Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel

by Charles James Lever

  CHAPTER XVI. THE POET'S HOUSE

  It was late on the evening of the same day that Gerald received amessage to say the Count desired to see him. No little jealousy wasoccasioned among his companions by this invitation. The Babbo deemedthat, as 'Impressario' of the company, he ought himself to have beenselected. Donna Gaetana was indignant that a mere Giovane was to occupythe responsible station of representing their dramatic guild; and evenMarietta felt her eyes to swim, as she thought over this mere passingseparation, and in her heart foreboded some ill to come of it. She,however, did her very best to master these unworthy fears. She washedthe bloody stains carefully off his forehead. She combed and oiled hislong silky hair. She aided him to dress in the one only suit that nowremained of all his wardrobe--a page's dress of light blue, witha little scarlet mantle, embroidered in silver, and a small bonnetsurmounted by an ostrich feather. Nor was it without deep shame, andsomething very like open rebellion, that Gerald donned these motleyhabiliments.

  'The Count has not said that he wants me to exhibit before him--why am Ito masquerade in this fashion?'

  'There is no choice for you between this "tinsel bravery" and thetattered rags, all blood-stained and torn, you wore last night.' Therethey were, scattered about, the crushed and crumpled hat, the doublettorn to ribbons, the rapier smashed--all a wreck. 'No, no, you couldnot appear in such a presence in rags like these.' Still was Geraldirritated and angry: a sudden sense of shame shot through him as he sawhimself thus alone, which, had the others been joined with him, he haddoubtless never felt; and for the first time his station suggested theidea of humiliation.

  'I will not go, Marietta,' said he at last, as he flung himself upon achair, and threw his cap to the end of the room. 'So long as thou wertwith me, sustaining the interest of the scene, replying to my words,answering every emotion of my heart, I loved Art--I cherished it as thefairest expression of what I felt, but could not speak. Now, alone andwithout thee, it is a mere mockery--it is more, it is a degradation!'

  She knelt down beside him and took his hands in hers. She turned herfull, moist eyes toward him, and in broken words besought him not tospeak slightingly of that which bound them to each other, for, 'If theday comes, _Gherardi mio_, that thou thinkest meanly of our art, sosurely will come another when thou wilt be ashamed of _me_,' and she hidher face on his knees and sobbed bitterly. With what an honest-heartedsincerity did he swear that such a day could never come, or if it did,that he prayed it might be his last! And then he ran over, in eagertones, all that he owed to her teachings. How, but for her, he had notknown the true tenderness of Metastasio, the fervour of Petrarch, or thechivalry of Ariosto. 'How much have we found out together we had neverdiscovered if alone!'

  And then they dried their tears; and he kissed her, and set out on hisway.

  It was with a look of haughty meaning, almost defiant, that Geraldascended the marble stairs and passed between two lines of liveriedservants, who smiled pitifully on the strolling player, nor put theslightest restraint upon this show of their contempt Fortunately forhim and them he had no time to mark it, for the folding doors suddenlyopening, he found himself in a large chamber, brilliantly lighted, andwith a numerous company assembled. Before the youth had well crossed thedoor-sill the Count was at his side, and having kindly taken him by thehand, expressed a hope that he no longer felt any bad effects of hislate ill-treatment.

  Gerald stammered out his acknowledgments, and tried to make some excusesfor his costume, which ended, at last, by the blunt avowal, 'It was thisor nothing, sir.'

  'The mishap is not without its advantage,' said the Count, in that calmvoice which, but for a peculiar expression on his mouth when he spoke,had something almost severe about it. 'It was the resemblance you bearto a certain portrait was the reason of my sending for you to-night:your dress assists the likeness, for, strangely enough, it is of thevery same style and colour as that of the picture. Come forward, and Iwill present you to a lady who is curious to see you.'

