue ribbon. As, curious to divine the meaning of this, Geraldexamined the weapon closely, he perceived that the steel was stainedwith blood up to the place where the ribbon was attached. What strange,wild fancies did not the boy weave as he gazed on this curious relic!Some fatal encounter there had been. Doubtless the unwiped blood uponthat blade had once welled in a human heart. Some murderous hand hadgrasped that strong hilt, and some silk tresses had once been fastenedwith that blue band which now marked where the blade had ceased topenetrate. 'A sad tale, surely, would it be to hear,' said he, as he satdown in deep thought.
Tired of these musings, he turned to the objects on the table. Thewritings that were scattered about showed that almost every species ofcomposition had engaged his pen. Essays on education, a history of theIlluminati, love-songs, a sketch of Cagliostroa, a paper on the commerceof the Scheldt, a life of Frederic, with portions of an unfinishednovel, all indicated the habits of a daily labourer of literature;while passages selected from classic authorities, with great care andresearch, evinced that much pains had been expended in cultivating thatrich intelligence.
The last work which had occupied his hand--it still lay open, withan unfinished sentence in the pen--was a memoir of the Pretender'sexpedition in '45. The name of Charles Edward was like a spell toGerald's heart. From the earliest day he could remember he was taughtto call him his own Prince, and among the prayers his infant lips hadsyllabled, none were uttered with more intense devotion than for thereturn of that true and rightful sovereign to the land of hisfathers. And now, how his eyes filled up, and his heart swelled, asa long-forgotten verse arose to his mind! He had learned it when itsmeaning was all mystery, but the clink of the rhythm had left it storedin his memory:
'Though for a time we see Whitehall With cobwebs hanging on the wall, Instead of gold and silver bright, That glanced with splendour day and night, With rich perfume In every room, That did delight that princely train, These again shall be, When the time we see, That the king shall enjoy his own again.'
Heavy and hot were the tears that rolled down the youth's cheeks, forhe was thinking of home and long ago--of that far-away home where lovinghearts had clustered round him. He could recall, too, the little room,the little bed he slept in, and he pondered over his strange, forlorndestiny. And yet, thought he suddenly, 'What is there in my fate equalto that poor Prince's? I am a Geraldine, they say, but I have none toown or acknowledge me. Who knows in what condition of shame I came intothe world, since none will call me theirs? This noble name is littlebetter than a scoff upon me.' The boy's heart felt bursting at this sadretrospect of his lot. 'Would that I had never left the college!' criedhe in his misery. 'Another year or two had, doubtless, calmed down therebellious longings of my heart for a life of action, and then I shouldhave followed my calling humbly, calmly, perhaps contentedly.'
Partly to divert his thoughts from this theme, he turned to the memoirof the Prince's expedition, and soon became so deeply interested in itsdetails as to forget himself and his own sorrows. Brief and sketchy asthe narrative was, it displayed in all the warm colouring of aromance that glorious outburst of national chivalry which gatheredthe chieftains around their sovereign--all the graces, too, of his owncaptivating manner, his handsome person, his courtly address, were dweltupon, exerting as they did an almost magical influence upon everyone who came before him. The short and bloody struggle which began atPreston and ended at Culloden was before his eyes, with all its errorsexposed, all its mistakes displayed; every fault of strategy dwelt upon,and every miscalculation criticised. All the train of events which mighthave occurred had this or that policy been adopted was set forth in mostpersuasive form; till, when the youth arose from the perusal, such aconviction was forced upon him that rashness alone had defeated theenterprise, that he sprang to his feet, and paced the room in passionateindignation. As he thought over the noble devotion of Charles Edward'sfollowers, he felt as if such a cause could not die. 'The right isthere,' muttered he, 'and there must yet be brave men who think so. Itcannot, surely, be possible that for one defeat so great a claim couldbe abandoned for ever! Where is the Prince now? how is he occupied? whoare his adherents and counsellors?' were the questions which quicklysucceeded each other in his mind. 'Would I were a soldier, that I couldlay my services at his feet, or that I had skill or ability to aid hiscause in any way!'
He turned eagerly again to the memoir, whose concluding words were, 'Helanded once more in France, on the 20th of September.' 'And that isnow many a year ago,' said he, and with a dreary sigh; 'mayhap, of hiswrecked fortune, not a plank now remains. Who could guide me in thismatter--who advise me? 'He knew of but one, and yet he shuddered at theidea of seeking counsel from Gabriel. The more Gerald reflected on it,the more was he assured that if he could obtain access to the Prince,his Royal Highness would remember his name. 'It is impossible,' thoughthe, 'but that some of my family must have been engaged in his cause, orwhy should I, as a mere child, have been taught to pray each night forhis success, and ask for a blessing on his head?' Yearning as his heartwas for some high purpose in life, it sent a thrill of intense delightthrough him to think of such a destiny.
