It is impossible to deny that, except in hotels which are cosmopolitan,
and adapted to the many wants of the rich English, life in Italy is hard
business enough for the inexperienced traveller, who knows the strange
country into which he has suddenly dropped rather by means of poetical
legends than by the facts of actual existence. A country of vineyards
and orange-groves, of everlasting verdure and sunshine, is indeed, in
its way, a true enough description of one aspect of that many-sided
country: but these words of course convey no intimation of the terrors
of an Italian palace in the depth of winter, where everything is
stone-cold, and the possibilities of artificial warmth are of the most
limited description; where the idea of doors and windows closely fitting
has never entered the primitive mind, and where the cardinal virtue of
patience and endurance of necessary evils wraps the contented native
sufferer like the cloak which he hugs round him. Yet, notwithstanding,
even Lauderdale relaxed out of the settled gloom on his face when he
went to the window of the great bare sitting-room, and gazed out upon
the grand expanse of the Campagna, lighted up with morning sunshine. The
silence of that depopulated plain, with its pathetic bits of ruin here
and there--ruins, to be sure, identified and written down in books, but
speaking for themselves with a more woeful and suggestive voice than can
be uttered by any mere historical associations, through the very depths
of their dumbness and loss of all distinction--went to the spectator’s
heart. What they were or had been, what human hands had erected, or
human hearts rejoiced in them, these lingering remains had ceased to
tell; and it was only with that vagueness which is sadder than any story
that they indicated a former forgotten existence, a past too far away to
be deciphered now.
Lauderdale laid his hand on Colin’s shoulder, and drew him away. “Ay,
ay,” he said, with an unusual thrill in his voice, “it’s grand to hear
that yon’s Soracte, and thereaway is the Sabine country, and that’s Rome
lying away among the clouds. It’s no Rome, callant; it’s a big kirk, or
heathen temple, or whatever you like to call it. I’m no heeding about
Rome. It’s the awfu’ presence of the dead, and the skies smiling at
them--that’s a’ I see. Come away with me, and let’s see if there’s ony
living creatures left. It’s an awfu’ thought to come into a man’s head
in connexion with that bonnie innocent sky,” the philosopher continued,
with a slight shudder, as he drew his charge with him down the chilly
staircase; “but it’s aye bewildering to me to see the indifference of
Nature. It’s terrible like as if she was a senseless heathen hersel’,
and cared nothing about nobody. No that I’m asserting that to be the
case; but it’s gruesome to look at her smiles and her wiles, as if she
kent no better. I’m no addicted to little bairns in a general way,” said
Lauderdale, drawing a long breath, as he emerged from the great door,
and suddenly found himself in the midst of a group of ragged little
picturesque savages; “but it’s aye a comfort to see that there’s still
living creatures left in the world.”
“It is not for the living creatures, however, that people come to
Italy,” said Colin. “Stop here, and have another look at the Campagna. I
am not of your opinion about Nature. Sometimes tears themselves are less
pathetic than a smile.”
“Where did _you_ learn that, callant?” said his friend. “But there’s
plenty of time for the Campagna, and I have aye an awfu’ interest in
human folk. What do the little animals mean, raging like a set of little
furies? Laddies, if you’ve quarrelled fight it out like men, instead of
scolding like a parcel of fishwives,” said the indignant stranger,
addressing himself to a knot of boys who were playing morra. When he
found his remonstrance disregarded, Lauderdale seized what appeared to
him the two ringleaders, and held them, one in each hand, with the
apparent intention of knocking their heads together, entirely
undisturbed by the outcries and struggles of his victims, as well as by
the voluble explanations of the rest of the party. “It’s no use talking
nonsense to me,” said the inexorable judge; “they shall either hold
their tongues, the little cowardly wretches, or they shall fight.”
