*CHAPTER XI.*
There is, perhaps, no comparison so apposite, though it be a homely one,to the condition of affairs in Italy at this time--upon the election ofa new Pope--as that of a change of trumps at a game of cards. Allpersons and matters remain the same as they were before, yet theirvalues and relationships are all changed; the aspect of the entire sceneis altered; those who before were in little esteem are exalted, andthose who were in great power and estimation are abased. All the personswith whom Inglesant had been connected were more or less affected by it,except Cardinal Rinuccini, to whom it made little difference. To theCavaliere and to Malvolti it was ruin. The former was so deeplyinvolved in debt, in private feuds, and entanglements with theauthorities, his character was so utterly lost with all parties, and hismeans of usefulness to any so small, that it is probable that even theelevation to power of the Barbarini faction would not have been of muchuse to him. But, whatever might have been his prospects had theelection resulted otherwise, his only chance now of safety from prisonand even death was in Inglesant's connection with his sister, and in theprotection he might hope to experience upon that account; his only hopedepended upon the force of Inglesant's affection. The fear of privateassassination kept him almost confined to his chamber. Malvolti'scircumstances were still more hopeless; notorious for every species ofvice and crime, and hateful even to the very bravoes and dregs of theItalian populace, he had now lost all hope of alliance or evenassistance from his friend the Cavaliere, who discarded him the momentthat he was of no further use. Maddened by this treatment and bydespair, no way seemed open to him except that of desperate revenge.Towards Inglesant his hatred was peculiarly intense, being mixed with acertain kind of superstitious dread. He regarded him almost as theshade of his murdered brother, returned from the grave to dog his steps.It was his presence which had thwarted his last desperate attempt withinthe Conclave, his last hope of earning protection and rewards. Heexpected nothing but punishment and severe retribution at Inglesant'shands. Surrounded as he was by perils and enemies on every side, thisperil and this dreaded enemy stood most prominently in his path; a blowstruck here would be not only a measure of self-defence, but a sweetgratification of revenge, and a relief from an appalling supernaturalterror. This terrible semblance of his murdered victim once out of hispath, he might hope that the vision of a bloody hearthstone in Englandmight not be so constantly before his eyes.
To Inglesant himself the bright prospects which seemed opening beforehim gave little satisfaction. He was exhausted in body by his longdetention within the Conclave, and the tone of his spirit was impairedby the intrigue and hypocrisy of which he had been a witness and apartaker. It is impossible to kneel morning after morning before theSacrament, in a spirit of worldliness and chicane, without being soiledand polluted in the secret places of the soul. The circumstances of hisvisit to Umbria and to Florence, howbeit in both he had been preservedalmost by a miracle from actual sin, had left an evil mark upon hisconscience. He felt little of the sweet calm and peace he had enjoyedfor a season in the company of Molinos, during his first visit to Rome.Something of his old misery returned upon him, and he felt himself againthe sport of the fiend, who was working out his destruction by someterrible crime, of which he was the agent, and the Italian murderer thecause.
"This man is at large in Rome," said Don Agostino to him one day; "Ishould advise you to have him assassinated. It is time the earth wasrid of such a villain, and the Roman law is useless in such a case. Allprotection is withdrawn from him, and every man, high and low, withinthe city will rejoice at his death."
Inglesant shook his head.
"I do not value my life, God knows, at a straw's worth," he said."Because he murdered my brother, foully and treacherously, he and Ishall too surely meet some day; but the time is not yet come. Surely ifthe devil can afford to wait, much more can I."
He spoke more to himself than to the other, and there is reason tosuppose that Don Agostino made arrangements to have Malvoltiassassinated on his own responsibility; but the Italian avoided hisbravoes for a time.
Some short time after the Pope's election, in the height of theCarnival,[#] a masked ball was given in the Palace Doria, at which DonAgostino had arranged a set composed entirely of his own friends. Itwas composed in imitation of the old comedies of the Atellanas, uponwhich the Punchinello and Harlequinade of all nations has been formed,and which, being domestic dramas performed in masques by the Roman youthwith an old-fashioned elegance and simplicity, were peculiarly fittedfor performance at a modern masquerade. A primitive and rude form ofpantomime, founded on caricature and burlesque, with a few charactersboldly drawn, has none of the charm of the later comedy, which is apicture of real life with its variety of character and incident, andpossesses that excellent art of showing men as they are, whilerepresenting them as they seem to be. But, though it fell short of thishigher perfection, the broad farce and few characters of the older formof comedy are not wanting in much lively and yet serious painting ofhuman life, which is all the more serious and pathetic from its broadand unconscious farce. The jester, the knave, the old man, the girl,the lover,--these types that are eternal and yet never old,--with theendless complication in which, both on the stage and real life, they areperpetually involved, are susceptible of infinite application andinterest to the imagination. As the rehearsal progressed Inglesant wasstruck and interested with these ideas, and as the night came on thereseemed to him to be in the world nothing but play within play, scenewithin scene. Between the most incidental acts of an excited andboisterous crowd and the most solemn realities of life and death itseemed to him impossible to distinguish otherwise than in degree; allappeared part of that strange interlude which, between the Dramas ofEternity, is performed continually upon the stage of life.