It was a part of the training in the Jesuit College, to induce the youthto select some saintly model for imitation in life
, and while some choseSt. Francis Xavier, or St. Vincent de Paul, others took St. Anthonyof Padua, St. Francis d'Assisi, or any other illustrious martyr of thefaith; each votary being from the hour of his selection a most strenuousupholder of the patron he assumed. Indeed, of the enthusiasm in thisrespect some strange and almost incredible stories ran, showing how, intheir zeal, many had actually submitted to most painful self-tortures,to resemble the idols of their ambition. How easy was it now forGerald to replace any of these grim saints and martyrs by an imagethat actually filled his whole heart--one who possessed every gracefulattribute and every attractive quality. The seed of hero-worship thussown in his nature ripened to a harvest very different from that itwas intended to bear, and Charles Edward occupied the shrine some piousmartyr should have held. He little knew, indeed, how easily affections,nurtured for one class of objects, are transferred to others totallyunlike them, and how often are the temples we rear and mean to dedicateto our highest and holiest aspirations made homes for most worldlypassions! And what a strange chaos did that poor boy's mind soon become!for now he read whole days, and almost whole nights long, hurrying fromhis meals back to that lonely chamber, where he loved to be. Withthe insatiable thirst for new acquirement he tasted of all about him:dramatists, historians, essay-writers, theologians; the wildest theoriesof the rights of man, the most uncompromising asserters of divineauthority for royalty, the sufferings and sorrows of noble-heartedmissionaries, the licentious lives of courtly debauchees--all poured inlike a strong flood over the soil of his mind, enriching, corrupting,ennobling, and debasing it by turns. Like some great edifice rearedwithout plan, his mind displayed the strangest and most oppositecombinations, and thus the noble eloquence of Massillon, the wit ofMoliere, the epigrammatic pungency of Pascal, blended themselves withthe caustic severity of Voltaire, the touching pathos of Rousseau, andthe knowledge of life so eminently the gift of Le Sage. To see thatworld of which these great men presented such a picture, became now hisall-absorbing passion. To mingle with his fellow-men as actor, and notspectator. To be one of that immense _dramatis persono_ who moved aboutthe stage of life, seemed enough for all ambition. The strong spirit ofadventure lay deeply in his heart, and he felt a kind of pride to thinkthat if any future success was to greet him, he could recall the daysat the Tana, and say, there never was one who started in life poorer ormore friendless.
There was no exaggeration in this. His clothes were rags, his shoesbarely held together, and the only covering he had for his head was thelittle skullcap he used to wear in school hours. Even old Pippo beganto scoff at his miserable appearance, and hinted a hope, that before theseason of the contraband begun Gerald would have taken his departure, orbe able to make a more respectable figure. As Gabriel had now been gonemany weeks, and no tidings whatever come of him, the old man's reserveand deference daily decreased. He grumbled at Gerald's habits of study,profitless and idle as they seemed to him, while there was many a thingto be done about the house and the garden. He was not weak or sicklynow: he could help to chop the wood for winter firing; he could raisethose heavy water-buckets that swung over the deep well in the garden;he could draw the net in the little stream behind the house, or trenchabout the few stunted olives that struggled for life on the hillside.Gerald would willingly have done any or all of these, if the idea hadoccurred to himself. He was not indolent by nature, and liked the veryfact of active occupation. As a task, however, he rejected the notion atonce. It savoured of servitude to his mind, and who was this same Pippowho aspired to be his master?
The more the boy's mind became stored with knowledge, the fuller hisintelligence grew of great examples and noble instances--the moreindignantly did he repulse the advances of Pippo's companionship.'What!' he would mutter to himself, 'leave Bossuet and his divineteachings for his coarse converse! Quit the sarcastic intensity ofVoltaire's ridicule for the vulgar jests of this illiterate boor!Exchange the glorious company of wits and sages, and poets andmoralists, for a life of daily drudgery, with a mean peasant to talkto! Besides, I am not his guest, nor a burden upon his charity. It is toGabriel I owe my shelter here.'
When driven by many a sarcasm to assume this position, Pippo gravelyremarked: 'True enough, boy, so long as he was here; but he is gone now,and who 'll tell us will he ever come back? He may have been sentencedby the tribunal. At the hour we are talking here he may be in prison--atthe galleys, for aught we know; and I promise you one thing, there'smany a better man there.'
'And I, too, promise one thing,' replied Gerald angrily, 'if he ever docome, he shall hear how you have dared to speak of him.'
