by John Crowley
He spoke, it seemed to Ali, neither to amuse, nor to complain, but as a Philosopher—and yet still with something unspoken. When their collation was past, he waxed impatient, that they should depart—desired Ali to come with him unaccompanied—the which Ali refused, stating that his man knew no English, and that if they conversed in that language, he would learn nothing of it. Ængus at that assented, but made speed to summon his gondola.
‘A floating coffin,’ said Ali of this peculiar conveyance. ‘I would not of choice employ it. As confined as a prison-car—with the added danger of being drowned.’
‘Still, the life of the City could not proceed without them,’ said his brother. ‘You see how cleverly it is fitted out—curtains that draw shut—&c.—and a gentler motion than any hackney-coach—besides which the Gondoliers are the ones who carry messages everywhere, and are tombs of silence, else their business in tips would end. But here we are upon the farther shore.’
TRUE IT IS THAT I am as you see me,’ Ængus said, when at length three fine mounts of those that the Venetian kept were brought for them, and they had set out along that long shore—behind at a little distance, the companion of Ali following, like a shadow not dark, but bright. ‘The occupations, the delights, the frets, and the satin waistcoats—all are mine, I own. And yet I am another as well. Tell me now: Have you heard of those here who have drawn together in Societies, vowed to oppose the Austrian, and expel him from all the Italian lands?’
‘Even in my solitude,’ Ali said smiling, ‘I have.’
‘Some call themselves Carbonari, or charcoal-burners, for reasons too obscure to elucidate; other ones go by the name of Mericani, or Americans, which makes their convictions clearer.’
‘And are you of their number? I would not think you would be—I did not think you loved those who are oppressed—nor have I heard you express any sentiments, in favor of Democracy. Yet I remember what you told me, of the African slaves of your West Indian isle, and how you favoured their revolt.’
‘Mistake me not,’ said Ængus. ‘I despise the canaille, and have no illusions concerning their behaviour, once established in the seats of power, or the halls of Justice. No—I do nothing on their behalf—I am not for them—indeed, I am for no-one, I am only against.’
‘It seems a dreadful thing, and a melancholy.’
‘It ought to matter not at all to you. I am a dog that bites, and does not bark—such a dog has its uses. I know not what others may build. I shall not be there.’
‘What chance have they—have you—to accomplish that which they intend?’
‘I know not for certain,’ said Ali. ‘There are 10,000 in Romagna alone. I myself could whistle a dozen lads—nay, a hundred—to my back at need. The fratelli are everywhere—they hire assassins—an Austrian officer was shot at my very door or nearly—a couple of slugs in him—and though I had him brought within, and a doctor called, I could not save him.’
‘I wonder that you should have tried.’
‘I think, Brother,’ said Ængus, ‘that—unless I am much mistaken in you—in fact you do not wonder.’
For a time he would say no more, and they rode on—it was Ali who took up the thread of thought again.
‘Yet your duties in Society, and in matters of the heart, must often take you from these heavier things.’
‘It is,’ said Ængus, ‘rather the reverse. Without my rôle in Society, I would soon have been stopt from giving any help to the party of Liberty, and would now be clapt up in Prison, a thing to be avoided at all costs in this Republic.’
‘I begin to see,’ Ali averred. ‘Your servitude is not all it seems.’
‘For a long time the circumstance has been of the greatest value to me. There are many who delight in gossiping of me—the Scotch cripple—il zoppo—who toils after his mistress so diligently—so like a Monkey. See, see, they say to one another, what Venus makes even such a one do, and how he dances to her tune! That is quite enough to fill their heads—they would never make further guesses concerning me. A man who would do as I have done, would never do otherwise—one Character per man—two would be a solecism.’
‘So you hide yourself, and your doings, away—in the plainest of plain sight.’
‘So I have done—till now. Now the disguise begins to tatter. Indeed, the very perfection of it is to be the means of my undoing. I am very near to very great trouble, my brother.’
‘I have awaited the broaching of this matter. Now I see it come near.’
