behave properly and reasonably, I assure you that we shall not treat you
with any unnecessary harshness."
"What do you want me to do?"
Arthur spoke in a hard, sullen voice, quite different from his natural
tone.
"I only want you to tell us frankly, in a straightforward and
honourable manner, what you know of this society and its adherents. First of
all, how long have you known Bolla?"
"I never met him in my life. I know nothing whatever about him."
"Really? Well, we will return to that subject presently. I think you
know a young man named Carlo Bini?"
"I never heard of such a person."
"That is very extraordinary. What about Francesco Neri?"
"I never heard the name."
"But here is a letter in your handwriting, addressed to him. Look!"
Arthur glanced carelessly at the letter and laid it aside.
"Do you recognize that letter?"
"No."
"You deny that it is in your writing?"
"I deny nothing. I have no recollection of it."
"Perhaps you remember this one?"
A second letter was handed to him, and he saw that it was one which he
had written in the autumn to a fellow-student.
"No."
"Nor the person to whom it is addressed?"
"Nor the person."
"Your memory is singularly short."
"It is a defect from which I have always suffered."
"Indeed! And I heard the other day from a university professor that you
are considered by no means deficient; rather clever in fact."
"You probably judge of cleverness by the police-spy standard;
university professors use words in a different sense."
The note of rising irritation was plainly audible in Arthur's voice. He
was physically exhausted with hunger, foul air, and want of sleep; every
bone in his body seemed to ache separately; and the colonel's voice grated
on his exasperated nerves, setting his teeth on edge like the squeak of a
slate pencil.
"Mr. Burton," said the colonel, leaning back in his chair and speaking
gravely, "you are again forgetting yourself; and I warn you once more that
this kind of talk will do you no good. Surely you have had enough of the
dark cell not to want any more just for the present. I tell you plainly that
I shall use strong measures with you if you persist in repulsing gentle
ones. Mind, I have proof--positive proof--that some of these young men have
been engaged in smuggling prohibited literature into this port; and that you
have been in communication with them. Now, are you going to tell me, without
compulsion, what you know about this affair?"
Arthur bent his head lower. A blind, senseless, wild-beast fury was
beginning to stir within him like a live thing. The possibility of losing
command over himself was more appalling to him than any threats. For the
first time he began to realize what latent potentialities may lie hidden
beneath the culture of any gentleman and the piety of any Christian; and the
terror of himself was strong upon him.
"I am waiting for your answer," said the colonel.
"I have no answer to give."
"You positively refuse to answer?"
"I will tell you nothing at all."
"Then I must simply order you back into the punishment cell, and keep
you there till you change your mind. If there is much more trouble with you,
I shall put you in irons."
Arthur looked up, trembling from head to foot. "You will do as you
please," he said slowly; "and whether the English Ambassador will stand your
playing tricks of that kind with a British subject who has not been
convicted of any crime is for him to decide."
At last Arthur was conducted back to his own cell, where he flung
himself down upon the bed and slept till the next morning. He was not put in
irons, and saw no more of the dreaded dark cell; but the feud between him
and the colonel grew more inveterate with every interrogation. It was quite
useless for Arthur to pray in his cell for grace to conquer his evil
passions, or to meditate half the night long upon the patience and meekness
of Christ. No sooner was he brought again into the long, bare room with its
baize-covered table, and confronted with the colonel's waxed moustache, than
the unchristian spirit would take possession of him once more, suggesting
bitter repartees and contemptuous answers. Before he had been a month in the
prison the mutual irritation had reached such a height that he and the
colonel could not see each other's faces without losing their temper.
The continual strain of this petty warfare was beginning to tell
heavily upon his nerves. Knowing how closely he was watched, and remembering
certain dreadful rumours which he had heard of prisoners secretly drugged
with belladonna that notes might be taken of their ravings, he gradually
became afraid to sleep or eat; and if a mouse ran past him in the night,
would start up drenched with cold sweat and quivering with terror, fancying
that someone was hiding in the room to listen if he talked in his sleep. The
gendarmes were evidently trying to entrap him into making some admission
which might compromise Bolla; and so great was his fear of slipping, by any
inadvertency, into a pitfall, that he was really in danger of doing so
through sheer nervousness. Bolla's name rang in his ears night and day,
interfering even with his devotions, and forcing its way in among the beads
of the rosary instead of the name of Mary. But the worst thing of all was
that his religion, like the outer world, seemed to be slipping away from him
as the days went by. To this last foothold he clung with feverish tenacity,
spending several hours of each day in prayer and meditation; but his
thoughts wandered more and more often to Bolla, and the prayers were growing
terribly mechanical.
His greatest comfort was the head warder of the prison. This was a
little old man, fat and bald, who at first had tried his hardest to wear a
severe expression. Gradually the good nature which peeped out of every
dimple in his chubby face conquered his official scruples, and he began
carrying messages for the prisoners from cell to cell.
One afternoon in the middle of May this warder came into the cell with
a face so scowling and gloomy that Arthur looked at him in astonishment.
"Why, Enrico!" he exclaimed; "what on earth is wrong with you to-day?"
"Nothing," said Enrico snappishly; and, going up to the pallet, he
began pulling off the rug, which was Arthur's property.
"What do you want with my things? Am I to be moved into another cell?"
"No; you're to be let out."
"Let out? What--to-day? For altogether? Enrico!"
In his excitement Arthur had caught hold of the old man's arm. It was
angrily wrenched away.
"Enrico! What has come to you? Why don't you answer? Are we all going
to be let out?"
A contemptuous grunt was the only reply.
"Look here!" Arthur again took hold of the warder's arm, laughing. "It
is no use for you to be cross to me, because I'm not going to get offended.
I want to know about the others."
"Which others?" growled Enrico, suddenly laying down the shirt he was
folding. "Not Bolla, I suppose?"
"Bolla and all the rest, of course. Enrico, what is the matter with
you?"
"Well, he's not likely to be let out in a hurry, poor lad, when a
comrade has betrayed him. Ugh!" Enrico took up the shirt again in disgust.
"Betrayed him? A comrade? Oh, how dreadful!" Arthur's eyes dilated with
horror. Enrico turned quickly round.
"Why, wasn't it you?"
"I? Are you off your head, man? I?"
"Well, they told him so yesterday at interrogation, anyhow. I'm very
glad if it wasn't you, for I always thought you were rather a decent young
fellow. This way!" Enrico stepped out into the corridor and Arthur followed
him, a light breaking in upon the confusion of his mind.
"They told Bolla I'd betrayed him? Of course they did! Why, man, they
told me he had betrayed me. Surely Bolla isn't fool enough to believe that
sort of stuff?"
"Then it really isn't true?" Enrico stopped at the foot of the stairs
and looked searchingly at Arthur, who merely shrugged his shoulders.
"Of course it's a lie."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it, my lad, and I'll tell him you said so. But
you see what they told him was that you had denounced him out of--well, out
of jealousy, because of your both being sweet on the same girl."
"It's a lie!" Arthur repeated the words in a quick, breathless whisper.
A sudden, paralyzing fear had come over him. "The same girl--jealousy!" How
could they know--how could they know?
"Wait a minute, my lad." Enrico stopped in the corridor leading to the
interrogation room, and spoke softly. "I believe you; but just tell me one
thing. I know you're a Catholic; did you ever say anything in the
confessional------"
"It's a lie!" This time Arthur's voice had risen to a stifled cry.
Enrico shrugged his shoulders and moved on again. "You know best, of
course; but you wouldn't be the only young fool that's been taken in that
way. There's a tremendous ado just now about a priest in Pisa that some of
your friends have found out. They've printed a leaflet saying he's a spy."
He opened the door of the interrogation room, and, seeing that Arthur
stood motionless, staring blankly before him, pushed him gently across the
threshold.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Burton," said the colonel, smiling and showing his
teeth amiably. "I have great pleasure in congratulating you. An order for
your release has arrived from Florence. Will you kindly sign this paper?"
Arthur went up to him. "I want to know," he said in a dull voice, "who
it was that betrayed me."
The colonel raised his eyebrows with a smile.
"Can't you guess? Think a minute."
Arthur shook his head. The colonel put out both hands with a gesture of
polite surprise.
"Can't guess? Really? Why, you yourself, Mr. Burton. Who else could
know your private love affairs?"
Arthur turned away in silence. On the wall hung a large wooden
crucifix; and his eyes wandered slowly to its face; but with no appeal in
them, only a dim wonder at this supine and patient God that had no
thunderbolt for a priest who betrayed the confessional.
"Will you kindly sign this receipt for your papers?" said the colonel
blandly; "and then I need not keep you any longer. I am sure you must be in
a hurry to get home; and my time is very much taken up just now with the
affairs of that foolish young man, Bolla, who tried your Christian
forbearance so hard. I am afraid he will get a rather heavy sentence.
Good-afternoon!"
Arthur signed the receipt, took his papers, and went out in dead
silence. He followed Enrico to the massive gate; and, without a word of
farewell, descended to the water's edge, where a ferryman was waiting to
take him across the moat. As he mounted the stone steps leading to the
street, a girl in a cotton dress and straw hat ran up to him with
outstretched hands.
"Arthur! Oh, I'm so glad--I'm so glad!"
He drew his hands away, shivering.