[#] It is generally stated by historians that the election of CardinalChigi took place on April 7th, 1655, and as Easter that year fell onApril 15th, there appears some discrepancy in this part of thenarrative. The reader must decide between these contending authorities.
The set was a large one, consisting of the ordinary pantomime types,supplemented by duplicates, peasants, priests, sbirri (always afavourite subject of satire and practical jokes), country girls, andothers. Don Agostino, whose wit was ready and brilliant, took the partof clown or jester, and Inglesant that of the stage lover, a _role_requiring no great effort to sustain. The part of Columbine wassustained by a young girl, a mistress of Don Agostino, of considerablebeauty and wit, and as yet unspoiled by the wicked life of Rome. Shewas dressed as a Contadina, or peasant girl, in holiday costume.Harlequin was played by a young Count, a boy of weak intellect, involvedin every species of dissipation, and consigned to ruin by designingfoes, of whom some were of his own family.
As the ball progressed the party attracted great notice by the cleverinterludes and acts they performed between the dances. In these theusual tricks and practical jokes were introduced sparingly, relieved bya higher style of wit, and by allusions to the topics of the day and tothe foibles of the society of Rome. The parts were all well sustained,and Don Agostino exerted himself successfully to give brilliancy andlife to the whole party. The young Harlequin-Count, who had at firstseemed only to excel in lofty capers and somersaults, was the first whoshowed tokens of fatigue. He became gradually listless and careless, sothat he changed his part, and became the butt of the rest, instead oftheir tormentor.
A dance in sets had just begun, and Inglesant could not help beingstruck with his disconsolate manner, which showed itself plainly, eventhrough his masque and disguise. It seemed that others noticed it aswell, for as Inglesant met the Contadina in one of the combinations ofthe figure, she said in the pause of the dance,--
"Do you see the Count, Cavaliere? He is on the brink of ruin, body andsoul. His cousin, and one or two more who are in the set, are engagedwith him in some desperate complication, and are working upon his feeblemind and his terror. Cannot you help him a
t all?"
When the dance ceased Inglesant went over to the Count, intending tospeak to him, but his cousin and others of the set were talkingearnestly to him, and Inglesant stepped back. He saw that the longer histreacherous friends spoke to him the more broken down and crushed inspirit did the poor Harlequin-Count become; and it was evident toInglesant that here a play was being enacted within the play, and that,as often is the case, one of the deep tragedies of life was appearing inthe fantastic dress of farce. As he stood dreamily watching whatoccurred, Don Agostino called him off to commence another comic act, andwhen at the first pause he turned to look for the Count, he could nolonger see him. His cousin and the others were present, however, andsoon after the set was again formed for another dance.
The stifling air of the crowded rooms, and the fatigue of the part hehad to perform, wrought upon Inglesant's brain; the confused figures ofthe dance dazzled his sight, and the music sounded strange andgrotesque. As the partners crossed each other, and he came again to theContadina in his turn, she grasped his hand in hers, and said,hurriedly,--
"Do you see who is standing in the Count's place?"
Inglesant looked, and certainly, in the place of the dance which shouldhave been occupied by the Count, was a tall figure in the dress of awhite friar, over which was carelessly thrown a black domino, whichallowed the dark fiery eyes of the wearer to be seen.
"The Count has gone," whispered the girl, trembling all over as shespoke, "no one knows whither; no one knows who this man is who has comein his place. He is gone to drown himself in the river; this is thedevil who supports his part."
In spite of the girl's visible agitation and his own excitement,Inglesant laughed, and, taking her words as a jest, turned again to lookat the strange masque, intending to make some ludicrous comment toreassure his friend. To his astonishment the words died upon his lips,and an icy chill seemed to strike through his blood and cause his heartto beat violently. A sensation of dread overpowered him, the dance-musicsounded wild and despairing in his ears, and the ever-varying throng offigures, waving with a thousand colours, swam before his eyes. In theappearance of the stranger, which was simply that of a tall man, therewas nothing to account for this; and except that he kept his piercingeyes steadily fixed upon Inglesant, there was nothing in his manner toattract attention. Inglesant went through the rest of the dancemechanically, and suddenly, as it seemed to him, the music stopped.