Here Ængus stopt, and dismounted, inviting his Brother to do likewise; when he had done so, Ængus came close, tho’ still he look’d away, as a man might who wishes to impart a thing privily, and wonders if he might be overheard. ‘My Lady’s husband is a man of some parts,’ quoth he then, ‘and has himself not always been what he now seems. (You may be sure that I know all that may be known about the man.) He has seen some fifty Summers, and the surviving of them has made him cunning. In that unsettled time when Buonaparte’s armies and officers vanished from the land like a cloud, and those of Austria returned to replace them, he took the side of a revolutionary mob—thinking it better to put himself at their head, than to have them cut off his. After that uprising was crushed, and the Austrian authorities restored, he returned to his former contempt for the people, and conformed himself willingly to the new Rulers. His earlier association with the patriotic movement, however, had established connexions that he thought it prudent never to give up—and through them he has drawn ever closer to my secret—indeed he is now almost certainly in possession of it—and only refrains from informing the Austrians of it, until he have disguised his own Hand in the matter, and is able to unmask me without unmasking himself. It will be at any moment now. I am prepared to leave upon the hour, if need be, and vanish with no more trace than those enemies of the State under the Doges, who, once denounced and tried in secret, were never heard of again. Yet I cannot—till I have replaced myself, and quickly, with one wholly unknown, and undiscoverable—a man whose name appears on no List, and is on the tongue of no Informer—a man who is willing and able to do the work I have been engaged with.’
‘So it is for this that you have drawn me hither,’ said Ali, with a smile—a sort of smile that could not have crossed his lips in times gone by—a smile of the Sanes, yet not, for his soul is still untainted by that dark stain. ‘You will ask of me, that I be this one.’
‘I know no other that I may so ask. I cannot say, still, why I have thought to do it.’ Here he bent, and from the sand picked up a round smooth stone, of blackest hue, and stroked it in his fingers as though it were precious. ‘Have I guessed wrongly?’
‘I have no reason to consent.’
‘Have you never felt those stirrings of anger, or resentment, at the powerful and the cruel, or inspiration in thinking of their overthrow? I should have thought you would. I should, if I were you. Do you know the tale of Jacques-Armand? He was a peasant boy, forcibly adopted from his parents by Queen Marie Antoinette, who took a fancy to him. Yet despite her caresses, and the fine clothes and rich foods he was given, he wept continually and was inconsolable. When the Revolution came, Jacques-Armand became the most ruthless Jacobin of all, and beheader extraordinaire in the Terror.’
‘I cannot see how this tale applies to me.’
‘That you cannot, seems to make plain that it does not.’
‘What do you offer, should I be willing? What do I gain?’
‘I offer nothing.’
‘Nothing will come of nothing.’
‘Yet I think something may. I have hopes that, though I have nothing to offer, still the challenge may interest, and the hope inspire. I say it may. Understand that I am aware how unlikely is this gambit of mine to succeed. You may judge how desperate is the case, by my willingness to try it.’
When Ali made no response, Ængus continued thus: ‘You have heard of the Societies of Italy. It may be that you have heard of similar brotherhoods, in other lands.’
‘I
cannot say so. Perhaps they know better than the Italians, how to keep their secrets secret.’
‘I shall now tell you of something I have sworn upon my life to tell to no-one but him who shall be numbered among us. So much do I trust your silence.’
‘Have a care. You know not what beliefs I hold, nor what allegiances I have sworn. How do you know I am not, myself, an agent of that Empire against whom you contest? Or of some ally of it? Or a seller of information, and of men?’
‘I know, Brother, because no man could be more transparent than yourself—you ever were—it maddened me, that you were so, and naught I could do, would darken or cloud you. Listen to me now, and I shall tell you of a thing known to few. Over the wide world—at least that part of it, from our own Isle even to the throne of the Czar, where the spirit of Liberty is not killed—there has been built a Society whose members are united by a singular purpose, or but a few, and who are vowed to aid all others who are so dedicated, whatever their Nation. In short they intend to see the end of Kings, and hereditary Lords—and all Churches and Courts, whose Virtue and Justice consist solely in serving Kings and Lords—indeed all those borne on the backs of the peoples of the world as a burdened Ass bears his load. If it take a Century—and they believe it will take no such number of years—there will in the end be none, and so (it is held) all peoples will be free of unnecessary sufferings: for there are sufferings enough everywhere that none among the living can avoid.’
‘Can this be true?’