It was, luckily, at this moment that Alice Meredith made her appearance,
going out to provide for the wants of her family like a careful little
housewife. Her explanation filled Lauderdale with unbounded shame and
dismay. “It’s an awful drawback no to understand the language,” said the
philosopher, with a rush of burning colour to his face, for Lauderdale,
like various other people, could not help entertaining an idea, in spite
of his better knowledge, that English (or what he was pleased to call
English), spoken with due force and emphasis, was sure in the end to be
perfectly intelligible. Having received this painful lesson, he shrank
out of sight with the utmost discomfiture, holding Colin fast, who
betrayed an inclination to accompany Alice. “This will never do; we’ll
have to put to our hands and learn,” said Colin’s guardian. “I never put
much faith before in that Babel business. It’s awfu’ humbling to be made
a fool of by a parcel of bairns.” Lauderdale did not recover this
humiliating defeat during the lengthened survey which followed of the
little town and its dependencies, where now and then they encountered
the slight little figure of Alice walking alone, with a freedom
permitted (and wondered at) to the Signorina Inglese, who thus declared
her independence. They met her at the baker’s, where strings of
biscuits, made in the shape of rings, hung like garlands about the door,
and where the little Englishwoman was using all her powers of persuasion
to seduce the master of the shop into the manufacture of _pane Inglese_,
bread made with yeast instead of leaven; and they met her again in the
dark vicinity of the trattoria, consulting with a dingy _traiteur_ about
dinner; though, fortunately for the success of the meal, the strangers
were unaware that it was out of these dingy shades that their repast was
to come.
Thus the two rambled about, recovering their spirits a little as the
first glow of the Italian sunshine stole over them, and finding summer
in the bright piazza, though winter and gloom lingered in the narrow
streets. Last of all they entered the cathedral, which was a place the
two friends approached with different feelings--Colin’s mind being full
of the curiosity of a man who was himself to be a priest, and who felt
to a certain degree that the future devotions and even government of his
country was in his hands. He was consequently quick to observe, and
even, notwithstanding the prejudices of education, not disinclined to
learn, if anything worth learning was to be seen in the quiet country
church, where at present nothing beyond the ordinary services were going
on. Lauderdale, in whose mind a lively and animated army of prejudices
was in full operation, though met and crossed at every turn by an
equally lively belief in the truth of his fellow-creatures--which was a
sad drawback to his philosophy--went into the Frascati Cathedral with a
curious mixture of open criticism and concealed respect, not unusual in
a Scotchman. He was even ashamed of himself for his own alacrity in
taking off his hat, as if one place could be holier than another; yet,
nevertheless, stowed his gaunt gigantic figure away behind the pillars,
and did what he could to walk softly, lest he should disturb the
devotions of one or two kneeling women, who, however, paused with
perfect composure to look at the strangers without apparently being
conscious of any interruption. As for Colin, he was inspecting the
arrangements of the cathedral at his leisure, when a sudden exclamation
from Lauderdale attracted his attention. He thought his friend had got
into some new bewilderment, and hastened to join him, looking round
first, with the helplessness of a speechless stranger in a foreign
country, to see if there was anyone near who could explain for them in
case of necessity. When, however, Colin had rejoined his companion, he
found him standing rapt and silent before a tombstone covered with
lettering, which was placed against the wall of the church. Lauderdale
made a curious unsteady sign, pointing to it, as Colin approached. It
was a pompous Latin inscription, recording imaginary grandeurs which had
never existed, and bearing the names of three British kings who never
reigned. Neither of the spectators who thus stood moved and speechless
before it had been brought up with any Jacobite tendencies--indeed,
Jacobite ideas had died out of all reality before either of them was
born,--but Lauderdale, Whig and sceptic as he was, uttered hoarsely out
of his throat the two words, “Prince Chairlie!” and then stood silent,
gazing at the stone with its pompous Latin lies and its sorrowful human
story, as if it had been not an extinct family, but something of his own
blood and kindred which had lain underneath. Thus the two strangers went
out, subdued and silenced, from their first sight-seeing. It was not in
man, nor in Scotchman, to see the names and not remember all the
wonderful vain devotion, all the blind heroic efforts that had been made
for these extinct Stuarts; and, with a certain instinctive loyalty,
reverential yet protesting, Colin and his friend turned away from
Charles Edward’s grave.
“Well,” said Lauderdale, after a long pause, “they were little to brag
of, either for wisdom or honesty, and no credit to _us_ that I can see;
but it comes over a man with an awfu’ strange sensation to fall suddenly
without any warning on the grave of a race that was once in such active
connexion with his own. ‘Jacobus III., Carolus III., Henricus IX.’--is
that how it goes? It’s terrible real, that inscription, though it’s a’ a
fiction. They might be a feckless race; but, for a’ that, it was awfu’
hard, when you think of it, upon Prince Chairlie. He was neither a fool
nor a liar, so far as I ever heard--which is more than you can say for
other members of the family; and he had to give way, and give up his
birthright for thae miserable little wretches from Hanover. I dinna so
much wonder, when I think of it, at the ’45. It was a pleasant
alternative for a country, callant, to choose between a bit Dutch idiot
that knew nothing, and the son of her auld kings. I’m no speaking of
William of Orange--he’s awfu’ overrated, and a cold-blooded devil, but
aye a kind of a _man_ notwithstanding--but thae Hanover fellows-- And so
yon’s Prince Chairlie’s grave!”
