CHAPTER VIII. THE TANA IN THE MAREMMA
Simply turning his steps westward, in the direction where he knew theMaremma lay, Gerald set out on his lonely journey. It was nothing newin his habits to be absent the entire day, and even night, so that noattention was drawn to his departure till late the following day; nor,perhaps, would it have been noticed then, if a summons had not come fromthe Contessina that she desired to speak with him. A search was at oncemade, inquiries instituted on every side, and soon the startling factacknowledged, that he had gone away, none knew whither or why.
The Contessina at once ordered a pursuit; he was to be overtaken andbrought back. Mounted couriers set off on every side, scouring thehigh-roads, interrogating hotel-keepers, giving descriptions of thefugitive at passport stations--taking, in short, all the palpable andevident means of discovery; while he--for whose benefit this solicitudewas intended--was already deep among the dreary valleys to the west ofthe Lake of Bolseno. The country through which he journeyed was, indeed,sad-coloured as his own thoughts. Hills, not large enough to be calledmountains, succeeded each other in unbroken succession, their sidescovered with a poor and burned-up herbage, interspersed with masses ofrock or long patches of shingle; no wood, no cultivation on any side. Afew starved and wretched sheep, watched by one even more wretched still,were all that represented life; while in the valleys, a stray hut ortwo, generally on the borders of a swampy lake, offered the only thingin the shape of a village. After he had crossed the great post-road fromSienna to Rome, Gerald entered a tract of almost perfect desolation.
He bought two loaves of rye-bread and some apples at a small house onthe road, and with this humble provision slung in a handkerchief at hisside, set out once more. At first it was rather a relief to him to beutterly alone; his own thoughts were his best companions, and he wouldhave shrunk from the questionings his appearance was certain to elicit;but as the time wore on, and the noon of the second day was passed, hefelt the dreariness of the solitude creeping over him, and would gladlyhave met with one with whom he could have interchanged even a few wordsof greeting. Not a human trace, however, was now to be seen; for he hadgained that low-lying district which, stretching beneath the mountain ofBolseno, extends, in patches of alternate lake and land, to the vergeof the Maremma. This tract is not even a sheep-walk, and although inmid-winter the sportsman may venture in pursuit of the wild duck or themallard, the pestilential atmosphere produced by summer heat makes thespot a desert. Gerald was not long a stranger to the sickly influencesof the place: a strange sense of dizziness would now and then come overhim--something less than sickness, but usually leaving him confused andhalf stunned; great weariness, too, beset him; a desire to lie down andsleep, so strong as almost to be irresistible, seized him, but a dreadof wild beasts--not unfrequent in these places--enabled him to conquerthis tendency. The sun bore down with all its noonday force upon him,while an offensive odour from the stagnant waters oppressed him almostto choking.
He walked on, however, on and on, but almost like one in a dream.Thoughts of the past superseded all sensations of the present in hismind, and he fancied he was back once more in the old college of theJesuit fathers. He heard the bell that summoned him to the schoolroom,and he hastened to put himself in his place, marching with crossed armsand bent-down head, in accustomed fashion. Then he heard his name calledaloud, and one of the fathers told him to stand aside, for he was 'up'for punishment; and Fra Luke was there, wishing to speak to him, but notadmitted; and then--how, he knew not--but he was gazing on grizzly bearsand white-tusked boars, in great cages; and there they stood spell-boundand savage, but unable to spring out, though it was but glass confinedthem; and through all these scenes the wild strains of the tarantellasounded, and the light gestures and wistful looks of Marietta, whosehair, however, was no longer dark, but golden and bright, like theContes-sina's. And as suddenly all changed, and there stood theContessina herself, with one hand pressed to her eyes, and she wasweeping, and Gerald felt--but how he did not know--he had offended her;and he trembled at his fault and hated himself, and, stooping down, hefell at last at her feet, and sobbed for pardon.
And there he lay, and there night found him sleeping--the long sleepthat awakes to fever. Damp mists arose, charged with all the deadlyvapours of the spot; foul airs steamed from the hot earth, to minglewith his blood, and thicken and corrupt it. Though the sky wasfreckled with stars, their light was dimmed by the dull atmosphere thatprevailed, for the place was pestilential and deadly.
