THE MAN OF THE MULTITUDE.
Dismay and bitter anger filled the city. The news of the fusilade
spread fast and far, and, as is usual on such occasions, its effects
were greatly exaggerated. But the police precautions were well
conceived and ably carried out. Nothing like a crowd was allowed to
gather, and the constant patrolling of the streets prevented the
building of barricades. The aspect of the Republican Guard was
moreover so formidable that, whatever the citizens might feel, they
found it discreet to display an acquiescent, and in some cases even a
contented demeanour.
With the leaders of the Popular party it was however different. They
immediately assembled at the official residence of the Mayor, and a
furious discussion ensued. In the hall of the Mayoralty an emergency
meeting was held, at which all the power of the party was represented.
Moret, the Civic Councillor and former editor of the suppressed TRUMPET
CALL, was much cheered as he entered the room. His speech had appealed
to many, and the Lauranians were always ready to applaud a daring act.
Besides, every one was agitated by the recent riot and was eager to do
something. The Labour delegates were particularly angry. Working-men,
assembled in constitutional manner to express their grievances, had
been shot down by a hireling soldiery,--_massacred_ was the word most
generally used. Vengeance must be taken; but how? The wildest schemes
were suggested. Moret, always for bold counsels, was for sallying into
the streets and rousing the people to arms; they would burn the palace,
execute the tyrant, and restore the liberties of the land. Godoy, old
and cautious, strongly opposed the suggestion, though indeed no
particular eagerness was shown to adopt it. He advocated a calm and
dignified attitude of reproach and censure, which would appeal to the
comity of nations and vindicate the justice of their cause. Others
took up the argument. Renos, the barrister, was for what he called
constitutional methods. They should form themselves into a Committee
of Public Safety; they should appoint the proper officers of State
(including of course an Attorney-General), and decree the deposition of
the President for violation of the fundamental principles contained in
the preamble of the Declaration of National Rights. He proceeded to
dilate upon the legal points involved, until interrupted by several
members who were anxious to offer their own remarks.
Several resolutions were passed. It was agreed that the President had
forfeited the confidence of the citizens, and he was forthwith called
upon to resign his office and submit himself to the Courts of Law. It
was also agreed that the army had deserved ill of the Republic. It was
resolved to prosecute at civil law the soldiers who had fired on the
people, and a vote of sympathy was carried in favour of the relations
of the killed and wounded, or _martyrs_ as they were called.
This scene of impotence and futility was ended by the entrance of the
remarkable man who had raised a party from the dust, and had led them
from one success to another until it had seemed that the victory was
won. Silence fell upon the assemblage; some stood up in respect;
everyone wondered what he would say. How would he bear the crushing
defeat that had fallen upon them? Would he despair of the movement?
Would he be angry or sad or cynical? Above all, what course would he
propose?
He walked to the end of the long table around which the members were
grouped, and sat down deliberately. Then he looked round the room,
with a face as calm and serene as ever. In that scene of confusion and
indecision he looked magnificent. His very presence imparted a feeling
of confidence to his followers. His high and ample forehead might have
contained the answer to every question; his determined composure seemed
equal to the utmost stroke of Fate.
After a moment's pause, invited by the silence, he rose. His words
were studiously moderate. It had been a disappointment to him, he
said, to find that the registers had been mutilated. The ultimate
success was deferred, but it was only deferred. He had waited before
coming to the Mayoralty to make a few calculations. They were
necessarily rough and hurried, but he thought they were approximately
correct. The President, it was true, would have a majority in the
forthcoming Parliament, and a substantial majority; but they would win
certain seats, in spite of the restricted electorate; about fifty, he
thought, in a house of three hundred. Smaller minorities than that had
overthrown more powerful Governments. Every day added to their
strength; every day increased the hatred of the Dictator. Besides,
there were other alternatives than constitutional procedure,--and at
these words some set their teeth and looked at each other in deep
significance--but for the present they must wait; and they could afford
to wait, for the prize was worth winning. It was the most precious
possession in the world,--liberty. He sat down amid brighter faces and
calmer minds. The deliberations were resumed. It was decided to
relieve, out of the general funds of the party, those who were in
poverty through the massacre of their relations; that would increase
their popularity with the working classes, and might win the sympathy
of foreign nations. A deputation should wait on the President to
express the grief of the citizens at the mutilation of their ancient
register, and to beg that he would restore their franchises. It should
also demand the punishment of the officers who had fired on the people,
and should acquaint the President with the alarm and indignation of the
city. Savrola, Godoy, and Renos were named as the members of the
deputation, and the Reform Committee then dispersed quietly.