‘It is true. In each country where they are established, they are known by a name of their own, but universally they bear but one—would you hear it?’
‘You seem intent that I should.’
‘They are called Lucifers.’
Ali laughed to hear this, and his laughter both alarmed and delighted his Brother by him—who thought he had not heard the man laugh before—certainly not at the curious ways of the world, and the doings of that great God without a Religion, Circumstance, who delights to bring about such jokes as this one, having in his keeping some for each of us—who in homage to him may well laugh, or weep!
‘I thought,’ Ali then said, ‘that the former Emperor of the French was dedicated to this same work—to sweep away the old Oppressors—break open the Prisons—unburden men, and women too—free slaves—and Jews. Yet he stands now upon a rock in the middle of the sea, and all the old Perukes have come back in.’
‘Indeed. All those young firebrands, who burned to free their Nations and Peoples from tyranny, joined perforce with their toppled Kings and Nobles, to rout Napoleon and his pasteboard Monarchies—even those who had at first adored the man. Now they have seen through that trick—and they will forge a Liberty from within, not one imposed from without—a German liberty, different from a Hungarian, a Greek, a Venetian—Liberty, and self-government, to each his own!’
‘I own it is a dream I too have dreamt. Yet is it but a dream?’
‘They may change the world,’ quoth his Brother—‘Indeed I am certain they will—tho’ for the better or the worse I am not so vain as to assert. I have read in the Italian press that the two greatest examples of Vanity the present world affords are Buonaparte, and an English poet. Think how flattered the old Emperor on his sea-rock should be, were he to hear of the comparison—as only he had power to hurt—the other only to limn.’
‘I know not if I should make a success of revolution,’ Ali said then in seeming thoughtfulness. ‘I am not cold-blooded—or hot-blooded—enough. The plain humanity of the man before me, be he the soldier of a king—or a King—or the Pope himself—if he be not personally an enemy of mine, I am likely to think him a good enough fellow to live, at the least. And I will approve a brave and honourable man, whichever side he stand upon.’
‘It is creditable to you,’ said his brother, without much conviction. ‘But let it not dissuade you, if you lean to this. My own case is the reverse of yours—the Company and the contemplation of any lot of my fellow Humans always becomes for me, and soon enough, a perfect ipecacuanha. Yet I have worked long on their behalf, and somewhat prospered in the trade, as well.’
Ali was thoughtful then again, and clasped his hands behind him and lowered his head—glanced with careful eye to where his companion in white waited motionless upon his horse, like the Statue of a Ghost. Then he said: ‘A man who took upon himself these tasks—would he not risk all, even those he loved? Such a one ought not to be burdened with parent, or wife or child—lest his ruin, which seems likely enough, should be theirs.’
‘I think it to be so.’
‘I am not thus burdened.’ This Ali said, yet without complacency—as his Brother saw.
‘Do you dare then to do these things?’
‘How can I know what I dare? When I have done what I shall do, then should you know what I have dared—or failed to dare.’
‘Well said,’ quoth Ængus. ‘It is all that I would ask.’
‘Your Lady—I assume she knows but little of this—’
‘Nothing. Knowledge even in the slightest would endanger both of us. I confess to you—no matter that my object is clear, and the means likewise—I am pained that I must leave her thus—vanish upon the instant—and she never to know where—well—it troubles me, though I know not what name I may give to this troubling. She has been loyal to me, as I to her—and believe me, there are not so many who would look long with favour on such as myself.’
‘And where will you go? Into what land, to what shore?’
‘That I know not, so it be far enough. I am a marked man, and once marked, I may not be unmarked—for you see, I am what I am—no police spy, no enforcer of the Laws, no border guardian, could mistake me—and their network is as wide, as far-flung, as well-informed, as our own. Where I go must be far, if they are not to follow—a place their Power reaches not.’
‘To the Antipodes, then. Or China.’
‘I say I care not—somewhere this side of Hades—that is all.’
‘Very well,’ then said Ali with sudden force. ‘I will accept your proposal—I will remain here—I will execute what Duties I am called upon to perform, to the best of my abilities, if you will instruct me in them—’
‘Aha!’ cried Ængus, and clapt his hands. ‘Splendid fellow you are!’