"Jim!" he said at last, in a voice that did not seem to belong to him.
"Jim!"
"I've been waiting here for half an hour. They said you would come out
at four. Arthur, why do you look at me like that? Something has happened!
Arthur, what has come to you? Stop!"
He had turned away, and was walking slowly down the street, as if he
had forgotten her presence. Thoroughly frightened at his manner, she ran
after him and caught him by the arm.
"Arthur!"
He stopped and looked up with bewildered eyes. She slipped her arm
through his, and they walked on again for a moment in silence.
"Listen, dear," she began softly; "you mustn't get so upset over this
wretched business. I know it's dreadfully hard on you, but everybody
understands."
"What business?" he asked in the same dull voice.
"I mean, about Bolla's letter."
Arthur's face contracted painfully at the name.
"I thought you wouldn't have heard of it," Gemma went on; "but I
suppose they've told you. Bolla must be perfectly mad to have imagined such
a thing."
"Such a thing----?"
"You don't know about it, then? He has written a horrible letter,
saying that you have told about the steamers, and got him arrested. It's
perfectly absurd, of course; everyone that knows you sees that; it's only
the people who don't know you that have been upset by it. Really, that's
what I came here for--to tell you that no one in our group believes a word
of it."
"Gemma! But it's--it's true!"
She shrank slowly away from him, and stood quite still, her eyes wide
and dark with horror, her face as white as the kerchief at her neck. A great
icy wave of silence seemed to have swept round them both, shutting them out,
in a world apart, from the life and movement of the street.
"Yes," he whispered at last; "the steamers-- I spoke of that; and I
said his name--oh, my God! my God! What shall I do?"
He came to himself suddenly, realizing her presence and the mortal
terror in her face. Yes, of course, she must think------
"Gemma, you don't understand!" he burst out, moving nearer; but she
recoiled with a sharp cry:
"Don't touch me!"
Arthur seized her right hand with sudden violence.
"Listen, for God's sake! It was not my fault; I----"
"Let go; let my hand go! Let go!"
The next instant she wrenched her fingers away from his, and struck him
across the cheek with her open hand.
A kind of mist came over his eyes. For a little while he was conscious
of nothing but Gemma's white and desperate face, and the right hand which
she had fiercely rubbed on the skirt of her cotton dress. Then the daylight
crept back again, and he looked round and saw that he was alone.
IT had long been dark when Arthur rang at the front door of the great
house in the Via Borra. He remembered that he had been wandering about the
streets; but where, or why, or for how long, he had no idea. Julia's page
opened the door, yawning, and grinned significantly at the haggard, stony
face. It seemed to him a prodigious joke to have the young master come home
from jail like a "drunk and disorderly" beggar. Arthur went upstairs. On the
first floor he met Gibbons coming down with an air of lofty and solemn
disapproval. He tried to pass with a muttered "Good evening"; but Gibbons
was no easy person to get past against his will.
"The gentlemen are out, sir," he said, looking critically at Arthur's
rather neglected dress and hair. "They have gone with the mistress to an
evening party, and will not be back till nearly twelve."
Arthur looked at his watch; it was nine o'clock. Oh, yes! he would have
time--plenty of time------
"My mistress desired me to ask whether you would like any supper, sir;
and to say that she hopes you will sit up for her, as she particularly
wishes to speak to you this evening."
"I don't want anything, thank you; you can tell her I have not gone to
bed."
He went up to his room. Nothing in it had been changed since his
arrest; Montanelli's portrait was on the table where he had placed it, and
the crucifix stood in the alcove as before. He paused a moment on the
threshold, listening; but the house was quite still; evidently no one was
coming to disturb him. He stepped softly into the room and locked the door.
And so he had come to the end. There was nothing to think or trouble
about; an importunate and useless consciousness to get rid of--and nothing
more. It seemed a stupid, aimless kind of thing, somehow.
He had not formed any resolve to commit suicide, nor indeed had he
thought much about it; the thing was quite obvious and inevitable. He had
even no definite idea as to what manner of death to choose; all that
mattered was to be done with it quickly--to have it over and forget. He had
no weapon in the room, not even a pocketknife; but that was of no
consequence--a towel would do, or a sheet torn into strips.
There was a large nail just over the window. That would do; but it must
be firm to bear his weight. He got up on a chair to feel the nail; it was
not quite firm, and he stepped down again and took a hammer from a drawer.
He knocked in the nail, and was about to pull a sheet off his bed, when he
suddenly remembered that he had not said his prayers. Of course, one must
pray before dying; every Christian does that. There are even special prayers
for a departing soul.
He went into the alcove and knelt down before the crucifix. "Almighty
and merciful God----" he began aloud; and with that broke off and said no
more. Indeed, the world was grown so dull that there was nothing left to
pray for--or against. And then, what did Christ know about a trouble of this
kind--Christ, who had never suffered it? He had only been betrayed, like
Bolla; He had never been tricked into betraying.
Arthur rose, crossing himself from old habit. Approaching the table, he
saw lying upon it a letter addressed to him, in Montanelli's handwriting. It
was in pencil:
"My Dear Boy: It is a great disappointment to me that I cannot see you
on the day of your release; but I have been sent for to visit a dying man. I
shall not get back till late at night. Come to me early to-morrow morning.
In great haste,
"L. M."
He put down the letter with a sigh; it did seem hard on the Padre.
How the people had laughed and gossiped in the streets! Nothing was
altered since the days when he had been alive. Not the least little one of
all the daily trifles round him was changed because a human soul, a living
human soul, had been struck down dead. It was all just the same as before.
The water had plashed in the fountains; the sparrows had twittered under the
eaves; just as they had done yesterday, just as they would do to-morrow. And
as for him, he was dead--quite dead.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, crossed his arms along the
foot-rail, and rested his forehead upon them. There was plenty of time; and
his head ached so--the very middle of the brain seemed to ache; it was all
so dull and stupid--so utterly meaningless----
. . . . .
The front-door bell rang sharply, and he started up in a breathless
agony of terror, with both hands at his throat. They had come back--he had
sat there dreaming, and let the precious time slip away--and now he must see
their faces and hear their cruel tongues--their sneers and comments-- If
only he had a knife------
He looked desperately round the room. His mother's work-basket stood in
a little cupboard; surely there would be scissors; he might sever an artery.
No; the sheet and nail were safer, if he had timeHe dragged the counterpane
from his bed, and with frantic haste began tearing off a strip. The sound of
footsteps came up the stairs. No; the strip was too wide; it would not tie
firmly; and there must be a noose. He worked faster as the footsteps drew
nearer; and the blood throbbed in his temples and roared in his ears.
Quicker-- quicker! Oh, God! five minutes more!
There was a knock at the door. The strip of torn stuff dropped from his
hands, and he sat quite still, holding his breath to listen. The handle of
the door was tried; then Julia's voice called:
"Arthur!"
He stood up, panting.
"Arthur, open the door, please; we are waiting."
He gathered up the torn counterpane, threw it into a drawer, and
hastily smoothed down the bed.
"Arthur!" This time it was James who called, and the door-handle was
shaken impatiently. "Are you asleep?"
Arthur looked round the room, saw that everything was hidden, and
unlocked the door.
"I should think you might at least have obeyed my express request that
you should sit up for us, Arthur," said Julia, sweeping into the room in a
towering passion. "You appear to think it the proper thing for us to dance
attendance for half an hour at your door----"
"Four minutes, my dear," James mildly corrected, stepping into the room
at the end of his wife's pink satin train. "I certainly think, Arthur, that
it would have been more--becoming if----"
"What do you want?" Arthur interrupted. He was standing with his hand
upon the door, glancing furtively from one to the other like a trapped
animal. But James was too obtuse and Julia too angry to notice the look.
Mr. Burton placed a chair for his wife and sat down, carefully pulling
up his new trousers at the knees. "Julia and I," he began, "feel it to be
our duty to speak to you seriously about----"
"I can't listen to-night; I--I'm not well. My head aches--you must
wait."
Arthur spoke in a strange, indistinct voice, with a confused and
rambling manner. James looked round in surprise.
"Is there anything the matter with you?" he asked anxiously, suddenly
remembering that Arthur had come from a very hotbed of infection. "I hope
you're not sickening for anything. You look quite feverish."
"Nonsense!" Julia interrupted sharply. "It's only the usual
theatricals, because he's ashamed to face us. Come here and sit down,
Arthur." Arthur slowly crossed the room and sat down on the bed. "Yes?" he
said wearily.
Mr. Burton coughed, cleared his throat, smoothed his already immaculate
beard, and began the carefully prepared speech over again:
"I feel it to be my duty--my painful duty--to speak very seriously to
you about your extraordinary behaviour in connecting yourself with--a--
law-breakers and incendiaries and--a--persons of disreputable character. I
believe you to have been, perhaps, more foolish than depraved--a----"
He paused.
"Yes?" Arthur said again.
"Now, I do not wish to be hard on you," James went on, softening a
little in spite of himself before the weary hopelessness of Arthur's manner.
"I am quite willing to believe that you have been led away by bad
companions, and to take into account your youth and inexperience and
the--a-- a--imprudent and--a--impulsive character which you have, I fear,
inherited from your mother."
Arthur's eyes wandered slowly to his mother's portrait and back again,
but he did not speak.