Moret lingered till the end and approached Savrola. He was surprised
that he had not been suggested as a member of the deputation. He knew
his leader much better than Renos, a pedantic lawyer who made few
friends: he had followed Savrola from the beginning with blind
enthusiasm and devotion; and he now felt hurt that he should be passed
over like this.
"It has been a bad day for us," he said tentatively; and then as
Savrola did not reply, he continued, "Who would have thought they would
have dared to trick us?"
"It has been a very bad day,--for you," replied Savrola thoughtfully.
"For me? Why, what do you mean?"
"Have you reflected that you have forty human lives to answer for?
Your speech was useless,--what good could it do? Their blood is on
your head. The people too are cowed. Much harm has been done; it is
your fault."
"My fault! I was furious,--he cheated us,--I thought only of revolt.
I never dreamed you would sit down tamely like this. That devil should
be killed now, at once,--before more mischief happens."
"Look here, Moret: I am as young as you; I feel as acutely; I am full
of enthusiasm. I, too, hate Molara more than is wise or philosophic;
but I contain myself, when nothing is to be gained by giving way. Now
mark my words. Either you learn to do so, or you can go your ways, for
I will have none of you,--politically, that is,--as a friend, it is
different."
He sat down and began to write a letter, while Moret, pale with that
mortification which is made up of anger and self-reproach, and
quivering under his rebuke, left the room in haste.
Savrola remained. There was much business to do that evening; letters
had to be written and read, the tone of the leading-articles in the
Democratic Press explained, and many other matters decided. The
machinery of a great party, and still more of a great conspiracy,
needed careful and constant attention. It was nine o'clock before he
finished.
"Well, good-night, Godoy," he said to the Major; "we shall have another
busy day to-morrow. We must contrive to frighten the Dictator. Let me
know at what time he will give audience."
At the door of the Mayoralty he called a hackney-coach, a conveyance
which neither the dulness of the social season nor the excitement of
political affairs could restrain from its customary occupation. After
a short drive he arrived at a small though not inelegant house, for he
was a man of means, in the most fashionable quarter of the town. An
old woman opened the door to his knock. She looked rejoiced to see him.
"La," she said, "I have had a fearful time with you away, and all this
shooting and noise. But the afternoons are chilly now and you should
have had your coat; I fear you will have a cold to-morrow."
"It is all right, Bettine," he answered kindly; "I have a good chest,
thanks to your care; but I am very tired. Send me some soup to my
room; I will not dine to-night."
He went upstairs, while she bustled off to get him the best dinner she
could improvise. The apartments he lived in were on the second
storey--a bedroom, a bathroom, and a study. They were small, but full
of all that taste and luxury could devise and affection and industry
preserve. A broad writing-table occupied the place of honour. It was
arranged so that the light fell conveniently to the hand and head. A
large bronze inkstand formed the centrepiece, with a voluminous
blotting-book of simple manufacture spread open before it. The rest of
the table was occupied by papers on files. The floor, in spite of the
ample waste-paper basket, was littered with scraps. It was the
writing-table of a public man.
The room was lit by electric light in portable shaded lamps. The walls
were covered with shelves, filled with well-used volumes. To that
Pantheon of Literature none were admitted till they had been read and
valued. It was a various library: the philosophy of Schopenhauer
divided Kant from Hegel, who jostled the Memoirs of St. Simon and the
latest French novel; RASSELAS and LA CURÉE lay side by side; eight
substantial volumes of Gibbon's famous History were not perhaps
inappropriately prolonged by a fine edition of the DECAMERON; the
ORIGIN OF SPECIES rested by the side of a black-letter Bible; THE
REPUBLIC maintained an equilibrium with VANITY FAIR and the HISTORY OF
EUROPEAN MORALS. A volume of Macaulay's Essays lay on the
writing-table itself; it was open, and that sublime passage whereby the
genius of one man has immortalised the genius of another was marked in
pencil. _And history, while for the warning of vehement, high, and
daring natures, she notes his many errors, will yet deliberately
pronounce that among the eminent men whose bones lie near his, scarcely
one has left a more stainless, and none a more splendid name_.
A half-empty box of cigarettes stood on a small table near a low
leathern armchair, and by its side lay a heavy army-revolver, against
the barrel of which the ashes of many cigarettes had been removed. In
the corner of the room stood a small but exquisite Capitoline Venus,
the cold chastity of its colour reproaching the allurements of its
form. It was the chamber of a philosopher, but of no frigid, academic
recluse; it was the chamber of a man, a human man, who appreciated all
earthly pleasures, appraised them at their proper worth, enjoyed, and
despised them.