  'Madame la Duchesse, this is the youth,' said the Count, as he bowedbefore a lady, who was seated in a deep chair, at either side of whichsome ladies and gentlemen were standing. She closed her fan and leanedforward, and Gerald beheld a countenance which, if not beautiful, wasstriking enough to be remembered for years after. She was a blonde ofthe purest type, with full blue eyes, and masses of light hair, whichin long ringlets descended to her very shoulders; the featureswere youthful, though she herself was no longer young; and the samecontradiction existed in their expression, for they were calm, withoutsoftness, and had a fixity almost to sternness, while their colouringand tint were actually girlish in freshness. There was in her airand demeanour, too, a similar discordance, for, though with a look ofdignity, her gestures were abrupt, and her manner of speaking hurried.

  'He _is_ like,' said she, scanning him through her eye-glass. 'Comenearer, boy. Yes, strangely like,' said she, with a smile, ratherindicating sarcasm than courtesy. 'Let us compare him with theportrait,' and she gave her hand languidly, as she spoke, to be assistedto rise. The Count aided her with every show of deference, respectfullyoffering his arm to conduct her; but she declined the attention with aslight motion of the head, and moved slowly on. As she went, the variouspersons who were seated arose, and they who stood in groups talking,hushed their voices, and stood in a respectful attitude as she passed.None followed her but the Count and Gerald, who at a signal walkedslowly behind.

  After traversing three rooms, whose costly furniture amazed the youth,they reached a small chamber, where two narrow windows opened upon alittle terrace. A single picture occupied the wall in front of these, toeither side of whose frame two small lamps were attached, with shades soingeniously contrived as to throw the light at will on any part of thepainting. The Duchess had seated herself immediately on entering, withthe air of one wearied and exhausted, and the Count occupied himself indisposing the lamps to most advantage.

  'Stand yonder, boy, and hold your cap in your hand, as you see it inthe portrait,' and Gerald turned his eyes to the picture, and actuallystarted at the marvellous resemblance to himself. The figure was thatof a youth somewhat older, perhaps, than himself, dressed in a suit ofvelvet, with a deep lace collar and hanging ruffles; the long ringlets,which fell in profusion on his neck, the expression of the eyes, a lookof sadness not unmixed with something stern, and a haughty gathering ofthe lower lip, were all that a painter might have given to Gerald, ifendeavouring to impart to his likeness some few additional traits ofvigour and determination.

  'It is wonderful!' said the Duchess, after a long pause.

  'So, indeed, it strikes me,' said the Count. 'Mark, even to theflattening of the upper lip, how the resemblance holds.'

  'What age are you--are you a Roman--what is your name?' asked theDuchess, in a hurried but careless manner.

  'My name is Fitzgerald. They call me here Gherardi, for some of the racetook that name in Italy.'

  'So that you talk of blood and lineage, boy?' asked she haughtily.

  'I am of the Geraldines, lady, and they were princes!' said the boy, asproudly.

  'Came they from Scotland?' she asked eagerly. 'No, madam, they wereIrish.'

  'Irish! Irish!' muttered she twice or thrice, below her breath; then,as her eyes caught sight of his features suddenly, she started andexclaimed: 'It is nigh incredible! And how came you to Italy?'

  With that brevity which distinguished Gerald when speaking of himself,he told of his having been a scholar with the Jesuits, where some--heknew not exactly which--of his relatives had placed him.

  'And you left them; how, and wherefore?' inquired the Duchess.

  'I know not by what right, madam, I am thus questioned. Is it because Iwear such tinsel rags as these?'

  'Bethink you in whose presence you stand, boy?' said the Count sternly;'that lady is one before whom the haughtiest noble is proud to lay hishomage.'

  'Nay, nay,' broke she in gently, 'he will tell me all I ask in kindness,not in fear.'

  'Not
in fear, I promise you,' said he proudly, and he drew himself up tohis highest.

  'Was not that like him!' exclaimed the Duchess eagerly. 'It was hisown voice! And what good Italian you speak, boy,' said she, addressingGerald, with a pleasant smile. 'The Jesuit Fathers have given you thebest Roman accent. Tell me, what were their teachings--what have youread?'

  'Nothing regularly--nothing in actual study, madam; but, passingly, Ihave read, in French, some memoirs, plays, sermons, poems, romances,and suchlike; in English, very little; and in Italian, a few of the verygood?'

  'Which do you call the very good?' 'I call Dante.'

