“So we meet at the last! You the saint, I the time-proved sinner; You the young, I the old; I the world-worn, you the beginner; At the end of the season here, with a glass of wine To discuss the salvation and — well — the mine and thine Of all the souls we have met this year, and dealt with, Of those you have tried to make feel, and those I’ve felt with: Though, after all, dear Saint, had we met in heaven Before you got saintship, or I the infernal leaven That works so hot to kill the old angel in me — If you had seen the world then, as I was able to see Before Sergeant-Major Michael gave me that fall, — Not a right fall, mind you, taking the facts in all, — We might have been on the same side both. But now It is yours to cry over lost souls, as it’s mine to show them how They may stumble and tumble into the infernal slough. So here we are. Now tell me — your honour true — What do you think of our season? Which wins? I? You? Ha, ha, ha! Sweet friend, you can hardly doubt The result of this two months’ hard-fought wrestling bout. I have won. You have lost the game. I drive a trade Which I invented — perhaps — but you have made. Without your heaven, friend Saint, what would be my hell? Without your goodness, could I hope to do well With the poor little peddler’s pack of original sin They handed me down, when they turned me out to begin My devil’s trade with souls. But now I ask Why for eternal penance they gave me so light a task? You have not condescended from heaven to taste our carnival feast, But if you had tasted it, you would admit at least That the meats were passably sweet, and might allure The nicest of angels, whose tastes are wholly pure. Old friend — I hate you! I hate your saintly face, Your holy eyes, your vague celestial grace! You are too cold for me, whose soul must smelt In fires whose fury you have never felt. But come, unbend a little. Let us chatter Of what we like best, of what our pride may flatter, — Salvation and damnation — there’s the theme — Your trade and mine — what I am, and what you seem. Come, count the souls we have played for, you and I, The broken hearts you have lost on a careless jog of the die, Hearts that were broken in ire, by one short, sharp fault of the head, Souls lifted on pinions of fire, to sink on wings of lead. We have gambled, and I have won, while you have steadily lost, I laughing, you weeping your senseless saintly tears each time you tossed. So now — give it up! Dry your eyes; your heaven’s a dream! Sell your saintship for what it is worth, and come over — the Devil’s supreme! Make Judas Iscariot envy the sweets of our sin — Poor Judas, who ended himself where I could have wished to begin! A chosen complexion — hell’s fruit would not have been wasted Had he lived to eat his fill at the feast he barely tasted. Ah, my friend, you are horribly good! Oh! I know you of old; I know all your virtues, your graces, your beauties; I know they are cold! But I know that far down in the depths of your crystalline soul There’s a spot the archangel physician might not pronounce whole. There’s a hell in your heaven; there’s a heaven in my hell. There we meet. What’s perdition to you is salvation to me. Ah, the delicate sweet Of mad meetings, of broken confessions, of nights unblest! Oh, the shadowy horror of hate that haunts love’s steps without rest, The desire to be dead — to see dead both the beings one hates, One’s self and the other, twin victims of opposite fates! How I hate you! You thing beyond Satan’s supremest temptation, You creature of light for whom God has ordained no damnation, You escape me, the being whose searing hand lovingly lingers On the neck of each sinner to brand him with five red-hot fingers! You escape me — you dare scoff at me — and I, poor old pretender, Must sue for your beautiful soul with temptation more tender Than a man can find for a woman, when night in her moonlit glory Silvers a word to a poem, makes a poem of a commonplace story! So I sue here at your feet for your soul and the gold of your heart, To break my own if I lose you — Lose you? No — do not start. You angel — you bitter-sweet creature of heaven, I love you and hate you! For I know what you are, and I know that my sin cannot mate you. I know you are better than I — by the blessing of God! — And I hate what is better than I by the blessing of God! What right has the Being Magnificent, reigning supreme, To wield the huge might that is his, in a measure extreme? What right has God got of his strength to make you all good, And me bad from the first and weighed down in my sin’s leaden hood? What right have you to be pure, my angel, when I am foul? What right have you to the light, while I, like an owl, Must blink in hell’s darkness and count my sins by the bead — While you can get all you pray for, the wine and the mead Of a heavenly blessing, showered upon you straight — Because you chance to stand on the consecrate side of the gate? Ah! Give me a little nature, give me a human truth! Give me a heart that feels — and falls, as a heart should — without ruth! Give me a woman who loves and a man who loves again, Give me the instant’s joy that ends in an age of pain, Give me the one dear touch that I love — and that you fear — And I will give my empire for the Kingdom you hold dear! I will cease from tempting and torturing, I will let the poor sinner go, I will turn my blind eyes heavenward and forget this world below, I will change from lying to truth, and be forever true — If you will only love me — and give the Devil his due!”