The dance being over, most of Don Agostino's party, tired with theirexertions, withdrew to the buffet of an adjoining apartment forrefreshment. Inglesant had taken off his masque, and standing by thebuffet, a little apart from the rest, was fanning himself with it, andcooling his parched throat with iced wine, when he was aware that thestrange figure had followed him. It was standing before him with aglass in its hand, which it seemed to fill from a bottle of peculiarshape, which Inglesant recognized as one only used to contain a rareItalian wine.
"Cavaliere," the strange masque said in a soft and polite voice, "thiswine will do you more good than that which you are drinking; it coolsand rests the brain. Will you drink with me?"
As he spoke he offered Inglesant the glass he held, and filled another,and at the same instant, the Contadina came up to Inglesant and hungupon his arm.
Inglesant, who was unmasked, stood with the glass in his hand, waitingfor the other to remove his domino before he bowed and drank; but thestranger did not do so.
After a moment's pause, amid the breathless silence of the whole group,who were looking on, the stranger said, speaking with a courteous speechand gesture, which if acted were perfectly well assumed,--
"Pardon me that I do not remove my masque; it is my misfortune that I amnot able to do so."
Impressed by the other's manner, it struck Inglesant in a moment thatthis must be some great noble, perhaps a Prince of the Church, for whomit would be injudicious to appear unmasked, and bowing courteously, heraised the glass to his lips.
As he did so the black eyes of the disguised friar were fixed steadilyupon him, and the Contadina said in his ear, in an eager, frightenedwhisper,--
"Do not drink."
The tremor of her voice, and of her figure on his arm, brought back in amoment the terror and distrust which the bearing and manner of the otherhad dispelled, and raising the cup, he let his lip rest for a moment inthe liquor, but did not drink. Then replacing the glass upon thebuffet, he said coolly,--
"It is a good wine, but my English habit has spoiled my taste. I do notlike the Italian Volcanic wines."
"I regret it," said the other, turning away; "they are a quietus for thefever of life."
The party breathed more freely as he left the room, and the Contadina,taking the glass which Inglesant had put down, emptied its contents uponthe floor.
They followed the domino into the ball-room, where they saw him speakingto the Count's cousin, and to two or three others of the group, who hadremained there or sought refreshment elsewhere.
As the last dance began, in the early daybreak which made the lamps burnfaintly, and cast a pale and melancholy light over the gay dresses andthe moving figures, over the gilding and marble, and the dim lovelypaintings on the walls, Inglesant was conscious of a strange anddeath-like feeling that benumbed his frame. He was bitterly cold, andhis sight became dim and uncertain. The music seemed to grow wilder andmore fantastic, and the crowded dancers, grotesque and goblin-like toany eyes, became unreal as a dream to his.
Suddenly, as before, the music ceased, and not knowing what he did,Inglesant became separated from his friends, and was borne by the throngto the doors and down the staircase into the courtyard and the street.
The Piazza and the Corso beyond were crowded with carriages, and withservants carrying dim torches, and the morning air was rent withconfused noise.
Nearly unconscious, Inglesant allowed himself to be carried onward bythe crowd of persons leaving the palace on foot--a motley throng inevery variety of costume, and he was soon borne out of the square intothe Corso and down the street.
Suddenly he heard a voice behind, clear and distinct to his ears, atleast, amid the confused noise,--
"There he is--now strike!"
Turning round quickly, he saw the masque within two yards of him, withsomething in the folds of his gown which shone in the light. In anothermoment he would have been close to him, when they were swept apart by asudden movement of the crowd, and Don Agostino's carriage, surrounded byservants, passed close by the spot to which Inglesant had drifted. Hewas recognized, and Agostino welcomed him eagerly, saying,--
"I have been looking for you everywhere."
They proceeded along the Corso, Inglesant still like a man in a dream,and turned down towards the bridge of St. Angelo. At the corner of astreet leading to the river, another pause occurred. The carriage of agreat French noble and Prince of the Church--which had followed theCorso farther on--was passing when they turned into the street, andaccording to the formal etiquette of the day, even at that hour and inthe crowded street, Don Agostino's coachman stopped his horses beforethe carriage of his master's superior, and the servants opened the doorthat one of the gentlemen at least might alight. At the same moment,there seemed to be some confusion in the crowd at the top of the shortstreet leading to the river; and Inglesant, still hardly knowing what hedid, alighted, with the double purpose of seeing what was the matter,and of saluting his patron. As he did so, one of the servants said tohim,--
"They are bringing up a dead body, sir."
