Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

Giovanni was silent.

  “Believe me, prince,” said the Cardinal, suddenly changing his tone and speaking very seriously, “there is something better for strong men like you and me to do, in these times, than to dabble in conspiracy and to toss off glasses of champagne to Italian unity and Victor Emmanuel. The condition of our lives is battle, and battle against terrible odds. Neither you nor I should be content to waste our strength in fighting shadows, in waging war on petty troubles of our own raising, knowing all the while that the powers of evil are marshalled in a deadly array against the powers of good. Sed non praevalebunt!”

  The Cardinal’s thin face assumed a strange look of determination, and his delicate fingers grasped Giovanni’s arm with a force that startled him.

  “You speak bravely,” answered the young man. “You are more sanguine than we men of the world. You believe that disaster impossible which to me seems growing daily more imminent.”

  Cardinal Antonelli turned his gleaming black eyes full on his companion.

  “O generatio incredula! If you have not faith, you have not courage, and if you have not courage you will waste your life in the pursuit of emptiness! It is for men like you, for men of ancient race, of broad acres, of iron body and healthy mind, to put your hand to the good work and help us who have struggled for many years and whose strength is already failing. Every action of your life, every thought of your waking hours, should be for the good end, lest we all perish together and expiate our lukewarm indifference. Timidi nunquam statuerunt trapaeum — if we would divide the spoil we must gird on the sword and use it boldly; we must not allow the possibility of failure; we must be vigilant; we must be united as one man. You tell me that you men of the world already regard a disaster as imminent — to expect defeat is nine-tenths of a defeat itself. Ah, if we could count upon such men as you to the very death, our case would be far from desperate.”

  “For the matter of that, your Eminence can count upon us well enough,” replied Giovanni, quietly.

  “Upon you, Giovanni — yes, for you are a brave gentleman. But upon your friends, even upon your class — no. Can I count upon the Valdarno, even? You know as well as I that they are in sympathy with the Liberals — that they have neither the courage to support us nor the audacity to renounce us; and, what is worse, they represent a large class, of whom, I regret to say, Donna Tullia Mayer is one of the most prominent members. With her wealth, her youth, her effervescent spirits, and her early widowhood, she leads men after her; they talk, they chatter, they set up an opinion and gloat over it, while they lack the spirit to support it. They are all alike — non tantum ovum ovo simile — one egg is not more like another than they are. Non tali auxilio — we want no such help. We ask for bread, not for stones; we want men, not empty-headed dandies. We have both at present; but if the Emperor fails us, we shall have too many dandies and too few men — too few men like you, Don Giovanni. Instead of armed battalions we shall have polite societies for mutual assurance against political risks, — instead of the support of the greatest military power in Europe, we shall have to rely on a parcel of young gentlemen whose opinions are guided by Donna Tullia Mayer.”

  Giovanni laughed and glanced at his Eminence, who chose to refer all the imminent disasters of the State to the lady whom he did not wish to see married to his companion.

  “Is her influence really so great?” asked Saracinesca, incredulously.

  “She is agreeable, she is pretty, she is rich — her influence is a type of the whole influence which is abroad in Rome — a reflection of the life of Paris. There, at least, the women play a real part — very often a great one: here, when they have got command of a drawing-room full of fops, they do not know where to lead them; they change their minds twenty times a-day; they have an access of religious enthusiasm in Advent, followed by an attack of Liberal fever in Carnival, and their season is brought to a fitting termination by the prostration which overtakes them in Lent. By that time all their principles are upset, and they go to Paris for the month of May — pour se retremper dans les idées idéalistes, as they express it. Do you think one could construct a party out of such elements, especially when you reflect that this mass of uncertainty is certain always to yield to the ultimate consideration of self-interest? Half of them keep an Italian flag with the Papal one, ready to thrust either of them out of the window as occasion may require. Good night, Giovanni. I have talked enough, and all Rome will set upon you to find out what secrets of State I have been confiding. You had better prepare an answer, for you can hardly inform Donna Tullia and her set that I have been calling them a parcel of — weak and ill-advised people. They might take offence — they might even call me by bad names, — fancy how very terribly that would afflict me! Good night, Giovanni — my greetings to your father.”