"But you will, I feel sure, understand," James continued, "that it is
quite impossible for me to keep any longer in my house a person who has
brought public disgrace upon a name so highly respected as ours."
"Yes?" Arthur repeated once more.
"Well?" said Julia sharply, closing her fan with a snap and laying it
across her knee. "Are you going to have the goodness to say anything but
'Yes,' Arthur?"
"You will do as you think best, of course," he answered slowly, without
moving. "It doesn't matter much either way."
"Doesn't--matter?" James repeated, aghast; and his wife rose with a
laugh.
"Oh, it doesn't matter, doesn't it? Well, James, I hope you understand
now how much gratitude you may expect in that quarter. I told you what would
come of showing charity to Papist adventuresses and their----"
"Hush, hush! Never mind that, my dear!"
"It's all nonsense, James; we've had more than enough of this
sentimentality! A love-child setting himself up as a member of the
family--it's quite time he did know what his mother was! Why should we be
saddled with the child of a Popish priest's amourettes? There, then-- look!"
She pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of her pocket and tossed it
across the table to Arthur. He opened it; the writing was in his mother's
hand, and was dated four months before his birth. It was a confession,
addressed to her husband, and with two signatures.
Arthur's eyes travelled slowly down the page, past the unsteady letters
in which her name was written, to the strong, familiar signature: "Lorenzo
Montanelli." For a moment he stared at the writing; then, without a word,
refolded the paper and laid it down. James rose and took his wife by the
arm.
"There, Julia, that will do. Just go downstairs now; it's late, and I
want to talk a little business with Arthur. It won't interest you."
She glanced up at her husband; then back at Arthur, who was silently
staring at the floor.
"He seems half stupid," she whispered.
When she had gathered up her train and left the room, James carefully
shut the door and went back to his chair beside the table. Arthur sat as
before, perfectly motionless and silent.
"Arthur," James began in a milder tone, now Julia was not there to
hear, "I am very sorry that this has come out. You might just as well not
have known it. However, all that's over; and I am pleased to see that you
can behave with such self-control. Julia is a--a little excited; ladies
often--anyhow, I don't want to be too hard on you."
He stopped to see what effect the kindly words had produced; but Arthur
was quite motionless.
"Of course, my dear boy," James went on after a moment, "this is a
distressing story altogether, and the best thing we can do is to hold our
tongues about it. My father was generous enough not to divorce your mother
when she confessed her fall to him; he only demanded that the man who had
led her astray should leave the country at once; and, as you know, he went
to China as a missionary. For my part, I was very much against your having
anything to do with him when he came back; but my father, just at the last,
consented to let him teach you, on condition that he never attempted to see
your mother. I must, in justice, acknowledge that I believe they both
observed that condition faithfully to the end. It is a very deplorable
business; but----"
Arthur looked up. All the life and expression had gone out of his face;
it was like a waxen mask.
"D-don't you think," he said softly, with a curious stammering
hesitation on the words, "th-that--all this--is--v-very--funny?"
"FUNNY?" James pushed his chair away from the table, and sat staring at
him, too much petrified for anger. "Funny! Arthur, are you mad?"
Arthur suddenly threw back his head, and burst into a frantic fit of
laughing.
"Arthur!" exclaimed the shipowner, rising with dignity, "I am amazed at
your levity!"
There was no answer but peal after peal of laughter, so loud and
boisterous that even James began to doubt whether there was not something
more the matter here than levity.
"Just like a hysterical woman," he muttered, turning, with a
contemptuous shrug of his shoulders, to tramp impatiently up and down the
room. "Really, Arthur, you're worse than Julia; there, stop laughing! I
can't wait about here all night."
He might as well have asked the crucifix to come down from its
pedestal. Arthur was past caring for remonstrances or exhortations; he only
laughed, and laughed, and laughed without end.
"This is absurd!" said James, stopping at last in his irritated pacing
to and fro. "You are evidently too much excited to be reasonable to-night. I
can't talk business with you if you're going on that way. Come to me
to-morrow morning after breakfast. And now you had better go to bed.
Good-night."
He went out, slamming the door. "Now for the hysterics downstairs," he
muttered as he tramped noisily away. "I suppose it'll be tears there!"
. . . . .
The frenzied laughter died on Arthur's lips. He snatched up the hammer
from the table and flung himself upon the crucifix.
With the crash that followed he came suddenly to his senses, standing
before the empty pedestal, the hammer still in his hand, and the fragments
of the broken image scattered on the floor about his feet.
He threw down the hammer. "So easy!" he said, and turned away. "And
what an idiot I am!"
He sat down by the table, panting heavily for breath, and rested his
forehead on both hands. Presently he rose, and, going to the wash-stand,
poured a jugful of cold water over his head and face. He came back quite
composed, and sat down to think.
And it was for such things as these--for these false and slavish
people, these dumb and soulless gods--that he had suffered all these
tortures of shame and passion and despair; had made a rope to hang himself,
forsooth, because one priest was a liar. As if they were not all liars!
Well, all that was done with; he was wiser now. He need only shake off these
vermin and begin life afresh.
There were plenty of goods vessels in the docks; it would be an easy
matter to stow himself away in one of them, and get across to Canada,
Australia, Cape Colony--anywhere. It was no matter for the country, if only
it was far enough; and, as for the life out there, he could see, and if it
did not suit him he could try some other place.
He took out his purse. Only thirty-three paoli; but his watch was a
good one. That would help him along a bit; and in any case it was of no
consequence--he should pull through somehow. But they would search for him,
all these people; they would be sure to make inquiries at the docks. No; he
must put them on a false scent--make them believe him dead; then he should
be quite free-- quite free. He laughed softly to himself at the thought of
the Burtons searching for his corpse. What a farce the whole thing was!
Taking a sheet of paper, he wrote the first words that occurred to him:
"I believed in you as I believed in God. God is a thing made of clay,
that I can smash with a hammer; and you have fooled me with a lie."
He folded up the paper, directed it to Montanelli, and, taking another
sheet, wrote across it: "Look for my body in Darsena." Then he put on his
hat and went out of the room. Passing his mother's portrait, he looked up
with a laugh and a shrug of his shoulders. She, too, had lied to him.
He crept softly along the corridor, and, slipping back the door-bolts,
went out on to the great, dark, echoing marble staircase. It seemed to yawn
beneath him like a black pit as he descended.
He crossed the courtyard, treading cautiously for fear of waking Gian
Battista, who slept on the ground floor. In the wood-cellar at the back was
a little grated window, opening on the canal and not more than four feet
from the ground. He remembered that the rusty grating had broken away on one
side; by pushing a little he could make an aperture wide enough to climb out
by.
The grating was strong, and he grazed his hands badly and tore the
sleeve of his coat; but that was no matter. He looked up and down the
street; there was no one in sight, and the canal lay black and silent, an
ugly trench between two straight and slimy walls. The untried universe might
prove a dismal hole, but it could hardly be more flat and sordid than the
corner which he was leaving behind him. There was nothing to regret; nothing
to look back upon. It had been a pestilent little stagnant world, full of
squalid lies and clumsy cheats and foul-smelling ditches that were not even
deep enough to drown a man.
He walked along the canal bank, and came out upon the tiny square by
the Medici palace. It was here that Gemma had run up to him with her vivid
face, her outstretched hands. Here was the little flight of wet stone steps
leading down to the moat; and there the fortress scowling across the strip
of dirty water. He had never noticed before how squat and mean it looked.
Passing through the narrow streets he reached the Darsena
shipping-basin, where he took off his hat and flung it into the water. It
would be found, of course, when they dragged for his body. Then he walked on
along the water's edge, considering perplexedly what to do next. He must
contrive to hide on some ship; but it was a difficult thing to do. His only
chance would be to get on to the huge old Medici breakwater and walk along
to the further end of it. There was a low-class tavern on the point;
probably he should find some sailor there who could be bribed.
But the dock gates were closed. How should he get past them, and past
the customs officials? His stock of money would not furnish the high bribe
that they would demand for letting him through at night and without a
passport. Besides they might recognize him.
As he passed the bronze statue of the "Four Moors," a man's figure
emerged from an old house on the opposite side of the shipping basin and
approached the bridge. Arthur slipped at once into the deep shadow behind
the group of statuary and crouched down in the darkness, peeping cautiously
round the corner of the pedestal.
It was a soft spring night, warm and starlit. The water lapped against
the stone walls of the basin and swirled in gentle eddies round the steps
with a sound as of low laughter. Somewhere near a chain creaked, swinging
slowly to and fro. A huge iron crane towered up, tall and melancholy in the
dimness. Black on a shimmering expanse of starry sky and pearly
cloud-wreaths, the figures of the fettered, struggling slaves stood out in
vain and vehement protest against a merciless doom.
The man approached unsteadily along the water side, shouting an English
street song. He was evidently a sailor returning from a carouse at some
tavern. No one else was within sight. As he drew near, Arthur stood up and
stepped into the middle of the roadway. The sailor broke off in his song
with an oath, and stopped short.
"I want to speak to you," Arthur said in Italian. "Do you understand
me?"
The man shook his head. "It's no use talking that patter to me," he
said; then, plunging into bad French, asked sullenly: "What do you want? Why
can't you let me pass?"
"Just come out of the light here a minute; I want to speak to you."