It was true. A body had just been drawn out of the river, and, placedon nets and benches of a boat, was being carried on the shoulders offishermen up the street. As it passed, Inglesant could see the face,which hung drooping towards him over the edge of the nets. It was theface of the Harlequin-Count.
It had scarcely passed, when Inglesant heard--as a man hears over andover again repeated in a ghastly dream--the same voice that spokebefore, saying,--
"There he is again. If you let him get bac
k to the coach you will losehim. Go round by the horses' heads."
The restlessness of the impatient horses had made a little space clearof the crowd, and the same had happened in front of the horses of theCardinal-Duke, so that the street between them was comparatively clear.Strangely frightened and distressed, Inglesant struggled back toAgostino's carriage, and had just reached the door when the masque,passing round the horses' heads, sprang upon him, and struck a violentblow with the glancing steel. The state of his victim's brain savedhim. The moment he reached the door he reeled against it, and the weaponglanced off his person, the hilt striking him a violent blow on thechest. He fell backwards into the coach, and Agostino caught a secondblow in his sleeve. The startled servants threw themselves upon themurderer, but he slipped through their hands and escaped.
* * * * *
Two days after the ball, when the morning of Ash Wednesday broke withthe lovely Italian dawn, a strange and sudden transformation had passedover Rome. Instead of a people wild with pleasure, laughing, screaming,joking like children, feasting, dancing, running about, from merelightness of heart; in the place of fairs, theatres, and booths in theopen streets, instead of the public gardens and walks crowded withparti-coloured masquers, full of sportive pranks, and decked out withevery vagary and grotesque freak of costume, you saw a city quiet andsilent as the grave, yet full of human forms; you heard nothing but thetolling of bells and the faint echo of solemn chants. The houses andchurches were hung with black; the gay tapestries and silks, thetheatres, the play-actors, and the gay dresses, had all vanished, and intheir place the streets were full of cowled and silent penitents. Theywalked with downcast and pallid faces; if you spoke to them they did notanswer, but gazed upon you with wondering eyes. Men and women alike worethe black gown and hood of penance, and from the proudest noble to thepoorest peasant, thronged into the Churches and received alike theemblem of their common fate--the ashes and dust from whence they came,and to which they would return.
Before the masked ball, exhausted in health by the long confinement inthe Conclave, and tormented in mind by disappointed desire and byaccusing conscience, Inglesant had been sinking into almost as greatmisery as that which he had endured before he came to Rome. The perilsand terror that had entered unbidden among the guests during that nightof revelry had worked a marvellous change upon him, and he awoke from aspecies of trance, which had lasted two days, with his spirits clearedand strengthened. He was, in fact, like a man whom a violent fever hasjust left, languid in body, but with a mind at rest and in peace, withthe wild dreams and visions of delirium gone. The earth seems, at leastto him, calm and peaceful, full of voices of prayer and strains ofpenitential song. He looks out upon life languidly, it is true, butwith a friendly, pleased countenance, as upon a well-known landscaperecalling happy days. So it was with Inglesant, that the wild riot ofthe Carnival being over, the peace of Lent began within his soul. Theblow that had been struck at his life restored him to life, and tookaway the superstitious dread that was gradually consuming his reason.He had met his brother's murderer, not alone in some solitary place andpicked time, planned before with diabolic purpose by the enemy ofmankind, but in a crowd, and as it seemed by chance. He had himselfbeen passive, and urged by no demoniac prompting to some terrible act ofvengeance; still more, his enemy had failed, miraculously, as it seemedto him. Surely, then, his fears had been in vain; he was not deliveredover to Satan, nay, probably the Lord Himself still regarded him withcompassion, still watched over and defended his life. Some work wasdoubtless reserved for him to do; for him, living always on the verge ofdelirium, whom a little extra pressure upon the brain-nerve might at anymoment estrange altogether from reason, and deprive of intellect and ofintercourse with men. For such as he, nevertheless, under suchprotection, what might not yet be possible? The dews of the DivineGrace cool the fevered brain more surely than any cordial, and softenand water the parched and thirsty heart. The pleasant Italian March daywas soft and balmy as the loveliest day of June in England. The scentof jasmin and Daphne flowers filled the air; soft showers fell atintervals over the garden slopes of that part of Rome; the breath ofZephyr swept sweetness into the weary sense. Let him join the hoodedthrong of penitents; let him, dust and ashes, snatched it may be "_eflamma_" from the very flames, yet still by the grace of God in hisright mind, take his ashes with a grateful heart.