Just then Meredith, who had come out to bask in the sunshine, came up to
them, and took, as he had learned to do, by way of supporting himself,
Lauderdale’s vigorous arm.
“I forgot to tell you,” he said, “that the Pretender’s grave was there.
I never enter these churches of Antichrist if I can help it. Life is too
short to be wasted even in looking on at the wiles of the destroyer. Oh
that we could do something to deliver these dying souls!”
“I saw little of the wiles of the destroyer for my part,” said
Lauderdale, abruptly; “and, as for the Pretender, there’s many
pretenders, and it’s awfu’ hard to tell which is the true. I know no
harm of Prince Chairlie, the little I do know of him. If it had been
mysel’, I’m no free in my mind to say that I would have let go my
father’s inheritance without striking a blow.”
“These are the ideas of the carnal mind,” said Meredith. “Oh, my friend,
if you would but be more serious! Does not your arrival in this country
suggest to you another arrival which cannot be long delayed--which
indeed, for some of us at least, may happen any day,” the sick man
continued, putting out his long thin hand to clasp that of Colin, who
was on his other side. Lauderdale, who saw this gesture, started aside
with a degree of violence which prevented the meeting of the two invalid
hands.
“I know little about this country,” he said, almost with sullenness;
“but I know still less about the other. It’s easy for you, callants, to
speak. I’m real willing to make experiment of it, if that were
possible,” he continued, softening; “but there’s no an ignorant soul
hereabouts that is more ignorant than me.”
“Let us read together--let us consider it together,” said Meredith; “it
is all set down very plain, you know. He that runneth may read. In all
the world there is nothing so important. My friend, you took pains to
understand about Italy--”
“And a bonnie business I made of it,” said Lauderdale; “deluded by the
very bairns; set right by one that’s little more than a bairn, that
little sister of yours; and now letting myself be drawn into
discussions! I’m twenty years, or near it, older than you are,” he went
on, “and I’ve walked with them that have gone away _yonder_, as far as
flesh and blood would let me. I’m no misdoubting anything that’s
written, callant, if that will satisfy you. It’s a’ an awfu’ darkness,
with visions of white angels here and there; but the angels dinna
belong to me. Whisht--whisht--I’m no profane; I’m wanting more--more
than what’s written; and, as I cannot get that, I must even wait till I
see for myself.--Here’s a grand spot for looking at your Campagna now,”
he said, breaking abruptly off; but poor Meredith, who had so little
time to spare, and whose words had to be in season and out of season,
could not consent to follow, as a man without so great a mission might
have done, the leading of his companion’s thoughts.
“The Campagna is very interesting,” he said, “but it is nothing to the
safety of your soul. Oh, my dear friend!--and here is Campbell, too, who
is not far from the kingdom of heaven. Promise me that you will come
with me,” said the dying man. “I shall not be able to stay long with
you. Promise me that you will come and join me _there_!” He put out his
thin arm, and raised it towards the sky, which kept smiling in its sunny
calm, and took no note of these outbursts of human passion. “I will wait
for you at the golden gates,” the invalid went on, fixing his hollow
eyes first on one and then on another. “You will be my joy and crown of
rejoicing! You cannot refuse the prayer of a dying man.”
Colin, who was young, and upon whom the shadow of these golden gates was
hovering, held out his hand this time, touched to the heart. “I am
coming,” he said, softly, almost under his breath, but yet loud enough
to catch the quick ear of Lauderdale, whose sudden movement displaced
Meredith’s arm, which was clinging almost like a woman’s to his own.
“It’s no for man to make any such unfounded promises,” said Lauderdale,
hoarsely; “though you read till your heart’s sick, there’s nothing
written like _that_. It’s a’ imaginations, and yearnings, and dreams.