  The Cardinal nodded, but did not offer his hand. He knew that Giovanni hated to kiss his ring, and he had too much tact to press the ceremonial etiquette upon any one whom he desired to influence. But he nodded graciously, and receiving his cloak from the gentleman who accompanied him and who had waited at a respectful distance, the statesman passed out of the great doorway, where the double line of torch-bearers stood ready to accompany him down the grand staircase to his carriage, in accordance with the custom of those days.

  CHAPTER X.

  WHEN HE WAS alone, Giovanni retraced his steps, and again took up his position near the entrance to the reception-rooms. He had matter for reflection in the interview which had just ended; and, having nothing better to do while he waited for Corona, he thought about what had happened. He was not altogether pleased at the interest his marriage excited in high quarters; he hated interference, and he regarded Cardinal Antonelli’s advice in such a matter as an interference of the most unwarrantable kind. Neither he himself nor his father were men who sought counsel from without, for independence in action was with them a family tradition, as independence of thought was in their race a hereditary quality. To think that if he, Giovanni Saracinesca, chose to marry any woman whatsoever, any one, no matter how exalted in station, should dare to express approval or disapproval was a shock to every inborn and cultivated prejudice in his nature. He had nearly quarrelled with his own father for seeking to influence his matrimonial projects; it was not likely that he would suffer Cardinal Antonelli to interfere with them. If Giovanni had really made up his mind — had firmly determined to ask the hand of Donna Tullia — it is more than probable that the statesman’s advice would not only have failed signally in preventing the match, but by the very opposition it would have aroused in Giovanni’s heart it would have had the effect of throwing him into the arms of a party which already desired his adhesion, and which, under his guidance, might have become as formidable as it was previously insignificant. But the great Cardinal was probably well informed, and his words had not fallen upon a barren soil. Giovanni had vacillated sadly in trying to come to a decision. His first Quixotic impulse to marry Madame Mayer, in order to show the world that he cared nothing for Corona d’Astrardente, had proved itself absurd, even to his impetuous intelligence. The growing antipathy he felt for Donna Tullia had made his marriage with her appear in the light of a disagreeable duty, and his rashness in confessing his love for Corona had so disturbed his previous conceptions that marriage no longer seemed a duty at all. What had been but a few days before almost a fixed resolution, had dwindled till it seemed an impracticable and even a useless scheme. When he had arrived at the Palazzo Frangipani that evening, he had very nearly forgotten Donna Tullia, and had quite determined that whatever his father might say he would not give the promised answer before Easter. By the time the Cardinal had left him, he had decided that no power on earth should induce him to marry Madame Mayer. He did not take the trouble of saying to himself that he would marry no one else.

  The Cardinal’s words had struck deep, in a deep nature. Giovanni had given Del Ferice a very fair exposition of the views he believed himself to hold, on the day when they had walked together after Donna Tu
llia’s picnic. He believed himself a practical man, loyal to the temporal power by principle rather than by any sort of enthusiastic devotion; not desirous of any great change, because any change that might reasonably be expected would be bad for his own vested interests; not prejudiced for any policy save that of peace — preferring, indeed, with Cicero, the most unjust peace to the most just war; tenacious of old customs, and not particularly inquisitive concerning ideas of progress, — on the whole, Giovanni thought himself what his father had been in his youth, and more or less what he hoped his sons, if he ever had any, would be after him.

  But there was more in him than all this, and at the first distant sound of battle he felt the spirit stir within him, for his real nature was brave and loyal, unselfish and devoted, instinctively sympathizing with the weak and hating the lukewarm. He had told Del Ferice that he believed he would fight as a matter of principle: as he leaned against the marble pillar of the door in the Palazzo Frangipani, he wished the fight had already begun.