When day broke racking pains tortured him in every limb, and his headfelt as though splitting with every throb of its arteries. A dreadfulthirst, almost maddening in its craving, was on him, and though arivulet rippled close by, he could not crawl to it; and now the hotsun beamed down upon him, and the piercing rays darted into his brain,penetrating it in all directions--sending wild fancies, horrible andghastly visions, through his mind. And combats with wild beasts, andwounds, and suffering, and long days of agony and suspense, all camepouring in upon him, as vial after vial of misery bathed his poor,distracted intellect.
Three days of this half-conscious state--like so many long years ofsuffering they were--and then he sank into the low torpor that forms thelast stage of the fever. It was thus, insensible and dying, a travellerfound him, as the third evening was falling. The stranger stooped downto examine the almost lifeless figure, and it was long before he couldconvince himself that vitality yet lingered there: from the dried andlivid lips no breath seemed to issue; the limbs fell heavily toeither side as they were moved; and it was only after a most carefulexamination that he could detect a faint fluttering motion of the heart.
Whether it was that the case presented so little of hope, or that he wasone not much given to movements of charity, but the traveller, after allthese investigations, turned again to pursue his path. He had not gonefar, however, when, gaining the rise of a hill, he cast his eyes backover the dreary landscape, and again they fell upon that small mound ofhuman clay beside the lake. Moved by an impulse that, even to himself,was unaccountable, he returned to the spot and stood for some minutescontemplating Gerald. It might be that in the growing shades of theevening the gloomy desolation spoke more touchingly to his heart; itmight be that a feeling of compassionate pity stirred him; as likely aseither was it a mere caprice, as, stooping down, he raised the wastedform, and threw it loosely over one shoulder, and then strode out uponhis way once more.
The stranger was a man of great size and personal strength, and thoughheavily framed, possessed considerable activity. His burden seemedlittle to impede his movements, and almost as little to engage histhoughts, and as he breasted the wild mountain, or waded the manystreams that crossed his path, he went along without appearing to thinkmore of him he was rescuing. It was a long road, too, and it was deepinto the night ere he reached a solitary house, in a little slip ofland between two lakes, and over whose door a withered bough denoted acabaret.
'What, in the name of all the saints, have you brought us here?' said anold man who quickly responded to his knock at the door.
'I found him as you see beside the Lagoscuro,' said the other, layingdown his burden. 'How he came there I can't tell you, and I don'tsuspect you'll ever get the report from himself.'
'He's not a contadino,' said the old man, as he examined the boy'sfeatures, and then gazed upon the palms of his hands.
'No; nor is he a Roman, I take it: he's of German or English blood. Thatfair skin and blonde hair came from the north.'
'One of the Cavalrista, belike!'
'Just as likely one of the circus people; but why they should leavehim there to die seems strange, except that strangers deem this Maremmafever a sort of plague, and, perhaps, when he was struck down they onlythought of saving themselves from the contagion.'
'That wouldn't be human, Master Gabriel----'
'Wouldn't it, though!' cried Gerald's rescuer, with a bitter laugh.'That's exactly the name for it, caro Pippo. It is the beasts ofprey--the tiger and lion--that
defend their young; it is the mild rabbitand the tender woman that destroy theirs.' The innkeeper shook his head,as though the controversy were too subtle for him, and, bending down toexamine the boy more closely, 'What's this, Master Gabriel,' said he,taking a peculiar medal that hung suspended round his neck.
'He was a colleger of some sort certainly,' cried Gabriel. 'It's clear,therefore, he wasn't, as we suspected, one of the Cavalrista. I'll tellyou, Pippo; I have it: this lad has made his escape from some of theseminaries at Rome, and in his wanderings has been struck down by thefever. The worthy Frati have, ere this, told his parents that he died inall the hopes of the church, and is an angel already----'
'There, there,' interposed Pippo rebukingly; 'no luck ever came ofmocking a priest. Let's try if we can do anything for the lad. Tinawill be up presently, and look to him'; and with this he spread out someleaves beside the wall, and covering them with a cloak, laid the sickboy gently on them.
'There, see; his lips are moving--he has swallowed some of thewater--he'll get about--I'll swear to it!' cried the other. 'A fellowthat begins life in that fashion has always his mission for after years.At all events, Pippo, don't disturb me for the next twelve hours, forI mean to sleep so long; and let me tell you, too, I have taken my lastjourney to Bon Convento. The letters may lie in the post-office tilldoomsday, ere I go in seach of them.'