There were still some papers and telegrams lying unopened on the table,
but Savrola was tired; they could, or at any rate should wait till the
morning. He dropped into his chair. Yes, it had been a long day, and
a gloomy day. He was a young man, only thirty-two, but already he felt
the effects of work and worry. His nervous temperament could not fail
to be excited by the vivid scenes through which he had lately passed,
and the repression of his emotion only heated the inward fire. Was it
worth it? The struggle, the labour, the constant rush of affairs, the
sacrifice of so many things that make life easy, or pleasant--for what?
A people's good! That, he could not disguise from himself, was rather
the direction than the cause of his efforts. Ambition was the motive
force, and he was powerless to resist it. He could appreciate the
delights of an artist, a life devoted to the search for beauty, or of
sport, the keenest pleasure that leaves no sting behind. To live in
dreamy quiet and philosophic calm in some beautiful garden, far from
the noise of men and with every diversion that art and intellect could
suggest, was, he felt, a more agreeable picture. And yet he knew that
he could not endure it. 'Vehement, high, and daring' was his cast of
mind. The life he lived was the only one he could ever live; he must
go on to the end. The end comes often early to such men, whose spirits
are so wrought that they know rest only in action, contentment in
danger, and in confusion find their only peace.
His thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of the old woman with a
tray. He was tired, but the decencies of life had to be observed; he
rose, and passed into the inner room to change his clothes and make his
toilet. When he returned, the table was laid; the soup he had asked
for had been expanded by the care of his house-keeper into a more
elaborate meal. She waited on him, plying him the while with questions
and watching his appetite with anxious pleasure. She had nursed him
from his birth up with a devotion and care which knew no break. It is
a strange thing, the love of these women. Perhaps it is the only
disinterested affection in the world. The mother loves her child; that
is material nature. The youth loves his sweetheart; that too may be
explained. The dog loves his master; he feeds him; a man loves his
friend; he has stood by him perhaps at doubtful moments. In all there
are reasons; but the love of a foster-mother for her charge appears
absolutely irrational. It is one of the few proofs, not to be
explained even by the association of ideas, that the nature of mankind
is superior to mere utilitarianism, and that his destinies are high.
The light and frugal supper finished, the old woman departed with the
plates, and he fell to his musings again. Several difficult affairs
impended in the future, about the conduct of which he was doubtful. He
dismissed them from his mind; why should he be always oppressed with
matters of fact? What of the night? He rose, walked to the window,
and drawing the curtains looked out. The street was very quiet, but in
the distance he thought he heard the tramp of a patrol. All the houses
were dark and sullen; overhead the stars shone brightly; it was a
perfect night to watch them.
He closed the window and taking a candle walked to a curtained door on
one side of the room; it opened on a narrow, spiral stair which led to
the flat roof. Most of the houses in Laurania were low, and Savrola
when he reached the leads overlooked the sleeping city. Lines of
gas-lamps marked the streets and squares, and brighter dots indicated
the positions of the shipping in the harbour. But he did not long look
at these; he was for the moment weary of men and their works. A small
glass observatory stood in one corner of this aerial platform, the nose
of the telescope showing through the aperture. He unlocked the door
and entered. This was a side of his life that the world never saw; he
was no mathematician intent on discovery or fame, but he loved to watch
the stars for the sake of their mysteries. By a few manipulations the
telescope was directed at the beautiful planet of Jupiter, at this time
high in the northern sky. The glass was a powerful one, and the great
planet, surrounded by his attendant moons, glowed with splendour. The
clock-work gear enabled him to keep it under continual observation as
the earth rolled over with the hours. Long he watched it, becoming
each moment more under the power of the spell that star-gazing
exercises on curious, inquiring humanity.
At last he rose, his mind still far away from earth. Molara, Moret,
the Party, the exciting scenes of the day, all seemed misty and unreal;
another world, a world more beautiful, a world of boundless
possibilities, enthralled his imagination. He thought of the future of
Jupiter, of the incomprehensible periods of time that would elapse
before the cooling process would render life possible on its surface,
of the slow steady march of evolution, merciless, inexorable. How far
would it carry them, the unborn inhabitants of an embryo world?
Perhaps only to some vague distortion of the vital essence; perhaps
further than he could dream of. All the problems would be solved, all
the obstacles overcome; life would attain perfect developement. And
then fancy, overleaping space and time, carried the story to periods
still more remote. The cooling process would continue; the perfect
developement of life would end in death; the whole solar system, the
whole universe itself, would one day be cold and lifeless as a
burned-out firework.
It was a mournful conclusion. He locked up the observatory and
descended the stairs, hoping that his dreams would contradict his
thoughts.