Old Pippo started at the words, and his face became lividly pale, andmuttering a few words beneath his breath, he left the spot. Nothing wasfurther from Gerald's mind than any defence of Gabriel, for whom, dowhat he might, he could feel neither affection nor gratitude. In whathe had said he merely yielded to a momentary impatience to sting theold man by an angry reply. For the remainder of that day not a word wasexchanged between them. They met and parted without saluting; they satsilently opposite each other at their meals. The following day openedwith the same cold distance between them, the old man barely eyeingGerald, when the youth was not observing him, and casting toward himglances of doubtful meaning. Too deeply engaged in his books to paymuch attention to these signs of displeasure, Gerald passed his hours asusual in Gabriel's room.
He was seated, reading, when the door opened gently, and the old man'sniece entered: her step was so noiseless, that she was nearly besideGerald's chair before he noticed her.
'What is it, Tina,' said he, starting; 'what makes you look sofrightened?'
She placed her finger on her lip, a sign of caution, and lookedanxiously around her.
'He has not been cruel or angry with you, poor girl?' asked the boy;'tell me this.'
'No, Gerald,' said she, in a low and broken voice; 'but there is dangerover you--ay, and near too, if you can't escape it. He sent me lastnight over to St. Stephano, twelve weary miles across the mountain,after nightfall, to fetch the Gobbino----'
'The Gobbino--who is he?'
'The hunch-back, that was at the galleys in Messina,' said the girl,trembling all over; and then went on, 'and to tell him to come over tothe Tana, for he wanted him.'
'Well, and then----'
'And then,' muttered the girl, 'and then,' and she made a pantomimicgesture of drawing a knife suddenly across the throat. 'It is so withhim, they say; he 'd think no more of it than do I of killing a hen!'
'No, no, Tina,' said the boy, smiling at her fears. 'You wrong old Pippoand the Gobbo too. Take my word for it, there is something else hewants him for; besides, why should he dislike _me_? What have I done toprovoke such a vengeance?'
'Haven't you threatened him?' said the girl eagerly. 'Have you not saidthat when Signor Gabriel comes back you will tell him something Pipposaid of him?' Is that not enough? Is the Signor Gabriel one who everforgives an injury?'
'I 'll not believe, I can't believe it,' said Gerald musingly.
'But I tell you it is true; I tell you I know it,' cried the girlpassionately.
'But what am I to do, then? How can I defend myself,'' 'Fly--leavethis--get over to Bolseno, or cross the frontier; neither of them canfollow you into Tuscany.'
'Remember, Tina, I have no money. I am almost naked. I know no one.'
'What matters all that if you have life?' said she boldly.
'Well said, girl!' cried he, warmed by the same daring spirit thatprompted her words. A slight noise in the garden underneath the windowstartled Tina, and she stepped quietly from the room and closed thedoor.
It was some time before Gerald could thoroughly take in the full forceof the emergency that threatened him. He knew well that in the Italiannature the sentiment of vengeance occupies no low nor ignominiousplace, but is classed among high and generous qualities; and that he whosubmits tamely to an injury is infinitely meaner than the man who, atany cost of treachery, exacts his revenge for it.
That a terrible v
engeance was often exacted for some casual slight, evena random word, the youth well knew. These were the points of honour inthat strange national character of which, even to this hour, we knowless than of any people's in Europe; and certainly, no crime couldpromise an easier accomplishment or less chance of discovery. 'Who isever to _know_ if I sunk under the Maremma fever,' said he, 'and who to_care_?'
He gazed out upon the lonesome waste of mountain and the black andstagnant lake at its foot, and thought the spot, at least, was wellchosen for such an incident. If there were moments in which the dreadof a terrible fate chilled his blood and made his heart cold with fear,there were others in which the sense of peril rallied and excited him.The stirring incidents of his readings were full of suchlike adventures,and he felt a sort of heroism in seeing himself thus summoned to meet anemergency. 'With this good rapier,' said he, taking down Gabriel's swordfrom its place, 'methinks I might offer a stout resistance. That blade,if I mistake not, already knows the way to a man's heart,' and heflourished the weapon so as to throw himself into an attitude ofdefence. Too much excited to read, except by snatches, he imagined tohis own mind every possible species of attack that might be made uponhim. He knew that a fair fight would never enter into _their_ thoughts;that even before the fate reserved for him would come the plan for theirown security; and so he pictured the various ways in which he might betaken unawares and disposed of without even a chance of reprisal. Asnight drew near his anxieties increased. The book in which from timeto time he had been reading was the _Life of Benvenuto Cellini_, anautobiography filled with the wildest incidents of personal encounter,and well suited to call up ideas of conflict and peril. Not less,however, was it calculated to suggest notions of daring and defiance;for in every perilous strait and hair-breadth emergency the greatFlorentine displayed the noblest traits of calm and reasoning courage.'They shall not do it without cost,' said Gerald, as he stole upnoiselessly to his room, never appearing at the supper-table, butretiring to concert his future steps. Gerald's first care on enteringhis room was to search it thoroughly, though there was not a corner nora cupboard capable of concealing a child. He went through the process ofinvestigation with all the diligence his readings prompted. He soundedthe walls for secret panels, and the floor for trapdoors; but all wasso far safe. He next proceeded to barricade his door with chairs; not,indeed, to prevent an entrance, but arrayed so skilfully that they musttopple down at the least touch, and thus apprise him of his peril ifsleeping. He then trimmed and replenished his lamp, and with his trustyrapier at his side, lay down, all dressed as he was, to await what mighthappen.