  Waiting there, and staring into the moving crowd, he was aware of a young man with pale and delicate features and black hair, who stood quietly by his side, and seemed like himself an idle though not uninterested spectator of the scene. Giovanni glanced once at the young fellow, and thought he recognised him, and glancing again, he met his earnest look, and saw that it was Anastase Gouache, the painter. Giovanni knew him slightly, for Gouache was regarded as a rising celebrity, and, thanks to Donna Tullia, was invited to most of the great receptions and balls of that season, though he was not yet anywhere on a footing of intimacy. Gouache was proud, and would perhaps have stood aloof altogether rather than be treated as one of the herd who are asked “with everybody,” as the phrase goes; but he was of an observing turn of mind, and it amused him immensely to stand unnoticed, following the movements of society’s planets, comets, and satellites, and studying the many types of the cosmopolitan Roman world.

  “Good evening, Monsieur Gouache,” said Giovanni.

  “Good evening, prince,” replied the artist, with a somewhat formal bow — after which both men relapsed into silence, and continued to watch the crowd.

  “And what do you think of our Roman world?” asked Giovanni, presently.

  “I cannot compare it to any other world,” answered Gouache, simply. “I never went into society till I came to Rome. I think it is at once brilliant and sedate — it has a magnificent air of historical antiquity, and it is a little paradoxical.”

  “Where is the paradox?” inquired Giovanni.

  “‘Es-tu libre? Les lois sont-elles respectées?

  Crains-tu de voir ton champ pillé par le voisin?

  Le maître a-t-il son toit, et l’ouvrier son pain?’”

  A smile flickered over the young artist’s face as he quoted Musset’s lines in answer to Giovanni’s question. Giovanni himself laughed, and looked at Anastase with somewhat increased interest.

  “Do you mean that we are revelling under the sword of Damocles — dancing on the eve of our execution?”

  “Not precisely. A delicate flavour of uncertainty about to-morrow gives zest to the appetite of to-day. It is impossible that such a large society should be wholly unconscious of its own imminent danger — and yet these men and women go about to-night as if they were Romans of old, rulers of the world, only less sure of themselves than of the stability of their empire.”

  “Why not?” asked Giovanni, glancing curiously at the pale young man beside him. “In answer to your quotation, I can say that I am as free as I care to be; that the laws are sufficiently respected; that no one has hitherto thought it worth while to plunder my acres; that I have a modest roof of my own; and that, as far as I am aware, there are no workmen starving in the streets at present. You are answered, it seems to me, Monsieur Gouache.”

  “Is that really your belief?” asked the artist, quietly.

  “Yes. As for my freedom, I am as free as air; no one thinks of hindering my movements. As for the laws, they are made for good citizens, and good citizens will respect them; if bad citizens do not, that is their loss. My acres are safe, possibly because they are not worth taking, though they yield me a modest competence sufficient for my needs and for the needs of those who cultivate them for me.”

  “And yet there is a great deal of talk in Rome about misery and injustice and oppression—”

  “There will be a great deal more talk about those evils, with much better cause, if people who think like you succeed in bringing about a revolution, Monsieur Gouache,” answered Giovanni, coldly.

  “If many people think like you, prince, a revolution is not to be thought of. As for me I am a foreigner and I see what I can, and listen to what I hear.”

  “A revolution is not to be thought of. It was tried here and failed. If we are overcome by a great power from without, we shall have no choice but to yield, if any of us survive — for we would fight. But we have nothing to fear from within.”

  “Perhaps not,” returned Gouache, thoughtfully. “I hear such opposite opinions that I hardly know what to think.”

  “I hear that you are to paint Cardinal Antonelli’s portrait,” said

  Giovanni. “Perhaps his Eminence will help you to decide.”

  “Yes; they say he is the cleverest man in Europe.”

  “In that opinion they — whoever they may be — are mistaken,” replied

  Giovanni. “But he is a man of immense intellect, nevertheless.”

  “I am not sure whether I will paint his portrait after all,” said

  Gouache.

  “You do not wish to be persuaded?”

  “No. My own ideas please me very well for the present. I would not exchange them for those of any one else.”