For the appearance, amid the chaos of his life, of a guiding DivineHand, delightful as it is to any man, must be unspeakably so to him who,to the difficulties, sufficiently great, which ordinarily beset a man inhis path through life, adds this overwhelming one--the imminent chanceat any moment of losing consciousness altogether, with the power ofthought and choice of seeing objects rightly, and of self-control andself-command. How eagerly one to whom life is complicated in such sortas this must welcome a Divine guidance may easily be seen--one whootherwise is wandering among a phantasmagoria of objects, among which hemust, so far as his wavering consciousness allows him, and for themoment that consciousness may remain his own, shape his course so as toavoid ruin.
In the fresh morning air, full of delicious warmth and sweetness, andwith this angelic messenger leading his soul, Inglesant went out. Hehad no sufficient motive to take him to any particular Church; butchance or some nobler power directed that he should turn his steps tothe right in passing into the Via di S. Giovanni, and following thecrowd of penitents, should arrive at the portico of the Church of theLateran.
The space in front of the magnificent facade was crowded with drapedforms, and the wail of the rare organ music reached the outer perfumedair. The marble pavement of the interior, precious beyond calculation,was thronged with the dark crowd, and the costly marble of the walls andtombs was streaked and veiled by the wreaths of incense which lingeredin the building. The low chanting and the monotonous accompaniment ofthe organs filled the Church, and high over the altar, brilliant with athousand lights, flashed the countless gems of the wonderful tabernacle,and the Coena of plate of inestimable cost. On either side the gildedbrass of the four columns of the Emperor Titus, brought from Jerusalemitself, reflected back the altar lights; and beset with precious stoneswhere the body of the Lord once had hung, was evident to all beholdersthe very wood of the Holy Cross.
As Inglesant entered, the ashes had been sprinkled three times with holywater, and the clouds of incense gradually rose over the kneeling crowd,as the people began to receive the ashes upon their foreheads, throngingup in silence and order. At the same time the choir began to sing theAntiphons, accompanied by the heavenly music of the matchless organs,and penetrating by their distinct articulation the remotest corners ofthe Church.
"Immutemur habitu," they began, "let us change our garments; in ashesand sackcloth let us fast and lament before the Lord. Because," and thepealing anthem rose in ecstatic triumph to the emblazoned roof,"plenteous in mercy to forgive our sins is this God of ours."
"Ah! yes," thought Inglesant, "let us change our garments; these darkrobes that seem ashes and sackcloth, may they not be the chosen garmentof the marriage supper of the King? Clothed and in one's right mind, bythe heavenly mercy we already walk the celestial pavement, and hear thepealing anthems of the angelic choir."
"Emendemus in melius," the anthem went on, "let us amend for the betterin that in which we have ignorantly sinned--ne subito praeoccupati diemortis, quaeramus spatium poenitentiae, et invenire non possimus."
The mighty voice, as of God Himself, seemed to single out and speak toInglesant alone, "Lest suddenly overtaken by the day of death." Ah! whoso well as he knew what that meant, who so lately as he had stood faceto face with the destroyer?
He covered his face with his hands.
As the chanting of the Antiphon continued; he reached the steps of thehigh altar, and in his turn knelt to receive the ashes upon his brow.
In a pause of the anthem the chanting ceased, and the organs played aslow movement in the interval. Nothing was h
eard but the monotonousundertone of the priests.
As Inglesant knelt upon the marble an overpowering sense of helplessnessfilled his soul, so worthless and fragile he seemed to himself beforethe eternal existence, that the idea of punishment and penitence waslost in the sense of utter nothingness.
"Ah! Lord God," he thought, "shattered in mind and brain I throw myselfon Thee; without Thee I am lost in the vortex of the Universe; myintellect is lost except it steadies itself upon the idea of Thee.Without Thee it has no existence. How canst Thou be angry with thatwhich is not?"
He bowed his head in utter prostration of spirit to receive the ashes.
"Memento, homo," the priest began--ah! surely it must be easy toremember that, "quia pulvis es----"
Inglesant heard no more. A sudden thrill of earth, like the familiarscent of flowers to a dying man, passed through him, and he lifted uphis eyes. Opposite to him across the corner of the altar steps kneltLauretta, her lustrous eyes full of tears fixed upon him with aninexpressible tenderness and interest. His eyes met hers for aninstant, then he dropped his head again before the priest; but thethought and presence of heaven was gone from him, and nothing but theroses and loves of earth remained.
He rose from his knees. The throng of penitents surrounded him, and hesuffered himself to be swept onward, down the long nave, till he reachedthe door through which the crowd was pouring out. There, however, hestopped.
John Inglesant: A Romance (Volume 2 of 2) Page 11