"Ah! wouldn't you like it? Out of the light! Got a knife anywhere about
you?"
"No, no, man! Can't you see I only want your help? I'll pay you for
it?" "Eh? What? And dressed like a swell, too------" The sailor had relapsed
into English. He now moved into the shadow and leaned against the railing of
the pedestal.
"Well," he said, returning to his atrocious French; "and what is it you
want?"
"I want to get away from here----"
"Aha! Stowaway! Want me to hide you? Been up to something, I suppose.
Stuck a knife into somebody, eh? Just like these foreigners! And where might
you be wanting to go? Not to the police station, I fancy?"
He laughed in his tipsy way, and winked one eye.
"What vessel do you belong to?"
"Carlotta--Leghorn to Buenos Ayres; shipping oil one way and hides the
other. She's over there"--pointing in the direction of the breakwater --
"beastly old hulk!"
"Buenos Ayres--yes! Can you hide me anywhere on board?"
"How much can you give?"
"Not very much; I have only a few paoli."
"No. Can't do it under fifty--and cheap at that, too--a swell like
you."
"What do you mean by a swell? If you like my clothes you may change
with me, but I can't give you more money than I have got."
"You have a watch there. Hand it over."
Arthur took out a lady's gold watch, delicately chased and enamelled,
with the initials "G. B." on the back. It had been his mother's--but what
did that matter now?
"Ah!" remarked the sailor with a quick glance at it. "Stolen, of
course! Let me look!"
Arthur drew his hand away. "No," he said. "I will give you the watch
when we are on board; not before."
"You're not such a fool as you look, after all! I'll bet it's your
first scrape, though, eh?"
"That is my business. Ah! there comes the watchman."
They crouched down behind the group of statuary and waited till the
watchman had passed. Then the sailor rose, and, telling Arthur to follow
him, walked on, laughing foolishly to himself. Arthur followed in silence.
The sailor led him back to the little irregular square by the Medici
palace; and, stopping in a dark corner, mumbled in what was intended for a
cautious whisper:
"Wait here; those soldier fellows will see you if you come further."
"What are you going to do?"
"Get you some clothes. I'm not going to take you on board with that
bloody coatsleeve."
Arthur glanced down at the sleeve which had been torn by the window
grating. A little blood from the grazed hand had fallen upon it. Evidently
the man thought him a murderer. Well, it was of no consequence what people
thought.
After some time the sailor came back, triumphant, with a bundle under
his arm.
"Change," he whispered; "and make haste about it. I must get back, and
that old Jew has kept me bargaining and haggling for half an hour."
Arthur obeyed, shrinking with instinctive disgust at the first touch of
second-hand clothes. Fortunately these, though rough and coarse, were fairly
clean. When he stepped into the light in his new attire, the sailor looked
at him with tipsy solemnity and gravely nodded his approval.
"You'll do," he said. "This way, and don't make a noise." Arthur,
carrying his discarded clothes, followed him through a labyrinth of winding
canals and dark narrow alleys; the mediaeval slum quarter which the people
of Leghorn call "New Venice." Here and there a gloomy old palace, solitary
among the squalid houses and filthy courts, stood between two noisome
ditches, with a forlorn air of trying to preserve its ancient dignity and
yet of knowing the effort to be a hopeless one. Some of the alleys, he knew,
were notorious dens of thieves, cut-throats, and smugglers; others were
merely wretched and poverty-stricken.
Beside one of the little bridges the sailor stopped, and, looking round
to see that they were not observed, descended a flight of stone steps to a
narrow landing stage. Under the bridge was a dirty, crazy old boat. Sharply
ordering Arthur to jump in and lie down, he seated himself in the boat and
began rowing towards the harbour's mouth. Arthur lay still on the wet and
leaky planks, hidden by the clothes which the man had thrown over him, and
peeping out from under them at the familiar streets and houses.
Presently they passed under a bridge and entered that part of the canal
which forms a moat for the fortress. The massive walls rose out of the
water, broad at the base and narrowing upward to the frowning turrets. How
strong, how threatening they had seemed to him a few hours ago! And now----
He laughed softly as he lay in the bottom of the boat.
"Hold your noise," the sailor whispered, "and keep your head covered!
We're close to the custom house."
Arthur drew the clothes over his head. A few yards further on the boat
stopped before a row of masts chained together, which lay across the surface
of the canal, blocking the narrow waterway between the custom house and the
fortress wall. A sleepy official came out yawning and bent over the water's
edge with a lantern in his hand.
"Passports, please."
The sailor handed up his official papers. Arthur, half stifled under
the clothes, held his breath, listening.
"A nice time of night to come back to your ship!" grumbled the customs
official. "Been out on the spree, I suppose. What's in your boat?"
"Old clothes. Got them cheap." He held up the waistcoat for inspection.
The official, lowering his lantern, bent over, straining his eyes to see.
"It's all right, I suppose. You can pass."
He lifted the barrier and the boat moved slowly out into the dark,
heaving water. At a little distance Arthur sat up and threw off the clothes.
"Here she is," the sailor whispered, after rowing for some time in
silence. "Keep close behind me and hold your tongue."
He clambered up the side of a huge black monster, swearing under his
breath at the clumsiness of the landsman, though Arthur's natural agility
rendered him less awkward than most people would have been in his place.
Once safely on board, they crept cautiously between dark masses of rigging
and machinery, and came at last to a hatchway, which the sailor softly
raised.
"Down here!" he whispered. "I'll be back in a minute."
The hold was not only damp and dark, but intolerably foul. At first
Arthur instinctively drew back, half choked by the stench of raw hides and
rancid oil. Then he remembered the "punishment cell," and descended the
ladder, shrugging his shoulders. Life is pretty much the same everywhere, it
seemed; ugly, putrid, infested with vermin, full of shameful secrets and
dark corners. Still, life is life, and he must make the best of it.
In a few minutes the sailor came back with something in his hands which
Arthur could not distinctly see for the darkness.
"Now, give me the watch and money. Make haste!"
Taking advantage of the darkness, Arthur succeeded in keeping back a
few coins.
"You must get me something to eat," he said; "I am half starved."
"I've brought it. Here you are." The sailor handed him a pitcher, some
hard biscuit, and a piece of salt pork. "Now mind, you must hide in this
empty barrel, here, when the customs officers come to examine to-morrow
morning. Keep as still as a mouse till we're right out at sea. I'll let you
know when to come out. And won't you just catch it when the captain sees
you--that's all! Got the drink safe? Good-night!"
The hatchway closed, and Arthur, setting the precious "drink" in a safe
place, climbed on to an oil barrel to eat his pork and biscuit. Then he
curled himself up on the dirty floor; and, for the first time since his
babyhood, settled himself to sleep without a prayer. The rats scurried round
him in the darkness; but neither their persistent noise nor the swaying of
the ship, nor the nauseating stench of oil, nor the prospect of to-morrow's
sea-sickness, could keep him awake. He cared no more for them all than for
the broken and dishonoured idols that only yesterday had been the gods of
his adoration.
ONE evening in July, 1846, a few acquaintances met at Professor
Fabrizi's house in Florence to discuss plans for future political work.
Several of them belonged to the Mazzinian party and would have been
satisfied with nothing less than a democratic Republic and a United Italy.
Others were Constitutional Monarchists and Liberals of various shades. On
one point, however, they were all agreed; that of dissatisfaction with the
Tuscan censorship; and the popular professor had called the meeting in the
hope that, on this one subject at least, the representatives of the
dissentient parties would be able to get through an hour's discussion
without quarrelling.
Only a fortnight had elapsed since the famous amnesty which Pius IX.
had granted, on his accession, to political offenders in the Papal States;
but the wave of liberal enthusiasm caused by it was already spreading over
Italy. In Tuscany even the government appeared to have been affected by the
astounding event. It had occurred to Fabrizi and a few other leading
Florentines that this was a propitious moment for a bold effort to reform
the press-laws.
"Of course," the dramatist Lega had said, when the subject was first
broached to him; "it would be impossible to start a newspaper till we can
get the press-law changed; we should not bring out the first number. But we
may be able to run some pamphlets through the censorship already; and the
sooner we begin the sooner we shall get the law changed."
He was now explaining in Fabrizi's library his theory of the line which
should be taken by liberal writers at the moment.
"There is no doubt," interposed one of the company, a gray-haired
barrister with a rather drawling manner of speech, "that in some way we must
take advantage of the moment. We shall not see such a favourable one again
for bringing forward serious reforms. But I doubt the pamphlets doing any
good. They will only irritate and frighten the government instead of winning
it over to our side, which is what we really want to do. If once the
authorities begin to think of us as dangerous agitators our chance of
getting their help is gone."
"Then what would you have us do?"
"Petition."
"To the Grand Duke?"
"Yes; for an augmentation of the liberty of the press."
A keen-looking, dark man sitting by the window turned his head round
with a laugh.
"You'll get a lot out of petitioning!" he said. "I should have thought
the result of the Renzi case was enough to cure anybody of going to work
that way."
"My dear sir, I am as much grieved as you are that we did not succeed
in preventing the extradition of Renzi. But really--I do not wish to hurt
the sensibilities of anyone, but I cannot help thinking that our failure in
that case was largely due to the impatience and vehemence of some persons
among our number. I should certainly hesitate----"
with any unnecessary harshness."