He who has experienced in life what it is to lie watching for the dawnof a day full of Heaven-knows-what fatalities, patiently expecting thesun to rise upon what may prove his saddest, his last hour of existence,even he, however, will fall short of imagining the intense anxiety ofone who with aching ears watches for the slightest sound, the lightestfootfall, or the lowest word that may betoken the approach of danger.With the intensity of the emotion the senses become preternaturallyacute, and the brain, overcharged with thought, suggests the wildestand strangest combinations. Through Gerald's mind, too, Cellini's daringadventures were passing. The dark and narrow streets of old Florence;the muffled 'sbirri' crowding in the dim doorways; the stealthyfootsteps heard and lost again; the sudden clash of swords and the criesof combat; the shouts for succour, and the heavy plash into the darkwaters of the Arno, all filled his waking, ay, and his dreamy thoughts,for he fell asleep at last and slept soundly. The day was just breaking,a grey, half-pinkish light faintly struggling through his window, whenGerald started up from his sleep. He had surely heard a sound. It washis name was called. Was it a human voice that uttered it? or was thewarning from a more solemn world? He bent down his head to listen again;and now he distinctly heard a low, creaking sound, and as distinctly sawthat the door was slightly moved, and then the words 'Gerald, Gerald,'whispered. He arose at once, and quickly recognising Tina's voice, drewnigh the door.
'You have no time to lose, Gerald,' said she rapidly. 'Pippo has takenthe boat and is rowing across the lake; and even by this half lightI can see a figure standing on the rock at the foot of the mountainwaiting for him, just where the pathway from St. Stephano comes down tothe water.'
'The Gobbo, I suppose,' said Gerald, half mockingly, as he showed therapier he still held in his hand.
'And if it be he, boy, there is no need to laugh,' said Tina,shuddering. 'The dark waters of that lake there, that cover some of hishandiwork, if they could speak, would tell you so.'
'Then what am I to do, Tina?'' said he, throwing open the door. 'You'd not have me meet them on the shore there and begin the attack, wouldyou?'
If Gerald threw out this suggestion as impracticable, it was yetprecisely the course he was longing himself to follow, and most eagerthat she should assent to.
'The Blessed Virgin forbid it!' cried she, crossing herself. 'There isbut one road to take, and that is yonder,' and she pointed to a littlerugged footpath that wound its way over the mountain, which joined thefrontier with Tuscany.
'And am I in meet condition to travel, Tina?' said he jestingly, as heshowed his ragged dress and pulled out the lining of his empty pockets.
'There is Signor Gabriel's cape,' said she; 'it is almost as good as acloak: he left it with me, but I have no need of it; and there is thecrown-piece you gave me yourself when you were ill of the fever, and Iwant it just as little.'
The boy struggled hard to refuse both, but the sorrow Tina felt forthe rejection at last overcame him, and, half in shame and half inpleasure--for the sense of exacting sacrifice is pleasure, deny it howwe may--he yielded, and accepted her gift.
'Oh, Tina, will there ever come a day when I can repay this kindness?'said he. 'I almost think there will.'
'To be sure, Gerald, and you 'll not forget me even if there should not.You who were taught by the pious Frati how to pray will surely say agood word in your devotions for a poor girl like Tina.'
The boy's heart overflowed with emotion at the trait of simple piety,and he kissed her twice with all the affection of a fond brother.'Good-bye, Tina,' said he, sobbing; 'I feel stronger and stouter inheart, now that I know your kind wishes are going along with me--theyare better to me, love, than a purse full of money.'
'Do not take that sword, Gerald,' said she, trying to take the weaponfrom him. 'If you enter a village with a rapier at your side, they 'llcall you a brigand, and give you up to the carabinieri.'
'I'll not quit the good blade so long as I can wear it,' said heresolutely; and then added to himself, 'I am nobly born, and have aright to a sword. "Cinctus gladio," says the old statute of knighthood;and if I be a Geraldine, I am noble!'
And with these words the boy bade his last farewell, and issued from thehouse.