'Well, well, have your sleep out, and then----'
'And then?' cried Gabriel, turning suddenly round, as he was about toquit the room. 'I wish to Heaven you could tell me, what then!'
Old Pippo shook his head mournfully, heaved a heavy sigh, and turnedaway.
Tina, a peasant girl, pale and sickly, but with that energy of soulthat belongs to the Roman race, soon made her appearance, and at onceaddressed herself to nurse the sick boy. 'I ought to know this Maremmafever well,' said she, with a faint sigh; 'it struck me down when achild, and has never left my blood since.' Making a polenta with somestrong red wine, she gave him a spoonful from time to time, and bycovering him up warmly induced perspiration, the first crisis of thedisease. 'There,' cried she, after some hours of assiduous care; 'there,he is safe; and God knows if he 'll bless me for this night's work afterall! It is a sad, dreary life, even to the luckiest!'
While Gerald lay thus--and it was his fate in this fashion to passsome six long weeks, ere he had strength to sit up or move about thehouse--let us say a few words of those to whose kindness he owed hislife. Old Pippo Baldi had kept the little inn of Borghetto all hislife. It was his father's and grandfather's before him. Situated inthis dreary, unwholesome tract, with a mere mountain bridle-path--nota road--leading to it, there seemed no reason why a house ofentertainment--even the humblest--could be wanted in such a spot; and,indeed, the lack of all comfort and accommodation bespoke how littletrade it drove. The 'Tana,' however, as it was called, had a briskbusiness in the long dark nights of winter, since it was here that thesmugglers from the Tuscan frontier resorted, to dispose of their waresto the up-country dealers; and bargains for many a thousand scudi wenton in that dreary old kitchen, while bands of armed contrabandieriscoured the country. To keep off the Pope's carbineers--in case thatredoubtable corps could persuade themselves to adventure sofar--the Maremma fever, a malady that few ever eradicated from theirconstitution, was the best protection the smugglers possessed; and theTana was thus a sanctuary as safe as the rocky islands that lay off St.Stephano. A disputed question of boundary also added to the safetyof the spot, and continual litigation went on between the courts ofFlorence and Rome as to which the territory belonged--contests thescandal-mongering world implied might long since have been terminated,had not the cardinal-secretary Manini been suspected of being in secretleague with the smugglers. The Tana was, therefore, a sort of refuge;and more than one, gravely compromised by crime, had sought out thathumble hostel, as his last place of security. To the refugee from thenorth of Italy it was easily available, lying only a few miles beyondthe Tuscan frontier, while it was no less open to those who gained anyport of the shore near St. Stephano.
In a wild and melancholy waste, with two dark and motionless lakes girtin by low mountains, the Tana stood, the very ideal of desolation. Thestrip of land on which it was built was little wider than a mere bridge,between the lakes, and had evidently been selected as a positioncapable of defence against the assault of a strong force, and two rudebreastworks of stone yet bore witness that a military eye had scannedthe place, and improved its advantages. Within, a stray loop-hole formusketry still showed that defence had occupied the spirits of those whoheld it, while a low, flat-bottomed boat, moored at a stake before thedoor, provided for escape in the last extremity. The great curiosityof the place, however, was a kind of large hall or chamber, where thesmugglers transacted business with their customers, and the walls ofwhich had been decorated with huge frescoes, in charcoal, by no less ahand than Franzoni himself, whose fate it had once been to pass monthshere. Taking for his subjects the lives of the various refugees who hadsojourned in the Tana, he had illustrated them in a series of bold andvigorous sketches, and assuredly every breach of the Decalogue had hereits portraiture, with some accompanying legend beneath to show in whosehonour the picture had been painted. Pippo, who had supplied frommemory all the incidents thus communicated, regarded these asperfect treasures, and was wont to show them with all the pride of aconnoisseur. 'The maestro '--so he ever called Franzoni--'the maestro,'said he, 'never saw Cimballi, who strangled the Countess of Soissons,and yet, just from my description, he has made a likeness his brotherwould swear to. And there, look at that fellow asking alms of theCardinal Frescobaldi--that 's Fornari. He 's merely there to see thecardinal, and he's sure he can recognise him; for he is engaged to stabhim on his way to the Quirinal, the day of his election for Pope. Thelittle fellow yonder with the hump is the Piombino, who poisoned hismother. He was drowned in the lake out there. I don't think it was quitefair of the maestro to paint him in that fashion'; and here he wouldpoint to a little humped-backed creature rowing in a boat, with thedevil steering, the flashing eyes of the fiend seeming to feast on thetortures of fear depicted in the other's face.