"What do you want me to do?"
Arthur spoke in a hard, sullen voice, quite different from his natural
tone.
"I only want you to tell us frankly, in a straightforward and
honourable manner, what you know of this society and its adherents. First of
all, how long have you known Bolla?"
"I never met him in my life. I know nothing whatever about him."
"Really? Well, we will return to that subject presently. I think you
know a young man named Carlo Bini?"
"I never heard of such a person."
"That is very extraordinary. What about Francesco Neri?"
"I never heard the name."
"But here is a letter in your handwriting, addressed to him. Look!"
Arthur glanced carelessly at the letter and laid it aside.
"Do you recognize that letter?"
"No."
"You deny that it is in your writing?"
"I deny nothing. I have no recollection of it."
"Perhaps you remember this one?"
A second letter was handed to him, and he saw that it was one which he
had written in the autumn to a fellow-student.
"No."
"Nor the person to whom it is addressed?"
"Nor the person."
"Your memory is singularly short."
"It is a defect from which I have always suffered."
"Indeed! And I heard the other day from a university professor that you
are considered by no means deficient; rather clever in fact."
"You probably judge of cleverness by the police-spy standard;
university professors use words in a different sense."
The note of rising irritation was plainly audible in Arthur's voice. He
was physically exhausted with hunger, foul air, and want of sleep; every
bone in his body seemed to ache separately; and the colonel's voice grated
on his exasperated nerves, setting his teeth on edge like the squeak of a
slate pencil.
"Mr. Burton," said the colonel, leaning back in his chair and speaking
gravely, "you are again forgetting yourself; and I warn you once more that
this kind of talk will do you no good. Surely you have had enough of the
dark cell not to want any more just for the present. I tell you plainly that
I shall use strong measures with you if you persist in repulsing gentle
ones. Mind, I have proof--positive proof--that some of these young men have
been engaged in smuggling prohibited literature into this port; and that you
have been in communication with them. Now, are you going to tell me, without
compulsion, what you know about this affair?"
Arthur bent his head lower. A blind, senseless, wild-beast fury was
beginning to stir within him like a live thing. The possibility of losing
command over himself was more appalling to him than any threats. For the
first time he began to realize what latent potentialities may lie hidden
beneath the culture of any gentleman and the piety of any Christian; and the
terror of himself was strong upon him.
"I am waiting for your answer," said the colonel.
"I have no answer to give."
"You positively refuse to answer?"
"I will tell you nothing at all."
"Then I must simply order you back into the punishment cell, and keep
you there till you change your mind. If there is much more trouble with you,
I shall put you in irons."
Arthur looked up, trembling from head to foot. "You will do as you
please," he said slowly; "and whether the English Ambassador will stand your
playing tricks of that kind with a British subject who has not been
convicted of any crime is for him to decide."
At last Arthur was conducted back to his own cell, where he flung
himself down upon the bed and slept till the next morning. He was not put in
irons, and saw no more of the dreaded dark cell; but the feud between him
and the colonel grew more inveterate with every interrogation. It was quite
useless for Arthur to pray in his cell for grace to conquer his evil
passions, or to meditate half the night long upon the patience and meekness
of Christ. No sooner was he brought again into the long, bare room with its
baize-covered table, and confronted with the colonel's waxed moustache, than
the unchristian spirit would take possession of him once more, suggesting
bitter repartees and contemptuous answers. Before he had been a month in the
prison the mutual irritation had reached such a height that he and the
colonel could not see each other's faces without losing their temper.
The continual strain of this petty warfare was beginning to tell
heavily upon his nerves. Knowing how closely he was watched, and remembering
certain dreadful rumours which he had heard of prisoners secretly drugged
with belladonna that notes might be taken of their ravings, he gradually
became afraid to sleep or eat; and if a mouse ran past him in the night,
would start up drenched with cold sweat and quivering with terror, fancying
that someone was hiding in the room to listen if he talked in his sleep. The
gendarmes were evidently trying to entrap him into making some admission
which might compromise Bolla; and so great was his fear of slipping, by any
inadvertency, into a pitfall, that he was really in danger of doing so
through sheer nervousness. Bolla's name rang in his ears night and day,
interfering even with his devotions, and forcing its way in among the beads
of the rosary instead of the name of Mary. But the worst thing of all was
that his religion, like the outer world, seemed to be slipping away from him
as the days went by. To this last foothold he clung with feverish tenacity,
spending several hours of each day in prayer and meditation; but his
thoughts wandered more and more often to Bolla, and the prayers were growing
terribly mechanical.
His greatest comfort was the head warder of the prison. This was a
little old man, fat and bald, who at first had tried his hardest to wear a
severe expression. Gradually the good nature which peeped out of every
dimple in his chubby face conquered his official scruples, and he began
carrying messages for the prisoners from cell to cell.
One afternoon in the middle of May this warder came into the cell with
a face so scowling and gloomy that Arthur looked at him in astonishment.
"Why, Enrico!" he exclaimed; "what on earth is wrong with you to-day?"
"Nothing," said Enrico snappishly; and, going up to the pallet, he
began pulling off the rug, which was Arthur's property.
"What do you want with my things? Am I to be moved into another cell?"
"No; you're to be let out."
"Let out? What--to-day? For altogether? Enrico!"
In his excitement Arthur had caught hold of the old man's arm. It was
angrily wrenched away.
"Enrico! What has come to you? Why don't you answer? Are we all going
to be let out?"
A contemptuous grunt was the only reply.
"Look here!" Arthur again took hold of the warder's arm, laughing. "It
is no use for you to be cross to me, because I'm not going to get offended.
I want to know about the others."
"Which others?" growled Enrico, suddenly laying down the shirt he was
folding. "Not Bolla, I suppose?"
"Bolla and all the rest, of course. Enrico, what is the matter with
you?"
"Well, he's not likely to be let out in a hurry, poor lad, when a
comrade has betrayed him. Ugh!" Enrico took up the shirt again in disgust.
"Betrayed him? A comrade? Oh, how dreadful!" Arthur's eyes dilated with
horror. Enrico turned quickly round.
"Why, wasn't it you?"
"I? Are you off your head, man? I?"
"Well, they told him so yesterday at interrogation, anyhow. I'm very
glad if it wasn't you, for I always thought you were rather a decent young
fellow. This way!" Enrico stepped out into the corridor and Arthur followed
him, a light breaking in upon the confusion of his mind.
"They told Bolla I'd betrayed him? Of course they did! Why, man, they
told me he had betrayed me. Surely Bolla isn't fool enough to believe that
sort of stuff?"
"Then it really isn't true?" Enrico stopped at the foot of the stairs
and looked searchingly at Arthur, who merely shrugged his shoulders.
"Of course it's a lie."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it, my lad, and I'll tell him you said so. But
you see what they told him was that you had denounced him out of--well, out
of jealousy, because of your both being sweet on the same girl."
"It's a lie!" Arthur repeated the words in a quick, breathless whisper.
A sudden, paralyzing fear had come over him. "The same girl--jealousy!" How
could they know--how could they know?
"Wait a minute, my lad." Enrico stopped in the corridor leading to the
interrogation room, and spoke softly. "I believe you; but just tell me one
thing. I know you're a Catholic; did you ever say anything in the
confessional------"
"It's a lie!" This time Arthur's voice had risen to a stifled cry.
Enrico shrugged his shoulders and moved on again. "You know best, of
course; but you wouldn't be the only young fool that's been taken in that
way. There's a tremendous ado just now about a priest in Pisa that some of
your friends have found out. They've printed a leaflet saying he's a spy."
He opened the door of the interrogation room, and, seeing that Arthur
stood motionless, staring blankly before him, pushed him gently across the
threshold.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Burton," said the colonel, smiling and showing his
teeth amiably. "I have great pleasure in congratulating you. An order for
your release has arrived from Florence. Will you kindly sign this paper?"
Arthur went up to him. "I want to know," he said in a dull voice, "who
it was that betrayed me."
The colonel raised his eyebrows with a smile.
"Can't you guess? Think a minute."
Arthur shook his head. The colonel put out both hands with a gesture of
polite surprise.
"Can't guess? Really? Why, you yourself, Mr. Burton. Who else could
know your private love affairs?"
Arthur turned away in silence. On the wall hung a large wooden
crucifix; and his eyes wandered slowly to its face; but with no appeal in
them, only a dim wonder at this supine and patient God that had no
thunderbolt for a priest who betrayed the confessional.
"Will you kindly sign this receipt for your papers?" said the colonel
blandly; "and then I need not keep you any longer. I am sure you must be in
a hurry to get home; and my time is very much taken up just now with the
affairs of that foolish young man, Bolla, who tried your Christian
forbearance so hard. I am afraid he will get a rather heavy sentence.
Good-afternoon!"
Arthur signed the receipt, took his papers, and went out in dead
silence. He followed Enrico to the massive gate; and, without a word of
farewell, descended to the water's edge, where a ferryman was waiting to
take him across the moat. As he mounted the stone steps leading to the
street, a girl in a cotton dress and straw hat ran up to him with
outstretched hands.
"Arthur! Oh, I'm so glad--I'm so glad!"
He drew his hands away, shivering.
"Jim!" he said at last, in a voice that did not seem to belong to him.