It had been previously arranged that at the last words the nun should thrust back his Satanic majesty and take refuge in the church. But it turned out otherwise. As he drew near the conclusion, Ghisleri crept stealthily up to the Contessa’s side, and threw all the persuasion he possessed into his voice. But it was most probably the Contessa’s love of surprising the world which led her to do the contrary of what was expected. At the last line of his speech, she made one wild gesture of despair, and threw herself backward upon Ghisleri’s ready arm. For one moment he looked down into her white upturned face, and his own grew pale as his gleaming eyes met hers. With characteristic presence of mind, San Giacinto, the monk, bent his head, and stalked away in holy horror as the curtain fell.
CHAPTER IV.
AS THE CURTAIN went down, a burst of applause rang through the room. The poetry, if it could be called poetry, had assuredly not been of a high order, and as for the sentiments it expressed, a good number of the audience were more than usually shocked. But the whole thing had been effective, unexpected, and striking, especially the ending, over which the world smacked its lips.
“I do not like it at all,” said Laura Carlyon to Arden, as they left the seats where they had sat together through the little performance.
“They looked very well,” he answered thoughtfully. “As for what he said, it was Ghisleri. That is the man’s character. He will talk in that way while he does not believe a word he says, or only one out of ten.”
“Then I do not like his character, nor him,” returned the young lady, frankly. “But I should not say it to you, dear, because he is your best friend. He shows you all the good there is in him, I suppose, and he shows us all the bad.”
“No one ever said a truer thing of him,” said Arden, limping along by her side. “But I admire the man’s careless strength in what he does.”
“It is easy to use strong language,” replied Laura, quietly. “It is quite another thing to be strong. I believe he is weak, morally speaking. But then, how should I know? One only guesses at such things, after all.”
“Yes, it is all guess-work. But I think I understand him better to-night than before.”
A moment later the sound of dance music came from the most distant and the largest of the rooms. Ghisleri and the Contessa dell’ Armi were already there. She was so slight of figure, that she draped her nun’s dress over her gown, and had only to drop it to be herself again. They took a first turn together, and Ghisleri talked softly all the time as he danced.
“Shockingly delightful — the whole thing!” exclaimed Donna Adele, watching them. “How well they acted it! They must have rehearsed very often.”
“Quite often enough, I have no doubt,” said the Marchesa di San Giacinto, with a laugh.
An hour or two passed away and Laura Carlyon found herself walking about with Ghisleri after dancing with him. He was a very magnificent personage in his scarlet, black and gold costume
, and Laura herself looked far more saintly in her evening gown than the Contessa dell’ Armi had looked in the dress of a nun. The two made a fine contrast, and some one said so, unfortunately within hearing of both Adele Savelli and Maddalena dell’ Armi. The latter turned her cold face quickly and looked at Laura and Ghisleri, but her expression did not change.
“What a very uncertain person that dear Ghisleri is!” observed Donna Adele to Pietrasanta, as she noticed the Contessa’s movement. She spoke just so loud that the latter could hear her, then turned away with her companion and walked in the opposite direction.
Meanwhile Ghisleri and Laura were together. The young girl felt an odd sensation as her hand lay on his arm, as though she were doing something wrong. She did not understand his life, nor him, being far too young and innocent of life’s darker thoughts and deeds. She had said that she disliked him, because that seemed best to express what she felt — a certain vague wish not to be too near him, a certain timidity when he was within hearing which she did not feel at other times.
“You did not mean any of those things you said, did you, Signor Ghisleri?” she asked, scarcely knowing why she put the question.
“I meant them all, and much more of the same kind,” answered Pietro, with a hard laugh.