Several there were of a humorous kind. Here, a group of murderousruffians were kneeling to receive a pontifical blessing. There, a partyof Papal carbineers were in full flight from the pursuit of a singlehorseman armed with a bottle; while, in an excess of profanity thatPippo shuddered to contemplate, there was a portrait of himself, as asaint, offering the safeguard of the Tana to all persecuted sinners; andwhat an ill-favoured assemblage were they who thus congregated at hisshrine!
Poor Gerald had lain for days gazing on the singular groupings andstrange scenes these walls presented. At first, to his disorderedintellect, they were but shapes of horror, wild and incongruous. Thesavage faces that scowled on him in paint sat, in his dreams, beside hispillow. The terrible countenances and frantic gestures were carried intohis sleeping thoughts, and often did he awake, with a cry of agony,at some fearful scene of crime thus suggested. As his mind acquiredstrength, however, they became a source of endless amusement.Innumerable stories grew out of them: romances, whose adventuresembraced every land and sea; and his excited imagination revelled ininventing trials and miseries for some, while for others he sought outevery possible escape from disaster. His solitude had no need of eithercompanionship or books; his mind, stimulated by these sketches, couldinvent unweariedly, so that, at last, he really lived in an ideal world,peopled with daring adventurers, and abounding in accidents by flood andfield.
One day, as Gerald lay musing on his bed of chestnut-leaves, the door ofhis room was opened quietly, and a large, powerfully-built man entered.He walked with noiseless steps forward, placed a chair in front ofGerald, and sat down. The boy gazed steadfastly at him, and so theyremained a considerable time, each staring fixedly at the other. To onewho, like Gerald, had passed weeks in weaving histories from the looksand expressions of the faces around him, the features on which he nowgazed might well excite interest. Never was the
re, perhaps, a face inwhich adverse and conflicting passions were more palpably depicted. Anoble and massive head, covered with a profusion of black hair, rosefrom temples of exquisite symmetry, greatly indented at either side, andforming the walls of two orbits of singular depth. His eyes were large,dark, and lustrous, the expression usually sad. Here, however, ended allthat indicated good in the face. The nose was short, with wide expandednostrils, and the mouth large, coarse, and sensual; but the lower jaw,which was of enormous breadth, and projected forward, gave a characterof actual ferocity that recalled the image of a wild boar. The wholemeaning of the face was power--power and indomitable will. Whatever hemeditated of good or evil, you could easily predict that nothing coulddivert him from attempting; and there was in the carriage of his head,all his gestures, and his air, the calm self-possession of one thatseemed to say to the world, 'I defy you.'
As Gerald gazed in a sort of fascination at these strange features, hewas almost startled by the tone of a voice so utterly unlike what hewas prepared for. The stranger spoke in a low, deep strain of exquisitemodulation, and with that peculiar mellowness of accent that seems toleave its echo in the heart after it. He had merely asked him how hefelt, and then, seeing the difficulty with which the boy replied, hewent on to tell how he himself had discovered him on the side of theLagoscuro at nightfall, and carried him all the way to the Tana. 'Theluck was,' said he, 'that _you_ happened to be light, and _I_ strong.'
'Say, rather, that _you_ were kind-hearted and _I_ in trouble,' mutteredthe boy, as his eyes filled up.
'And who knows, boy, but you may be right!' cried he, as though a suddenthought had crossed him; 'your judgment has just as much grounds asthat of the great world!' As he spoke, his voice rose out of its toneof former gentleness and swelled into a roll of deep, sonorous meaning;then changing again, he asked--'By what accident was it that you camethere?'
Gerald drew a long sigh, as though recalling a sorrowful dream; andthen, with many a faltering word, and many an effort to recall events asthey occurred, told all that he remembered of his own history.
'A scholar of the Jesuit college; without father or mother; befriendedby a great man, whose name he has never heard,' muttered the other tohimself. 'No bad start in life for such a world as we have now beforeus. And your name?'
'Gerald Fitzgerald. I am Irish by birth.'
The stranger seemed to ponder long over these words, and then said: 'TheIrish have a nationality of their own--a race--a language--traditions.Why have they suffered themselves to be ruled by England?'
'I suppose they couldn't help it,' said Gerald, half smiling.