"Jim!"
"I've been waiting here for half an hour. They said you would come out
at four. Arthur, why do you look at me like that? Something has happened!
Arthur, what has come to you? Stop!"
He had turned away, and was walking slowly down the street, as if he
had forgotten her presence. Thoroughly frightened at his manner, she ran
after him and caught him by the arm.
"Arthur!"
He stopped and looked up with bewildered eyes. She slipped her arm
through his, and they walked on again for a moment in silence.
"Listen, dear," she began softly; "you mustn't get so upset over this
wretched business. I know it's dreadfully hard on you, but everybody
understands."
"What business?" he asked in the same dull voice.
"I mean, about Bolla's letter."
Arthur's face contracted painfully at the name.
"I thought you wouldn't have heard of it," Gemma went on; "but I
suppose they've told you. Bolla must be perfectly mad to have imagined such
a thing."
"Such a thing----?"
"You don't know about it, then? He has written a horrible letter,
saying that you have told about the steamers, and got him arrested. It's
perfectly absurd, of course; everyone that knows you sees that; it's only
the people who don't know you that have been upset by it. Really, that's
what I came here for--to tell you that no one in our group believes a word
of it."
"Gemma! But it's--it's true!"
She shrank slowly away from him, and stood quite still, her eyes wide
and dark with horror, her face as white as the kerchief at her neck. A great
icy wave of silence seemed to have swept round them both, shutting them out,
in a world apart, from the life and movement of the street.
"Yes," he whispered at last; "the steamers-- I spoke of that; and I
said his name--oh, my God! my God! What shall I do?"
He came to himself suddenly, realizing her presence and the mortal
terror in her face. Yes, of course, she must think------
"Gemma, you don't understand!" he burst out, moving nearer; but she
recoiled with a sharp cry:
"Don't touch me!"
Arthur seized her right hand with sudden violence.
"Listen, for God's sake! It was not my fault; I----"
"Let go; let my hand go! Let go!"
The next instant she wrenched her fingers away from his, and struck him
across the cheek with her open hand.
A kind of mist came over his eyes. For a little while he was conscious
of nothing but Gemma's white and desperate face, and the right hand which
she had fiercely rubbed on the skirt of her cotton dress. Then the daylight
crept back again, and he looked round and saw that he was alone.
IT had long been dark when Arthur rang at the front door of the great
house in the Via Borra. He remembered that he had been wandering about the
streets; but where, or why, or for how long, he had no idea. Julia's page
opened the door, yawning, and grinned significantly at the haggard, stony
face. It seemed to him a prodigious joke to have the young master come home
from jail like a "drunk and disorderly" beggar. Arthur went upstairs. On the
first floor he met Gibbons coming down with an air of lofty and solemn
disapproval. He tried to pass with a muttered "Good evening"; but Gibbons
was no easy person to get past against his will.
"The gentlemen are out, sir," he said, looking critically at Arthur's
rather neglected dress and hair. "They have gone with the mistress to an
evening party, and will not be back till nearly twelve."
Arthur looked at his watch; it was nine o'clock. Oh, yes! he would have
time--plenty of time------
"My mistress desired me to ask whether you would like any supper, sir;
and to say that she hopes you will sit up for her, as she particularly
wishes to speak to you this evening."
"I don't want anything, thank you; you can tell her I have not gone to
bed."
He went up to his room. Nothing in it had been changed since his
arrest; Montanelli's portrait was on the table where he had placed it, and
the crucifix stood in the alcove as before. He paused a moment on the
threshold, listening; but the house was quite still; evidently no one was
coming to disturb him. He stepped softly into the room and locked the door.
And so he had come to the end. There was nothing to think or trouble
about; an importunate and useless consciousness to get rid of--and nothing
more. It seemed a stupid, aimless kind of thing, somehow.
He had not formed any resolve to commit suicide, nor indeed had he
thought much about it; the thing was quite obvious and inevitable. He had
even no definite idea as to what manner of death to choose; all that
mattered was to be done with it quickly--to have it over and forget. He had
no weapon in the room, not even a pocketknife; but that was of no
consequence--a towel would do, or a sheet torn into strips.
There was a large nail just over the window. That would do; but it must
be firm to bear his weight. He got up on a chair to feel the nail; it was
not quite firm, and he stepped down again and took a hammer from a drawer.
He knocked in the nail, and was about to pull a sheet off his bed, when he
suddenly remembered that he had not said his prayers. Of course, one must
pray before dying; every Christian does that. There are even special prayers
for a departing soul.
He went into the alcove and knelt down before the crucifix. "Almighty
and merciful God----" he began aloud; and with that broke off and said no
more. Indeed, the world was grown so dull that there was nothing left to
pray for--or against. And then, what did Christ know about a trouble of this
kind--Christ, who had never suffered it? He had only been betrayed, like
Bolla; He had never been tricked into betraying.
Arthur rose, crossing himself from old habit. Approaching the table, he
saw lying upon it a letter addressed to him, in Montanelli's handwriting. It
was in pencil:
"My Dear Boy: It is a great disappointment to me that I cannot see you
on the day of your release; but I have been sent for to visit a dying man. I
shall not get back till late at night. Come to me early to-morrow morning.
In great haste,
"L. M."
He put down the letter with a sigh; it did seem hard on the Padre.
How the people had laughed and gossiped in the streets! Nothing was
altered since the days when he had been alive. Not the least little one of
all the daily trifles round him was changed because a human soul, a living
human soul, had been struck down dead. It was all just the same as before.
The water had plashed in the fountains; the sparrows had twittered under the
eaves; just as they had done yesterday, just as they would do to-morrow. And
as for him, he was dead--quite dead.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, crossed his arms along the
foot-rail, and rested his forehead upon them. There was plenty of time; and
his head ached so--the very middle of the brain seemed to ache; it was all
so dull and stupid--so utterly meaningless----
. . . . .
The front-door bell rang sharply, and he started up in a breathless
agony of terror, with both hands at his throat. They had come back--he had
sat there dreaming, and let the precious time slip away--and now he must see
their faces and hear their cruel tongues--their sneers and comments-- If
only he had a knife------
He looked desperately round the room. His mother's work-basket stood in
a little cupboard; surely there would be scissors; he might sever an artery.
No; the sheet and nail were safer, if he had timeHe dragged the counterpane
from his bed, and with frantic haste began tearing off a strip. The sound of
footsteps came up the stairs. No; the strip was too wide; it would not tie
firmly; and there must be a noose. He worked faster as the footsteps drew
nearer; and the blood throbbed in his temples and roared in his ears.
Quicker-- quicker! Oh, God! five minutes more!
There was a knock at the door. The strip of torn stuff dropped from his
hands, and he sat quite still, holding his breath to listen. The handle of
the door was tried; then Julia's voice called:
"Arthur!"
He stood up, panting.
"Arthur, open the door, please; we are waiting."
He gathered up the torn counterpane, threw it into a drawer, and
hastily smoothed down the bed.
"Arthur!" This time it was James who called, and the door-handle was
shaken impatiently. "Are you asleep?"
Arthur looked round the room, saw that everything was hidden, and
unlocked the door.
"I should think you might at least have obeyed my express request that
you should sit up for us, Arthur," said Julia, sweeping into the room in a
towering passion. "You appear to think it the proper thing for us to dance
attendance for half an hour at your door----"
"Four minutes, my dear," James mildly corrected, stepping into the room
at the end of his wife's pink satin train. "I certainly think, Arthur, that
it would have been more--becoming if----"
"What do you want?" Arthur interrupted. He was standing with his hand
upon the door, glancing furtively from one to the other like a trapped
animal. But James was too obtuse and Julia too angry to notice the look.
Mr. Burton placed a chair for his wife and sat down, carefully pulling
up his new trousers at the knees. "Julia and I," he began, "feel it to be
our duty to speak to you seriously about----"
"I can't listen to-night; I--I'm not well. My head aches--you must
wait."
Arthur spoke in a strange, indistinct voice, with a confused and
rambling manner. James looked round in surprise.
"Is there anything the matter with you?" he asked anxiously, suddenly
remembering that Arthur had come from a very hotbed of infection. "I hope
you're not sickening for anything. You look quite feverish."
"Nonsense!" Julia interrupted sharply. "It's only the usual
theatricals, because he's ashamed to face us. Come here and sit down,
Arthur." Arthur slowly crossed the room and sat down on the bed. "Yes?" he
said wearily.
Mr. Burton coughed, cleared his throat, smoothed his already immaculate
beard, and began the carefully prepared speech over again:
"I feel it to be my duty--my painful duty--to speak very seriously to
you about your extraordinary behaviour in connecting yourself with--a--
law-breakers and incendiaries and--a--persons of disreputable character. I
believe you to have been, perhaps, more foolish than depraved--a----"
He paused.
"Yes?" Arthur said again.
"Now, I do not wish to be hard on you," James went on, softening a
little in spite of himself before the weary hopelessness of Arthur's manner.
"I am quite willing to believe that you have been led away by bad
companions, and to take into account your youth and inexperience and
the--a-- a--imprudent and--a--impulsive character which you have, I fear,
inherited from your mother."
Arthur's eyes wandered slowly to his mother's portrait and back again,
but he did not speak.