‘But with this condition—that you likewise take up a piece of work—a dangerous one as well, though not to Life, perhaps, or Limb—yet doubtful of success—and also secret. One which by my pledge duly made I ought to do, but which perhaps by rights belongs to you.’
Ængus knitted his brows in question at this, and he demanded to know of what Ali spoke. For answer, Ali returned a question—‘Tell me,’ he asked his brother, ‘do you ever give thought to your Daughter?’
At the word, Ængus looked sharply away, as though stricken—but only for a moment. ‘Of what daughter do you speak?’ said he then, coldly enough.
‘You have but one, to my knowledge,’ said Ali.
‘I may have several,’ responded Ængus. ‘There is hardly a slave-driver of the West Indies who may not own to a dark-skinn’d pup, or to many.’
‘You know of whom I speak.’
‘Then I know not if I have, or only had,’ said Ængus, and he flung into the quiet wave the stone he had before picked up. ‘She may well be dead—only think how much a child must pass through to grow even to a few hands high—convulsions—fevers—black vomit—diarrhœa—cough—consumption—galloping this and foudroyant that—not one in six achieves it—why should I suppose she would?’
‘I assure you that she lives,’ said Ali.
‘Is she,’ asked Ængus, and his eye still avoided his brother’s, ‘well-formed? I mean to ask—’
‘She was perfect,’ said Ali, ‘and I hear that she remains so.’
‘Well then,’ said Ængus, and again—‘Well then’—not as if in answer, or assent, but as though he answered a question from within himself—and deep within.
‘Let us,’ Ali said, ‘mount again,
and I will tell you of this Condition I mean to make, and how you may meet it—if you chuse.’
‘Then let us ride together,’ his brother said; and they mounted, and together rode along that strand. Rosy grew the snow-clad tips of the far Alps as the Sun declined—the prints of their horses’ hooves dotted the sand along the hush’d sea—and long the Brothers spoke, of many things.
NOTES FOR THE 15TH CHAPTER
no horses: Lord Byron’s horses were famous in Venice, where indeed they are rare, and quite useless. He stabled them upon the Lido, the great strand that faces the Adriatic, and rode them almost daily when he lived there. Certainly he loved riding, as he did swimming, for on horseback he was anyone’s equal.
Carbonari: Lord Byron was himself inducted into this society, and attended its meetings; in his house he stored their weapons, and a deal of Mantons’ powder too, that he bought for them. He always regarded the Italian conspirators with a cold eye, and understood well their disabilities—their Latin impulsiveness, &c.—yet he espoused their cause, and never wavered. One among them though one among them.
Jacques-Armand: I find the tale is told in the Memoires sur la vie privée de Marie-Antoinette, by Mme Campan (1822). I know not if Ld. B. found it there.
an English poet: Such a note did appear in an Italian newspaper, making an association that Lord Byron might have aspired to, but on a basis that, hardly creditable to him, must have amused him a good deal. To receive the right notice for the wrong reason—the vanity of human wishes.
may well be dead: Lord Byron had, as is well known, a daughter by Claire Clairmont, a half-sister of Mary Shelley’s, whom he named Allegra. She died at the age of five of a fever, in the convent to which Ld. B. had remanded her for her education. I know not, and there is no way to tell, if this tale was written to this point before her death. Ld. B. had taken the child in the first instance from the Shelleys, who had lost more than one child to various illnesses; perhaps he believed she would surely die in their company. He loved her, indulged her, and found her uncontrollable, vain, disputatious—a child. Yet his giving her over to the nuns was not to rid himself of her so much as to ready her for the only life he could imagine for her: an Italian life, marriage to an Italian, for which he had already supplied a dowry before she—What if it had been me That child my sister but a year and a month younger than myself he loved her and he could not or he would not keep her he talked of taking her with him to America What if by some means he had contrived to take me from England, and on his journeys?? I think of this or once thought, and often too Would I then have died, in an Italian convent—been sent home as she was in a small coffin—buried as he requested in the church at Harrow the Rector refusing to have her in the Church or to have a Monument put up on the church wall, so she is somewhere unmark’d in the church-yard He wrote for her I shall go to her, but she shall not return to me no it is not I who lies in Harrow church-yard without a name to mark the place