  “May I ask what those ideas are?” inquired Giovanni, with a show of interest.

  “I am a republican,” answered Gouache, quietly. “I am also a good

  Catholic.”

  “Then you are yourself much more paradoxical than the whole of our Roman society put together,” answered Giovanni, with a dry laugh.

  “Perhaps. There comes the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  It was nearly twelve o’clock when Corona arrived, old Astrardente sauntering jauntily by her side, his face arranged with more than usual care, and his glossy wig curled cunningly to represent nature. He was said to possess a number of wigs of different lengths, which he wore in rotation, thus sustaining the impression that his hair was cut from time to time. In his eye a single eyeglass was adjusted, and as he walked he swung his hat delicately in his tightly gloved fingers. He wore the plainest of collars and the simplest of gold studs; no chain dangled showily from his waistcoat-pocket, and his small feet were encased in little patent-leather shoes. But for his painted face, he might have passed for the very incarnation of fashionable simplicity. But his face betrayed him.

  As for Corona, she was dazzlingly beautiful. Not that any colour or material she wore could greatly enhance her beauty, for all who saw her on that memorable night remembered the wonderful light in her face, and the strange look in her splendid eyes; but the thick soft fall of the white velvet made as it were a pedestal for her loveliness, and the Astrardente jewels that clasped her waist and throat and crowned her black hair, collected the radiance of the many candles, and made the light cling to her and follow her as she walked. Giovanni saw her enter, and his whole adoration came upon him as a madness upon a sick man in a fever, so that he would have sprung forward to meet her, and fallen at her feet and worshipped her, had he not suddenly felt that he was watched by more than one of the many who paused to see her go by. He moved from his place and waited near the door where she would have to pass, and for a moment his heart stood still.

  He hardly knew how it was. He found himself speaking to her. He asked her for a dance, he asked boldly for the cotillon — he never knew how he had dared; she assented, let her eyes rest upon him for one moment with an indescribable expression, then grew very calm and cold, and passed on.
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  It was all over in an instant. Giovanni moved back to his place as she went by, and stood still like a man stunned. It was well that there were yet nearly two hours before the preliminary dancing would be over; he needed some time to collect himself. The air seemed full of strange voices, and he watched the moving faces as in a dream, unable to concentrate his attention upon anything he saw.

  “He looks as though he had a stroke of paralysis,” said a woman’s voice near him. It did not strike him, in his strange bewilderment, that it was Donna Tullia who had spoken, still less that she was speaking of him almost to him.

  “Something very like it, I should say,” answered Del Ferice’s oily voice. “He has probably been ill since you saw him. Saracinesca is an unhealthy place.”

  Giovanni turned sharply round.

  “Yes; we were speaking of you, Don Giovanni,” said Donna Tullia, with some scorn. “Does it strike you that you were exceedingly rude in not letting me know that you were going out of town when you had promised to dance with me at the Valdarno ball?” She curled her small lip and showed her sharp white teeth. Giovanni was a man of the world, however, and was equal to the occasion.

  “I apologise most humbly,” he said. “It was indeed very rude; but in the urgency of the case, I forgot all other engagements. I really beg your pardon. Will you honour me with a dance this evening?”

  “I have every dance engaged,” answered Madame Mayer, coldly staring at him.

  “I am very sorry,” said Giovanni, inwardly thanking heaven for his good fortune, and wishing she would go away.

  “Wait a moment,” said Donna Tullia, judging that she had produced the desired effect upon him. “Let me look. I believe I have one waltz left. Let me see. Yes, the one before the last — you can have it if you like.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Giovanni, greatly annoyed. “I will remember.”

  Madame Mayer laid her hand upon Del Ferice’s arm, and moved away. She was a vain woman, and being in love with Saracinesca after her own fashion, could not understand that he should be wholly indifferent to her. She thought that in telling him she had no dances she had given him a little wholesome punishment, and that in giving one after all she had conferred a favour upon him. She also believed that she had annoyed Del Ferice, which, always amused her. But Del Ferice was more than a match for her, with his quiet ways and smooth tongue.