“I am sorry — I would rather not believe it.”
“Why?”
“Because it is not right to think such things, nor even to say them in a play.”
Ghisleri looked at her in some surprise. Laura felt a sort of impulse of conscience to say what she thought.
“Ah! you are horribly good!” laughed Ghisleri, quoting his own verse.
Laura felt uncomfortable as she met his glance. He really looked very Satanic just then, as his eyebrows went up and the deep lines deepened between his eyes and on his forehead.
“Either one believes or one does not,” she said. “If one does—” She hesitated.
“If one does, does it follow that because God is good to you, He has been good to me also, Miss Carlyon?”
His expression changed, and his voice was grave and almost sad. Laura sighed almost inaudibly, but said nothing.
“Will you have anything?” he asked indifferently, after the short pause. “A cup of tea?”
“Thanks, no. I think I will go to my mother.”
Ghisleri took her to the Princess’s side and left her.
“You seemed to be having a very interesting conversation with Miss Carlyon just now,” said the Contessa dell’ Armi as he sat down beside her a quarter of an hour later. “What were you talking about?”
“Sin,” answered Ghisleri, laconically.
“With a young girl!” exclaimed the Contessa. “But then — English—”
“You need not raise your eyebrows, nor talk in that tone, my dear lady,” replied Ghisleri. “Miss Carlyon is quite beyond sarcasms of that sort. Since you are curious, she was telling me that it was sinful to say the things you were good enough to listen to in the tableau, even in a play.”
“Ah? And you will be persuaded, I dare say. What beautiful eyes she has. It is a pity she is so clumsy and heavily made. Really, has she got you to promise that you will never say any of those things again — after the way I ended the piece for you?”
“No. I have not promised to be good yet. As for your ending of the performance, I confess I was surprised.”
“You did not show it.”
“It would hardly have been in keeping with my part, would it? But I can show you that I am grateful at least.”
“For what?” asked the Contessa, raising her eyebrows again. “Do you think I meant anything by it?”
“Certainly not,” replied Ghisleri, with the utmost calmness. “I suppose your instinct told you that it would be more novel and effective if the Saint yielded than if she played the old-fashioned scene of crushing the devil under her foot.”
“Would you have let yourself be crushed?”
“By you — yes.” Ghisleri spoke slowly and looked steadily into her eyes.
The Contessa’s face softened a little, and she paused before she answered him.
“I wish I knew — I wish I were sure whether I really have any influence over you,” she said softly, and then sighed and looked away.
It was very late when the party broke up, though all had professed the most positive intention of going home when the clock struck twelve. The Princess of Gerano offered Arden a seat in her carriage, and Pietro Ghisleri went away alone. As he passed through the deserted dining-room, and through the hall where he had sat so long with the Contessa, he could not help glancing at the corner where they had talked, and he thought involuntarily of the prologue to the tableau. His face was set rather sternly, but he smiled, too, as he went by.
“It is not my last Carnival yet,” he said to himself, as he drew on a great driving-coat which covered his costume completely. Then he went out.
It is very hard to say whether he was a sentimental man or not. Men who write second-rate verses when they are alone, generally are; but, on the other hand, those who knew him would not have allowed that he possessed a grain of what is commonly called sentimentality. The word probably means a sort of vague desire to experience rather fictitious emotions, with the intention of believing oneself to be passionate by nature, and in that sense the weakness could not justly be attributed to Ghisleri. But on this particular night he did a thing which many people would undoubtedly have called sentimental. He turned aside from the highway when he left the great palace in which Gouache lived, and he allowed himself to wander aimlessly on through the older part of the city, until he stopped opposite to the door of a church which stood in a broad street near the end of the last by-way he had traversed. The night was dark and gloomy and the stillness was only broken now and then by a distant snatch of song, a burst of laughter, or the careless twang of a guitar, just as Ghisleri had described it. Indeed it was by no means the first time that he had walked home in the small hours of Ash Wednesday morning, after a night of gaiety and emotion.
It chanced that the church upon which he had accidentally come was the one known as the Church of Prayer and Death. It stands in the Via Giulia, behind the Palazzo Farnese. He realised the fact at once, and it seemed like a bad omen. He stood still a long time, looking at the gloomy door with steady eyes.