"But you will, I feel sure, understand," James continued, "that it is
quite impossible for me to keep any longer in my house a person who has
brought public disgrace upon a name so highly respected as ours."
"Yes?" Arthur repeated once more.
"Well?" said Julia sharply, closing her fan with a snap and laying it
across her knee. "Are you going to have the goodness to say anything but
'Yes,' Arthur?"
"You will do as you think best, of course," he answered slowly, without
moving. "It doesn't matter much either way."
"Doesn't--matter?" James repeated, aghast; and his wife rose with a
laugh.
"Oh, it doesn't matter, doesn't it? Well, James, I hope you understand
now how much gratitude you may expect in that quarter. I told you what would
come of showing charity to Papist adventuresses and their----"
"Hush, hush! Never mind that, my dear!"
"It's all nonsense, James; we've had more than enough of this
sentimentality! A love-child setting himself up as a member of the
family--it's quite time he did know what his mother was! Why should we be
saddled with the child of a Popish priest's amourettes? There, then-- look!"
She pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of her pocket and tossed it
across the table to Arthur. He opened it; the writing was in his mother's
hand, and was dated four months before his birth. It was a confession,
addressed to her husband, and with two signatures.
Arthur's eyes travelled slowly down the page, past the unsteady letters
in which her name was written, to the strong, familiar signature: "Lorenzo
Montanelli." For a moment he stared at the writing; then, without a word,
refolded the paper and laid it down. James rose and took his wife by the
arm.
"There, Julia, that will do. Just go downstairs now; it's late, and I
want to talk a little business with Arthur. It won't interest you."
She glanced up at her husband; then back at Arthur, who was silently
staring at the floor.
"He seems half stupid," she whispered.
When she had gathered up her train and left the room, James carefully
shut the door and went back to his chair beside the table. Arthur sat as
before, perfectly motionless and silent.
"Arthur," James began in a milder tone, now Julia was not there to
hear, "I am very sorry that this has come out. You might just as well not
have known it. However, all that's over; and I am pleased to see that you
can behave with such self-control. Julia is a--a little excited; ladies
often--anyhow, I don't want to be too hard on you."
He stopped to see what effect the kindly words had produced; but Arthur
was quite motionless.
"Of course, my dear boy," James went on after a moment, "this is a
distressing story altogether, and the best thing we can do is to hold our
tongues about it. My father was generous enough not to divorce your mother
when she confessed her fall to him; he only demanded that the man who had
led her astray should leave the country at once; and, as you know, he went
to China as a missionary. For my part, I was very much against your having
anything to do with him when he came back; but my father, just at the last,
consented to let him teach you, on condition that he never attempted to see
your mother. I must, in justice, acknowledge that I believe they both
observed that condition faithfully to the end. It is a very deplorable
business; but----"
Arthur looked up. All the life and expression had gone out of his face;
it was like a waxen mask.
"D-don't you think," he said softly, with a curious stammering
hesitation on the words, "th-that--all this--is--v-very--funny?"
"FUNNY?" James pushed his chair away from the table, and sat staring at
him, too much petrified for anger. "Funny! Arthur, are you mad?"
Arthur suddenly threw back his head, and burst into a frantic fit of
laughing.
"Arthur!" exclaimed the shipowner, rising with dignity, "I am amazed at
your levity!"
There was no answer but peal after peal of laughter, so loud and
boisterous that even James began to doubt whether there was not something
more the matter here than levity.
"Just like a hysterical woman," he muttered, turning, with a
contemptuous shrug of his shoulders, to tramp impatiently up and down the
room. "Really, Arthur, you're worse than Julia; there, stop laughing! I
can't wait about here all night."
He might as well have asked the crucifix to come down from its
pedestal. Arthur was past caring for remonstrances or exhortations; he only
laughed, and laughed, and laughed without end.
"This is absurd!" said James, stopping at last in his irritated pacing
to and fro. "You are evidently too much excited to be reasonable to-night. I
can't talk business with you if you're going on that way. Come to me
to-morrow morning after breakfast. And now you had better go to bed.
Good-night."
He went out, slamming the door. "Now for the hysterics downstairs," he
muttered as he tramped noisily away. "I suppose it'll be tears there!"
. . . . .
The frenzied laughter died on Arthur's lips. He snatched up the hammer
from the table and flung himself upon the crucifix.
With the crash that followed he came suddenly to his senses, standing
before the empty pedestal, the hammer still in his hand, and the fragments
of the broken image scattered on the floor about his feet.
He threw down the hammer. "So easy!" he said, and turned away. "And
what an idiot I am!"
He sat down by the table, panting heavily for breath, and rested his
forehead on both hands. Presently he rose, and, going to the wash-stand,
poured a jugful of cold water over his head and face. He came back quite
composed, and sat down to think.
And it was for such things as these--for these false and slavish
people, these dumb and soulless gods--that he had suffered all these
tortures of shame and passion and despair; had made a rope to hang himself,
forsooth, because one priest was a liar. As if they were not all liars!
Well, all that was done with; he was wiser now. He need only shake off these
vermin and begin life afresh.
There were plenty of goods vessels in the docks; it would be an easy
matter to stow himself away in one of them, and get across to Canada,
Australia, Cape Colony--anywhere. It was no matter for the country, if only
it was far enough; and, as for the life out there, he could see, and if it
did not suit him he could try some other place.
He took out his purse. Only thirty-three paoli; but his watch was a
good one. That would help him along a bit; and in any case it was of no
consequence--he should pull through somehow. But they would search for him,
all these people; they would be sure to make inquiries at the docks. No; he
must put them on a false scent--make them believe him dead; then he should
be quite free-- quite free. He laughed softly to himself at the thought of
the Burtons searching for his corpse. What a farce the whole thing was!
Taking a sheet of paper, he wrote the first words that occurred to him:
"I believed in you as I believed in God. God is a thing made of clay,
that I can smash with a hammer; and you have fooled me with a lie."
He folded up the paper, directed it to Montanelli, and, taking another
sheet, wrote across it: "Look for my body in Darsena." Then he put on his
hat and went out of the room. Passing his mother's portrait, he looked up
with a laugh and a shrug of his shoulders. She, too, had lied to him.
He crept softly along the corridor, and, slipping back the door-bolts,
went out on to the great, dark, echoing marble staircase. It seemed to yawn
beneath him like a black pit as he descended.
He crossed the courtyard, treading cautiously for fear of waking Gian
Battista, who slept on the ground floor. In the wood-cellar at the back was
a little grated window, opening on the canal and not more than four feet
from the ground. He remembered that the rusty grating had broken away on one
side; by pushing a little he could make an aperture wide enough to climb out
by.
The grating was strong, and he grazed his hands badly and tore the
sleeve of his coat; but that was no matter. He looked up and down the
street; there was no one in sight, and the canal lay black and silent, an
ugly trench between two straight and slimy walls. The untried universe might
prove a dismal hole, but it could hardly be more flat and sordid than the
corner which he was leaving behind him. There was nothing to regret; nothing
to look back upon. It had been a pestilent little stagnant world, full of
squalid lies and clumsy cheats and foul-smelling ditches that were not even
deep enough to drown a man.
He walked along the canal bank, and came out upon the tiny square by
the Medici palace. It was here that Gemma had run up to him with her vivid
face, her outstretched hands. Here was the little flight of wet stone steps
leading down to the moat; and there the fortress scowling across the strip
of dirty water. He had never noticed before how squat and mean it looked.
Passing through the narrow streets he reached the Darsena
shipping-basin, where he took off his hat and flung it into the water. It
would be found, of course, when they dragged for his body. Then he walked on
along the water's edge, considering perplexedly what to do next. He must
contrive to hide on some ship; but it was a difficult thing to do. His only
chance would be to get on to the huge old Medici breakwater and walk along
to the further end of it. There was a low-class tavern on the point;
probably he should find some sailor there who could be bribed.
But the dock gates were closed. How should he get past them, and past
the customs officials? His stock of money would not furnish the high bribe
that they would demand for letting him through at night and without a
passport. Besides they might recognize him.
As he passed the bronze statue of the "Four Moors," a man's figure
emerged from an old house on the opposite side of the shipping basin and
approached the bridge. Arthur slipped at once into the deep shadow behind
the group of statuary and crouched down in the darkness, peeping cautiously
round the corner of the pedestal.
It was a soft spring night, warm and starlit. The water lapped against
the stone walls of the basin and swirled in gentle eddies round the steps
with a sound as of low laughter. Somewhere near a chain creaked, swinging
slowly to and fro. A huge iron crane towered up, tall and melancholy in the
dimness. Black on a shimmering expanse of starry sky and pearly
cloud-wreaths, the figures of the fettered, struggling slaves stood out in
vain and vehement protest against a merciless doom.
The man approached unsteadily along the water side, shouting an English
street song. He was evidently a sailor returning from a carouse at some
tavern. No one else was within sight. As he drew near, Arthur stood up and
stepped into the middle of the roadway. The sailor broke off in his song
with an oath, and stopped short.
"I want to speak to you," Arthur said in Italian. "Do you understand
me?"
The man shook his head. "It's no use talking that patter to me," he
said; then, plunging into bad French, asked sullenly: "What do you want? Why
can't you let me pass?"
"Just come out of the light here a minute; I want to speak to you."