I’m no saying that it cannot be, or that it will not be, but I tell you
there’s no such thing written; and, as far as I ken, or you ken, it may
be a’ delusion and disappointment. Whisht, whisht, callants! Dinna
entice each other out of this world, where there’s aye plenty to do for
the like of you. I’m saying, Silence, sir!” cried the philosopher, with
sudden desperation. And then he became aware that he had withdrawn the
support which Meredith stood so much in need of. “A sober-minded man
like me should have other company than a couple of laddies, with their
fancies,” he said, in a hurried, apologetic tone; “but, as long as we’re
together, you may as well take the good of me,” he added, holding out
his arm, with a rare, momentary smile. As for Meredith, for once in his
life--partly because of a little more emotion than usual, partly because
his weakness felt instantly the withdrawal of a support which had become
habitual to him--he felt beyond a possibility of doubt that further
words would be out of season just at that moment: and they resumed their
way a little more silently than usual. The road, like other Italian
roads, was marked by here and there a rude shrine in a niche in the
wall, or a cross erected by the wayside--neither of which objects
possessed in the smallest degree the recommendation of picturesqueness
which sentimental travellers attribute to them; for the crosses were of
the rudest construction, as rude as if meant for actual use, and the
poor little niches, each with its red-eyed Madonna daubed on the wall,
suggested no more idea of beauty than the most arbitrary symbol could
have done. But Meredith’s soul awoke within him when he saw the looks
with which Colin regarded those shabby emblems of religious feeling. The
Protestant paused to regain his breath, and could keep silence no more.
“You look with interest at these devices of Antichrist,” said the sick
man. “You think they promote a love of beauty, I suppose, or you think
them picturesque. You don’t think how they ruin the souls of those who
trust in them,” he said, eagerly and loudly; for they were passing
another English party at that moment, and already the young missionary
longed to accost them, and put his solemn questions about life and death
to their (presumably) careless souls.
“They don’t appear to me at all picturesque,” said Colin; “and nobody
looks at them that I can see except ourselves; so they can’t ruin many
souls. But you and I don’t agree in all things, Meredith. The cross does
not seem to me to come amiss anywhere. Perhaps the uglier and ruder it
is it becomes the more suggestive,” the young man added, with a little
emotion. “I should like to build a few crosses along our Scotch roads;
if anybody was moved to pray, I can’t see what harm would be done; or,
if anybody was surprised by a sudden thought, it might be all the
better; even--one has heard of such a thing,” said Colin, whose heart
was still a little out of its usual balance--“a stray gleam of sunshine
might come out of it here and there. If I was rich like some of your
Glasgow merchants, Lauderdale,” he said, laughing a little, “I think,
instead of a few fine dinners, I’d build a cross somewhere. I don’t see
that it would come amiss on a Scotch road--”
“I wish you would think of something else than Scotch roads,” said
Meredith, with a little vexation; “when I speak of things that concern
immortal souls, you answer me with something about Scotland. What is
Scotland to the salvation of a fellow-creature? I would rather that
Scotland, or England either, was sunk to the bottom of the sea than
stand by and see a man dying in his sins.”
The two Scotchmen looked at each other as he spoke; they smiled to each
other with a perfect community of feeling and motive, which conveyed
another pang of irritation to the invalid who by nature had a spirit
which insisted upon being first and best beloved.
“I think we had better go home,” he said abruptly, after a pause. “I
know Scotch pretty well, but I can’t quite follow when you speak on
these subjects. I want to have a talk with Maria about her brother, who
used to be very religiously disposed. Poor fellow, he’s ill now, and
I’ve got something for him,” said the young man. Here he paused, and
drew forth from his pocket a sheet folded like a map, which he opened
out carefully, looking first to see that there was nobody on the road.
“They took them for maps at the dogana,” said Meredith; “and geography
is not prohibited--to the English at least; but this is better than
geography. I mean to send it to poor Antonio, who can read, poor
fellow.” The map, which was no map, consisted of a large sheet of paper,
intended apparently to be hung upon a wall, and containing the words,
“Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden,” translated into
Italian. It was not without a little triumph that Meredith exhibited
this effort at clandestine instruction. “He has to lie in bed,” he said,
with a softened inflection of his voice; “this will console him and bear
him company. It is a map of his future inheritance,” the young
missionary concluded, putting it back fondly into its deceitful
folds;--and after this there was an uneasy pause, no one quite knowing
what to say.