  'So do I.

  'Sometimes I call Tasso, always Ariosto, so.'

  She nodded an assent, and told him to continue.

  'Then there is Metastasio.'

  'What say you of him!' asked the Count.

  'I like him: his rhymes flow gracefully, and the music of his versefloats sweetly in one's ear; but then, there is not that sentiment,that vigorous dash that stirs the heart, like a trumpet-call, such as wefind, for instance, in Alfieri.'

  The Duchess smiled assuringly, and a faint, very faint tinge of redcoloured her pale cheek. 'It appears, then, he is your favourite of themall?' said she gently. 'Can you remember any of his verses!'

  'That can I. I knew him, at one time, off by heart, but somehow, in thisignoble life of mine, I almost felt ashamed to recite his noble linesto those who heard me. To think, for example, of the great poet of theOreste declaimed before a vile mob, impatient for some buffoonery, eagerfor the moment when the jugglery would begin!'

  'But you forget, boy, this is true fame! It is little to the great poetthat he is read and admired by those to whose natures he can appeal byall the emotions which are common to each--lasting sympathies, whosedwelling-places he knows; the great triumph is, to have softened thehearts seared by dusty toil--to have smitten the rock whose water istears of joy and thankfulness. Is not Ariosto prouder as his versesfloat along the dark canals of Venice, than when they are recited undergilded ceilings!'

  'You may be right,' said the boy thoughtfully, as he hung his head; 'amI not, myself, a proof of what the bright images of poetry have cheeredand gladdened, out of depths of gloom and wretchedness? Not that Icomplain of this life of mine!' cried he suddenly.

  'Tell us about it, boy; it must present strange scenes and events,' saidthe Count, and, taking Gerald's arm, he pressed him to a seat besidehim. The Duchess, too, bent on him one of her kindest smiles, so that hefelt encouraged in a moment.

  And now Gerald talked away, as only the young can talk about themselvesand their fortunes. Their happy gift it is to have a softly temperedtint over even their egotism, making it often not ungraceful. Hesketched a picturesque description of the stroller's life: its freedomcompensating for the hardships; its careless ease recompensing many apassing mishap; the strange blending of study with little quaint andcommonplace preparation; the mind now charged with bright fancies, nowbusy in all the intricacies of costume; the ever-watchful attention tothe taste of that strange public that formed their patron, and who, notunfrequently wearying of Tasso and Guarini, called loudly for Punch andhis ribaldries. The boy's account of the Babbo and Donna Gaetana was notdevoid of humour, and he painted cleverly the simple old devoteegiving every spare hour he could snatch to penances for the life he wasleading; while the Donna took the world by storm, and started eachday to the combat, like a soldier mounting a breach. Lastly he came toMarietta, and then his voice changed, his cheek grew red and white byturns, and his chest heaved full and short, like one oppressed. He didnot mark the looks of intelligence that passed between the Duchessand the Count: he never saw how each turned to listen to him with theself-same expression on their features; he was too full of his theme tonote these things, and yet he could not dilate upon it as he had aboutBabbo and the Donna.

  'I saw her,' said the Count, as Gerald came to a pause. 'I noticed herat the court, and she was, indeed, very handsome. Something Egyptian inthe cast of features.'

  'But not a gypsy!' broke in the boy quickly.

  'No, perhaps not. The eyes and brow resembled the Moorish race--the samecharacter of fixity in expression. Eyes, that carry--

  "'I tesori d'amore e i suoi nasconde."'

  There was a sly malice in the way the Count led the boy on, opening thepath, as it were, to his enthusiasm, and so artfully, that Gerald neversuspected it.

  No longer restrained by fear or chilled by shame, he launched out intopraises of her beauty, her gracefulness, and her genius. He toldthe Count that it was sufficient to read for her once over a poem ofPetrarch, and she could repeat it word for word. With the same facilitycould she compose music for words that struck her fancy. The silverysweetness of her voice--her light and graceful step--the power ofexpression she possessed by gesture, look, and mien--he went over allthese with a rapture that actually warmed into eloquence, and they wholistened heard him with pleasure, and encouraged him to continue.