"Ah! wouldn't you like it? Out of the light! Got a knife anywhere about
you?"
"No, no, man! Can't you see I only want your help? I'll pay you for
it?" "Eh? What? And dressed like a swell, too------" The sailor had relapsed
into English. He now moved into the shadow and leaned against the railing of
the pedestal.
"Well," he said, returning to his atrocious French; "and what is it you
want?"
"I want to get away from here----"
"Aha! Stowaway! Want me to hide you? Been up to something, I suppose.
Stuck a knife into somebody, eh? Just like these foreigners! And where might
you be wanting to go? Not to the police station, I fancy?"
He laughed in his tipsy way, and winked one eye.
"What vessel do you belong to?"
"Carlotta--Leghorn to Buenos Ayres; shipping oil one way and hides the
other. She's over there"--pointing in the direction of the breakwater --
"beastly old hulk!"
"Buenos Ayres--yes! Can you hide me anywhere on board?"
"How much can you give?"
"Not very much; I have only a few paoli."
"No. Can't do it under fifty--and cheap at that, too--a swell like
you."
"What do you mean by a swell? If you like my clothes you may change
with me, but I can't give you more money than I have got."
"You have a watch there. Hand it over."
Arthur took out a lady's gold watch, delicately chased and enamelled,
with the initials "G. B." on the back. It had been his mother's--but what
did that matter now?
"Ah!" remarked the sailor with a quick glance at it. "Stolen, of
course! Let me look!"
Arthur drew his hand away. "No," he said. "I will give you the watch
when we are on board; not before."
"You're not such a fool as you look, after all! I'll bet it's your
first scrape, though, eh?"
"That is my business. Ah! there comes the watchman."
They crouched down behind the group of statuary and waited till the
watchman had passed. Then the sailor rose, and, telling Arthur to follow
him, walked on, laughing foolishly to himself. Arthur followed in silence.
The sailor led him back to the little irregular square by the Medici
palace; and, stopping in a dark corner, mumbled in what was intended for a
cautious whisper:
"Wait here; those soldier fellows will see you if you come further."
"What are you going to do?"
"Get you some clothes. I'm not going to take you on board with that
bloody coatsleeve."
Arthur glanced down at the sleeve which had been torn by the window
grating. A little blood from the grazed hand had fallen upon it. Evidently
the man thought him a murderer. Well, it was of no consequence what people
thought.
After some time the sailor came back, triumphant, with a bundle under
his arm.
"Change," he whispered; "and make haste about it. I must get back, and
that old Jew has kept me bargaining and haggling for half an hour."
Arthur obeyed, shrinking with instinctive disgust at the first touch of
second-hand clothes. Fortunately these, though rough and coarse, were fairly
clean. When he stepped into the light in his new attire, the sailor looked
at him with tipsy solemnity and gravely nodded his approval.
"You'll do," he said. "This way, and don't make a noise." Arthur,
carrying his discarded clothes, followed him through a labyrinth of winding
canals and dark narrow alleys; the mediaeval slum quarter which the people
of Leghorn call "New Venice." Here and there a gloomy old palace, solitary
among the squalid houses and filthy courts, stood between two noisome
ditches, with a forlorn air of trying to preserve its ancient dignity and
yet of knowing the effort to be a hopeless one. Some of the alleys, he knew,
were notorious dens of thieves, cut-throats, and smugglers; others were
merely wretched and poverty-stricken.
Beside one of the little bridges the sailor stopped, and, looking round
to see that they were not observed, descended a flight of stone steps to a
narrow landing stage. Under the bridge was a dirty, crazy old boat. Sharply
ordering Arthur to jump in and lie down, he seated himself in the boat and
began rowing towards the harbour's mouth. Arthur lay still on the wet and
leaky planks, hidden by the clothes which the man had thrown over him, and
peeping out from under them at the familiar streets and houses.
Presently they passed under a bridge and entered that part of the canal
which forms a moat for the fortress. The massive walls rose out of the
water, broad at the base and narrowing upward to the frowning turrets. How
strong, how threatening they had seemed to him a few hours ago! And now----
He laughed softly as he lay in the bottom of the boat.
"Hold your noise," the sailor whispered, "and keep your head covered!
We're close to the custom house."
Arthur drew the clothes over his head. A few yards further on the boat
stopped before a row of masts chained together, which lay across the surface
of the canal, blocking the narrow waterway between the custom house and the
fortress wall. A sleepy official came out yawning and bent over the water's
edge with a lantern in his hand.
"Passports, please."
The sailor handed up his official papers. Arthur, half stifled under
the clothes, held his breath, listening.
"A nice time of night to come back to your ship!" grumbled the customs
official. "Been out on the spree, I suppose. What's in your boat?"
"Old clothes. Got them cheap." He held up the waistcoat for inspection.
The official, lowering his lantern, bent over, straining his eyes to see.
"It's all right, I suppose. You can pass."
He lifted the barrier and the boat moved slowly out into the dark,
heaving water. At a little distance Arthur sat up and threw off the clothes.
"Here she is," the sailor whispered, after rowing for some time in
silence. "Keep close behind me and hold your tongue."
He clambered up the side of a huge black monster, swearing under his
breath at the clumsiness of the landsman, though Arthur's natural agility
rendered him less awkward than most people would have been in his place.
Once safely on board, they crept cautiously between dark masses of rigging
and machinery, and came at last to a hatchway, which the sailor softly
raised.
"Down here!" he whispered. "I'll be back in a minute."
The hold was not only damp and dark, but intolerably foul. At first
Arthur instinctively drew back, half choked by the stench of raw hides and
rancid oil. Then he remembered the "punishment cell," and descended the
ladder, shrugging his shoulders. Life is pretty much the same everywhere, it
seemed; ugly, putrid, infested with vermin, full of shameful secrets and
dark corners. Still, life is life, and he must make the best of it.
In a few minutes the sailor came back with something in his hands which
Arthur could not distinctly see for the darkness.
"Now, give me the watch and money. Make haste!"
Taking advantage of the darkness, Arthur succeeded in keeping back a
few coins.
"You must get me something to eat," he said; "I am half starved."
"I've brought it. Here you are." The sailor handed him a pitcher, some
hard biscuit, and a piece of salt pork. "Now mind, you must hide in this
empty barrel, here, when the customs officers come to examine to-morrow
morning. Keep as still as a mouse till we're right out at sea. I'll let you
know when to come out. And won't you just catch it when the captain sees
you--that's all! Got the drink safe? Good-night!"
The hatchway closed, and Arthur, setting the precious "drink" in a safe
place, climbed on to an oil barrel to eat his pork and biscuit. Then he
curled himself up on the dirty floor; and, for the first time since his
babyhood, settled himself to sleep without a prayer. The rats scurried round
him in the darkness; but neither their persistent noise nor the swaying of
the ship, nor the nauseating stench of oil, nor the prospect of to-morrow's
sea-sickness, could keep him awake. He cared no more for them all than for
the broken and dishonoured idols that only yesterday had been the gods of
his adoration.
ONE evening in July, 1846, a few acquaintances met at Professor
Fabrizi's house in Florence to discuss plans for future political work.
Several of them belonged to the Mazzinian party and would have been
satisfied with nothing less than a democratic Republic and a United Italy.
Others were Constitutional Monarchists and Liberals of various shades. On
one point, however, they were all agreed; that of dissatisfaction with the
Tuscan censorship; and the popular professor had called the meeting in the
hope that, on this one subject at least, the representatives of the
dissentient parties would be able to get through an hour's discussion
without quarrelling.
Only a fortnight had elapsed since the famous amnesty which Pius IX.
had granted, on his accession, to political offenders in the Papal States;
but the wave of liberal enthusiasm caused by it was already spreading over
Italy. In Tuscany even the government appeared to have been affected by the
astounding event. It had occurred to Fabrizi and a few other leading
Florentines that this was a propitious moment for a bold effort to reform
the press-laws.
"Of course," the dramatist Lega had said, when the subject was first
broached to him; "it would be impossible to start a newspaper till we can
get the press-law changed; we should not bring out the first number. But we
may be able to run some pamphlets through the censorship already; and the
sooner we begin the sooner we shall get the law changed."
He was now explaining in Fabrizi's library his theory of the line which
should be taken by liberal writers at the moment.
"There is no doubt," interposed one of the company, a gray-haired
barrister with a rather drawling manner of speech, "that in some way we must
take advantage of the moment. We shall not see such a favourable one again
for bringing forward serious reforms. But I doubt the pamphlets doing any
good. They will only irritate and frighten the government instead of winning
it over to our side, which is what we really want to do. If once the
authorities begin to think of us as dangerous agitators our chance of
getting their help is gone."
"Then what would you have us do?"
"Petition."
"To the Grand Duke?"
"Yes; for an augmentation of the liberty of the press."
A keen-looking, dark man sitting by the window turned his head round
with a laugh.
"You'll get a lot out of petitioning!" he said. "I should have thought
the result of the Renzi case was enough to cure anybody of going to work
that way."
"My dear sir, I am as much grieved as you are that we did not succeed
in preventing the extradition of Renzi. But really--I do not wish to hurt
the sensibilities of anyone, but I cannot help thinking that our failure in
that case was largely due to the impatience and vehemence of some persons
among our number. I should certainly hesitate----"