'Which of us can say that? who has ever divined where the strength laytill the day of struggle called it forth? Chance, chance--she is thegreat goddess!'
'I'd be sorry to think so,' said Gerald resolutely.
'Indeed, boy!' cried the other, turning his large, full eyes upon theyouth, and staring steadfastly at him; then passing his hand over hisbrow, he added, in a tone of much feeling: 'And yet it is as I havesaid. Look at the portraits around us on these walls. There they are,great or infamous, as accident has made them. That fellow yonder, withthat noble forehead and generous look, he stabbed the confessor who gavethe last rites to his father, just because the priest had heardsome tales to his disadvantage; a scrupulous sense of delicacy movedhim--there was a woman's name in it--and he preferred a murder to ascandal! There, too, there's Marocchi, who poisoned his mother the dayof her second marriage. Ask old Pippo if he ever saw a gentler-heartedcreature: he lived here two years, and died of the Maremma fever, thathe caught from a peasant whom he was nursing. And there again, thatwild-looking fellow with the scarlet cap--he it was who stole theMedici jewels out of the Pitti to give his mistress, and killed himselfafterwards when she deserted him. Weigh the good and evil of these men'shearts, boy, and you have subtle weights if you can strike the balancefor or against them. We are all but what good or evil fortune makes us,just as a landscape catches its tone from light; and what is gloriousin sunshine is bleak and desolate and dreary beneath a leaden sky andlowering atmosphere!'
'I'll not believe it,' said the boy boldly. 'I have read of fellowsthat never showed the great stuff they were made of until adversity hadcalled it forth. They were truly great!'
'Truly great!' repeated the other, with an intense mockery. 'The trulygreat we never hear of. They die in workhouses or garrets--poor, drearyoptimists, working out of their finespun fancies hopeful destinies forthose who sneer at them.
The idols men call great are but the types of Force--mere Force. One dayit is courage; another, it is money; another day, political craft is theobject of worship. Come, boy,' said he, in a lighter vein, 'what havethese worthy Jesuits taught you?'
'Very different lessons from yours,' said the youth stoutly. 'Theytaught me to honour and reverence those set in authority over me.'
'Good; and then----'
'They taught me the principles of my faith; the creed of the Church.'
'What Church?'
'What but the one Church--the Catholic!'
'Why, there are fifty, child, and each with five hundred controversieswithin it. Popes denying Councils; Councils rejecting Popes; Synodsagainst Bishops; Bishops against Presbyters. What a mockery is it all!'cried he passionately. 'We who, in our imperfect forms of language,have not even names for separate odours, but say, "this smells like theviolet," and "that like the rose," presume to talk of eternity and thatvast universe around us, as though our paltry vocabulary could compasssuch themes! But to come back: were you happy there?'
'No; I could not bear the life, nor did I wish to be a priest.'
'What would you be, then?'
'I wish I knew,' said the boy fervently.
'I'm a bad counsellor,' said the other, with a bitter smile; 'I havetried several things, and failed in all.'
'I never could have thought that you could fail,' said Gerald slowly, asin calm composure he gazed on the massive features before him.
'I have done with failure now,' said the other; 'I mean to achievesuccess next. It is something to have learned a great truth, and this isone, boy--our world is a huge hunting-ground, and it is better to playwolf than lamb. Don't turn your eyes to those walls, as if the fellowsdepicted there could gainsay me--they were but sorry scoundrels, the badones; the best were but weakly good.'
'You do but pain me when you speak thus,' said Gerald; 'you make methink that you are one who, having done some great crime, waits toavenge the penalty he has suffered on the world that inflicted it.'
'What if you were partly right, boy! Not but I would protest against theword crime, or even fault, as applied to me; still you are near enoughto make your guess a good one. I have a debt to pay, and I mean to payit.'
'I wish I had never quitted the college.' said the boy, and the tearsrolled heavily down his cheeks.
'It is not too late to retrace your steps. The cell and the scourge--thefathers know the use of both--will soon condone your offence; and whenthey have sapped the last drop of manhood out of your nature, you willbe all the fitter for your calling.'
With these harsh words, uttered in tones as cruel, the stranger left theroom; while Gerald, covering his face with both hands, sobbed as thoughhis heart were breaking.
'Ah! Gabriel has been talking to him. I knew how it would be,' mutteredold Pippo, as he cast a glance within the room. 'Poor child! better forhim had he left him to die in the Maremma.'
Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel Page 8