“You fight Antichrist with his own weapons, then,” said Colin, “and do
evil that good may come,”--and Lauderdale added his comment almost in
the same breath--
“That’s an awfu’ fruitful principle if you once adopt it,” he said;
“there’s no telling where it may end. I would sooner leave the poor lad
in God’s hands, as no doubt he is, than smuggle in light to him after
that fashion. I’m no fond of maps that are no maps,” said the
dissatisfied critic; by which time Colin had reloaded his guns, and was
ready to fire.
“It is only a few words,” said Colin; “a man might keep such an
utterance in his memory without any necessity for double dealing. Do you
think, for all the good it will do your patient to look at that text, it
is worth your while to risk him and yourself?”
“For myself I am perfectly indifferent,” said Meredith, glad of an
opportunity to defend himself. “I hope I could take imprisonment
joyfully for the saving of a soul.”
“Imprisonment would be death to you,” said Colin, with a touch of
compunction, “and would make an end of all further possibilities of use.
To be thrown into a stony Italian prison at this season--”
“Hush,” said Meredith; “for my Master’s sake could I not bear more than
that? If not, I am not worthy to call myself a Christian. I am ready to
be offered,” said the young enthusiast. “It would be an end beyond my
hopes to die like my Lord for the salvation of my brother. Such a
prophecy is no terror to me.”
“If you two would but hold your tongues for five minutes at a time,”
said Lauderdale, with vexation, “it would be a comfort. No doubt you’re
both ready enough to fling away your lives for any nonsensical idea that
comes into your heads. But suppose we take the case of the other
innocent callant, the Italian lad that a’ this martyrdom’s to be for. No
to say that it’s awfu’ cheating--which my soul loathes,” said the
emphatic Scotchman--“figure to yourselves a wheen senseless women maybe,
or a wheen frightened priests, getting on the scent o’ this heresy of
yours. I’m real reluctant to think that he would not get the same words,
poor callant, in his ain books without being torn to pieces for the sake
of a map that was not a map. It’s getting a wee chilly,” said the
philosopher, “and there’s a fire to be had in the house if nothing else.
Come in, callant, and no expose yourself; and you would put your grand
map in the fire if you were to be guided by me.”
“With these words of consolation on it!” said Meredith, “Never, if it
should cost me my life.”
“Nae fear of its costing you your life; but I wouldna use even the
weapons of God after the devil’s manner of fighting,” said Lauderdale,
with a little impatience. “Allowing you had a’ the charge of saving
souls, as you call it, and the Almighty Himself took no trouble on the
subject, I’m no for using the sword o’ the Spirit to give stabs in the
dark.”
Just then, fortunately, there came a seasonable diversion, which stayed
the answer on Meredith’s lips.
“Arthur, we are going to dine early,” said the voice of Alice just
behind them; “the doctor said you were to dine early. Come and rest a
little before dinner. I met some people just now who were talking of Mr.
Campbell. They were wondering where he lived, and saying they had seen
him somewhere. I told them you were with us,” the girl went on, with the
air of a woman who might be Colin’s mother. “Will you please come home
in case they should call?”
This unexpected intimation ended the ramble and the talk, which was of a
kind rather different from the tourist talk which Colin had shortly to
experience from the lips of his visitors, who were people who had seen
him at Wodensbourne, and had been commissioned by the Franklands to look
for him, and report upon his condition. Little Alice received the ample
English visitors still with the air of being Colin’s mother, or mature
protecting female friend, and talked to the young lady daughter, who was
about half as old again as herself, with an indulgent elderly kindness
which was beautiful to behold. There were a mother, father, daughter,
and two sons, moving about in a compact body, all of whom were
exceedingly curious about the quaint little brotherhood which, with
Alice for its protecting angel, had taken possession of the upper floor
of the Palazzo Savvielli. They were full of a flutter of talk about the
places they had visited, and of questions as to whether their new
acquaintances had been here or there. “I promised Matty to write, and I
shall be sure to tell her I have seen you, and all about it,” the young
lady said, playfully, not without a glance at Alice. Was it possible
that this remark brought a little colour to Alice’s cheek, or was it a
mere reflection from his own thoughts, throwing a momentary gleam across
her unimpassioned face? Anyhow, it occurred to Colin that the little
abstract Alice looked more like an ordinary girl of her years for the
five minutes after the tourist party, leaving a wonderful silence and
sense of relief behind them, had disappeared down the chilly stone
stairs.