  'We must see your Marietta,' said the Duchess at last. 'You shall bringher here.'

  Gerald's cheek flushed, but whether with shame, or pride, ordispleasure, or all three commingled, it were hard to say. In truth,many a hard conflict went on within him, when, out of his dream ofart and its triumphs, he would suddenly awake, and bethink him inwhat humble estimation men held such as he was; how closely the worldinsisted on associating poverty with meanness; and how hopeless were thetask of him who would try to make himself respected in rags.

  As these thoughts arose in his mind, he lifted his eyes once more tothe portrait, and in bitterness of heart he felt how little resemblancethere was in the condition of the youth there represented and himself.

  'I see what you are thinking of,' said the Duchess mildly. 'Shall I showyou another picture? It is of one you profess to admire greatly--yourfavourite poet.'

  'I pray you do, madam. I long to know his features. It is a face I havepainted in fancy often and often.'

  'Tell me, then, how you would portray him,' said she, smiling.

  'Not regularly handsome; but noble-looking, with the traits of one whohad such vigour of life and mind within, that he lived more for his ownthoughts than the world, and thus would seem proud to sternness. A high,bold forehead, narrow and indented at the temples, and a deep brow overtwo fierce eyes. O! what wildly flashing eyes should Alfieri's be whenstirred by passion and excitement!'

  'And should you find him different from all this--a man of milder mould,more commonplace and less vigorous--will you still maintain that faithin his genius that now you profess?' said the Count, with slow and quietutterance.

  'That will I. How could I, in my presumption, doubt the power that hasmoved the hearts of thousands?'

  'Come, then, and look at him,' said the Duchess, and she arose, andmoved into a room fitted up as a library. Over the chimney was a largepicture, covered by a silk curtain. To this Gerald eagerly turned hiseyes, for he already marked that the gilded eagle that surmounted theframe held in his beak a wreath of flowers, interwoven with laurelleaves.

  'One whose enthusiasm equals your own, boy, placed the wreath there, onthe 17th of January last. It was the festa of Vittorio Alfieri,' saidthe Duchess, as she gently pulled the cord that drew back the curtain.

  Gerald moved eagerly forward--gazed--passed his hand across his eyes,as if to dispel a fancy--gazed again and again--and then, turning round,stood steadfastly staring at the Count himself. A faint, sad smile wason the calm and haughty face; but, as it passed away, the boydropped down upon his knees, and seizing the other's hand, kissed itrapturously, as he cried--

  'Oh! that I should have ever known a moment like this! Tell me, Ibeseech thee, Signor Conte, is my brain wandering, or are you Alfieri?'

  'Yes, boy,' said he, with a slight sigh, while he raised him from theground, laying one hand gently on his shoulder.

  'It is with reason, boy, you are proud of this event in your life,' saidthe Duchess. 'The truly great are few in this world of ours; and you nowstand befor
e one whose memory will be treasured when we are all dust.'

  The poet did not seem to heed or hear these words, but stood calmlywatching the boy, who continued to turn his eyes alternately from thepicture to the original.

  'I suspect, boy,' said he, with a smile, 'that your mind-drawn picturesatisfied you better--is it not so?'

  'O! you who can so read hearts, why will you not interpret mine?' criedGerald, in rapture; for now to his memory in quick succession wererising the brilliant fancies, the splendid images, the heart-movingwords of one whose genius had been a sort of worship to him.

  'This, too, is fame!' said the poet, turning to the Duchess.

  'But we are keeping you too long from your guests, madam; and Gherardiand I will have many an opportunity of meeting. Come up hereto-morrow in the forenoon, and let me talk with you. The youth is morecomplimentary to me than was the cardinal yesterday.'

  'What was it that he said?' asked she.

  'He wondered I should have written the tragedy of "Saul," since we hadit already in the Bible! To-morrow, Gherardi, about eleven, or evenearlier--_a rivederlo!_'

  As with slow steps, half in a dream, and scarce daring to credithis senses, Gerald moved down the stairs, the poet overtook him, andpressing a purse into his hand, said--

  'You must have some more suitable dress than this, and rememberto-morrow.'