“Just such a place as this,” he said, in a low tone. “Just such a church as that, just such a man as I am. Is this the comedy and was this evening the reality? Or is it the other way?”
He called up before his eyes the scene in which he had acted, and his imagination obeyed him readily enough. He could fancy how the monk and the nun would look, and the train of revellers, and their movements and gestures. But the nun’s face was not that of the Contessa. Another shone out vividly in its place.
“Just God!” ejaculated the lonely man. “Am I so bad as that? Not to care after so much?”
He turned upon his heel as though to escape the vision, and walked quickly away, hating himself. But he was mistaken. He cared — as he expressed it — far more than he dreamed of, more deeply, perhaps, in his own self-contradictory, irregular fashion than the woman of whom he was thinking.
People talked for some time of the Shrove Tuesday feast at Gouache’s studio. Then they fell to talking about other things. Lent passed in the usual way, and there was not much change in the lives of the persons most concerned in this history. Ghisleri saw much less of Arden than formerly, of course, as the latter was wholly absorbed by his passion for his future wife. As for the world, it was as much occupied with dinner parties, musical evenings, and private theatricals as it had formerly been with dancing. The time sped quickly. The past season had left behind it an enormous Corpus Scandalorum Romanorum which made conversation both easy and delightful. How many of the unpleasant stories concerning Lord Herbert Arden, Laura Carlyon, Pietro Ghisleri, and Maddalena dell’ Armi could have been distinctly traced to Adele Savelli, it is not easy to say. As a matter of fact, very few persons ex
cepting Ghisleri himself took any trouble to trace them at all. To the average worldly taste it is as unpleasant to follow up the origin of a delightfully savoury lie, as it is to think, while eating, of the true history of a beefsteak, from the meadow to the table by way of the slaughter-house and the cook’s fingers.
Holy week came, and the muffled bells and the silence in houses at other times full and noisy, and the general air of depression which results, most probably, from a certain amount of genuine repentance and devotion which is felt in a place where by no means all are bad at heart, and many are sincerely good. The gay set felt uncomfortable, and a certain number experienced for the first time the most distinct aversion to confessing their misdeeds, as they ought to do at least once a year. As far as they were concerned, Ghisleri’s verses expressed more truth than they had expected to find in them. Ghisleri himself was rarely troubled by any return of the qualm which had seized him before the door of the Church of Prayer and Death, and never again in the same degree. If he did not go on his way rejoicing, he at all events proceeded without remorse, and was wicked enough and selfish enough to congratulate himself upon the fact.
Arden and Laura were perfectly happy. They, at least, had little cause to reproach themselves with any evil done in the world since they had met, and Arden had assuredly better reason for congratulating himself. It would indeed have been hard to find a happier man than he, and his happiness was perfectly legitimate and well founded. Whether it would prove durable was another matter, not so easy of decision. But the facts of the present were strong enough to crush all apprehension for the future. It was not strange that it should be so.
He could not be said to have led a lonely life. His family were deeply attached to him, and from earliest boyhood everything had been done to alleviate the moral suffering inevitable in his case, and to make his material existence as bearable as possible, in spite of his terrible infirmities. But for the unvarying sympathy of many loving hearts, and the unrelaxing care of those who were sincerely devoted to him, Arden could hardly have hoped to attain to manhood at all, much less to the healthy moral growth which made him very unlike most men in his condition, or the comparative health of body whereby he was able to enjoy without danger much of what came in his way. He was in reality a much more social and sociable man than his friend Ghisleri, though he did not possess the same elements of success in society. He was, indeed, sensitive, as has been said, in spite of his denial of the fact, but he was not bitter about his great misfortune. Hitherto only one very painful thought had been connected with his deformity, beyond the constant sense of physical inferiority to other men. He had felt, and not without reason, that he must renounce the love of woman and the hope of wedded happiness, as being utterly beyond the bounds of all human possibility. And now, as though Heaven meant to compensate him to the full for the suffering inflicted and patiently borne, he had won, almost without an effort, the devoted love of the first woman for whom he had seriously cared. It was almost too good.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 599